Both girls giggled as their staircase appearance was greeted by wolf whistles and applause.
The ballo in maschera was soon in full swing. Lights blazed out across the Grand Canal from the windows of the Palazzo Falcone, and its carved portals stood wide open for the arriving guests. Gondolas could be seen drawing up to the palace steps by the glow of lanterns bobbing from the striped mooring poles and floodlights on the loggia.
Inside, pageboys in powdered perukes and knee breeches wove about among the guests, offering trays of refreshments. Two groups of musicians were alternately filling the air with their strains. In the drawing room, a medieval trio in colorful hose and doublets were performing on lute, harpsichord and oboe. The girls strolled separately to the marble-floored ballroom with its splendid vaulted ceiling and chandeliers, where a rock band was waiting its turn to play.
Nancy’s heart lifted as she saw who was coming in from the balcony terrace overlooking the courtyard—a cloaked figure with a plumed hat and basket-hilted rapier. It was Don Madison in his costume as an eighteenth-century bravo!
Just as he reached her side, the players broke into their own unique Venetian form of rock. Don swept her into his arms and they danced out across the floor. Nancy surrendered willingly to his lead; she could feel the beat pulsing in her blood. Somehow she’d hardly expected such a serious, reserved type as Don Madison to be quite so exuberant a dancer!
He was whirling her out toward the starlit privacy of the terrace, but even before they passed through the open glass doors, his arm was drawing her toward him in a closer, more passionate embrace—and now his lips were moving toward hers.
It was her masked partner’s height that struck the first false note in Nancy’s mind. She recalled the way her head had rested against Don’s chest when he saved her from falling off the quay. Now, somehow, there seemed to be less difference in their respective heights, which was all the odder since he was wearing high-heeled boots.
As they kissed, the scent of his cologne tingled her nostrils. At the same moment, Nancy saw a tendril of hair that had escaped from under the bandanna tied around his head under the plumed hat—not a sandy curl, but a jet-black one!
With a gasp, Nancy pushed him away. “You’re not Don!” she blurted. “You’re Gianni Spinelli!”
The bravo released her gracefully and raised his mask. “Right, my dear Nancy! What a clever little detective you are!” Dimples were showing at each corner of his mouth.
His smile infuriated her, but she strove to stay calm. “You’re the clever one, it seems! How did you manage it, Gianni?”
“It was very simple, cara. I returned to the costume shop soon after you left and picked out something for myself—a cowboy costume, like Clint Eastwood, you know?” Gianni chuckled, “in one of our, how do you call them?—‘spaghetti westerns’! The shop owner remembered seeing me with you and Tara, of course, so when I offered to deliver the costumes to the palazzo, he was happy to accept!”
“And, of course, you kept Don’s costume, and switched labels on the boxes so that he got yours?”
“Esattamente! And do not tell me that you did not enjoy my kiss just now!” Still grinning at his own cleverness, Gianni suddenly pulled Nancy toward him and kissed her again.
She stiffened in revulsion. Her voice remained ice cold as he released her and she stepped back from his embrace. “If we weren’t at the Marchese’s party, I’d slap you for that—as hard as I slapped you at the Ca d’Oro. But I don’t want to make a scene. Now leave! Or must I call the servants and have you thrown out as a gate-crasher!”
For a fleeting instant, Gianni’s grin faltered and his expression hardened vindictively. A second later he was his handsome, smiling self again. He touched his fingers to his lips and threw Nancy a jaunty parting kiss. Then he turned and strode off across the balcony terrace into the darkness.
Nancy started back into the ballroom. Her nerves were on edge. She was just in time to see a tall, sandy-haired figure in western gear turn and walk rapidly away. He had a poncho on his shoulders and a sombrero on his head.
Oh, no! Nancy wailed inwardly. That was Don—and he must have seen everything! And misinterpreted everything—the two embraces, Gianni’s triumphant smile, the parting kiss! A wave of despair swept over her. I’ve got to go after him and try to explain! she thought frantically.
But Don wasn’t the only person who had witnessed her encounter with Gianni. A blond girl, dressed like a medieval princess, was also watching. Despite her silver mask, the stricken expression on her face was all too apparent.
“Please don’t think what you’re thinking, Tara!” Nancy begged as the two girls came together. “You can have Gianni! I don’t want him. I detest him, in fact!”
“What difference does it make? He doesn’t want me!” Tara’s words came out in a choking sob.
She turned away, only to bump into a masked pirate, who seized her merrily and whirled her off across the marble dance floor to the throbbing strains of Venetian rock.
Nancy watched helplessly for a moment, then hurried in pursuit of Don. She found him snatching a glass of champagne from a passing tray.
“Don, listen to me!” Nancy begged. “It wasn’t at all like you think! Let me tell you what really happened!”
He shrugged indifferently. “I saw what really happened. I’ve got eyes. So what? You don’t have to apologize to me if some guy turns you on.”
“Gianni doesn’t turn me on! You’ve got everything all wrong, Don! I want you to understand what happened! Won’t you please let me explain?”
“Don’t bother. It’s not all that important.”
“It is important! Aren’t you even interested in hearing what I have to say?”
“Not especially. I’ve got other things on my mind.”
Nancy’s shoulders drooped as he walked off, glass in hand. Her heart was pounding. The masquerade ball had started out as such fun! Why, oh why, did things have to turn out like this?!
Nancy clenched her fists till her nails dug into her palms. She had hurt two of the three people in Venice whom she cared about the most—unintentionally, perhaps, but deeply, all the same. At that moment she felt like rushing up to her room, flinging herself on the bed and sobbing her eyes out!
But something, nature, or childhood discipline, had given a steely streak to Nancy’s character. It went too much against the grain to give up or feel sorry for herself. She squared her shoulders, choked back the sobs that rose in her throat and lifted her chin.
Minutes later she was dancing with her father, her feelings under tight control. He was made up, not very convincingly, like a Chinese mandarin.
“When did you get back from Murano, Daddy?” Nancy asked, making conversation.
“Around four—and I’ve been on the phone most of the time since then. I barely had time to get ready for the ball.”
“You make a striking mandarin!”
“Thanks. That peekaboo costume of yours is quite eye-catching too, sweetie.”
Nancy chuckled. A flashbulb blazed somewhere across the room, one of the many she had seen since the party began. “Where’s Katrina? Taking pictures?”
“I imagine so, though I haven’t seen her yet. She told me she was coming as a Dresden shepherdess.”
“Sounds perfect with that lovely golden hair of hers.”
A buffet meal was being served in the dining room. Presently the Drews joined other guests lining up for the tempting repast. Nancy’s eyes roved about the crowded room, suddenly settling on a tall man dressed like a comic-hall British empire-builder in white ducks and tropical pith-helmet.
He had just spilled a crumb of food from his plate. As he bent forward to flick it from his clothing, a monocle slipped out of an upper pocket and dangled on its chain.
Oliver Joyce! Or was the monocle just part of his masquerade costume?
He looked somewhat like Joyce, though his mask made it hard to be sure; nor could Nancy see his hair color, due to the neck clo
th dangling from his pith helmet. And the helmet itself made an effective cover-up of baldness.
What about a leg-holster? There were too many people in the way to see whether he was wearing shorts or full-length trousers.
Before Nancy could shift position for a better view, the man handed his plate to a servant and left the room.
“Excuse me, Daddy,” said Nancy. “I’ll be right back!”
Giving up her place in line, and side-stepping other guests, she hurried after the comic-hall Britisher. But once out of the dining room, she paused. Which way had he gone?
Nancy walked along the center hall, peering into every room. A finger tapped her on the shoulder. “Excuse me, Miss Drew . . .”
She swung around, startled. The speaker was a man in a Harlequin clown costume, with a funny-looking long-nosed falseface. “May I have a word with you—in private?”
“Who are you?” Nancy asked cautiously.
“A friend of R’s.” The man turned and headed in the opposite direction, beckoning her to follow.
He paused in the doorway of a room which was evidently empty. Nancy joined him, and they entered the room together.
“May I see your face?” she said.
He pulled aside his mask, revealing a tanned, scarred visage—the face of the man she had seen just a few hours earlier on the Piazzetta!
They eyed each other in silence for a moment. Then Nancy murmured, “All right, thank you. What is it you want to see me about?”
Before he could answer, the lights suddenly went out. The whole palazzo was plunged into darkness!
13
Dark Deeds
Nancy froze momentarily in fear. Had she walked into a trap?!
But the mystery man’s voice spoke reassuringly. “Don’t be alarmed. I’m not going to hurt you. I didn’t arrange this blackout. It must be an accident.”
He had a faint guttural accent that Nancy couldn’t place—not Italian or French or Spanish—German, maybe, or some kind of Central European.
A hush had fallen over the crowd of party guests when the lights went out. But now Nancy could hear a babble of voices rising in the corridor.
“Who are you?” Nancy asked.
“Call me Hans. My full name does not matter.”
“All right, go ahead. I came here as you asked, so tell me whatever it is you have to tell me.”
“Your girl friend, Tara Egan, may be in great danger! Keep an eye on her at all times!”
“Danger from whom—or what?” Nancy probed. “Can’t you tell me any more than that?”
There was no answer.
“You say you’re a friend of R’s, but which R? Pietro Rinaldi or Rolf Egan?”
The silence continued. Nancy suddenly realized that Hans was gone. She reached out in the darkness, groping in all directions, but her fingers met only thin air.
Annoyed at her own lack of vigilance, Nancy turned back toward the doorway. Tiny flickers of light were appearing here and there as guests snapped cigarette lighters or struck matches.
Presently she heard the Marchese’s voice speaking somewhere in the hall, first in Italian, then in English. “My friends, I regret most deeply this inconvenience. But it will not be for long, so please remain calm. My servants are now doing their best to restore the lights, and in case there is any special problem, I have also telephoned for an electrician. In the meantime, please make yourselves as comfortable as you can. Candles are being fetched, so there should soon be at least some light. A thousand thanks for your patience!”
He had barely finished speaking when the lights suddenly blazed back on! Guests blinked in the sudden dazzling brilliance and burst into loud chatter. The original level of music, noise and general merriment was quickly restored.
Nancy made her way to the ballroom and was much relieved when she saw Tara dancing with the young man in the pirate costume. Then she went looking for her father and found him in the dining room, holding two plates of food.
“Thank goodness!” Carson Drew exclaimed. “It’s foolish of me, I know, but I was beginning to get a bit worried, honey. Let’s find a place to sit down and enjoy this food. It looks quite delicious!”
As they ate, Nancy told him about the tanned, scarfaced mystery man called Hans, and the warning he had just given her about Tara Egan. “I’m afraid Tara’s a bit put out at me just now, Daddy,” she went on, “so would you sort of keep watch on her?”
“Of course. No problem. But who is this mystery man, Nancy? Any idea?”
“A friend of both Pietro Rinaldi and Rolf Egan, I suspect. And he may be a South African.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Just a wild hunch, to be honest.” Nancy explained what had put the idea in her mind. The note he had slipped her on the Rialto bore a diamond design—which in turn reminded her of the ace of diamonds she had seen at Pietro’s flat—and both in turn made her think of real diamonds, for which South Africa is known.
“Also, he spoke with a slight accent that I couldn’t place,” Nancy went on. “But many of the South African whites speak a language called Afrikaans, which I’ve heard is based on Dutch, and that might very well fit his accent.”
When she was through eating, Nancy went from room to room of the palazzo, making a hasty survey of the guests, but failed to sight either of the two she was looking for. Unless they had changed costume, she guessed that they must have slipped away from the palace during the blackout.
This would not be surprising in Hans’s case. Since their rendezvous had been interrupted, he had come in disguise to warn Nancy that Tara was in danger—having delivered this warning, he’d left.
But what about the pith-helmeted Britisher? Was he really Oliver Joyce? And if so, what was he doing at the masquerade ball?
Nancy’s eyes suddenly widened and she slapped her forehead. “What an idiot, I am!” she gasped.
She hurried to the drawing room and looked in the glass cabinet. The Fabergé egg was gone!
The Marchese, when notified, took the news with surprising calm. “Ebbene,” he said with a resigned shrug. “I suppose we had better check all the Falcone art treasures, so we can give the police a complete list of what is missing.”
Nancy waited with the Marchese in his study for the outcome of the check. Twenty minutes later Domenic came walking into the room. Nancy was startled to see that the eyepatched, cadaverous butler was holding the Fabergé egg!
It was unharmed but open, and the lovely little jeweled firebird was gone. Nancy was even more surprised when the Marchese burst out laughing.
“But the firebird—!” she started to protest.
“No great loss, my dear. The jewels were mere glass. I pawned the real firebird several years ago when I needed money, and at that time I had a cheap copy made for the sake of appearances!”
It turned out that a servant had spotted the empty egg lying in a wastebasket, a fact which intrigued Nancy. The egg alone was fairly valuable, but apparently the thief had been interested only in its contents. None of the other artwork in the palace was missing.
At midnight the guests removed their masks and the festivities reached their peak. Tara was still with the young man in the pirate costume, but Don Madison was nowhere in sight. The butler told Nancy he had retired for the night.
Later, in their room, Nancy found Tara in cheerful spirits. “I’m sorry I made such a fuss about Gianni,” the blond girl apologized. “Right now, I don’t care if I ever see him again!”
Nancy smiled. “So I gathered from the way you and that fellow in the pirate costume seemed to be enjoying yourselves.”
“Oh yes, isn’t he terrific! His name’s Kevin, and he lives in Connecticut. We’ve made a date to go hiking when we get back to the States!”
Obviously Gianni Spinelli was all in the past as far as Tara was concerned.
Nancy was pensive as she got ready for bed. She had a feeling that pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fall into place, but there were still man
y things that she didn’t understand.
“Tara, you told me your father was adventurous and traveled all over the world,” Nancy finally remarked aloud. “Was he ever in Africa?”
“Hmm . . . I don’t believe he ever told me so, as far as I can recall. But I think he must have been, in North Africa, anyhow.”
“Why? What makes you think so?”
“Because I have a picture of him, and it looks like it might have been taken in Egypt or Morocco—someplace like that.”
Tara opened her purse and took out a snapshot encased in plastic. It showed two men, one in a U.S. Marine Corps uniform. They were grinning and standing together in what looked like a Middle Eastern open-air bazaar.
The civilian, blond and bearded, bore an obvious resemblance to Tara.
Nancy felt a quiet surge of excitement. “Do you know who the marine is?” she asked softly.
“No. Who?”
“Pietro Rinaldi!”
Yawning and weary, the two girls snuggled down in bed. Nancy fell asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.
She was awakened by a voice screaming across the room. It was Tara, screaming as fearfully as she had done the night before!
Nancy sat bolt upright. In the semi-darkness, she could make out a figure moving across the room. She reached out to turn on the light, but in her haste knocked over the bedside lamp. It crashed loudly to the floor!
The noise, however, had at least one good effect: it seemed to shock Tara to her senses. She stopped screaming and switched on her own lamp. Just as the room brightened, the door slammed behind the retreating figure.
Nancy didn’t hesitate. She sprang out of bed and started in pursuit, only to stumble over the lamp. She dropped to one knee, straightened up again, flung on a robe and dashed out the door.
078 The Phantom Of Venice Page 8
