The Crown of Venice

by Steve Stevenson

  “That’s exactly when Edwards claims he stepped out to make his private phone call,” mused Agatha under her breath. “The one that was none of our business.”

  “And then?” Dash continued.

  “I stayed at the casino till closing time, then I bought myself a gelato. Pistachio. This morning I called Edwards to set up a meeting. I had to give him his winnings.” He pulled the package out of his pocket and opened it to reveal a fat pile of banknotes. “He asked me to put everything down on seven. I swear, never in my life have I met such a lucky guy. Seven came up three times in a row!”

  Chandler pulled him up from the ground as though he weighed nothing at all. “So why were you in a disguise today?”

  “Hey, it’s Carnevale. Plus, a guy in my line of work needs to keep a low profile,” replied Calindo with a crooked smile. He was beginning to regain his confidence. “Can I go now?”

  Agatha nodded, but kept her serious expression. “Go on,” she said. “But if we discover that you’ve told us a pack of lies, we’ll advise the police.”

  “Don’t worry, Miss.” Calindo grinned. “Ask around. I’m a trustworthy guy.” He gave them an exaggerated bow, jumped into his boat, and rowed away without looking back.

  “Do you believe him, Agatha?” Dash asked.

  “His alibi should be easy enough to verify,” she replied. “Every roulette dealer at the casino would remember him winning on sevens three times in a row.”

  “You’re right,” grumbled Dash. “So now what?”

  “I think it’s about time we spoke with Gonzago,” she said. “Where does the EyeNet say he is now?”

  Dash looked at the screen. “Oh!” he cried.

  “What’s the matter?

  “The EyeNet says he’s in a hotel overlooking Piazza San Marco. But . . .”

  “But what?” Marco urged him. “Don’t just leave us hanging!”

  “Well . . . there’s another signal . . . I mean, another suspect is with him!”

  “Who?” asked Agatha.

  Chandler peered over Dash’s shoulder. “Looks like Mrs. Modigliani.”

  “Incredible!” exclaimed Agatha, startled by this turn of events. “What are we waiting for? Let’s join them!”

  The waterways were lit up by the pastel and gold colors of sunset. In the winding streets, lamplights glowed like lost fireflies.

  “I’m an idiot,” Dash muttered as they hurried back to the square. “I should have suspected the Spaniard long before now!”

  “Because of his chin, or some other criminal physiognomy clue?” asked Agatha in a sarcastic tone.

  “Too handsome,” her cousin replied. “And anybody who comes off so calm and polite must have something to hide!”

  Agatha sighed. “I’m going to have to clear up a few things for you when we get back to London.”

  “You’ll see! He’s the culprit.” Dash had no doubt about it. “Don’t you get it? He’s with Mrs. Modigliani right now. They must be accomplices. After all, she was the one who showed him to the door last night—maybe they made a quick stop at her husband’s study first.”

  Marco moored the borrowed gondola next to the Palazzo Ducale. The gothic building with its inlaid columns bore silent testament to a wealthy and powerful past, when Venice was the undisputed queen of the Mediterranean.

  The streets were crowded to capacity. Dozens of masked people celebrated Carnevale, dancing to Renaissance music.

  Chin down, Dash hunched over his EyeNet. A teenage girl peeled off from a noisy group, approaching the young detective. Dressed in a bell-shaped blue skirt and elbow-length gloves, she looked like a lovely, slightly punked-out Cinderella.

  “That is so cool! Can I see it? I love technology!” the girl said, pointing to the EyeNet.

  “Umm . . . you won’t be able to use it,” Dash lied quickly. “It’s a next-generation device and it’s programmed to work only with my fingerprints.”

  “Awesome! What is it? A tablet?”

  “Uh . . . well, no . . . it’s an HD videocamera. I have to film Carnevale celebrations for a school project.”

  “Really? Well, stop taking selfies! Why don’t you film me?” She did a pirouette, making her blue skirt flare out. She was very pretty, and Dash couldn’t help grinning. “Listen, I’m going to a party with my friends over there. They’d love to meet a film student with a titanium camera and cute British accent. Why don’t you join us?”

  “Umm . . . I can’t,” Dash mumbled. “I have to go . . .”

  “What?” the girl interrupted, pouting. “You’re going to leave a nice girl like me by herself and miss out on a supercool party? Are you nuts?”

  “Yes . . . that is to say, no . . . excuse me, it’s just . . . ,” Dash babbled.

  Cinderella stalked away in disappointment, not even bothering to look back.

  “You’re a real heartbreaker, little cousin,” said Marco with a grin.

  The young detective flushed as red as a lobster.

  “Dash, focus. Where is Gonzago?” Agatha prompted him.

  “He’s right here,” Dash replied. “At the Grand Hotel Transatlantic.”

  The sign above the hotel entrance was a huge golden anchor lit up with neon. The doorman’s coat was studded with gold buttons and striped epaulets, like an admiral’s uniform.

  “Let’s go in,” said Agatha.

  The fake naval officer intercepted them as they crossed the threshold. “May I help you with something?” he asked, eyeing Chandler, Watson, and Dash.

  “We’re meeting a friend who’s staying here,” replied Agatha.

  “Very well. Go in and ask at the reception desk.” From his tone of voice, it was clear that he was not entirely convinced by the girl’s explanation.

  The hotel lobby was decorated in the style of a sailing ship from long ago, with overstuffed club chairs, wood-paneled walls, sextants, and old nautical maps. The reception desk was equipped with brass instrument dials like a ship.

  The hotel concierge, in her neat white officer’s uniform, greeted them politely, asking what brought them to the hotel.

  “We’re friends of Mr. Gonzago Suárez y Acevedo,” Agatha replied promptly. “Could you please tell us his room number?”

  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Suárez explicitly asked not to be disturbed. If you would like, I can show you to the visitor’s lounge and you can wait for him there.”

  “What should we do?” Dash asked his cousin as they stepped away from the desk. “We need to find out what he’s up to!”

  Agatha stroked her nose. “I have an idea,” she said. “Listen carefully!” And she explained her plan in a whisper.

  They followed the concierge to the visitor’s lounge. Moments later, Chandler, with Watson tucked under his arm, strolled past the grand staircase that led up to the hotel rooms. As he neared the bottom step, the butler gave the white Siberian cat a small push, and Watson meowed and zoomed up the stairs.

  “My cat!” cried Agatha, launching herself in pursuit.

  “Her cat!” shouted Dash, right behind her. “Where are we going?” he hissed at his cousin.

  “Room 312,” said Agatha, racing upstairs after Watson.

  “How do you know?” asked Dash, sprinting past her.

  “I took a peek at the register while we were at the reception desk. Simple, right?”

  They were at Gonzago’s door in a flash. Watson was the first to arrive, guided by his feline instincts. Agatha took him in her arms and gave him a pat. “Good kitty,” she whispered.

  Dash put his ear to the door. He could clearly hear two voices engaged in a heated discussion. The blinking lights on the EyeNet confirmed the presence of Gonzago and Melissa Modigliani.

  “How do we get inside?” Dash asked his cousin.

  “Leave it to me.” Agatha knocked softly on the door. An i
rritated voice from inside asked who it was. “Room service, sir.”

  A few seconds later, the door opened.

  “But I didn’t order anythi—”

  Gonzago fell silent.

  “Caught in the act!” cried Dash. He strode boldly through the door.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, Mrs. Modigliani gazed at the children in astonishment. A frenetic patter of footsteps announced the arrival of the concierge. She burst into the room as though the devil were chasing her.

  “Mr. Suárez! Mr. Suárez! Some young pickpockets are on the loose in the hotel!” She stopped when she saw Dash and Agatha. “There you are! Don’t worry, sir, I’ll take care of this situation personally.”

  “Leave them be,” said the Spaniard. “They’re friends. Thank you for your concern, but you can go back to work now.”

  The concierge excused herself, throwing a furious look at Dash. The boy responded with his own well-practiced smirk.

  “Mr. Suárez,” Agatha began. “Perhaps you had better explain what’s going on. This whole business looks highly suspicious.”

  The Spaniard ran a hand through his glossy hair. “Melissa, my dear,” he said, turning to her. “I think the time has come to reveal the whole story.”

  “Aha! I knew there was something fishy going on!” exclaimed Dash.

  Gonzago let out a sigh and went to sit beside Mrs. Modigliani on the bed. “You see, Melissa is my half sister,” he said calmly.

  Dash’s jaw dropped. Chandler raised an eyebrow.

  “The story goes back many years,” explained the Spaniard. “My father was at the pinnacle of his bull-fighting career when he became engaged to a beautiful Italian lady, but he left her soon after the birth of their only daughter, Melissa.”

  Melissa looked down at the floor while Gonzago continued his tale. “Melissa’s mother didn’t want him to have any contact with the infant he left.” He paused for a moment, gazing pensively out the window at the canal. He seemed to be searching for the right words. “Now my father is very sick, and he told me his story because he hoped to see his daughter again. So I tracked Melissa down and came to Venice to meet her. It’s such a wonderful thing to know I have a new sister.” The Spaniard rested his hand on Melissa’s shoulder with affection.

  “Gonzago arrived yesterday,” she confirmed. “We met in the afternoon and he asked if I would accompany him back to Spain to meet my father at last. I didn’t know what to do. I have to confess, my husband knows nothing about any of this.”

  “Why such secrecy?” asked Agatha.

  “My mother remarried when I was a baby. It would be such a blow to my husband to find out that I don’t really come from a prominent Venetian lineage, as he has always believed,” she replied. “But in the end I decided that I had to meet my birth father. I invited Gonzago to dinner so we could both tell him together.”

  “But there wasn’t a good opportunity, because Lord Edwards and Baron von Horvath were there as well. Am I right?” Agatha guessed.

  “Exactly. I didn’t know the others were coming until the last minute. Gonzago and I chose to postpone the discussion, and met here today to decide our next step.”

  Chandler cleared his throat. “So your secret has nothing to do with the theft of the crown?” he asked bluntly.

  “Absolutely not!” they replied in chorus.

  They seemed sincere, preoccupied with solving their own knotty problem.

  Agatha thought for a moment, then whispered into Dash’s ear. “They can each confirm the other’s alibi. Let’s apologize for the disturbance and wish them both luck.”

  So that’s what they did, filing out of the room in disappointment. The case of the stolen crown was still far from solved.

  The group left the Grand Hotel Transatlantic and stepped out into the Venetian evening.

  Music and laughter sounded from all directions. The atmosphere of Carnevale spread through every street.

  Marco said his farewells and went to return the borrowed gondola to his friend Nicola. The others stopped for a quick meal at a trattoria. Perched on a stool, Agatha reflected on the events of the previous night and the discoveries they had made that afternoon.

  “There’s nobody left,” Dash said glumly, twirling a forkful of thick spaghetti as Agatha pondered in silence. “Do you think Nunzio might be able to give us a hand?”

  “Actually, he’s the one person we haven’t questioned yet,” offered Chandler between bites of cutlet. “I can assure you that servants always know what’s going on in the household.”

  A smile appeared on Agatha’s face. “That sounds like a good idea,” she agreed, feeding Watson a bite of her fish. “But what should we ask him?”

  “It’s obvious!” said Dash. “The thief is Mr. Modigliani. He hid the crown so he could claim the insurance money, just as we suspected at the beginning. It’s a classic crime.”

  “Too simple,” replied his cousin. “If you ask me, we’re overlooking a conspicuous detail.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The only way to find out is to go back to Palazzo Modigliani.”

  And so they resumed their investigation. The streetlights reflected in the canals were enchanting, even if no one in the party was in the right state of mind for sightseeing.

  At eight o’clock they spotted the windows of Palazzo Modigliani. The ancient building seemed to want to hide under cover of darkness. They asked a boatman for a ride, and disembarked once again on the dock in front of the entrance. The gate was still broken, so they decided to go upstairs without ringing the bell to announce themselves first. The stairway lights were not on, so the shadowy climb was more difficult than expected.

  When they knocked on the door, Nunzio’s usually impassive face greeted them with a stunned expression.

  “Shall I announce you?” he asked.

  “No, Nunzio,” whispered Agatha. “We’re here because we’d like to have a quick chat with you in Mr. Modigliani’s study. Are we disturbing you at a bad time?”

  “I was just finishing up some cleaning before I set the table for dinner,” he said. “Please, do come in.”

  A woman’s voice called out from another room. “Nunzio, what’s going on?”

  Agatha put her index finger to her lips. “Shhh . . . ,” she whispered.

  “I’m arranging the flowers in the entry hall, Madam Melissa,” replied the manservant. “Dinner will be ready in half an hour.”

  Nunzio led them to the study. As they walked along the hallway, Agatha noted that, like the entrance to the building, it was only lit by small, dim gas lanterns.

  “Why is it so cold?” asked Dash, feeling a chill down his spine.

  “Mr. Modigliani prefers that the heating be turned down when there are no guests.”

  “Does he say the same about the lights? This house is really gloomy . . .”

  “The master is very thrifty.”

  Agatha weighed the servant’s last words. “That explains why he hasn’t had a blacksmith fix the front gate,” she said, her eyes gleaming.

  “Actually, Miss, I’ll be attending to that as soon as I can borrow a welding torch.”

  “You take care of that sort of thing?”

  “I take care of all sorts of repairs, in addition to my other tasks. I’m happy to be of service. The master is always so worried about everything. The restorations, and now the missing crown . . .”

  “Did you say restorations?” Chandler interrupted. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it’s not really a secret, but Mr. Modigliani prefers not to speak of it,” Nunzio said. “The preservation trust is pressuring him to repair this historic building from the ground up, and Mr. Modigliani is trying everything he can to satisfy their requests.”

  “I imagine that would be very expensive,” said Agatha, sitting at the mahogany desk in
the study.

  “I’m afraid so, Miss.”

  Dash whispered in Agatha’s ear. “It’s all so clear now! Modigliani needs money to restore the building, and he’ll get it from the insurance company. I knew it would be a simple solution!”

  Agatha rubbed her hands together to warm them. “Can you please tell us what happened last night?” she asked, turning back to the servant.

  “I don’t have anything to add to what Mr. Modigliani told you this afternoon. Everything was just as he said.”

  “And you were in the dining room with him and his guests the whole time?”

  “Well, no,” he replied, squinting as he tried to recall every detail. “I had to go to the kitchen from time to time to serve the food.”

  “So you could have come in here to steal the crown,” Dash pressed him.

  Nunzio looked shocked. “I swear on my honor that I would never have done such a thing!”

  The three investigators exchanged glances.

  “Very well, then,” said Agatha with a big smile. “Now, if you’d like to go and prepare dinner, we’d appreciate being left here for a few minutes to consult.”

  “Of course, Miss.”

  As soon as he left, Agatha jumped to her feet and started looking around. “I’m sure that the key to solving this mystery is right in this room.”

  “It had to be Modigliani,” repeated Dash. “But maybe we should add Nunzio to our list of suspects . . .”

  Chandler picked Watson up and gave a small cough, as though his own pride were wounded. “If I may, a loyal servant valued by his employer would never commit such an offense,” he said. “It goes against all professional ethics.”

  “You’re quite right,” observed Agatha pensively. “And Dash, you’re forgetting one little detail,” she added.

  “What detail?”

  “Why wasn’t the baron able to find the study when he went to look for his cigars?”

  Dash leaned against the cold fireplace, massaging his forehead. “I’m starting to get a headache,” he complained. “Obviously the baron just had the wrong room!”

  “Are you sure?” Agatha smiled. “All right, let’s try to add up the facts. Baron von Horvath insists that he saw an old suit of armor as soon as he opened the door. Yet from the doorway, the fireplace is the first thing you see.”