I bent to whisper in Titolino’s ear. “We can watch for a while, but then I’ll have to send you home with Benito.”
“Why, Papa?”
“I have to go to work. Maestro Torani expects me for rehearsal.”
A fleeting scowl crossed Titolino’s smooth features, but given the lightning changes of childish moods, he was soon laughing at a quartet of clowns bounding around the stage and bumping into each other. The performers ran the gamut in size. The tallest was at least my height, the shortest a dwarf. After their initial antics had drawn a good-sized crowd, they launched into a series of somersaults that ended with a game of leap frog. The dwarf was the last to jump, but instead of following the program, he pushed them all over into a heap. Then he ran in circles, bandy legs kicking out to the side with each step.
Benito cleared his throat. “Master…Master…” he said insistently.
I tore my gaze from Titolino’s joyous expression. “What is it?”
“Look at that little one. Isn’t that…”
I followed Benito’s questioning stare. The other clowns had disentangled themselves and laid hands on the dwarf. The little man’s wide-open mouth was ringed with white grease paint, and his nose was decorated by a red splotch, but I recognized the face. It was our friend Pamarino, Zulietta’s former companion. Instead of his dignified soldier’s jacket with the silver epaulets, he wore a one-piece suit of orange and yellow plaid and an undersized hat that resembled a squashed lemon tart.
“You’re right,” I said to Benito. “That’s Pamarino. He managed to find work after all—his luck must have changed.”
Benito’s rolling shrug told me what he thought of Pamarino’s new position, but I fancied the dwarf must be happy with it. How else could he expect to earn his bread?
We watched as Pamarino was soundly cuffed for his mischievous trick. Finally, to the amusement of the crowd, the other clowns hoisted his little body over their heads and carried him behind the curtains at the back of the platform. One by one the clowns returned. Each performed a solo act to show off his special talents. The tall one was a master juggler, the next a contortionist who could squeeze himself into small barrels and trunks, and the third balanced a tower of crystal wine glasses on his upturned nose. Good solid tricks, but I’d seen better.
Shifting from foot to foot, I glanced at Titolino. Of course, the boy was hanging on every move. I hated to take him away, but it was time for me to go. One more routine. I’d see what Pamarino would present for his star turn, then we really must set off.
The central slit in the back curtain parted to reveal the stocky dwarf, still clad in his suit of orange and yellow. He seemed to float in space considerably above his natural height. He must be standing on something I couldn’t make out because of the people crowding between me and the platform. I stretched up and craned my neck around a man with a wide-brimmed hat. What was Pamarino up to?
With a cheery wave to his audience, the dwarf lurched forward with a clumsy gait. I saw what lifted him. Strapped to the outside of each leg was a five-foot pole with a wooden block that fit under each instep. Stilts! Pamarino was stilt-walking and doing a damn fine job of it. Once he found his stride, he strode, swaggered, danced, and hopped with practiced ease.
Surrounded by the applause and appreciative shouts of the crowd, I felt as if my brain were trapped in the tube of the petal-scope. Slowly, painfully, my thoughts were being twisted, and a new pattern was forming before my eyes. I watched Pamarino pivot on one stilt without so much as a wobble and catch a red ball tossed by the tallest clown. Even as I marveled at his dexterity, a terrible recognition clicked into place. Zulietta’s killer had moved with that same jerking walk. I’d only had a glimpse, it was true, but that walk was like no other man’s.
Pamarino pivoted again and tossed the ball into the crowd. Someone threw it back. My mouth took on a dry, unpleasant taste. Blood pounded against my eardrums. I had never suspected Pamarino. Not for one moment. He was a little man—the top of his head barely reached my chest—and the killer had been a tall brute. But the proof of my eyes was showing me how a dwarf could grow three feet by merely strapping on two pieces of wood. Could Pamarino have murdered the mistress he had served so loyally?
As the ball went back and forth, a red blur above my head, I pushed toward the platform. I was deaf to the crude complaints of people I elbowed aside, deaf to Titolino and Benito’s calls. The frolicking dwarf swam in my oily gaze. I had to have a closer look.
Without quite realizing how I’d got there, I found myself gripping the splintery edge of the platform. Pamarino saw me. He froze with the ball over his head in mid-throw. His mud-brown eyes searched my face, then took on a malevolent glitter. My cheeks grew hot, just as they had when Zulietta’s masked killer had glared at me across the theater auditorium. The final pattern had clicked into view. I didn’t know why, but I knew how.
Pamarino had strapped on stilts, covered his identity with cloak and bauta, and stabbed Zulietta. Then he’d locked the door to the box and arranged the scene in the cloakroom so he would also appear to be a victim. I’d finally tumbled to the truth. And Pamarino knew it.
This time I broke the scorching stare. Titolino and Benito, both greatly puzzled by my behavior, had pushed in beside me. The boy was whining and pulling on my sleeve.
I shook him off and grasped my manservant by the arm, digging my long fingers right down to the bone. I hate to think what my expression must have looked like. “Take Titolino home at once.”
Benito actually cringed. “Master?”
“Go.” I flung my other arm out in the general direction of the jetty. “Find Luigi and take the boy home. I’m going to the theater.”
Diving through the crowd, I left Benito staring, open-mouthed, with his hands on the boy’s shoulders. Titolino looked as if he might burst into tears. There was no help for it. Explanations would come later. Right now I had several tasks to accomplish. Knowing who had stabbed Zulietta wasn’t enough. I would have to prove it to Messer Grande.
***
Sometimes I fancied the opera house must be honeycombed with spy holes and secret passages. A person could do nothing without everyone else knowing his business within minutes. I was searching the cloakroom off the fourth-tier corridor when Maestro Torani limped through the door.
“Tito, have you taken leave of your senses? I need you on the stage.”
I answered by kicking a pile of discarded clothing, uncovering nothing but a cloud of dust. My nose exploded in a disgusted sneeze. The items I sought were nowhere in sight.
“Tito!” Torani’s tone was more exasperated than reassuring, but I knew the old man meant well. I thought back to all those times when he had coaxed magic from my throat, when he had believed in me when no one else did. How could I have ever thought him capable of killing Zulietta? Liya’s mystifying tarocchi should take the blame for my misguided suspicions. A stage, they had indicated. Well, what was I supposed to think? The stage that ruled my life was here at the Teatro San Marco. Why would I have thought of a trestle stage in the middle of the Piazza?
“I’m looking for evidence,” I replied more calmly than I felt.
“You’re still playing bloodhound,” he accused.
“I’m not playing, Maestro, though everyone else seems to be. The simple, unvarnished truth doesn’t exist anymore. Reality has sailed away from our island, and make-believe reigns. An evil little man hid behind Venice’s most popular disguise to murder an innocent woman right here in your theater. You should be helping me, not worrying over a fantasy spectacle that will only be heard a few times.”
He sagged wearily against the door frame. “If solving the crime is so important to you, my son, then it is also important to me.”
I nodded slowly, feeling a warm glow radiating from my heart. This was the Rinaldo Torani I’d loved and trusted for so m
any years. I gave him a brief explanation, ending by pointing out the wicker hamper Pamarino had mounted to hide under the long cloak while the opera patrons retrieved their outdoor clothing. “When he judged it was time to call attention to himself, he kicked it aside and began yelling and drumming his heels on the wall.”
Torani fingered his lower lip. “I see, but you say the dwarf discarded a pair of sticks?”
“Stilts.” I looked around the small room. “I’m sure I saw them here—at the time, I had no idea what they represented.”
“I know nothing of this, but we’ll find someone who does.”
A word from Torani to a passing lackey summoned Biagio Zipoli, the broom sweeper I’d questioned on the morning after the murder. The lanky old fellow eyed us warily, certain he was the object of some complaint.
I said, “There’s nothing to fear, Biagio. Maestro Torani and I are searching for two pieces of wood that I saw here in this cloakroom. About so high”—I indicated with a flat hand—“polished wood with smaller blocks attached. They may have had straps on them.”
Biagio nudged back a lock of white hair that flopped over his eyes. He stared into space. Finally he said, “Are you talking about that pair of sticks I took to Aldo? I thought they belonged backstage, but he fussed at me for littering the wings with worthless trash.”
Torani and I were down the stairs and behind the stage within two minutes. I hadn’t realized the old man could move so fast. Majorano spotted us and approached with a score in hand. “Maestro, I’ve learned Hyllus’ aria—would you—”
“Later.” Torani waved him away.
“But Maestro—”
“He said ‘later,’” I yelled with the full force of my lungs.
Sucking in a startled breath, the handsome castrato backed away as if I’d just escaped from the madhouse. Stage carpenters dropped their tools, and the ballet master who was filling the rosin boxes gave a frightened squeak.
“Aldo? Where’s Aldo?” Maestro Torani shouted.
The stage manager emerged from his cubby hole beside the pass door, hitched up his breeches, and advanced with a pugnacious set to his shoulders. Aldo Bossi had become quite plump over the past few years; his round, alpine face displayed greasy remnants of his midday meal, and the gray eyes behind his wire-rimmed spectacles were wary. Every aspect of his person suggested he was ready to leap to his own defense. Like Biagio, Aldo apparently believed a bellowing summons from Torani could only mean trouble.
His manner became a bit friendlier after Torani explained what we were after. “That pair of sticks the idiot from the front of the house brought in?” Aldo asked incredulously. “What use do you have for those things? Looking to build a fire?”
“You didn’t burn them, did you?” Alarmed, I laid a hand on Aldo’s arm, then jerked it away at his black look. Aldo had never approved of castrati.
“No. I’m sure I didn’t.” He made an ambiguous gesture. “I put them…somewhere…behind something…over there perhaps?”
The stage manager was gazing toward a pile of carpenters’ scraps. The wood was raw, none of it finished and polished as the stilts had been. Santa Maria! Would I lose the trail just as I had come to the truth?
Aldo scratched his head. “Wait. I remember now. Madame Dumas carried them off. Sneaky old crone. She thought she was getting away with something, stealing those sticks right from under my nose.” He gave an unsettling laugh. “I was only letting her get rid of the rubbish.”
My stomach gave a sudden lurch. An episode from days ago sprang to mind. “Madame Dumas’ workroom,” I whispered. “The brown velvet she was so proud of—I unrolled it onto the table…”
“Tito?” Torani gaped at me. Worry creased his forehead. “What are you mumbling?”
“Maestro, I had one of the stilts in my hands—God save me—if only I’d realized.” I took off at a run for the costume shop. Torani followed, this time at a slower pace.
To Madame Dumas’ credit, she did nothing to restrain me while I manhandled her bolts of costume fabric. After I’d flung several aside and located the right ones, I unrolled yards of butter yellow silk, then followed it with finely spun wool of periwinkle blue. I was left with two matching poles that could serve equally well for storing cloth or boosting a dwarf to the height of a tall man.
Madame surveyed the knee-high blue and yellow tangle. Her expression was pained, but her manner was collected. The seamstress had never been one to let her emotions hold sway. She said, “I’m certain you have a very good reason for this, Signor Amato.”
Nodding, I handed the stilts to a panting Torani, who’d arrived in time to see the last bit of fabric slither off the bolt. “I must ask you to trust me, Madame. Those pieces of wood are the ones you removed from backstage. True?”
“I admit it. I took them without permission.” She took a hard gulp. Her sharp cheekbones seemed ready to break through her papery skin. “Aldo must set great store by his sticks.”
“Not Aldo, old friend. Me. To me, they couldn’t be more precious if they were dipped in gold.”
Her bloodless lips curved in a hesitant smile. “I don’t understand.”
“You don’t have to.” I kissed her on both cheeks—twice. “But thank you a hundred times over.”
I turned to Maestro Torani. “Keep these safe—under lock and key at all times. I believe the dwarf came back for them the day after the murder—I happened upon him roaming the corridors. Grief stricken, I thought.” I shook my head. “He was more likely trying to work out why his precious stilts weren’t where he left them.”
“You know you can count on me,” Torani replied. “But where are you going?”
“To find Messer Grande,” I called, already with one foot out the door.
***
I blew through the auditorium and foyer and left the theater by the front entrance, intent on getting to Messer Grande’s office. Sunlight slanted from the west, throwing the crowded, narrow alleys between the theater’s campo and the Piazza into murky twilight. In the shadows, walls and bridges became fuzzy and indistinct. The pavement beneath my feet seemed uneven, causing me to stumble several times. People going about their everyday business, even mothers with babes in arms, appeared as outlandish as the masked merrymakers that passed in rowdy groups of threes and fours. I peered at everyone as if they were absurd characters of a dream—until one face rounded a corner and popped out of the gloom with perfect clarity.
Benito fell on my neck and pulled me into a recessed doorway. His eyes were glassy and feverish.
“Benito, what’s wrong? Are you ill? How did you get back from the house so quickly?”
He shook his head wildly. “I haven’t been home. I’ve been looking for the boy.”
“What?” I stared blankly, unable to make sense of his words for one shocked moment.
“Titolino begged to stay on the Piazza for a few minutes. I saw no harm. He was bored with the acrobats, so I let him watch a dumb show for a while—the men were pretending to duel with swords—and then he spied some marionettes a few booths along.” Benito’s face contorted in anguish. “I don’t know how he got away from me. One minute he was laughing at Punchinello, and the next minute, he just wasn’t there.”
With my heart hammering against my ribs, I whirled and shot out into the stream of passersby. Benito dragged me back. “Master, we must go the other way.”
I staggered, almost falling to my knees, amazed at my frail manservant’s strength.
“I’ve searched the entire Piazza…asked everyone if they’ve seen him.” His words tumbled one over the other. “Luigi is looking still. My one hope is that Titolino had the idea of visiting you at the theater.”
“How could he know his way there?”
Benito shrugged helplessly. “He’s a bright boy—he could ask directions.”
&nb
sp; A bright boy. Yes, he was. But also a very small boy loose among the filthiest dregs of Venice’s overflowing bucket of vice. Swindlers, thieves, cutpurses, whoremongers, and worse. The blood drummed in my ears like thunder. Liya was at home, cheerfully going about her duties, thinking we were on a pleasant expedition to see the rhinoceros. How could I possibly return with the news that we’d lost her son?
Chapter Eighteen
The window of Messer Grande’s office in the Procuratie allowed an expansive view of the Piazza. The glittering spires and bulging domes of the Basilica lay at the extreme left, the towering Campanile across the square. Covering every inch of pavement was a gaudy maze of booths and tents and trestle stages where Venice’s visitors sought gratification and delight. Somewhere in their midst, Benito was leading a contingent of constables on a frantic search for Titolino.
Messer Grande stared down at the carnival concourse as if he could make the boy appear by sheer force of will. To me, the sight might as well have been a barrel of writhing worms. Tito wasn’t down there—I felt his absence in my bones.
The chief constable tore his gaze away from the window and moved to sit behind the desktop that was supported by a pair of carved griffons with folded wings. With an open palm, he invited me to take the wing chair that sat across the shining expanse of mahogany. “It has to be more than coincidence, Tito. Pamarino glared at you with every indication that he realized his stilt-walking display had nudged you toward the truth. A few minutes later, the boy disappears.”
“Surely Titolino just wandered away. It must happen all the time.” I gestured toward the window with an impatient hand. “Look at all the delights that could catch a boy’s attention. He could have gone back to see the rhinoceros. Or perhaps he was swept up the Mercerie by the crowd and didn’t know how to get back to the square.”
Messer Grande’s face wrinkled into a mask of concern. “Those lost children are quickly found, Tito. They realize they can’t see their Mama and start to cry. People want to help. Neighbor asks neighbor, ‘Where does this little one belong?’ Mama and child find each other once more.”
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