The Phantom of Venice 3 страница

Nancy chuckled. “Okay, I’m warned.”

The trip across the lagoon took only about twenty minutes. Nancy quickly spotted the young man who was to meet her. He was tall, rangy and sandy-haired. Something about his appearance instantly marked him as American. She felt she could have picked him out of a crowd, even if he hadn’t come striding toward her as she stepped off the boat.

Thank goodness! thought Nancy. What a relief it will be to talk to an ordinary American guy again after fending off an exotic animal like Gianni!

This particular Yank might never make it as a magazine model, but there was a solid, homey, reliable air about him that, at the moment, seemed far more appealing.

His face had a lean, craggy, strong-jawed look that was far from handsome, yet attractive in its own way. Nancy could never have imagined him in evening clothes, or starring in a sophisticated movie. But she could easily picture him slouching on the pitcher’s mound in a baseball uniform, straightening his cap and squinting at the batter just before winding up and firing a fast ball over the plate.

“Miss Drew?”

“Yes... and you must be Don Madison.”

“Right.” He turned away from the boat landing after the briefest of handshakes. “Plant’s not far from here. Hope you don’t mind walking.”

“Not at all. I’ll enjoy it.”

Nancy was a bit put off by her escort’s curtness. She hadn’t expected a hometown welcoming committee, but she hadn’t expected the cold shoulder, either. His official smile of greeting and the sizing-up look he gave her had seemed affable enough, at least for the length of their handshake. But did he have to turn quite so brusque and uptight the very next moment? He even seemed to be avoiding eye contact.

“I suppose my father told you why I’ve come to Murano?”

“Not really. Just something about you looking over the factory, maybe asking the hands some questions about Pietro.”

Don Madison’s tone sounded faintly disdainful, as if the thought of a girl her age snooping into a crime that baffled the police was too ridiculous to be taken seriously. Nancy realized that her father had probably told him as little as possible in order not to cramp her investigation.

“What are you, some kind of reporter?”

“No, some kind of detective, if you want to put it that way. I know it’s pretty unusual and I don’t look the part, but I have succeeded in other investigations.”

Don flung her a sudden quizzical glance as they walked along. “Oh yeah, now it registers. So you’re that Nancy Drew?... Sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter in the least,” Nancy said coldly. “I’ll try not to take up any more of your time than I have to.”

“Well, our production schedule is sort of messed up at the moment, now that Pietro’s not around to keep things running smoothly.”

Murano, too, it seemed, was an island of waterways, with a canal forming what appeared to be its main street. Don led the way through several alleys and turnoffs to a courtyard with a brick factory building at one end. A hawklike gargoyle and a sign over the doorway announced that this was the Falcone Glassworks, Vetreria del Falcone.

Inside, a balding man in a vest and shirtsleeves peered out at them from a cubbyhole office. Don Madison introduced him as Signor Rubini, the plant manager. He bowed obsequiously to Nancy and gabbled away in an accent she could hardly understand.

“Just a flunky,” Don muttered as they walked on. “It’s Pietro who really runs the plant—or did run it before he was kidnaped.”

Glowing furnaces dazzled her eyes in the gritty, smoky production area. Fascinated, Nancy watched several husky, leather-aproned blowers at work as they dipped long hollow rods into the molten glass, then swung and twirled them to elongate the syrupy blobs. These were blown patiently into larger and larger translucent bubbles, with the workmen’s cheeks puffing out like Dizzy Gillespie’s, the jazz trumpeter. The result was then pinched, cut or rolled on marble tables to produce the desired end product—goblets, vases, bottles and figurines.

Don showed her how decorations could be formed by means of drops or lumps added from the outside, or by colored or milky threads embedded in the original glass.

“Do they often let visitors watch how these things are made?” Nancy inquired.

“What you’ve just seen is no big deal, these are all well-known techniques of glassmaking. The real secrets have to do with things like furnace temperatures and glass formulas.”

Don explained that the early seafaring Venetians had learned the art of glassmaking from the Syrians and other peoples of the Eastern Mediterranean. Their glassware became the finest in the Western world and reached a peak of perfection in the sixteenth century, with the clearest crystal glass ever blown. But their know-how eventually leaked out to other countries of Europe, despite the best efforts of the Venetian secret police.

“You mean there was cloak-and-dagger espionage in the glass business, just like James Bond and the CIA have to fight off atomic or microelectronics spies nowadays?”

“There sure was. If a Venetian glassmaker defected to some other country, they’d either try to coax him back with bribes, or hire assassins to track him down and kill him.”

Nancy shivered and wondered if any similar motives might be involved in Pietro’s kidnaping.

Don’s manner continued to seem rather gruff and unfriendly. Yet he helped her chat with the workmen in an offhand way, so that she would appear more like an inquisitive, young tourist than a snoopy private investigator.

One interesting fact Nancy noted was that Don Madison seemed to have been friendlier with the missing maestro than anyone else in the plant. Judging by remarks by both Don and the workmen, Pietro Rinaldi had evidently taken the young American under his wing, and the two had become close friends.

“Did Pietro seem worried over anything before the kidnaping occurred?” she inquired.

Don shook his head curtly. “Not at all.”

“Did he have any particular friends outside the plant, or a girl friend, perhaps?”

“Not here in Italy. He’s engaged to an American girl back in New Jersey. From the way he talked, I guessed he’s been saving money so he can bring her over here in style next spring.”

This reminded Nancy that she had no idea of what the kidnap victim looked like. “Was he ever photographed?” she asked Don.

“Not in a studio, if that’s what you mean, but there’s a colored snapshot of him and his girl.”

“Where?”

“At his flat.”

Nancy waited to see if Don might volunteer any further information, but none was forthcoming. The afternoon was almost over, and Nancy felt it was time to go before she outstayed her welcome. Before leaving, however, she asked if the Vetreria del Falcone had any glassware for sale.

“Tons of it. What would you like?”

“My aunt collects glass paperweights. She asked me to pick one out for her.”

Don Madison led her to a storeroom, where a whole shelf filled with paperweights was on display. Their beauty was breathtaking. Seeing her interest, he relaxed enough to explain some of the patterns and technical terms, such as millefiori, garlands, swirls, crowns and mushrooms. A number of the weights contained lovely artificial flowers and butterflies. How the glassmaker had embedded them inside his work of art almost defied the imagination.

In the end, Nancy chose one that was simpler yet more subtle and unique—an oval paperweight filled with a swirling rainbow of colors. It was placed well back on the shelf, almost out of sight.

Don gave her a startled look of respect. “Not bad. You picked the best one of all. That was blown by Pietro himself.”

Despite his protest, Nancy insisted on paying for it. Then her eyes fell on an enchanting display of glass animals. Don explained that they represented the mythological beasts of Venice.

“They’re gorgeous!” Nancy murmured. “Did Pietro design these, too?”

“No, they were designed by an outside artist the firm hired, an American named Rolf Egan.”

6. Unseen Eyes

Rolf Egan! Nancy caught her breath.

A man had drowned or been shot to death under mysterious circumstances—and now his name had turned up in an entirely different context!

Was it just a coincidence?

Well, maybe, but Nancy had learned early on in her mystery-solving career to mistrust coincidences.

She came out of her thoughtful trance with a start as she realized Don Madison was observing her keenly.

“Did I say something wrong?” he inquired.

“Far from it,” Nancy murmured. “Sorry if I seemed to be spinning my wheels. Actually, you just gave me something to think about.”

She was pensive again for a moment before asking, “Where is Pietro’s flat located, by the way?”

“Here on Murano, on the other side of the island.”

“Will you be leaving the plant at closing time?”

“Nope, not for a while. We’re going to shut down some of the furnaces. I’ve been acting as Pietro’s assistant lately, so they expect me to oversee the job.”

Nancy would have been glad to wait, had Don offered to show her Pietro’s flat afterward. But he gave no sign of taking the hint, which left her no alternative but to thank him for his time and help, and say goodbye.

“Think you can find your way back to the boat landing?”

“I hope so. If not, I’m sure someone will direct me.”

Weary and a trifle depressed, Nancy sailed back to Venice. Thoughts crowded her mind as she stood at the rail of the vaporetto. The lagoon was dotted with boats and its waters gleamed peacefully in the fading, late afternoon sun. A sleek white cruiseliner was rounding the eastern tip of Venice en route to the Canale di San Marco, where it would drop anchor.

What a day it had been, far more eventful than she’d ever expected! And now it was ending on a note of frustration. Nancy was conscious of a faint, lingering resentment toward Don Madison. Why hadn’t he been more willing to help her follow through on her investigation of Pietro Rinaldi?

No, that’s not fair, she chided herself. Who knew how long and sweaty a job he might have ahead of him at the plant? And when he did knock off, why should she expect him to put himself out for her sake?

All the same, she thought crossly, his manner might have been a little more gracious!

Getting off the vaporetto, she found a water-taxi to take her back to the palazzo. I wonder what the back of the palace is like? Nancy mused idly as they cruised along. Maybe this would be a good time to explore.

Her boatman-driver seemed to understand English quite well. When Nancy told him what she had in mind, he nodded. “No problem, Signorina. I show you how to get there.”

Minutes later, he steered his motoscafo into a narrow side-canal and, after giving her detailed directions, let her off near one of the little humpbacked bridges. Nancy thanked him with a smile and a generous tip and started off on foot through an arched passageway facing the bridge.

It led her into a paved street, which widened into a broad, tree-shaded campo, or square. On one side of the square stood an ancient church; on the other, a grilled gateway.

The gateway opened into the courtyard of the Palazzo Falcone. It was a lovely spot filled with the fragrance of plants and flowering vines—clematis, rambling roses, oleander and honeysuckle. Crumbling statues added a picturesque touch.

Several people were seated on wrought-iron garden furniture in the flagstoned center of the courtyard. The Marchese and his guests were enjoying an aperitif in the open air.

“Welcome back, my dear!” said the Marchese. “Will you not join us?”

Nancy gratefully sat down and accepted a lemonade after a smiling exchange with her father and Katrina van Holst. She was also introduced to two new arrivals at the palazzo, Signor and Signora Gatti.

“Your visit to Murano was interesting, I trust?” her host inquired politely.

“Very much so. I even learned a little about glass-making.” Nancy displayed the rainbow-hued paperweight she had bought for her Aunt Eloise. “I also saw those beautiful mythological animals your plant is now producing.”

“Ah, si, our Venetian bestiary! Marvelous creatures, are they not? We have great hopes for them in the export market, which is one reason why Signor Gatti is here, in addition to attending our masked ball.”

Ezio Gatti was a bulky man with a sharp beak of a nose and beady eyes—rather sinister-looking, Nancy thought—but with a warm, jovial manner that totally belied his appearance. A successful exporter, he said he was already getting a flood of orders for the glass animals from American and European store buyers.

“How did you happen to pick the artist who designed them?” Nancy asked the Marchese.

“He was recommended by Pietro Rinaldi, and, as you saw, he proved an excellent choice. By the way, your father mentioned a girl friend you would like to invite here to tea. By all means do so, my dear! I am sure she will brighten the Ca’ Falcone, as you and my other two beautiful lady guests are already doing!”

“Thanks ever so much. That’s very kind of you!” Nancy wondered why her reference to the glass animal designer should lead him to speak of Tara. Did he know that she was the daughter of the artist, Rolf Egan? Or was it just a coincidence?

Aloud she asked, “May I call my friend now?”

“Sicuramente! My butler will show you to the phone.”

“Perhaps I can help.” Isabella Gatti rose from her garden chair with a smile. “Using our Italian phone system is not always easy for American visitors.”

Signora Gatti accompanied Nancy into the palace. A slender woman with jet-black hair that set off her vivid coloring, she had on a chic afternoon dress that Nancy felt sure was a designer original. Her charming manner won her the teenager’s immediate liking.

After looking up the number of the Pensione Dandolo, Mrs. Gatti dialed, and a rapid conversation in Italian followed, presumably with Signora Dandolo. Then she handed the receiver to Nancy.

“Your friend will be on the line in a moment.”

“Mille grazie!”

“Ah, you are learning our beautiful language! Congratulations, my dear!” The signora walked off, beaming her approval.

Tara was delighted at being asked to tea at the palazzo and accepted happily. She was startled to learn that her father had been commissioned to design a set of glass animals for the Vetreria del Falcone. “What a strange coincidence!” she murmured.

“If it is a coincidence,” was the response.

“Nancy, what do you mean?! You’re not suggesting that that had anything to do with... with what happened to Daddy?”

“No, of course not. But if we could find out how he came to be chosen as the artist, it might shed a little more light on his work and what he was doing recently, which in turn might clue us in to whether anyone really did have a motive for trying to shoot him.”

“Yes... I see what you mean.” Tara’s voice was thoughtful and troubled.

“One other thing. Were you by any chance carrying a sea shell in your luggage?”

“A sea shell? Why, no. What a funny question! Why do you ask?”

Nancy hesitated. “I’ll explain tomorrow.”

“Okay, see you then. And thanks for inviting me!”

Nancy changed for dinner, which was held in a magnificent dining room with dark beams, brightened by Renaissance murals. Over the seven-course meal, the Marchese described his plans for the upcoming masquerade ball.

“It must be a famous occasion, if Miss van Holst has come all the way from Amsterdam to photograph it,” said Nancy.

Francesco del Falcone shrugged but smiled proudly. “It is certainly not the only Venetian ballo in maschera, but ours has been held by my family every year since the palazzo was built in 1595!”

“I’m sure Katrina’s photos will do it full justice!” Carson Drew’s remark earned him a dazzling smile from the beautiful Dutch woman.

Before retiring, Nancy decided to write a letter home to Hannah Gruen. The devoted housekeeper had cared for her like a mother ever since the untimely death of Mrs. Drew, when Nancy was only three.

Later, as Nancy sealed the letter, she glanced up from the antique rosewood desk just as someone was passing by in the corridor outside the sitting room. Her thoughts must have shown plainly on her face.

“ ’S’matter?” grinned Don Madison. “Surprised to see the hired help walking through the palace?”

“I... I guess you could put it that way,” Nancy admitted, blushing with embarrassment.

Madison chuckled drily. “Actually, I live here.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were a personal friend of the Marchese’s.”

“I’m not. Glassmakers have always ranked well up on the social scale in Venice. In olden times they were held virtual prisoners on Murano, but even so, they were allowed all sorts of special privileges. They could even marry into noble families.”

The young American’s smile took on a faintly sardonic tinge as he added, “Of course, I work for Crystalia Glass, which may soon buy out the Falcone works. I suppose that may have had a little bit to do with my being invited to stay here as a guest.”

“What about Pietro Rinaldi?” Nancy inquired with sudden interest. “What sort of relationship did he have with the Marchese?”

“Well, maybe not quite like a father and son but, at least, say, an uncle and nephew. The two families have always been fairly close, I guess. Pietro often came here to the palace.”

There was a brief silence before Nancy asked, “Did you have to work very late?”

Again Don Madison chuckled. “Late enough to miss dinner, but I grabbed a bite on the way. Why?”

His manner seemed friendly enough at that moment for Nancy to risk a rebuff. “Could you possibly take time tomorrow to show me Pietro’s flat?”

“Sure, why not?” was the cheerful reply.

For some reason Nancy found herself looking forward with keen anticipation to her return trip to Murano. In fact, her mood the next morning was sufficiently buoyant that she decided to push her luck and ask if she might go along with Don when he left the palace to go to work at the plant.

“Of course. Come on,” he responded. He seemed more reserved than he had been the previous evening, but at least there was no sign of the brusqueness that had put Nancy off at their first meeting.

Maybe he’s just shy, she thought. It was a surprising notion. Nancy found it rather pleasant.

As they chatted on the vaporetto, Don’s manner seemed to thaw again. Once or twice, Nancy glanced sharply over her shoulder.

“Anything wrong?” he inquired.

“Not really.” Nancy tried to shrug off his question with a smile. “I... I had a feeling someone was staring at me... Probably my imagination.”

“It’d be surprising if some guy wasn’t staring at you,” said Don. “You’re very pretty.”

Nancy felt her cheeks turning pink.

Don had to check in at the vetreria, but did not keep her waiting long. Once work was in full swing, he told the plant manager, Signor Rubini, where he was going and that he would return in an hour. Then he and Nancy set off on foot.

Along the island’s shore, she could glimpse heaps of broken glass and other debris. Don noticed her glance. “You might not think so now,” he commented, “but Murano was once a fashionable beauty spot. Rich people would come here to stroll in the gardens and chat with poets and artists.”

Pietro’s flat was located in a neighborhood where master glassmakers had long resided. Nancy was surprised that Don had a key.

“Pietro liked company,” he explained. “Sometimes when he worked late, I’d bunk here overnight.”

It was a typical bachelor’s flat, comfortably if not very neatly furnished. Nancy saw no signs of a struggle. “What makes the police think he was kidnaped during the night?” she asked.

“Mostly because the lights were on when we came here looking for him the next day.”

Don led the way to a scarred, wormholed desk and pointed out a photo. It was a framed, colored snapshot showing Pietro Rinaldi on the beach with his attractive American fiancee. Pietro was a strongly built, hairy-chested fellow with a likeable grin. Nancy guessed that the picture had been snapped somewhere on the Jersey shore.

“The Marchese says Pietro chose the artist who designed those glass animals,” Nancy remarked. “Do you know why he picked Rolf Egan?”

“Well, Egan’s a talented artist, of course... but they were old friends.”

“Any idea where they met?”

“No, but they talked like old buddies. Could’ve been back in the States, I suppose.”

“Did you know Rolf Egan had a fatal accident?”

Don Madison was startled on hearing the details. “Wow! Almost sounds like a Mafia hit, doesn’t it?”

Nancy nodded, then stooped to pick up a playing card from the floor. It was lying face down by a wastebasket, as if someone had meant to throw it in but missed. It was the ace of diamonds.

“Any idea where this came from?”

Don shook his head. A search of the rooms failed to reveal any other cards.

The two walked back to the boat landing. The quay was crowded. Murano was already being overrun by its daily horde of tourists. Nancy realized that she and Don had scarcely spoken since leaving Pietro’s flat. She stole a look at her companion and found him regarding her with a strange intensity.

The throng stirred into motion as a vaporetto approached. Nancy felt a sudden nudge in the small of her back. It was sharp enough to send her stumbling forward. She flung out an arm to grasp the protective railing, but the sudden jerky movement had caused her heel to break off, and she lost her balance.

With a cry of fear, Nancy toppled from the quay!

7. Shell Game

Strong arms seized her as she teetered precariously on the barrier! In another moment she would have gone over and plunged head-first into the water!

Nancy’s face was white, and her heart was pounding. It took a moment to collect herself. Suddenly she realized that her head was pressed against Don Madison’s chest, and he was embracing her tightly as she clung to him.

“You okay?”

She nodded wordlessly, and there was a brief eye-to-eye communion before they separated. Nancy sensed a certain reluctance on both their parts to end the embrace.

“Looked like someone pushed you,” Don said gruffly.

“Someone did. Then my right heel broke off and I lost my balance completely!”

They glanced around, but people were jostling past them to board the vaporetto. There was no chance now to identify the person responsible.

Suddenly Nancy remembered the prickly feeling she had had of someone watching her on the boat ride over to Murano. Was it possible that she’d been shadowed all the way from the palazzo?

If so, that push might have been no accident!

Nancy felt a chill of fear. Did someone want her dead? Or was she merely being warned? Maybe the intended message was that if she didn’t stop her investigations, she might suffer the same fate as Rolf Egan!

“Sure you’re all right?” Don had been watching her face and his expression showed real concern. He slipped an arm supportively around her waist.

Nancy smiled and nodded. “Quite sure... Don’t worry, Don, I’ll be okay, aside from limping on one heel.”

It was the first time she had called him by his first name. Don hesitated a moment and seemed to swallow hard. “How about staying on for lunch?” he blurted.

“I’d love to, but someone is expecting me back at the palace.”

His face, which had lit up when she said “I’d love to,” fell again at her mention of a previous date. But his smile returned when Nancy explained that a girl friend was coming for tea.

“Okay. See you tonight then, I hope.”

“So do I. And thanks so much for taking me to Pietro’s!”

“My pleasure. Believe me!”

On the vaporetto, sailing back to Venice, Nancy was warily conscious of everyone who came near her. She also took care not to stand too near the rail. Her thoughts kept reverting to that moment when she’d almost been pushed off the quay, only to be saved by Don Madison.

What a heart-stopping experience it had been! Yet oddly, now, she found herself enjoying the recollection...

Nancy had planned on having tea in the palace courtyard. But the sepulchral, eyepatched butler Domenic, who seemed to have a habit of doing exactly as he pleased, apparently felt that guests should be formally received in the drawing room.

“Va bene, va bene,” he had muttered when Nancy tried to make her wishes clear. But when Tara arrived, he proceeded to lay out the tea in the drawing room.

The old fraud, thought Nancy, smiling in spite of her irritation. He understands exactly as much English as he wants to!

Maybe the air-conditioned drawing room was a better place to have tea—if one didn’t mind the lack of privacy. The afternoon sun was blazing, and the courtyard with its fragrant greenery was by no means free of insects.

Tara was entranced at the setting. “Wait’ll I tell Mom about this!” she murmured breathlessly. “Imagine being invited to a Venetian palace!”

She was even more thrilled when the Marchese del Falcone looked in on the two girls and welcomed Tara personally. He seemed as taken with the shy, willowy blond girl as she was with him.

“Where are you staying in Venice, my dear?” he inquired. “At a pensione? But that is absurd! You must come here and attend our masquerade ball tomorrow night! Would you not like to have your friend as a fellow guest, Nancy?”

“That would be marvelous!”

“Ebbene, it is settled, then. I shall send a servant to the pensione to arrange matters and fetch your luggage.”

Tara was overjoyed. But when she tried to express her gratitude, he merely smiled and brushed aside her thanks. “Prego! Non c’è di che!” he said, waving her imperiously to silence. “I beg you—it is nothing.”

Mr. Drew strolled into the drawing room and was also introduced to Tara. “I’m so glad Nancy met someone her own age on the flight over,” he remarked as they shook hands. “I’m sure it’ll make her stay in Venice much more enjoyable.”

“It’s a break for me, too!” Tara declared, wholeheartedly.

The bellpull sounded in the central corridor. Moments later, Domenic entered the drawing room to announce a visitor. He handed the Marchese a card, and there was a rapid exchange in Venetian dialect. As the butler exited, Falcone turned to his guests.

“I have a caller, it seems, an Englishman named Oliver Joyce. An art collector, apparently. If you will excuse me, I shall go and see what he wants.”

Before he could follow Domenic out of the room, however, the butler returned. With him was a tall, dapperly dressed man with a head that was shiny and bald, except for a wispy fringe of carrot-red hair.

“My dear Marchese,” Oliver Joyce beamed, holding out his hand, “how kind of you to see me! I should have written first, but I was passing this way on the Grand Canal and decided to take a chance that I might find you at home!”

Joyce explained that he was not only a collector, but a dealer in objets-d’art. “I have heard that you may soon consider selling some of your family art treasures,” he went on. “May I ask if these reports are correct?”

The Marchese smiled sadly. “An employee has been kidnaped, so it is necessary for me to raise a large ransom on short notice. I hope that my bankers may be able to arrange a loan on my family’s olive groves and other land holdings. If not,” he shrugged, “then our few remaining works of art may go on the block... But not just yet.”

Nevertheless, he graciously consented to show Mr. Joyce around the palace. Soon afterward, Carson Drew also left the drawing room to dictate some legal documents on tape to airmail back to his office in River Heights.

“By the way, Nancy,” said Tara as the two girls resumed their interrupted tea, “you were going to tell me something about a shell.”

“Yes, it was the strangest thing, Tara. When I unpacked yesterday, this is what I found in my suitcase...”

Nancy reached into her pocket and took out the white Angel’s Wing.

Tara’s eyes widened and her lips parted slightly. She sat very still, staring at the sea shell.

8. A Sinister Sign

“What is it, Tara?” Nancy asked. “Is anything wrong?”

Tara shook her head silently without taking her eyes off the shell. She seemed to be having difficulty finding her voice.

Nancy explained, “When we went through Customs, I thought this might somehow have gotten transferred from your suitcase to mine. I mean, that, maybe one of the inspection officers replaced it in the wrong bag, by mistake... You say that’s not the answer, though?”

“No. It couldn’t have come from my suitcase.”

“But you’ve seen this before?”

“Maybe not that particular shell, but one just like it.” Tara reached out for the Angel’s Wing and her hand closed around it almost fondly.

The teenage sleuth was intrigued. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

Tara’s lips trembled and her eyes suddenly glistened with moisture. “Oh, Nancy, this is really unusual! Do you remember me telling you how my father once came to New York unexpectedly and took me to the Jersey beach, and how we sunned ourselves in the sand all afternoon?”

Дата добавления: 2017-01-14