078 The Phantom Of Venice Page 3

  “Wow!”

  Nancy’s lips curved in a wry smile. “Yes, I know. Sounds pretty far out to me, too. But I’m willing to try.”

  “I bet you’ll succeed, too!” declared Tara.

  “Don’t count on it. But that reminds me of something I wanted to ask you, Tara.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “When Angela translated that motto on the apron—you know, To make an omelet, you have to break an egg—it seemed to me you looked sort of puzzled for a second or two. Why?”

  Tara gave a shrug. “Golly, I don’t know exactly. It . . . it’s just that . . . well, Daddy hated omelets. He never made them. In fact, I remember him saying once that the only people who made omelets were cooks who didn’t know how to make nice fluffy scrambled eggs.”

  Nancy chuckled. “Sounds like my father. He and James Bond are both crazy about bacon and scrambled eggs. It’s practically the only way Daddy will ever eat eggs.”

  “Why did you ask?” Tara inquired curiously.

  It was Nancy’s turn to shrug. “Search me. Whenever there’s a mystery, I guess I’m always looking for clues, and one never knows where they’ll turn up.” She rose from her chair. “Well, I’d better get going, Tara,” she said, “but I’ll call you tomorrow, if not sooner.”

  Tara accompanied her downstairs to the parlor of the pensione and gave her an affectionate hug and kiss. Nancy asked Senora Dandolo if she could phone for a gondola or motoscafo, one of Venice’s motorboat-taxis. The landlady said she could, but that it would be much quicker simply to walk a block or so to the Grand Canal and hail one.

  Nancy had packed only a duffel bag and a light suitcase for her trip to Venice, so she declined Tara’s offer to help and started out alone for the Grand Canal.

  She had gone only a few steps when she felt a hand on her shoulder. “Scusi, Signorina Drew! May I have a word with you?”

  4

  Falcon Palace

  Nancy paled, then felt a warm flush seep upward from her neck to her cheeks. She knew, without even turning around, who had spoken. It was Gianni Spinelli.

  How handsome he looked as he strode up alongside her! He was the sort of guy, thought Nancy, whose physique would catch a girl’s eye as quickly as his face would—both were devastatingly attractive.

  Once again his smile played tricks with her heart. She tried not to notice the dimple at the corners of his mouth.

  “What do you want?” Her voice sounded strained and unnatural to her ears.

  “To walk with you, and talk with you. What else?” As he spoke, he reached out to relieve her of her luggage. “Please! Let me carry those for you, Signorina! Prego!”

  It seemed idiotic to resist or struggle with him on the street over such a matter. Nancy kept her duffel bag, which was slung over one shoulder, but allowed him to take her suitcase—even though she realized this provided him with the excuse he needed to accompany her.

  “You were waiting outside for me all the while I was in the pensione with Tara?” Nancy inquired with a hint of exasperation, then immediately regretted asking. It sounded as though she were accusing him of some wrongdoing.

  “As you see.”

  “Why?”

  “Cara! Do you really have to ask?” With a dry little laugh, he looked deep into her eyes, as though at that moment there was no one else in the world but the two of them. “I waited because you are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen, -and therefore I desire to be with you as often and for as long as I can! E così, does that answer satisfy you, Miss Nancy Drew?”

  She tried to ignore what his words and his eyes were telling her, but it wasn’t easy.

  “How many other girls have you said that to?” she retorted, angry at herself for falling into his trap by asking.

  “A good many,” Gianni grinned and shrugged, “but this is the first time I ever meant it.”

  “From the way you acted at your sister’s, I thought you’d fallen in love at first sight with Tara Egan,” Nancy said tartly.

  Gianni chuckled. “Do not worry, cara. You have no need to be jealous.”

  “Jealous!” Nancy gasped with indignation. “What on earth makes you think I’d be jealous of anyone you flirt with?”

  “It was you who brought up the subject, my dear Nancy. Anyway, I assure you there is no reason at all to feel so. What I say or do with your little friend Tara means nothing. She is like a homeless puppy, grateful to anyone who shows her the least bit of attention or affection. The poor child does not even realize yet that she is a woman. She is ready to give her heart to any halfway attractive man who shows interest in her. Do you really think that I, Gianni Spinelli, could fall in love with such a poverina?”

  He spoke with such smugness and preening vanity that Nancy was almost grateful to him. His words had just shocked her out of her fantasy and into her senses like a cold shower of reality, chilling her confused, romantic feelings. In a flash, they reawakened the mistrust she had felt back at Angela’s apartment.

  She thought of the warm adoring glances he had bestowed on Tara Egan, and the caressing way he had stroked her arm and shoulder. Yet now, when Tara was not around, he talked about her in a contemptuous, patronizing way! There was no longer any doubt in Nancy’s mind that Gianni Spinelli was just a calculating playboy whose only interest in the opposite sex was to gratify his own vanity. He would use girls for whatever he could get out of them.

  His next words, breaking in on Nancy’s thoughts, threatened to undo all her cool, logical reasoning. “With you, it is quite different, cara. You are an exciting, lovely woman who knows she is a woman and is not to be taken in by flattery or mere hand-kissing. To win your heart would be the proudest boast any man could hope to make!”

  It was so cornily operatic a line that Nancy felt like laughing. The trouble was that when spoken by a hunk like Gianni, with those melting dark eyes, she found herself idiotically wanting to believe him, in spite of all her common sense!

  By now they had reached the Grand Canal. Nancy was thankful that at that moment a gondola came steering up to the quay in response to her wave.

  To her annoyance, Gianni stepped aboard with her.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” she asked bluntly.

  “With you, Signorina Drew, if you permit,” Gianni replied with a courtly air. (So now she was “Signorina Drew” again, instead of “Nancy” or “cara”!) “I wish only to make sure you reach your destination safely. And on the way, perhaps you will allow me to act as your tour guide.”

  Nancy found it impossible to order him out of the gondola. It didn’t seem worth making a scene about it in public so, with a shrug, she turned her back on him and gave directions to the gondolier.

  As they glided out into the stream of water traffic, Nancy settled back on the cushioned passenger seat. For the first time since her arrival, she prepared to absorb and enjoy all the sights and sounds—and smells—of Venice.

  Yes, the smell was certainly there—a dank, pervasive odor of canal water and distant salt air from the outlying marshes, faintly tainted with sewage—not too unpleasant, really. Like all tourists, Nancy quickly forgot such a trifling inconvenience when surrounded by the overwhelming charm of Venice herself.

  The gondola was like a black swan, gliding gracefully along under the strokes of the gondolier in his striped jersey, sailor pants and black-ribboned straw hat. On either bank rose a fascinating array of architecture—domed churches, palaces, public buildings, and ancient dwelling houses.

  In the bright summer sunshine under a cloudless blue sky, the brick and marble facades presented a rainbow of faded colors—raspberry, ochre, russet, pale lime and ivory, rose red and old gold. Loveliest of all, Nancy thought, were the palazzi with their columned arcades and small, delicate balconies and windows topped by pointed Moorish arches. The fact that many of the buildings were weather-stained and patched or crumbling seemed only to add to their charm. They looked as though they were floating on their own reflections mirrored in
the canal.

  For Nancy, the final enchanting touch was provided by the mooring posts, like striped barber poles, scattered along each bank.

  Now and then the water was churned by passing motoscafi darting among the gondolas and barges and occasional vaporetti. Even a few rackety outboards intruded on the fairytale scene. Down the dark, narrow side-canals could be glimpsed small, picturesque humpbacked bridges.

  “Venice is a very noisy city, I fear,” Gianni was saying, as he pointed out the landmarks.

  “Perhaps so, but it’s a pleasant noise,” Nancy mused aloud. Unlike the raucous din of New York’s street traffic, the thrumming sounds on the Grand Canal were predominantly human, a medley of voices from the crowds swarming along the quays mingled with the shouted warnings of the gondoliers veering their craft out of each other’s way.

  Ever since they embarked, Gianni had kept up a stream of flirtatious remarks. Nancy managed to ignore most of them, but breathed an inner sigh of relief when the gondolier finally steered his boat toward the Left Bank to land, narrowly missing another gondola as he did so.

  They had reached the Palazzo Falcone. Nancy recognized it at once from the fierce stone hawk jutting out like a gargoyle from a point high up on the facade. It obviously symbolized the family name of the palace’s owners.

  A flight of stone steps led up from the water to the arcaded front entrance, or loggia. Nancy shouldered her duffel bag, snatched up her suitcase before Gianni could take it, and stepped nimbly out of the boat onto the bottom step. Then she turned abruptly to pay the gondolier before her companion could disembark.

  “Thank you, Gianni, for coming with me this far,” she said coolly, “but I must say goodbye now. You’ll understand, I’m sure, that I can’t invite you in, since I’m only a visitor here myself.”

  Cutting short his plaintive response, she mounted the steps of the palazzo, suitcase in hand. The gondolier, grinning at Gianni’s discomfort, was already rowing away.

  Inside the columned stone porch, Nancy tugged a bellpull. Moments later, a cadaverous butler answered the door. He was wearing a dress suit that was shiny from long wear, and white gloves that looked none too clean. His long, bony horseface showed no expression whatever, and a patch over one eye gave him a villainous air.

  “I’m Nancy Drew,” said the teen from River Heights, somewhat intimidated by his manner. “I, uh, believe I’m expected.”

  The butler bowed in silence and stood aside while she entered. Then, after relieving her of her luggage, he led the way through a marble vestibule and a long dark hall to an ornate drawing room.

  Her father, Carson Drew, rose from his chair with an eager smile. “Nancy dear, how good to see you!”

  He strode toward her with outstretched arms, and they exchanged a hug and kiss. Then the tall, broad-shouldered attorney introduced her to the man with whom he had been speaking.

  “Marchese, this is my daughter Nancy. Honey, this is our host, the Marquis del Falcone—or Marchese del Falcone, to give him his proper title in Italian.”

  Nancy made a mental note that his title rhymed with “Mark Daisy” and for the rest of the day kept thinking of their host by that name. I’ll have to be careful not to call him that to his face! she thought, suppressing a smile.

  The Marchese Francesco del Falcone was a courtly gentleman in his fifties, with dark wavy hair sprinkled with silver at the temples and a waxed mustache. In his beautifully tailored silk suit, with a sky-blue ascot at his throat and a carnation in his lapel, he looked every inch the aristocrat.

  “Enchanted to meet you, my dear!” he said, pressing Nancy’s fingers. “Your distinguished parent has told me much about you, but even before now I had heard your name on one of my trips to America. It is my sincere hope that you may be able to help solve this unhappy kidnaping, which your father has no doubt told you about.”

  “I’ll certainly do what I can,” said Nancy, “though I’m sure your Italian police are already checking out every possible lead.”

  “Si, the carabinieri are quite skilled in dealing with such crimes. Unfortunately, kidnaping for ransom has become more and more frequent in Italy in recent years. But perhaps your own talent as a detective will suggest some new approach.”

  When they were all seated, Nancy said, “Tell me, please, about the person who was kidnaped.”

  “His name is Pietro Rinaldi. He is a master glassblower—the single most valuable employee of my glass factory on Murano.”

  “Forgive my ignorance, Marchese, but why is he so valuable?”

  “Because he knows all the trade secrets that make our Venetian glass the finest in the world. In every factory on the island of Murano, there are expert craftsmen like Pietro, men whose skills have been passed down from father to son for generations. That is how Pietro became a master glassblower, by learning the craft from his father. My family, the Falcones, have owned our glassworks for over two hundred years, and all that time Pietro’s family, the Rinaldis, has worked for us.”

  “In effect,” interjected Carson Drew, “Pietro Rinaldi is one of the glassworks’ main assets.”

  “So without him,” said Nancy, “the company would be crippled, unless and until an equally skilled replacement could be found or trained?”

  “Exactly. And in some ways, I gather, he could never be replaced, is that not so, Francesco?”

  “Si, that is correct. Every Venetian glass factory, you see, has its own special secrets, and in the case of the Falcone glassworks, those secrets are stored mostly in the head of Pietro Rinaldi.”

  “Does he have any sons of his own?”

  “Not yet. Pietro is still a young man, not much over thirty. As a boy, he ran away to sea and sailed all over the world. He even spent some time in your own country, living with his relatives in New Jersey. At first he planned to become a citizen and enlisted in the United States Marines. But later, when his father became seriously ill, Pietro had a change of heart. He returned home to Venice and applied himself seriously to learning all the secrets of glassmaking.”

  “How and when was he kidnaped?”

  “Just three days ago, last Friday, to be precise. The police believe he was captured during the night in his house, probably at gunpoint. Next morning, I received an anonymous phone call from one of the gang that snatched him. The caller told me Pietro was in their power and demanded one hundred thousand dollars in American currency for his safe release.”

  “Do you intend to pay the ransom?”

  “Alas, that is difficult!” The Marchese del Falcone sighed and spread his hands unhappily. “The gang has given me ten days to pay the money, but I doubt if I can raise that much cash on such short notice. Times have been hard these past few years, and my family’s fortunes have suffered. That is why I was planning to sell the glassworks to your father’s client.”

  Nancy knew that her father represented an American firm called the Crystalia Glass Company and had come to Italy on the firm’s behalf to negotiate the purchase of the Falcone glassworks. But Pietro’s kidnaping had stalled the deal, since Crystalia believed the loss of the master glassblower could seriously hamper production at the Italian factory.

  Carson Drew now explained that the Marchese had asked Crystalia Glass to advance him the hundred thousand dollars needed for the ransom, even before the purchase took place. “I’ve forwarded his request to my client. We’re now waiting for an answer.”

  Nancy pondered for a few moments before asking, “What about the Italian police? I mean, what’s their position on the ransom demand?”

  “Officially they are against my paying it,” replied the Marchese. “Privately they admit it may be the only way to save Pietro’s life, since they have no real clues to go on in tracking down the criminals.”

  “Would it be possible for me to visit the Falcone glassworks, and talk to some of your employees?”

  “Si, by all means! There is a young American there who will be glad to act as interpreter for you.”

  �
�I can take her over to Murano this afternoon,” said Carson Drew. Then he glanced at his watch and added to Nancy, “The Marchese has a meeting scheduled with his bankers at two-thirty, to discuss ways of raising the ransom money, if my client won’t help. It’s almost that time now, Francesco.”

  “Si, they will be expecting me shortly. In any case, the two of you would no doubt enjoy some moments alone together, to chat personally. E così, if you will excuse me . . .”

  With a smiling bow to Nancy, the Marchese del Falcone rose to his feet. “My butler Domenic will bring you some refreshment,” he said as he left the drawing room. Mr. Drew turned to his daughter. “Well, honey, how was your flight over?”

  “Very smooth and pleasant, Daddy. I even made a new friend.” Nancy told him about Tara Egan and the fatal circumstances that had cost the life of Tara’s father, Rolf Egan.

  “How tragic!” Carson Drew exclaimed sympathetically. As they talked, the sinister-looking butler served them coffee, fruit and cheese.

  “Where is Tara Egan staying, Nancy?”

  “She’s taken a room at a pensione. I hope to see her tomorrow. She still hasn’t gotten over her father’s death, and I’m a bit concerned about her. Do you suppose the Marchese would allow me to invite her here to the palazzo for tea?”

  “Of course, I’m quite sure he would. Francesco’s one of the kindest, most gracious hosts I’ve ever known.”

  When Nancy finished her coffee, Mr. Drew suggested that she might like to freshen up or lie down for half an hour before starting for the glassworks on Murano. Domenic showed her to her room.

  After a brief but welcome rest, Nancy rose and ran some bath water. Then she opened her suitcase to pick out a change of clothing. Her eyes widened as she discovered a strange object inside—a fluted white shell she had never seen before!

  Where on earth did that come from? she breathed half aloud.

  5

  A Glass Menagerie

  Nancy was both puzzled and intrigued as she picked up the sea shell for a closer look. She was quite sure it had not been in her suitcase when she went through Customs. But if she had not packed it, when and how did the shell get there?