078 The Phantom Of Venice (7 page)

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.

“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?”

“Yes.”

“I found a shell like this and gave it to Daddy. He told me he’d always carry it with him as a keepsake—to remind him of the fun we had that day!” Tara’s voice broke emotionally.

Nancy was touched, but her instincts as a detective were also aroused. “You’re sure this isn’t the same shell?”

“How could it be? . . . Even if it were, there’s no way I could tell for sure.”

Nancy tactfully changed the subject, and the two girls were soon engaged in a lively conversation about their shopping and sightseeing plans. As they talked, Nancy saw Katrina van Holst passing by in the corridor.

“Come and join us,” she invited, “if you can spare a few minutes.”

The smiling Dutchwoman, who carried two cameras as well as a shoulder bag around her neck, came into the drawing room and was introduced to Tara Egan.
She accepted a cup of tea and sat down briefly to chat with the girls.

“Are you in Italy alone or with a group?” she asked Tara. On learning what had brought her from America, Miss van Holst sympathized warmly and expressed a hope that Tara might still take home pleasant memories of Venice, despite her father’s tragic accident.

“Just visiting the Marchese’s palace is something I’ll never forget,” said Tara. “And the masquerade ball sounds thrilling!”

Presently, after a brief tour of the palazzo’s upper floors, the Marchese returned to the drawing room with his English caller. He showed the art dealer two oil paintings of Venetian scenes, then led him to a tall glass cabinet.

Nancy couldn’t help noticing the keen, sidelong glances that Oliver Joyce kept casting in all directions while the Marchese was speaking. They seemed oddly out of key with his urbane, foppish manner and his show of peering intently through a monocle at whatever was being described. Nancy had a feeling that the Englishman’s sharp eyes were recording every detail of the palace scene.

She also noticed something even odder about his right trouser leg, just above the ankle.

From inside the glass cabinet, the Marchese del Falcone took out a lovely Fabergé egg—one of
the world-famous creations of Carl Peter Fabergé, court jeweler to the tsars of Russia. Jeweled and enameled in intricate designs, the eggs were intended as Easter gifts. Each contained a precious “surprise.”

The one that the Marchese now opened contained a spectacular firebird with emerald eyes and ruby and diamond feathers. “My grand-uncle brought this back to Venice,” said the Marchese. “He was at one time the Italian ambassador to Russia.”

“Exquisite!” murmured Oliver Joyce. His awed tone was scarcely above a whisper.

Nancy, Tara and Katrina van Holst rose from their chairs to admire and exclaim over the gorgeous work of art.

Soon after Oliver Joyce departed with profuse thanks to the Marchese, Katrina also left the palazzo to photograph the sights of Venice for the magazine she was working for. Nancy showed Tara the palace courtyard with its blooming garden, and then took her up to her room.

On the way, Nancy excused herself momentarily for a private word with her father. She asked him to use his legal connections to find out if Interpol, the international police organization, had any information on Oliver Joyce.

“What do you suspect him of?” Carson Drew inquired with a quizzical frown.

Nancy hesitated. “Just possibly of casing the Palazzo
Falcone for a future robbery. Unless I’m mistaken, he was wearing a gun in a leg holster!”

Mr. Drew’s face hardened and his frown deepened. “I’ll see what I can find out,” he promised.

Tara was entranced upon seeing Nancy’s room. Its tall windows, curtained with brocaded draperies, opened onto a graceful little balcony overlooking the Grand Canal. Its wall paneling was intricately carved, and its ceiling decorated with small gilt plaster cupids. What caught her eye most of all were the two huge, canopied four-poster beds.

“Oh, Nancy!” she cried. “Why couldn’t the two of us share this room? Would you mind?”

“Far from it. I was going to suggest the same thing myself.”

“Then let’s!”

There was a knock on the door. It was the eye-patched butler, Domenic. He announced that the two signorine had a visitor downstairs. “A young man who calls himself Gianni,” he added disapprovingly.

Nancy sighed. “All right, thank you. Tell him we’ll be down in a moment. . . . Oh, and Domenic, when Miss Egan’s luggage arrives, will you have it brought to this room, please?”

“Va bene.”

Tara was obviously thrilled by Gianni Spinelli’s visit. He looked more handsome than ever in an open-necked shirt and summer suit, with the cuffed sleeves of his jacket turned up halfway to the elbow.

He explained that he had gone to the Pensione Dandolo to invite Tara out on a short sightseeing tour of the city; but on learning from Signora Dandolo that she had gone to tea with a friend, he had followed her to the Palazzo Falcone.

“Perhaps you would care to come with us, Signorina Drew?” he added with an air of sleek assurance.

Nancy was about to decline coldly, when she was struck by a sudden pang of concern for Tara. The happy expression on her girl friend’s face showed all too clearly how gratified she was at the prospect of a date with Gianni, and how eager she was to accept. Nancy also remembered Gianni’s contemptuous remarks about Tara behind her back.

What kind of a friend would she be to leave her at the mercy of such a hypocritical wolf?

“Thank you, Gianni,” Nancy replied with a cool, formal smile. “I’ll be glad to come along . . . if you’re sure three won’t be a crowd?”

“Not at all! We shall be delighted to have your company, will we not, Tara?”

Tara’s response was noticeably lukewarm.

Gianni had planned a gondola outing—with the girls no doubt paying the tab, Nancy reflected cynically. Considering the high fares, it would have been an expensive afternoon.

Instead, Nancy suggested that they leave by the courtyard and
campo
behind the palace and go on a walking tour of the island city.

Despite the heat of the afternoon, this turned out to be a happy inspiration. Following their noses, they strolled along narrow canals closed in on either side by high medieval buildings, over small bridges, through arching passageways and along flagstoned streets, glimpsing a side of Venice rarely seen by tourists.

In fact, the only typical tourist attraction spectacle the girls saw was a high pillared statue of a fierce-looking warrior on horseback—Bartolomeo Colleoni, once the mercenary commander of Venice’s land forces. Nancy remembered reading somewhere that the splendid bronze figure, by Verocchio, was the greatest horseback statue ever sculpted. It was a thrilling sight.

The only flaw in the afternoon was the constant attention Gianni paid to Nancy. Once in a while he would bestow a grudging smile on Tara, or drop a flirtatious remark that brought an eager glow to her cheeks. But most of the time he would ignore her with a patronizing, macho arrogance, and speak flatteringly to Nancy or try to slip an arm around her waist.

Once, when they stopped in a little
trattoria
for some fruit ice, Gianni even reached across the table to caress Nancy’s hand. She saw the hurt, unhappy look
that flickered over Tara’s face and jerked her hand away as quickly and pointedly as she could.

Not long after passing the horseback statue, they came out onto the Fondamenta Nuove just as passengers were debarking from a steam launch. Among them, Nancy glimpsed Don Madison.

Her pulse raced and she found herself waving eagerly. “Don!”

Heads turned as the pretty strawberry blond called out his name. Don waved back and hurried toward them with a pleased grin. “Hey, what a nice surprise! What are you doing up this way, Nancy?”

“Seeing Venice—on foot,” she chuckled, and introduced him to her two companions. Gianni’s nostrils flared with ill-concealed dislike as he shook hands with the American.

“It’s after five,” Don remarked. “Going back to the palazzo?”

“We haven’t decided yet,” said Nancy. “So far we’ve just been wandering around, playing it by ear. Why?”

Don turned to Tara and Gianni. “Look, I hate to break up this happy trio, but would you mind very much if I snatched Nancy away from you?”

Tara certainly didn’t. But Gianni looked sulky as Nancy smiled, “What did you have in mind?”

“Dinner. There uh . . . there are some things I
want to tell you about Pietro and the glassworks, things I’ve just remembered.”

“Then we’d better talk, by all means.” Nancy excused herself to her two companions, and Don promptly flagged a motorboat-taxi.

As they
put-putted
away down a
rio
, Nancy waved goodbye to Tara and Gianni. The handsome young Venetian watched sullenly and made no response. Tara, however, waved back with a happy smile as she clung to Gianni’s arm.

“Was I rude?” said Don.