078 The Phantom Of Venice (9 page)

Nancy’s pulse was racing. She opened the paper as they walked along. It bore a hastily penned note:

Meet me on Piazzetta at 6:00

under Winged Lion.

A Friend of R’s

Beneath the message, the sender had drawn a four-cornered lozenge—the shape of a diamond in a pack of playing cards.

“What’s the matter?” said Tara, who had noticed Nancy’s sudden odd behavior.

“I’ll explain later.” Nancy smiled as calmly as she could. “Hungry enough for lunch?”

“Starved!”

“Let’s find a place to eat, then.”

With the Rialto behind them, they were now walking down the Merceria, Venice’s main shopping street. It was lined on both sides with shops and stalls, but these were plentifully interspersed with restaurants,
trattorias, caffes, gelaterias, rosticcerias,
and eating places of all kinds.

The girls chose a terraced outdoor cafe and settled themselves at a pleasant little table under a striped umbrella. Nancy had planned to confine herself to a salad, but was unable to resist the luscious-looking
canneloni
that Tara ordered. By the time they had finished lunch, topped off with a dessert of lemon sherbet and chocolate sauce, both girls felt sated.

“Whew! I could sit here for the rest of the afternoon,” said Tara.

“Likewise. But don’t forget, we still have to find costumes for the masked ball tonight.”

“Oh, that’s right! Any idea where to go?”

“Yes, Don Madison recommended a place . . . right here on the Merceria, in fact.” Nancy fumbled in her bag for the address.

“That reminds me. What was that paper you were frowning over just as we left the Rialto—some kind of note?”

Nancy nodded and reluctantly showed her friend the pink slip. Tara’s eyes widened as she read it. “Hey, what’s this all about?”

“Someone slipped it under the flap of my bag. Now you know as much as I do.”

“I don’t get it.” Tara looked bewildered. “What does this ’Friend of R’s’ mean, for instance?”

“Good question. The
R
could stand for the last name of the kidnaped glassblower, Pietro Rinaldi . . . or it might even refer to your father’s first name, Rolf.”

Her words seemed to electrify Tara. “Oh, Nancy!” she gasped. “Do you really think that’s possible?”

The teen sleuth shrugged. “There’s one way to find out.”

“You mean—you’re going to keep the appointment?”

“How else can I find out?”

“But, Nancy, what if it’s dangerous? I mean, my dad was shot or drowned, and another man’s been kidnaped. What if someone wants
you
out of the way, too, just because you’re trying to solve those crimes?!”

The same thought had occurred to Nancy, especially when she recalled her frightening experience on the boat landing on Murano. Nevertheless, she tried to reassure her friend. “St. Mark’s Square is the most popular tourist spot in Venice, Tara. No one would dare try to harm me right out in public! Now come on, let’s go find that costumer Don told me about.”

The shop was farther along the Merceria. Its windows were crammed with costumes of all nationalities
and periods, as well as masks and falsefaces. As the two girls stood looking at the colorful display, a familiar voice suddenly spoke.

“Buon giorno, Signorine!”

Nancy’s heart sank. It was Gianni Spinelli again! Tara’s face lit up eagerly as she turned to greet the handsome young Venetian. But Nancy felt a surge of anger. How dare he show his face again, after what had happened just a few hours earlier at the Ca d’Oro!

Tara began chattering away about how they had come to pick out costumes for the masquerade ball which the Marchese del Falcone was giving tonight at his palazzo.

“May I come in with you?” asked Gianni. “Perhaps I can help by translating, if the shop owner does not understand English.”

“Oh, wonderful! We’d love that, wouldn’t we, Nancy?”

The titian-haired teen responded with a cool smile which didn’t reach her eyes. Much to her satisfaction, the shop owner spoke English fluently. When Nancy told him why they had come, and that his shop had been recommended by Don Madison, the plump, mustachioed costumer exclaimed, “Ah,
si! Ma certo!
I was just about to wrap his costume and send it to the Palazzo Falcone!”

He showed them a dashing eighteenth-century getup featuring a plumed hat, cloak and rapier. “He will go as a deadly swordsman, you see? An assassin—of
female hearts, no doubt!” The costumer twirled his mustache and tittered appreciatively at his own wit.

After long discussion and the trying on of various costumes, Tara finally chose the gown and headdress of a medieval princess, while Nancy decided to be an Oriental dancing girl. The proprietor promised to send their selections promptly to the palazzo, along with Don Madison’s costume.

When they left the shop, Gianni excused himself. He said he had an urgent assignment to cover for his work as an aspiring news reporter. Nancy had noticed a tiny miniature camera tucked in his coat pocket. She thought it was more likely he was a
paparazzo,
the kind of photographer who pesters celebrities and tries to snap sensational photos of them, which he can sell for high prices. But she was too pleased and relieved by his departure to give the matter a second thought.

The afternoon was well along, but the high point of the day’s sightseeing still lay ahead at the southern end of the Merceria. This was the world-famous square called Piazza San Marco, which Napoleon had once called “the drawing room of Europe.” It was framed on three sides by arcaded buildings with shops and cafes, and on the fourth by the Basilica of St. Mark’s. As always, the huge square was thronged with tourists and strollers. A tall bell tower overlooked the scene, while pigeons flocked overhead or alighted boldly on the mosaic pavement.

Nancy decided at first sight that the Basilica, with
its five Oriental domes, was the most gorgeous and exotic church she’d ever seen. Over its doorway pranced four beautiful bronze horses brought home as loot from the pillage of Constantinople.

On entering, the interior seemed bathed in a golden glow from the Byzantine mosaics glittering in the vaulted cupolas overhead. The golden altarpiece was studded with precious stones.

One corner of the Piazza opened onto a smaller square, or Piazzetta, leading down to the waterfront, with the pink marble palace of the Doges on one side. The girls had scarcely an hour to view its splendid halls and treasures of art. Nancy made up her mind to return again for a more leisurely inspection before leaving Venice.

When they emerged, it was a quarter to six. “Oh, Nancy! Are you sure you want to keep that appointment?” Tara fretted anxiously.

“Of course I’m sure. Now you go back to the palazzo and tell Daddy I shan’t be long.”

Two towering columns overlooked the mole, or jetty. One bore a statue of Venice’s original patron saint, Theodore, standing oddly triumphant over a crocodile. The other was topped by the unforgettable Winged Lion of St. Mark’s.

Nancy saw Tara aboard a
motoscafo.
Then she settled herself on the round base of the lion column. From there she could gaze out over the harbor, where the Grand Canal joined the lagoon.

There was no telling, of course, from which direction her contact might come. Nancy’s keen eyes scanned the Piazzetta. Minutes passed. Presently she heard the giant mechanical figures on the square’s clock tower strike six gongs.

Once again Nancy’s gaze swept the scene. Her pulse quickened as a stocky man in safari garb came walking toward her. He had a scarred, deeply tanned face, and his lips twitched in a flickering smile of identification. She knew this was him.

But suddenly he seemed to freeze. His smile changed to a snarl of anger. Without a word to Nancy, he turned and hurried away!

Nancy sprang to her feet in dismay. She was sure the khaki-clad stranger had been coming to speak to her. But something had frightened him off!

There was no use going after him now. He was already disappearing into the crowd. Pursuit might only convince him that she’d tried to turn their rendezvous into a trap.

Another figure suddenly caught Nancy’s eye, that of a dark-haired, handsome young man.

Gianni Spinelli!
He was strolling toward her with a faintly mocking smile on his lips.

Nancy suddenly clued in and fumed in frustration. So that’s who alarmed the mystery man and spoiled everything! Nancy was furious. The grinning idiot! He’d just wrecked her chance of learning something
important—maybe a clue that would have unlocked the whole mystery!

“Are you following me again?”

“Cara!
How can you talk to me like that?”

He was mocking her, getting back for the way she had slapped him at the Ca d’Oro.

Nancy’s jaw clenched. Why waste words on such a vain creep! Slipping past his outstretched hand, she headed for the Grand Canal. Minutes later, she was riding back to the palazzo in a water-taxi.

As the boat cruised along, she put Gianni out of her mind and concentrated on the mystery man.

Thinking over what had just happened, she sensed something about him that seemed strangely familiar. But what was it? . . . Surely not his face. With his bone-deep tan and that livid scar running at an angle from the corner of one eye down across his cheek, he was altogether too distinctive. Nancy had trained herself to be observant and remember faces. If she’d seen him somewhere before, even just glimpsed him in a crowd, Nancy felt instinctively that his features would have lingered in her memory. As it was, they rang no bells.

Wait a minute . . . something stirred at the back of her mind.
A figure in the shadows . . .

Suddenly Nancy remembered! A man had been lurking across the canal when she and Tara and Gianni had come out of Angela Spinelli’s apartment. She hadn’t seen him clearly enough to make out any
details, but wasn’t his general appearance somewhat like that of the mystery man who had tried to meet her just now under the lion column?!

That must be it, Nancy concluded.

Arriving at the palace, she paid her boatman and scampered up to the loggia. She was still a bit uncertain whether courtesy required her to use the bellpull or simply walk in.

The problem was solved when Domenic opened the door. He must have seen her arriving.

“Is Signorina Egan here?” Nancy inquired.

“
Si
.” The cadaverous butler jerked his head upward in the general direction of their room.

Nancy mounted the graceful staircase. A glance at her wristwatch showed that it was just six-thirty. I wonder if our costumes got here okay, she thought. I should’ve asked Domenic.

Their room lay well down the corridor from the gallery. Nancy opened the door—and stopped short in consternation.

The room had been ransacked! Both girls’ luggage had been unpacked by a maid soon after their arrival and arranged neatly in the drawers of a big old
cassetone.
But now the drawers had been yanked out and clothing scattered all over. Several of the drawers were still hanging open.

The wardrobe, too, had obviously been searched. Dresses had been pulled from their hangers.

Tara sat huddled in a chair, her face pale and frightened.

“Good night! What happened?” said Nancy.

“Search me.” Tara shrugged helplessly. “It was like this when I got back.”

“Have you told anyone yet?”

“No. It was so scary and upsetting, I . . . I didn’t know
what
to do! Besides, I was afraid of messing up clues or evidence.”

“What about our costumes? Have they arrived?”

“Yes.” Tara indicated two boxes on her bed. “They must have come just before I got back. They were still in the downstairs hall, so I brought them up myself.”

Nancy dropped her parcels containing the gifts she had purchased on her bed and sat down to collect herself. Tara had mentioned clues, but there were certainly none in plain sight.

With a sigh, Nancy rose and began wandering about the room, straightening up at random while she tried to marshal her thoughts.

Obviously the marauder had been searching for something, but what?

“Did you check your belongings to see if anything’s missing?” she asked Tara.

“Yes, and nothing’s gone as far as I can tell.”

“What about money or valuables?”

“My money’s mostly in traveler’s checks, and I was carrying those with me, in my purse. Other than that,
and this ring and watch I’m wearing, I didn’t bring anything very valuable.”

“What about things belonging to your father, or
pertaining
to your father?”

Tara looked startled. “I’m not sure I know what you mean. I didn’t bring anything of Daddy’s to Italy with me—I mean, no official documents or identification. There’s that apron, of course, that Angela gave me . . .”

“Is it still here?”

“Yes, in that top drawer that’s hanging open.”

Nancy walked to the window, drew aside the draperies and gazed down pensively at the Grand Canal. Rightly or wrongly, the intruder must have
thought
she or Tara had something valuable or important . . . why else the search?

Wait a sec, Nancy reflected. What about that spook who scared the wits out of us—was he looking for something too? Is that why he came sneaking into our room in the middle of the night?

Maybe he’d paid them another visit! It had obviously been a hasty visit, too frantic and hurried to put things back in place, probably because he feared they might return at any moment.

This reminded Nancy of the way the “Friend of R’s” had been alarmed and left when he spotted Gianni. She’d known at once that he’d seen someone when his gaze turned away from her. . . .

Suddenly a thought flashed through Nancy’s mind.
The spook must have spotted something, too—something important. Of course! That’s why he’d paused just before fleeing out the door!

But what had he seen?