078 The Phantom Of Venice (11 page)

“Thank goodness!” Carson Drew exclaimed. “It’s foolish of me, I know, but I was beginning to get a bit worried, honey. Let’s find a place to sit down and enjoy this food. It looks quite delicious!”

As they ate, Nancy told him about the tanned, scarfaced mystery man called Hans, and the warning he had just given her about Tara Egan. “I’m afraid Tara’s a bit put out at me just now, Daddy,” she went on, “so would you sort of keep watch on her?”

“Of course. No problem. But who is this mystery man, Nancy? Any idea?”

“A friend of
both
Pietro Rinaldi and Rolf Egan, I suspect. And he
may
be a South African.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Just a wild hunch, to be honest.” Nancy explained what had put the idea in her mind. The note he had slipped her on the Rialto bore a diamond design—which in turn reminded her of the ace of diamonds she had seen at Pietro’s flat—and both in turn made her think of real diamonds, for which South Africa is known.

“Also, he spoke with a slight accent that I couldn’t place,” Nancy went on. “But many of the South African whites speak a language called Afrikaans, which I’ve heard is based on Dutch, and that might very well fit his accent.”

When she was through eating, Nancy went from room to room of the palazzo, making a hasty survey of the guests, but failed to sight either of the two she was looking for. Unless they had changed costume, she guessed that they must have slipped away from the palace during the blackout.

This would not be surprising in Hans’s case. Since their rendezvous had been interrupted, he had come in disguise to warn Nancy that Tara was in danger—having delivered this warning, he’d left.

But what about the pith-helmeted Britisher? Was he really Oliver Joyce? And if so, what was he doing at the masquerade ball?

Nancy’s eyes suddenly widened and she slapped her forehead. “What an idiot, I am!” she gasped.

She hurried to the drawing room and looked in the glass cabinet.
The Fabergé egg was gone!

The Marchese, when notified, took the news with surprising calm.
“Ebbene,”
he said with a resigned shrug. “I suppose we had better check all the Falcone art treasures, so we can give the police a complete list of what is missing.”

Nancy waited with the Marchese in his study for the outcome of the check. Twenty minutes later Domenic
came walking into the room. Nancy was startled to see that the eyepatched, cadaverous butler was holding the Fabergé egg!

It was unharmed but open, and the lovely little jeweled firebird was gone. Nancy was even more surprised when the Marchese burst out laughing.

“But the firebird—!” she started to protest.

“No great loss, my dear. The jewels were mere glass. I pawned the real firebird several years ago when I needed money, and at that time I had a cheap copy made for the sake of appearances!”

It turned out that a servant had spotted the empty egg lying in a wastebasket, a fact which intrigued Nancy. The egg alone was fairly valuable, but apparently the thief had been interested only in its
contents.
None of the other artwork in the palace was missing.

At midnight the guests removed their masks and the festivities reached their peak. Tara was still with the young man in the pirate costume, but Don Madison was nowhere in sight. The butler told Nancy he had retired for the night.

Later, in their room, Nancy found Tara in cheerful spirits. “I’m sorry I made such a fuss about Gianni,” the blond girl apologized. “Right now, I don’t care if I ever see him again!”

Nancy smiled. “So I gathered from the way you and that fellow in the pirate costume seemed to be enjoying yourselves.”

“Oh yes, isn’t he terrific! His name’s Kevin, and he lives in Connecticut. We’ve made a date to go hiking when we get back to the States!”

Obviously Gianni Spinelli was all in the past as far as Tara was concerned.

Nancy was pensive as she got ready for bed. She had a feeling that pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fall into place, but there were still many things that she didn’t understand.

“Tara, you told me your father was adventurous and traveled all over the world,” Nancy finally remarked aloud. “Was he ever in Africa?”

“Hmm . . . I don’t believe he ever told me so, as far as I can recall. But I think he
must
have been, in North Africa, anyhow.”

“Why? What makes you think so?”

“Because I have a picture of him, and it looks like it might have been taken in Egypt or Morocco—someplace like that.”

Tara opened her purse and took out a snapshot encased in plastic. It showed two men, one in a U.S. Marine Corps uniform. They were grinning and standing together in what looked like a Middle Eastern open-air bazaar.

The civilian, blond and bearded, bore an obvious resemblance to Tara.

Nancy felt a quiet surge of excitement. “Do you know who the marine is?” she asked softly.

“No. Who?”

“Pietro Rinaldi!”

Yawning and weary, the two girls snuggled down in bed. Nancy fell asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.

She was awakened by a voice screaming across the room. It was Tara, screaming as fearfully as she had done the night before!

Nancy sat bolt upright. In the semi-darkness, she could make out a figure moving across the room. She reached out to turn on the light, but in her haste knocked over the bedside lamp. It crashed loudly to the floor!

The noise, however, had at least one good effect: it seemed to shock Tara to her senses. She stopped screaming and switched on her own lamp. Just as the room brightened, the door slammed behind the retreating figure.

Nancy didn’t hesitate. She sprang out of bed and started in pursuit, only to stumble over the lamp. She dropped to one knee, straightened up again, flung on a robe and dashed out the door.

The gallery light was off, and the corridor lay in darkness, but Nancy could dimly glimpse the intruder. She raced after him. Muffled sounds indicated that other guests had been awakened.

Seconds later she reached the stairway. Footsteps echoed below. She stopped short as she heard the door of the palazzo open and slam!

Nancy hurried back to her room. Tara stared at her,
wide-eyed and trembling. Without a word, Nancy rushed to the window, drew back the draperies and stared down at the moonlit canal. A dark figure had just untied a gondola from its mooring pole in front of the palazzo and was pushing off.

Nancy let go the draperies and turned back to her friend. “Tell me what happened!”

“The ghost wh-wh-whispered my name!” gasped Tara. “And look—!” She pointed to the floor.

Wet footprints were visible on the carpet!

Tara’s eyes were still wide with fear and shock. Nancy put her arms around the stricken girl and murmured gently, “Whatever it was that came into our room, Tara, it’s gone now! There’s nothing to be afraid of, believe me!”

Soon Nancy hoped, she might be able to provide a full solution to the mystery, backed up by evidence and proof. But for now, all she could offer was words of comfort. Reliving what had just happened or nitpicking over the details would just reawaken Tara’s fears and upset her more than ever.

“Y-y-you’re right,” the blond girl agreed shakily. “Ghost or not, worrying about it won’t help any, I guess . . . and it certainly won’t bring Daddy back!”

Under Nancy’s soothing influence, Tara gradually settled back on her pillow and became calmer. Meanwhile, Nancy’s own mind was busily processing the available data and trying to compute the most logical explanation that would cover all the facts.

“Remember yesterday afternoon when we ran into Don Madison coming back from Murano?” Nancy said presently.

Tara nodded. “What about it?”

“When you got back here to the palazzo, did you stop and chat with anyone, or just come straight up to our room?”

“I came straight to our room.”

“You didn’t speak to anyone, or mention that I was out with Don?”

“No. Why?”

Nancy smiled and patted her friend’s hand. “Just trying to fit together a few more pieces of the jigsaw puzzle, that’s all.”

As she returned to her own bed, Nancy reflected. If Tara said nothing, how did Katrina van Holst find out I spent the evening with Don? Who else but Tara would have known—
unless I was followed!

It was a disturbing notion, well worth checking into, Nancy decided. Gradually she drifted off to sleep again.

Next morning Nancy awoke brimming with energy. She had made up her mind overnight to press ahead
for a solution to the mystery, actively setting events in motion, rather than waiting passively for clues to turn up. A plan was already taking shape in her mind.

A number of guests had stayed on after the ball, and the breakfast table was humming with conversation. After a quick bite to eat, Nancy quietly arranged to have coffee with her father in his room.

“Any report from Interpol yet, Dad?” she asked.

“Yes, I had a call from Paris this morning. You were right, Nancy. Oliver Joyce does have a criminal record as a jewel thief and art swindler. The Italian police have already picked him up for questioning, but he doesn’t have the bird from the Fabergé egg.”

“Someone beat him to it, I suspect. What’s the latest word on the kidnapping and the ransom?”

“My client, Crystalia Glass, is willing to put up half the ransom money if the Marchese can provide the rest. He’s agreed to that, and his bankers are willing to advance him a loan. The police chief here in Venice, Commandante Manin, is coming to the palace this afternoon to put his okay on the plan.”

“Great! Do you suppose I could sit in on the meeting, Dad?”

“Why not? You came here to help.”

Nancy quickly explained what she had in mind. Mr. Drew was enthusiastic. Then she spoke in turn to the Marchese, to Isabella Gatti and to Tara. All fell in with her plan willingly.

Presently Tara and Signora Gatti set out in the
Gattis’ luxurious motor cruiser, heading first for Angela Spinelli’s flat to invite her along for the day’s outing, and then for the great domed church of Santa Maria della Salute at the southern end of the Grand Canal. Their instructions were to act like typical sightseers, but to wait at the church for a squad of plainclothes officers of the
Sicurezza,
the government security force, who would arrive soon afterward and stay with them as a protective escort until further notice.

Meanwhile, broad hints were dropped to the servants that a sensational break in the kidnaping case was near. By the time the police chief arrived, the whole palazzo was humming with excitement.

At the outset, Commandante Manin of the carabinieri was none too cooperative. A burly, hard-eyed cop who had coped with many terrorists, he had little faith in any plan put forward by a mere slip of a girl—even one with the mystery-solving reputation of Nancy Drew. But as she talked, his eyes warmed, and he finally broke into an appreciative chuckle. “You are a clever little fox, Signorina Drew! Something tells me these kidnapers may soon regret the day they were foolish enough to match wits with you!”

When the meeting was over, everyone walked out of the room with an air of suppressed excitement and confident good humor—a fact duly noted by everyone else at the palazzo.

Nancy sat down and dashed off a note to Tara, which she tucked in the edge of their dressing table mirror
where it would be plainly seen by anyone entering the room.

Dear Tara,

Hang onto your hat and get ready for some exciting developments!

The police have just had an incredibly lucky break—they expect to close in on the kidnapers’ hideout within 24 hours!

I’ve found out the crooks are after something that’s worth a fortune, and Pietro Rinaldi knows all about it.

Once he’s free, he’ll lead us right to it! He also knows what
really
happened to your Dad!! See you soon!

Bye now,

Nancy

She also jotted another note, hand-lettering the words with a bolder, thicker-tipped pen.

TONIGHT IS THE DATE WE AGREED TO GET TOGETHER BEFORE I HAD TO CLEAR OUT OF VENICE AND LIE LOW, REMEMBER? I’LL MEET YOU AT MIDNIGHT WHERE WE PLANNED, AND YOU’LL HAND IT OVER TO ME. DON’T DOUBLECROSS ME, OR YOU KNOW WHAT’LL HAPPEN TO YOU!

HANS

When she finished, Nancy tucked the letter in an envelope which she addressed to:

PIETRO RINALDI

VETRERIA FALCONE

MURANO

Then she changed to jeans and a cotton top, repaired her makeup and kissed her father goodbye. Outside, on the palace loggia, she hailed a passing water-taxi which took her to the Pensione Dandolo. As she walked in, she was greeted happily by the Signora’s little boy.

“Hi, Zorzi!” Nancy replied. “You’re just the person I’m looking for!” She took a five-dollar bill from her purse and held it up for him to see. “Would you like to earn this by running an errand for me?”

“Si! Si,
Signorina!” Zorzi exclaimed, his eyes as big as saucers.

“All right, I want you to deliver this letter for me to a certain glass factory on Murano—and of course I’ll pay your boat fare over and back, besides the five dollars. But you must listen carefully and do exactly as I say!”

Zorzi listened intently, then nodded. “Okay! I do just like you tell me!”

Leaving the
pensione,
Nancy went next to the charming old inn, the Antica Locanda Montin, where Don had taken her to dinner. She sat down at a table
under the arbor and ordered tea. Twenty minutes later, Don Madison arrived.

His steps slowed as he approached, and he stood waiting for her to speak.

“Can we be friends, Don?” said Nancy. Her heart was thumping, and she felt unexpectedly nervous.

There was a moment of silence before he replied, “I guess that depends on whether or not you can forgive me for acting like such an idiot last night.”

Nancy relaxed, and they both broke into smiles. Don sat down, facing her across the table. Suddenly the atmosphere between them was as though the previous night’s painful episode had never occurred. He reached across the table and they clasped hands happily.