The longest period of time the suitcase had been out of her sight since arriving in Venice was when it was left at the Pensione Dandolo, while she accompanied Tara to Angela Spinelli’s apartment. Could someone have slipped in the shell during that time?
Why would anyone do such a thing? Was it related to the riddle of Rolf Egan’s fatal mishap?
Nancy knew very little about sea shells, although she could recognize certain kinds. This one, she thought, was an Angel’s Wing—a kind often found on Atlantic beaches back home.
Were they also found on the Adriatic shores of Italy?
Wait, I’m forgetting something! Another explanation for the shell had just occurred to Nancy.
She and Tara had passed through Italian Customs together after landing in Rome. Their luggage had been laid out on a long table. The inspection had been quick and courteous, but both girls had had their suitcases opened and poked through by the Customs officers.
Maybe the shell belongs to Tara, thought Nancy, and got dumped in my suitcase by mistake.
There was no time to fret over her odd discovery now. I’ll ask Tara about it when I see her tomorrow, Nancy decided, and continued getting ready for the trip to Murano.
Minutes later, in a knit top and denim skirt, she hurried downstairs to join her father in the drawing room. To her surprise, Nancy found him chatting with a tall, graceful blond woman.
She had long-lashed eyes of delft blue and hair like spun gold. She was stunningly beautiful and reminded Nancy of a Renaissance angel in a painting by Botticelli she had once seen in a museum.
“My daughter, Nancy,” Carson Drew announced proudly. “And this is Katrina van Holst, a Dutch photo-journalist. She has come all the way from Amsterdam to photograph a masked ball that the Marchese will soon be giving here at the palazzo. You and I are invited, by the way.”
“It is a great pleasure to meet you, Nancy,” said Miss van Holst. “Carson has just been telling me all about you—boasting, in fact.”
“Well, Daddy’s a wee bit prejudiced,” Nancy chuckled, “so you’d better take whatever he says with a grain of salt.”
The three of them chatted for a while longer. Nancy found the Dutch woman witty and charming.
“She’s a house guest of the Marchese, like us,” Mr. Drew explained later as he and Nancy headed down the Grand Canal in a water-taxi. “And there may be one or two others, I believe, who’ll be coming for the masked ball.”
“Miss van Holst is certainly beautiful,” said Nancy with a sidelong glance at her father.
He nodded. “Yes indeed, she’s very attractive,” then he changed the subject. “Nancy dear, would you mind very much if I don’t come with you to the glassworks?”
“Of course not, Daddy, if you’ve other things to attend to. But you’ll have to give me directions to Murano.”
“I’ll do better than that, honey. I’ll put you on the boat to Murano, and I’ve already called ahead to have someone meet you.”
Mr. Drew explained that he had received a telegram from his client while Nancy was resting. As a result, he had to wait at the palazzo for a phone conference later that afternoon.
“Who’s the person I should look for when I get to Murano?” Nancy inquired.
“No problem. I gave him your description, so he’ll be looking for you. He’s that young American the Marchese spoke of, the one he said could translate for you if you wanted to question any of the employees.”
“Oh, yes. What’s his name?”
“Don Madison. Actually, he works for Crystalia Glass. Crystalia sent him over here about a year ago to learn the art of glassblowing from one of the Murano masters. In fact, that’s what led to Crystalia’s offer to buy the Falcone works.”
Their motorboat turned up a rio, which led to a long, straight quay on the north side of Venice, called the Fondamenta Nuove. Nancy learned that vaporetti departed from here at regular intervals to Venice’s smaller sister islands—Murano, Burano, and Torcello.
“Don’t get off at the first stop on Murano,” Mr. Drew warned her. “It’s swarming with shills from every glass factory on the island. They shout themselves hoarse coaxing tourists to come to their particular exhibit, and then try to sell them everything in sight.”
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 elon
gate 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.