5 - Her Deadly Mischief (24 page)

“Stilts.” I looked around the small room. “I’m sure I saw them here—at the time, I had no idea what they represented.”

“I know nothing of this, but we’ll find someone who does.”

A word from Torani to a passing lackey summoned Biagio Zipoli, the broom sweeper I’d questioned on the morning after the murder. The lanky old fellow eyed us warily, certain he was the object of some complaint.

I said, “There’s nothing to fear, Biagio. Maestro Torani and I are searching for two pieces of wood that I saw here in this cloakroom. About so high”—I indicated with a flat hand—“polished wood with smaller blocks attached. They may have had straps on them.”

Biagio nudged back a lock of white hair that flopped over his eyes. He stared into space. Finally he said, “Are you talking about that pair of sticks I took to Aldo? I thought they belonged backstage, but he fussed at me for littering the wings with worthless trash.”

Torani and I were down the stairs and behind the stage within two minutes. I hadn’t realized the old man could move so fast. Majorano spotted us and approached with a score in hand. “Maestro, I’ve learned Hyllus’ aria—would you—”

“Later.” Torani waved him away.

“But Maestro—”

“He said ‘later,’” I yelled with the full force of my lungs.

Sucking in a startled breath, the handsome castrato backed away as if I’d just escaped from the madhouse. Stage carpenters dropped their tools, and the ballet master who was filling the rosin boxes gave a frightened squeak.

“Aldo? Where’s Aldo?” Maestro Torani shouted.

The stage manager emerged from his cubby hole beside the pass door, hitched up his breeches, and advanced with a pugnacious set to his shoulders. Aldo Bossi had become quite plump over the past few years; his round, alpine face displayed greasy remnants of his midday meal, and the gray eyes behind his wire-rimmed spectacles were wary. Every aspect of his person suggested he was ready to leap to his own defense. Like Biagio, Aldo apparently believed a bellowing summons from Torani could only mean trouble.

His manner became a bit friendlier after Torani explained what we were after. “That pair of sticks the idiot from the front of the house brought in?” Aldo asked incredulously. “What use do you have for those things? Looking to build a fire?”

“You didn’t burn them, did you?” Alarmed, I laid a hand on Aldo’s arm, then jerked it away at his black look. Aldo had never approved of castrati.

“No. I’m sure I didn’t.” He made an ambiguous gesture. “I put them…somewhere…behind something…over there perhaps?”

The stage manager was gazing toward a pile of carpenters’ scraps. The wood was raw, none of it finished and polished as the stilts had been. Santa Maria! Would I lose the trail just as I had come to the truth?

Aldo scratched his head. “Wait. I remember now. Madame Dumas carried them off. Sneaky old crone. She thought she was getting away with something, stealing those sticks right from under my nose.” He gave an unsettling laugh. “I was only letting her get rid of the rubbish.”

My stomach gave a sudden lurch. An episode from days ago sprang to mind. “Madame Dumas’ workroom,” I whispered. “The brown velvet she was so proud of—I unrolled it onto the table…”

“Tito?” Torani gaped at me. Worry creased his forehead. “What are you mumbling?”

“Maestro, I had one of the stilts in my hands—God save me—if only I’d realized.” I took off at a run for the costume shop. Torani followed, this time at a slower pace.

To Madame Dumas’ credit, she did nothing to restrain me while I manhandled her bolts of costume fabric. After I’d flung several aside and located the right ones, I unrolled yards of butter yellow silk, then followed it with finely spun wool of periwinkle blue. I was left with two matching poles that could serve equally well for storing cloth or boosting a dwarf to the height of a tall man.

Madame surveyed the knee-high blue and yellow tangle. Her expression was pained, but her manner was collected. The seamstress had never been one to let her emotions hold sway. She said, “I’m certain you have a very good reason for this, Signor Amato.”

Nodding, I handed the stilts to a panting Torani, who’d arrived in time to see the last bit of fabric slither off the bolt. “I must ask you to trust me, Madame. Those pieces of wood are the ones you removed from backstage. True?”

“I admit it. I took them without permission.” She took a hard gulp. Her sharp cheekbones seemed ready to break through her papery skin. “Aldo must set great store by his sticks.”

“Not Aldo, old friend. Me. To me, they couldn’t be more precious if they were dipped in gold.”

Her bloodless lips curved in a hesitant smile. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to.” I kissed her on both cheeks—twice. “But thank you a hundred times over.”

I turned to Maestro Torani. “Keep these safe—under lock and key at all times. I believe the dwarf came back for them the day after the murder—I happened upon him roaming the corridors. Grief stricken, I thought.” I shook my head. “He was more likely trying to work out why his precious stilts weren’t where he left them.”

“You know you can count on me,” Torani replied. “But where are you going?”

“To find Messer Grande,” I called, already with one foot out the door.

***

I blew through the auditorium and foyer and left the theater by the front entrance, intent on getting to Messer Grande’s office. Sunlight slanted from the west, throwing the crowded, narrow alleys between the theater’s
campo
and the Piazza into murky twilight. In the shadows, walls and bridges became fuzzy and indistinct. The pavement beneath my feet seemed uneven, causing me to stumble several times. People going about their everyday business, even mothers with babes in arms, appeared as outlandish as the masked merrymakers that passed in rowdy groups of threes and fours. I peered at everyone as if they were absurd characters of a dream—until one face rounded a corner and popped out of the gloom with perfect clarity.

Benito fell on my neck and pulled me into a recessed doorway. His eyes were glassy and feverish.

“Benito, what’s wrong? Are you ill? How did you get back from the house so quickly?”

He shook his head wildly. “I haven’t been home. I’ve been looking for the boy.”

“What?” I stared blankly, unable to make sense of his words for one shocked moment.

“Titolino begged to stay on the Piazza for a few minutes. I saw no harm. He was bored with the acrobats, so I let him watch a dumb show for a while—the men were pretending to duel with swords—and then he spied some marionettes a few booths along.” Benito’s face contorted in anguish. “I don’t know how he got away from me. One minute he was laughing at Punchinello, and the next minute, he just wasn’t there.”

With my heart hammering against my ribs, I whirled and shot out into the stream of passersby. Benito dragged me back. “Master, we must go the other way.”

I staggered, almost falling to my knees, amazed at my frail manservant’s strength.

“I’ve searched the entire Piazza…asked everyone if they’ve seen him.” His words tumbled one over the other. “Luigi is looking still. My one hope is that Titolino had the idea of visiting you at the theater.”

“How could he know his way there?”

Benito shrugged helplessly. “He’s a bright boy—he could ask directions.”

A bright boy. Yes, he was. But also a very small boy loose among the filthiest dregs of Venice’s overflowing bucket of vice. Swindlers, thieves, cutpurses, whoremongers, and worse. The blood drummed in my ears like thunder. Liya was at home, cheerfully going about her duties, thinking we were on a pleasant expedition to see the rhinoceros. How could I possibly return with the news that we’d lost her son?

Chapter Eighteen

The window of Messer Grande’s office in the Procuratie allowed an expansive view of the Piazza. The glittering spires and bulging domes of the Basilica lay at the extreme left, the towering Campanile across the square. Covering every inch of pavement was a gaudy maze of booths and tents and trestle stages where Venice’s visitors sought gratification and delight. Somewhere in their midst, Benito was leading a contingent of constables on a frantic search for Titolino.

Messer Grande stared down at the carnival concourse as if he could make the boy appear by sheer force of will. To me, the sight might as well have been a barrel of writhing worms. Tito wasn’t down there—I felt his absence in my bones.

The chief constable tore his gaze away from the window and moved to sit behind the desktop that was supported by a pair of carved griffons with folded wings. With an open palm, he invited me to take the wing chair that sat across the shining expanse of mahogany. “It has to be more than coincidence, Tito. Pamarino glared at you with every indication that he realized his stilt-walking display had nudged you toward the truth. A few minutes later, the boy disappears.”

“Surely Titolino just wandered away. It must happen all the time.” I gestured toward the window with an impatient hand. “Look at all the delights that could catch a boy’s attention. He could have gone back to see the rhinoceros. Or perhaps he was swept up the Mercerie by the crowd and didn’t know how to get back to the square.”

Messer Grande’s face wrinkled into a mask of concern. “Those lost children are quickly found, Tito. They realize they can’t see their Mama and start to cry. People want to help. Neighbor asks neighbor, ‘Where does this little one belong?’ Mama and child find each other once more.”

“If this is more than a lost child, why are we still searching the Piazza?”

Messer Grande gave an uncomfortable shrug. “What else can we do? Now if we were to receive some word from Pamarino…”

I rubbed my forehead with both hands. “I just can’t believe Titolino would go off with Pamarino. He doesn’t know him—he’s never even seen him before today.”

“Children are trusting creatures, especially when lured by someone of their own size. Pamarino could have convinced the boy to go with him as part of a game or told him he was taking him somewhere to surprise you. Who knows? He could have even tempted him with the promise of a toy or a puppy.”

“If he does have Titolino, what do you suppose he means to do with him?”

“I believe the dwarf took the boy because he wants something from you. Exactly what we should soon see. Have you sent word to your wife?”

“Luigi rowed home, both to see if Titolino somehow showed up there and to bring Liya to me. He had orders to keep silent and allow me to tell her what’s happened, but if I know my wife, she’ll have it out of him in five minutes.”

Our heads turned at the sound of the door opening. An apologetic clerk stumbled over his feet as he burst into the room. “Excellency, you must forgive my intrusion. This woman—”

“I demand to be admitted. You—” a feminine voice cried and was cut off.

“It’s all right, Brunetti,” said Messer Grande, rising from his chair. The clerk didn’t hear. Intent on his perceived duty, he put a shoulder to the door. A determined foot in a dainty boot slipped through the crack. After a brief contest of strength, Liya pushed into the chamber.

My wife’s cloak was askew, and she’d forgotten or lost her
zendale
. Her mass of black hair had escaped its pins and fallen down her back. I met her halfway across the floor, and we embraced for a long moment. When she pulled away, I saw that her eyes and nose were red. She’d obviously been crying but had managed to compose her features. She stared at Messer Grande as she blurted out, “What are you doing to find my son?”

The chief constable explained that his men were fanning out from where Benito had last seen Titolino, searching every chest or barrel large enough to hold a seven-year-old boy.

“You must stop them,” said Liya.

“Signora?” Messer Grande questioned, surprise in his face.

She produced a folded note from her drawstring bag. “A gondolier brought this to the door a few minutes before Luigi arrived. Apparently he went to the theater first. Since you’d already gone, Aldo sent him to our home.”

I snatched the paper that bore my name, cocked it toward the light from the window, and read, “For the boy’s sake, come to the Mascoli Chapel at four o’clock. Come alone. If even one constable follows you into the Basilica, the boy will pay.” I jerked my chin up, dividing my frantic gaze between Liya and Messer Grande. “It’s not signed.”

“It doesn’t need to be.” Messer Grande strode to the door, beckoned a waiting constable, and began giving orders.

“Tito, it will soon be four.” Liya’s voice faltered. Tears formed in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks.

I gathered her into my arms. I yearned to hold her forever—to make this sudden nightmare recede with a brief, ecstatic caress. Impossible. The truth must be faced. “I’ll get going right away. I’ll make the dwarf tell me what he’s done with Titolino.”

“Be careful.” Her whispered words plunged into my ear with the strength of a steel blade. “There’s danger all around—I saw black clouds forming over both of you.”

Clouds? Ah, yes, my wife’s endless attempts to peer over the edge of tomorrow. I kissed her wet cheeks and forced my tone to be calm. “You must stay with Andrea—Messer Grande—and do as he says. Be strong and believe that all will be well.”

The chief constable turned his attention back to us. “It’s arranged. None of my men will enter the precincts of the Basilica, but they’ll continue to comb the Piazza and surrounding buildings. Once you’ve heard the dwarf out, I’ll be waiting for you at the front, at the base of the middle flagpole.”

“And then?” Liya stiffened in my arms.

I stepped away, every muscle straining to be off. “It all depends on the dwarf.” Messer Grande agreed with a solemn nod.

***

The immense Basilica was as deserted as the Piazza was crowded. Passing through its bronze portals, I might have stepped into a series of enchanted caves with walls ornamented in precious metals and gemstones. When the Doge presided over a service, arriving in a canopied sedan chair from the depths of the corridor that connected his palace to the Basilica, there would be brilliant light licking the golden facets of the mosaics, a trumpet fanfare followed by a swelling choir, and robed Senators and councilors filling the nave. Today I found only a vast, silent space pervaded with the lingering scent of incense.

At the high altar, a priest in a severe black soutane genuflected before a bank of candles before hurrying away and disappearing through the sacristy door. A few other figures, foreign travelers by the look of them, were admiring the pillar that had once commemorated St. Mark’s relics. Moving away from that domed island of light, I darted between rows of marble columns and pushed deep into the silent, murky space where pleasure-mad tourists rarely found anything of interest.

My footfalls echoed softly and my sense of unreality deepened as I approached the tiny chapel dedicated to Our Lady. Her votive candles had been extinguished, throwing the sculpted reliefs that depicted the scenes of her life into shadowed folds. But I could see someone waiting for me: a squat, hunched figure leaning against one of the pair of prayer railings that faced each other in front of the altar table.

Pamarino let me come within a few steps before he straightened and nodded with an air of cool malevolence. He had changed from his clown costume to his usual blue coat. He withdrew a pistol from a deep pocket, cocked the hammer, and pointed it at my stomach. “Good afternoon, Tito. I wasn’t sure you’d make it.”

“Did you really think I could ignore your summons?” In this chapel sequestered by the Basilica’s convoluted floor plan, our voices would be indistinguishable to any casual visitors, but I still felt compelled to whisper.

Pamarino apparently felt the same. “I knew you’d come if you received my message, but there are so many ways a note can go astray.” He spoke as he used his free hand to pat my pockets and waistband. Finding my dagger, he tucked it away with a toothy smile.

“Must you?” I asked. “It was a gift from my brother.”

The dwarf shrugged. “He’ll have to buy you another.” He motioned the pistol’s long barrel toward the nearest railing and forced me to sink down on the knee board while he remained standing. Thus positioned, I was looking up at him for once. “Now we talk,” he said.

“Where is Titolino?”

“You do come right to the point, don’t you?” The dwarf rolled his eyes.

He was enjoying the moment, this evil tin soldier. So be it. The more he talked, the more time Messer Grande’s men would have to search. And if I managed to be very clever, I might just be able to trick him into dropping a hint concerning Titolino’s whereabouts. “You can at least tell me if he’s all right.”

“Not one hair of his head has been harmed—yet.”

“Why do you need Titolino? If you have business with me, we can simply talk it out as men should.”

He gave a nasty laugh. “And have you run straight to your friend in the constabulary? Not likely. I fooled you both for a good while, but when I saw you watching my stilt act, I knew you’d guessed that I was the man in Zulietta’s box. I needed to strike a bargain with you—a quick bargain, too. Unfortunately, I found my pockets empty of anything you might find tempting. I could have danced a jig when I saw you put the boy in the charge of that witless poof. You handed me the engine of your own destruction.”

“How did you get Titolino away from Benito?”

“That’s of no consequence. It is enough that I have him in my power.”

“Where? Where have you stashed him?” My hands tightened on the railing. Hearing my voice grow raspy, I took a hard gulp. I must remain calm if I was going to get Titolino out of the dwarf’s clutches.

“The boy is under the guard of…an associate. In a place that you would never discover in fifty years.” He snorted as if he’d made a good joke. “Should you live so long.”

“What do you want?”

“I have a simple bargain to offer. You will tell no one of your suspicions until I’ve had time to travel out of Venetian territory. In three days, I should be well away. If you can keep your tongue from wagging during that time, the boy will be released on the Piazza unharmed.”

“And if I don’t agree?”

“If I am arrested, my confederate will slit his throat and consign his body to the lagoon.” The little man spoke without anguish or remorse, as easily as he might speak of setting out poison to kill a rat. I had faced murderers before, but never one so thoroughly unrepentant.

Though sweat broke out under my clothes, I shivered in the church’s cold air. My boy’s life was in this creature’s hands, and I didn’t trust the dwarf as far as I could walk on his stilts. For all I knew, Titolino might already be dead. But what could I do? I couldn’t overpower Pamarino and strangle the truth out of him. His pistol was trained on my heart.

I drew a deep breath. “I agree—I’ll say nothing.”

Pamarino nodded. “Very wise. I would expect no less, even though you do have a reputation for aiding the law.”

“But,” I said wildly, casting around for a question that would keep Pamarino talking, “how can you be certain your confederate will follow the plan you’ve laid out?”

The dwarf’s mouth opened to reply but abruptly snapped shut.

From out of the air came a great throbbing sound. A giant’s wail.

Pamarino twisted toward the chapel entrance. “What in Hell’s name—”

“It’s the organ,” I whispered. “Only the pipe organ in the choir loft. The organist must be practicing for the next service.”

Indeed, the first tentative chords settled into a recognizable tune. Somber and slow moving, it filled the Basilica with aching melancholy. Pamarino turned back toward me. It had grown darker. He was little more than a blurred shape between me and the doorway.

“Your confederate?” I prodded.

“You have nothing to fear—as loyal as the day is long.”

Did I dare push him? Would I weep for the rash words I was about to speak?

“It would be very easy to dispose of a small child,” I said, shifting my weight from one knee to the other. “Much easier than keeping him under wraps for three days and releasing him without a fuss.”

The dwarf’s eyes glittered in the dimness. His voice was taut. “I’m not as cruel as you might think. If I get clean away, the boy will live. I don’t kill without reason.”

“Meaning you had reason to kill Zulietta and the maid, Sary?”

The dwarf clamped his jaws shut. He showed no surprise that I was aware of Sary’s death. Neither did he contradict my accusation. Had I gone too far? I felt a sudden, cold foreboding in my chest.

Finally Pamarino spoke. His words were wracked with pain. His agony, accompanied by the deep strains of the organ, lent him a dignity I could never have imagined. “Zulietta—yes, I can call her that now—in death there is no mistress and servant—she was going to throw me away like a piece of trash. Or a stained handkerchief. For years I served her, and for most of them, I loved her. In this world that was never meant for my kind, I lived only for her smile, a kind word, the touch of her hand. My love was never returned, but still, it gave me reason to face each new day. Without her…” His voice trailed off until only the sorrowful music remained.

“Do you mean that Zulietta wasn’t planning to take you to the New World, after all?”

“No, I only pretended that I wasn’t sailing to America because I feared crossing the sea. In truth, I would have followed Zulietta anywhere—to the northern ice caps, to the deserts of Arabia, to the pit of Hell itself.” He took a sharp breath. “In private, I begged her to take me along. I could have persuaded her, too…if it hadn’t been for Alessio Pino. For some reason, he thought it was a fine idea to take Sary. But me? No. I would only remind him of Zulietta’s old life as a courtesan. There would be no passage for me, no place at the new glassworks in Charles Town.”