Mystery of the Winged Lion

by Carolyn Keene

  “Hello! Anybody there?” Nancy called out. To her relief, it finally opened, revealing An- dreoli, the gondolier. His face was very pale, almost sickly, and there was no smile of greeting.

  “The duchessa, where is she?” Nancy asked.

  “Not here,” the man replied crisply before lapsing into Italian and making the girls’ eyebrows furrow quizzically.

  The only word they understood was Murano, the largest island in the Venetian lagoon and the site of several glass-making factories, among them Artistico Vetro! Had the duchessa gone to visit Filippo’s father?

  She must have, Nancy decided, but why so suddenly?

  Unable to communicate her questions to An- dreoli, she sensed an unexplained nervousness about him, possibly the result of his concern for the woman’s whereabouts. Whatever the reason, though, he pushed the door forward, indicating he had no more to say. But Nancy poised her hand against it.

  “May we go upstairs?” she asked on impulse. How do I say it in Italian? “Andreoli, di sopra.”

  The gondolier hesitated, holding the door in place, then pulled it back slowly with great reluctance. He led the way up the wooden flight and stopped a few steps before the landing as if he had changed his mind. The girls, however, had already glimpsed the unexpected scene beyond the half-open door at the top. The drawers of the desk stood open, their contents strewn on the floor!

  “What happened?” Nancy asked, leaping past the gondolier.

  He hurried after her and shook his head, spilling out an answer, which trailed after her as she darted from room to room to see if anything else was out of order. Satisfied that nothing was, she figured the intruder had found what he was looking for and departed quickly.

  Knowing just how secretive the duchessa had been about her nephew’s disappearance, Nancy now understood Andreoli’s reluctance to show her the living room.

  He’s probably afraid I’ll report the intrusion to the police, the girl decided, trying to assure the gondolier otherwise. But discussion with him proved hopeless, prompting her and

  George to say good-bye quickly. They had not asked their boatman to wait for them so they headed for the landing-stage up the street.

  Unlike previous sojourns on the vaporetto, there were fewer passengers onboard this time. Their eyes were attracted to the dappling of sunlight on the water while Nancy’s were only vaguely fixed. What had the intruder been searching for? she wondered, then the most obvious answer struck. A copy of the glass formula!

  Of course! Why didn’t I think of that right away? Nancy thought as she and George hurried to the Pensione Seguso.

  When they finally arrived, Ned asked them what had taken so long. “We were beginning to get worried,” he said.

  Nancy gulped in a deep breath and took the seat opposite him. “I’m sorry . . . really,” she replied as a waiter quickly introduced the menu to her. Food, however, was the last thing on her mind; she ordered only one poached egg.

  “Is that all you want?” George asked, offering her the basket of rolls.

  “I’m not very hungry this morning,” Nancy said, and proceeded to tell about her visit with Andreoli. “It’s too bad Antonio wasn’t with us.”

  “Who’s Antonio?” Burt inquired, drawing a quick reminder from George about the student who had accompanied the girls on their visits to police headquarters.

  “Oh . . . sorry for the interruption, Nancy. Please go on,” the boy said. When she finished speaking, he and his Emerson friends exchanged glances.

  “Do we foresee an unexpected trip to Mu- rano?” Ned asked.

  “Yes, most definitely,” Nancy answered. “It occurred to me that the duchessa might have followed the intruder there, but somehow I just can’t imagine it. She’s not exactly feeble, yet I would have thought Andreoli would have taken her.”

  “Do you think she was kidnapped, too?” Bess asked.

  “Possibly.”

  “Well, I suppose that we’ll be able to find a boat to take us to Murano right now, if you like,” Ned said, but Nancy’s mind was on the night clerk whom she had seen in the window the previous evening.

  “I have to make one small investigation first,” she remarked with a glance at her watch. “I’m going to visit Scarpa’s apartment. Do you all want to wait for me here or shall I meet you somewhere?”

  “Why don’t we go with you?” Ned suggested. “A whole group might be too conspicuous. It’s better if I go alone. I won’t be long,” Nancy said, pausing. “How about meeting at one o’clock under the clock tower? You could line up a boat for Murano in the meantime.”

  Before anyone could object, the girl stood up, kissed Ned lightly on the cheek, and dashed out of the dining room.

  Using the restaurant Do Forni as her starting point, she wandered along the street looking at the names above the residents’ doorbells. To her chagrin, Scarpa was not among them.

  “I’ll never find the building this way,” she muttered to herself and went back to the gondolas stationed behind the restaurant.

  Before stepping into one of them, she instructed the gondolier to take her through the narrow canal only. “Grand Canal—no,” she added firmly.

  “Si, signorina. No Grand Canal.”

  Somehow, perhaps because of the lazy feeling created by the warmth of the day, the ride seemed particularly long to Nancy. They floated past a row of peeling brick buildings that melted into one another without distinction. But as the gondolier dug his oar under the bridge, two tigerish eyes sprang into view behind the elusive half-open window; and Nancy felt her blood race.

  15. Sisterly Protection

  At the sight of the familiar black cat in the window, Nancy gasped, holding her breath for a second and wondering if its master was there too. She signaled the gondolier to stop at a small landing-stage up ahead where she stepped off and hurried down the short alleyway next to the building.

  Suddenly, from an iron balcony neatly lined with small pots of red geraniums, the young detective heard a distinct meow as two of the pots suddenly fell against the grating and the feline flew to the ground in a single leap, landing on all fours. Nancy froze, glancing upward just in time to see the window click shut.

  Someone is up there, she decided and quickly sidestepped the animal.

  As she suspected, there was no name on the front door but to her surprise it was open. She entered cautiously, not seeing the figure above her who spoke shortly.

  “Who are you?” the woman asked.

  Nancy felt a disquieting tremor pass through her body as she gazed at the crippled form above her.

  “I am a guest at the Gritti Palace Hotel,” she replied, not wishing to reveal her name, “and I am looking for a Mr. Erminio Scarpa. I thought he lived here.”

  “Come up, please,” the woman replied. She dragged her legs away from the door, relying on two canes for support.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Nancy commented, climbing the wooden stairs.

  “Not at all,” her listener said and indicated a comfortable chair in the living room, which the girl took. “It is my pleasure.”

  Nancy noticed the simple yet tasteful furnishings in the apartment, along with a small collection of photographs on a corner table. One in particular drew her attention, but she waited for the woman to speak before inquiring about it.

  The woman politely introduced herself as Lucia, and then came abruptly to the point.

  “Why are you looking for my brother?” she asked and laid her canes down by her chair, causing Nancy to reconsider her approach.

  Did she dare reveal all her suspicions to the man’s sister? It stood to reason she would be protective of him, and would she not learn more from Nancy than the young detective wanted her to know? Nevertheless, Nancy proceeded with her questioning.

  “I am a detective—”

  “You?” the woman said in surprise. “But you are so young.”

  Nancy smiled. “I’m just an amateur detective,” she explained, adding that she had bee
n asked to investigate a matter that had recently occurred at the Gritti Palace Hotel.

  “How recently?” her listener inquired. “Within the past few days.”

  “Well, I doubt that Erminio could be of much help to you. He’s on vacation, you know.” “Have you not seen him then?”

  “No—not since last week.”

  “And you have been in this apartment all this time?” Nancy replied.

  The woman seemed hesitant to answer. “No,

  but what does that have to do with my brother?” she asked.

  Although Nancy had carefully avoided making accusations against the man, it was evident that Lucia was uneasy, as if she also had some hidden anxiety about him.

  “I thought I saw him last evening,” Nancy said finally.

  “Impossible,” the woman snapped back. “Besides, what do you want with him?”

  “I’m afraid I will have to talk to him directly.” As she talked, her eyes darted to a photograph on the table. In it were four people, including Lucia and Erminio. The third person was a pretty, dark-haired woman who bore a slight resemblance to them and next to her was a handsome young man. It was his face that had caught Nancy’s attention.

  “Is this a family picture by any chance?” the girl inquired, rising from her seat to look at it more closely.

  “Yes and no,” Lucia said. “That is my younger sister. She is presently in Switzerland, visiting friends.”

  “And the young man—is he a younger brother?” Nancy continued.

  In the short silence that ensued, she found herself staring at the features of the young man in the photo. Although the gap in their ages was considerable, the comely expression was the same. Yes, indeed, he looked very much like the duchessa herself!

  “No,” Lucia said faintly, “he was a friend of my sister’s.” She did not volunteer any other information about him. “I am sorry my brother is not here to talk to you, but I will tell him you came.”

  “When do you expect to see him again?” Nancy asked.

  “Oh, not for some time yet.”

  Not surprised by the answer, the young detective thanked the woman for her help and left. In a strange way, her visit had proved successful. She secreted her discoveries in the back of her mind, hopeful she would soon figure out the Scarpa connection with the Dandolo family.

  Noting the time as she walked toward the piazza, Nancy quickened her steps. It was well past one o’clock, and she knew that her friends would probably be worried. As she turned the corner, she heard footfalls running in her direction from behind, then an arm grabbed hers.

  “Ned! Where’d you come from?” Nancy said in amazement.

  “Some detective you are,” he teased. “Didn’t even know I followed you from the pensione, did you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, I thought you might have needed some unexpected assistance.”

  “That’s really nice of you,” the young detective said, admitting some slight trepidation about meeting Scarpa face to face. “As it turned out, though, I met his sister instead.”

  “Hm-mm,” Ned replied. “You’ll have to tell us all about it on the way to Murano.”

  “We have a boat, then?” Nancy asked.

  “As you requested, signorina,” the boy said, taking her hand and running across the square.

  Having told the others of his plan to track after Nancy, Ned had asked Burt and Dave to arrange for the outing and shifted the meeting place from the clock tower to the nearby dock.

  “How does it feel to have your very own shadow?” George quipped as Nancy and Ned stepped aboard the launch.

  “It feels great.” Nancy smiled. She waited until they were underway, however, before she told about her encounter with Lucia Scarpa.

  “Do you suppose the guy in that photograph is Filippo Dandolo?” Bess asked eagerly. “I mean, he could be another relative of the duchessa s.”

  “That’s true,” Nancy said, “but I have a strong hunch it is Filippo. Now I’m more curious than ever about all of this business. We just have to find his aunt.”

  By the time the group finished talking, they were halfway to Murano, having cut through the lagoon past several smaller islands toward a gate of open waters.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” Bess crooned, as the boat picked up speed, sending a fine, briny spray over her.

  Dave coughed lightly. “If you don’t mind taking a shower in the middle of the ocean!” he exclaimed.

  “Oh, you. You’re so unromantic,” the girl said.

  The island loomed closer now, and the driver throttled the engine, letting the boat chug into shore the last few yards.

  “It’s not exactly a tropical paradise,” Ned whispered to Nancy, who had made a similar observation.

  Even so, the immediate view was of the factory, Artistico Vetro, and that satisfied her more than enough. She ran down the paved walkway to an entrance that led into a room filled with several kilns and supply shelves. She approached a man in gloves and work apron who was firing something in one of the ovens.

  “I’m looking for Signore Dandolo,” Nancy said.

  The man shrugged. “Not here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Do not know.”

  “What about the duchessa?” the young detective persisted. “Has she been here?”

  “No. She never come.”

  As he answered, he punctuated the remark by twirling his stick of white-hot glass for the last time. Nancy, at the same time, was alerted to someone moving about in an enclosed room several yards away. The door was closed, but the small window facing the ovens revealed a woman with gray hair.

  But she slipped out of sight so quickly the girl could not see her features. Still, Nancy was almost positive it was Maria Dandolo!

  16. Inquiries

  "Who—who was that in there?” Nancy asked the glassmaker.

  “Nothing in there—storeroom,” he replied in _ casual tone. “No one there.”

  Instantly, Nancy ran to the door and tried to open it, but to her dismay, it was locked.

  Duchessa It’s me, Nancy Drew!” she called out, “and I brought my friends with me!”

  The girl stopped, however, when she realized that there was no one behind the window, only sacks of supplies.

  “She’s gone!” Nancy said, concluding there must be another door to the storage room although it was not immediately visible.

  For a moment, she glanced back at the glassmaker whose concentration on his work had begun to falter. He volleyed a warning in Italian, telling the visitors to leave or else. Nancy, however, was determined to pursue her investigation.

  “Is there a showroom?” she asked the man, undaunted by his blazing eyes.

  “Si, but it is closed.”

  Despite the pronouncement, the young detectives hurried out of the factory and down the pavement once more, quickly discovering an adjoining building. To their delight, the entrance was open and they sped up the carpeted stairway with its steel railing glistening brightly under a magnificent handcrafted chandelier.

  “Someone has to be here,” Nancy said, darting into a room filled with shelves of stemware.

  The lights were on and a recent order lay next to a pen on a table that Nancy focused on briefly. She was struck by the design on the paper. It was Filippo’s well-known signature, the lion of Venice!

  “Look, everybody!” she exclaimed, pointing to it as someone paused behind them in the doorway.

  “May I help you?” the man inquired.

  “I hope so,” Nancy said. “Are you Signore Dandolo, by any chance?” she asked.

  The man pressed his lips into a broad smile, showing an overlap of teeth that detracted from his otherwise rugged face. “No, I am not Signore Dandolo. I am Mr. Chiais, the new manager here,” he said. “The signore has retired.” “He has?” Ned spoke up.

  “Yes, now, may I show you something? Some fine glasses like these perhaps.” He took a pair of exquisite goblets from a shelf and he
ld them toward the light, revealing tiny flecks of gold leaf in the ball of the stem. “These are the most beautiful of all.”

  “Oh, they are,” Bess commented.

  But Nancy still had her thoughts on the storeroom. “Of course, you know the duchessa” she went on.

  “Of course,” the manager said.

  “Well, have you seen her recently?” Nancy asked coyly, watching his eyes roam from the shelf to the table, where he had placed the two glasses.

  “No, she never comes here.”

  “Nancy thinks she saw her, though,” Bess challenged in reply.

  “Oh, really. Not around here, I don’t imag- ine," Mr. Chiais answered, as the girl fell silent under her cousin’s gaze of warning.

  “As a matter of fact, I did,” Nancy admitted. The manager let out a nervous laugh, saying, “I’m sure it is a case of mistaken identity. She is too old to take boat trips to Murano.”

  “Mr. Chiais,” Nancy interposed, “how long have you been in charge here?”

  “A few weeks or so. Now—are you interested in any of these glasses?” he continued, taking two more off the shelf.

  “Not really,” the girl replied, “but I would like to see the factory storage room.”

  “That is out of the question,” the man said. “Only the Dandolo family is permitted inside.” “Even though Signore Dandolo is retired and the duchessa never comes here?” Nancy asked.

  “Look, signorina” he went on, fiercely defensive, “I cannot—it is not within my power to show you something that is quite frankly none of your business.”

  Nancy stiffened, feeling Ned’s consoling hand on her shoulder. “I suppose we ought to be going then,” she said, much to the surprise of her friends, who deduced she was already on the verge of a new plan.

  She turned on her heel, letting George march out first. But as they stood at the edge of the stairway ready to descend, Nancy’s eyes fastened on the crystal pieces in the opposite room. They included sculptures and glass etchings, all of them exquisite.