The Lure of the Italian Treasure

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “So, how does Count Ruffino afford a mansion like this? Does he make that much from his vineyard?” Joe asked Cosimo.

  “I don’t know,” Cosimo said, throwing up his hands.

  “What do you mean you don’t know?” Joe asked. “You always know something.”

  “Well, of course,” said Cosimo, pushing his glasses up on his nose, “we all know something.”

  “So what’s that ‘something’ in this case?” Frank asked, smiling.

  “Well, the problem is, I can’t quite figure it out,” Cosimo said. “Not many of the old aristocracy can afford to keep up these old ancestral estates, even if they do run a business. If they want to keep them, they often have to rent them out to a business, or to one of your rich American universities.”

  “Wait a minute, Cosimo,” said Joe. “You’re not suggesting that the count might have been tempted by our Etruscan jewelry box, are you?”

  “Did I say that?” Cosimo’s shoulders went up and his hands looked as if they were holding a loaf of bread. “No, I’m sure he must just be a clever businessman,” Cosimo said.

  “I don’t know,” Frank said. “He looks more like a . . . ”

  Frank’s jaw dropped a little as he saw Francesca, the count’s daughter, approaching. She was wearing glasses with heavy black frames like Cosimo’s and a white terrycloth bathrobe with a monogram. She was holding a plate of bread and yawning, as she shuffled across the room in her slippers. She had a newspaper tucked under her left arm.

  Joe turned around to see what had stopped Frank dead and was surprised to see what Francesca looked like this early in the morning. “Well, I guess this is her house,” he said. “No reason to get all dolled up for the likes of us.”

  “Hey,” Cosimo whispered. “I think she looks cute like that. I didn’t know she wore glasses.”

  “Cool it, guys,” Frank said. “She’s coming this way.”

  Joe turned around and smiled. “Will you join us?” he asked.

  “Oh, hi,” Francesca said, slightly embarrassed. “Excuse my bathrobe. I didn’t expect to see anyone so early.” She set her plate on the table and sat down with a sigh, then reached up to push her unruly hair back behind her ears. “Anyone want the newspaper?”

  “Sure,” Joe said.

  “I guess you could look at the cartoons,” Cosimo said with a smile, just as Joe remembered that it would be an Italian paper.

  “No, you take it, Cosimo,” Joe said. He decided to stay on safe ground and ask Francesca what the news was.

  “There is a modest article about our little problem with burglars.”

  “I wonder who leaked the story,” Frank said, remembering how Julia and Professor Mosca had worried about word getting out to treasure hunters.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Antonio Cafaggio, Papa’s so-called friend, who just happens to be robbing us blind.”

  “You mean the guy who owns the china shop?” Joe asked. “What do you mean, he’s robbing you blind?”

  Frank wanted to know the same thing, but he was puzzled that Francesca was revealing family secrets to them so easily.

  “Well, not really,” she said. “I guess I’m still mad that Papa sold him one of our family heirlooms—at an absurdly low price. If my mother were still alive, she’d never have let it happen. But Papa is like putty in that man’s hands.”

  Boy, this is family secret time, Frank thought. I wonder what’s next. He was glad Francesca was being friendly, but this seemed a little too friendly. And she hadn’t even started talking about her psychic yet. It looked as if Cosimo was right about her after all.

  Francesca leaned back and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” she said. “This must seem so strange to you. . . . But I couldn’t keep it to myself any longer.” She looked up at Frank and really did seem miserable.

  “No, don’t worry about it,” Frank said. “Maybe we can help.” He regretted saying that immediately—what could he and Joe do? And the chances were that the count had his own perfectly good reasons for selling the heirloom. Maybe he needed the money.

  Francesca sniffled and kept looking at Frank. “Well, I did hear from the grapevine that you guys have worked as detectives. . . . ”

  “You don’t think this guy stole the jewelry, do you?” Joe asked, interrupting her midsentence.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” she replied. “I guess he would know how to get a good price for it.”

  “Maybe we should keep an eye on Signore Cafaggio,” Joe said. “What do you think, guys?”

  “It seems like a long shot to me,” Frank replied.

  “Well,” Cosimo said, “if he did steal the jewelry, I can see how he might think a little publicity would help drive up the price. Not that we actually know that he leaked the story to the press.”

  “I could show you where the castle is that he uses as a warehouse,” Francesca volunteered. “I mean, if you think it would help. We could take my car.”

  Not knowing exactly why Francesca was so suspicious of Signore Cafaggio, Frank figured it couldn’t do any harm to check him out as long as they were careful. “Okay, I guess if we leave now we can get back to the dig by nine. If it’s not far.”

  “No, it’s only about twenty minutes away, in the Mugello.”

  “Let’s go, then,” said Joe, happy to be doing something to find the thief.

  • • •

  Walking on the ancient rutted path through the forest, Joe was the first to catch a glimpse of the castle rising up out of a field of tall grass. Its perfectly smooth exterior stone wall circled around a central square tower that rose about five stories above the hill on which it was perched.

  “You could see for miles from the top of that,” Joe said as they reached the edge of the forest and peered out onto the clearing.

  “Let’s hope nobody sees us,” Frank said, studying the structure for signs of guards or cameras.

  “Oh, I doubt anyone’s watching,” Francesca said. “I’ve often heard Antonio brag that no one could ever break into his precious castle.”

  “So what are we doing here?” Joe asked.

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “You’re supposed to be the detectives.”

  As they crept onto the path in the clearing, trying to keep their heads below the level of the tall grass, Joe noticed Cosimo studying the castle carefully and stroking his chin. “Okay, Cosimo, what are you thinking?”

  “Giuseppe, my friend,” he began, using the Italian form of Joseph, “I am doing more than thinking. I am feeling.”

  “Okay, so what are you feeling, Cosimo?” Joe asked impatiently. “I hope whatever it is will help us figure out what to do.”

  “Perhaps it will,” Cosimo said with a smile. “But first you must appreciate what this place means.”

  “Go for it,” Frank said eagerly.

  “Well, before me, you see, there have been one or two important people in Italian history named Cosimo.”

  “No doubt you will break the mold,” Francesca said sarcastically.

  “I plan to. But tell me, Francesca, do you have any idea who built this so-called ‘castle’?”

  “Of course not. As far as I’m concerned, it’s just an ugly pile of old rocks stacked up around Antonio Cafaggio’s treasures.”

  “But you see,” Cosimo went on, “unless I am wrong, this is one of the citadels Cosimo the Great, the first Grand Duke of Tuscany, built in the sixteenth century in his campaign to revive the old Etruscan empire.”

  “Cool, Cosimo,” Joe said, “but how’s that going to help us get in, if that’s what we’re going to try to do?”

  “You see, this was not a medieval castle with a moat, but a gun fort. The walls were made thick enough to withstand an artillery siege.”

  “So we should obviously give up and go home, right?” Joe said.

  “But a citadel like this, in addition to having those pointed and angled bastions you see at each corner, would have had gunports several meters from the bot
tom of the surrounding ditch.”

  “Ditch?” said Frank. “There’s no ditch around this one.”

  “My point precisely,” Cosimo said.

  “I’m glad you have a point,” Joe said. “Remind me what it is, exactly.”

  “This fort probably hasn’t been used as a fort in hundreds of years. The ditch has filled up with sediment. Sometimes in these cases, you can find a gunport in the wall at ground level hidden by the brush. They were made large enough for several high-powered guns, so you can often just walk right in.”

  “But wouldn’t they have the gunports blocked off?” asked Frank.

  “This place looks pretty run-down. Even the main entrance just has an old wooden door. Maybe they haven’t bothered much with the gunports.”

  “Sounds like it’s worth a shot,” Joe said.

  “No pun intended?” Cosimo asked, laughing.

  “I hope it’s just a pun,” Francesca said nervously.

  • • •

  After finding cover in the clearing, the group used it to make a dash for the wall. Working their way through the dense, thorny vegetation that grew up beside the wall, they eventually found a gunport at ground level that was mostly obscured by tall bushes. After gaining access, it was an easy matter to find the steep stone stairway that led up through the thick wall. Not a single door blocked their way.

  At the top of the stairs they found themselves in a room with a roof and doors that had long since rotted away. Through one of the open doorways they could see an open courtyard surrounding the central tower.

  “How hideous,” Francesca whispered as they ventured out into the courtyard. Cafaggio had constructed a modern building made of bright green sheet metal right next to the picturesque old stone tower. “I knew Antonio had no taste,” she said with disgust, “but this really is too much. He’s ruined this place with that warehouse, or whatever it is.”

  “If that is a warehouse, I guess we could check it out,” Joe said. “It’s probably locked up, though.”

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Cosimo asked. “What if we get caught?”

  “Oh, don’t worry, Cosimo,” Francesca said confidently. “I’ll just say we’re having an adventure. Besides, my psychic told me last night that she’s sure the thief is someone close to the family. Who else could it be?”

  “Oh, no,” Joe groaned. “You mean you dragged us out here because of what your crazy psychic said?”

  “She was right about the Etruscan site, wasn’t she?” Francesca said seriously. “And she’s right about a lot more than you know.”

  “Look,” Frank said. “Maybe we’re here for the wrong reasons, and maybe we shouldn’t be here at all, but since we got this far so easily, we might as well finish what we started.”

  Everyone agreed and began inching along the outside perimeter of the courtyard, watching for signs of people, but there were none. When they came to the warehouse door, they were surprised to see that it was wide open.

  After waiting a few minutes for someone to appear, they made a dash for the door and got in safely.

  Cardboard boxes and wooden crates, stacked haphazardly, cluttered the floor. Plastic foam peanuts, crumpled newspapers, and bubbled cellophane hung out of every box and spilled onto the floor. Immediately Francesca recognized her family heirloom, a small Renaissance urn, nestled in a box like an abandoned ostrich egg.

  Frank watched as Francesca reached into the box. He was about to ask her what she was up to, when he noticed the light from the doorway dim. He looked up to see the heavy security door they had entered swing shut. The sudden pitch-black darkness made him feel as if he had fallen into a well.

  6 A Rough Ride

  * * *

  As the echoing clang of the heavy steel door petered out, Joe fought a feeling of panic. He felt like a trapped animal. It took him a second to come to his senses and retrieve the penlight from his front pocket.

  “Everybody okay?” he asked calmly as he shone the light on the door.

  “Giuseppe,” Cosimo said, sounding only a little stressed, “I think we may be in trouble.”

  “I know we’re in trouble,” Francesca said. Joe was glad to hear that her voice sounded pretty normal, too. It seemed as if nobody was going to freak out. “My dad’s going to kill me, if Antonio doesn’t first.”

  “The question is,” Frank said, “whether somebody trapped us in here on purpose, or whether someone was just closing up.”

  “I do not think it makes much difference,” Cosimo said. “We are trapped either way.”

  “But if no one knows we’re in here,” said Francesca, “we could be stuck for a long time. Maybe we should scream.”

  “Not necessarily,” Joe said, shining his flashlight along the ceiling to look for a vent or other opening.

  While Joe was searching, Frank inched toward the door to see if he could hear anything on the other side. He tried the handle to see if it was locked. “This door feels secure, all right,” he said out loud to himself. He pressed his ear against it when he heard someone putting a key in the lock.

  He recoiled from the door as it swung open, the light streaming in and dazzling him with its brilliance. By the time he could see again, he was being yanked outside by a firm hand and thrown to the ground. The others were soon rounded up by a large man in a blue lab coat and shoved to their hands and knees on the hard terrace pavement beside Frank. When they looked up they saw that Signore Cafaggio was standing above them, holding a gun.

  “Francesca!” he said angrily. He walked over to her, pulled her up by the elbow, and asked what she was doing. “Che cosa stai facendo?”

  Francesca replied haltingly in Italian; Joe and Frank couldn’t make out what she was saying.

  “All right,” Cafaggio said to the three boys when he was finished with Francesca. “You stay here while Francesca and I call Count Ruffino.” They disappeared into Cafaggio’s black sedan to make the call.

  Frank tried to sit up, but the man in the blue coat grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him back down. Then he kicked at Frank to get him to lie down on his stomach.

  Patience, Frank said to himself, resisting a strong urge to grab the man’s foot and throw him. The man was, after all, just doing what he thought he had to do to restrain trespassers who outnumbered him. Frank simply had to put up with lying there in the dust.

  As he thought about the mess they’d gotten themselves into, Frank couldn’t believe that they had been stupid enough to let Francesca lead them by the nose into trouble. On the other hand, had it been wise of Francesca to trust them? Now she was in as much trouble as they were.

  • • •

  “Now, don’t forget to look really, really sorry,” Francesca said as she prepared Frank, Joe, and Cosimo to go into the count’s study. “Papa’s a forgiving sort, but he does expect good manners.”

  She must think everyone’s a pushover, thought Joe. All she has to do is look at them with those eyes.

  In fact, it wasn’t so easy to explain to Count Ruffino what they had been doing in Antonio Cafaggio’s warehouse. The count was civil enough, sitting behind his ornate desk surrounded by book-lined walls under a high vaulted ceiling. But his icy stare said, I have never heard of anything so foolish.

  He dismissed them by turning his attention back to the papers on his desk, as though they weren’t worth his time. He had said only one thing: “I trust we will hear no more of this kind of behavior.”

  • • •

  “I don’t know about you,” Joe said after they shut the door to the count’s study. “I’d rather be yelled at and shoved around than have to go through that again. I felt like a worm in there.”

  Francesca was waiting for them in the garden. “Why such sour expressions?”

  “Basically,” Joe said, “your dad has perfected the art of making the other guy look stupid.”

  “Except it didn’t take much in this case,” Frank added. “All we had to do was say what we did, which was stupid.�
�

  “You know what,” Francesca said, “I’ve got an idea.”

  “Uh-oh,” Joe said, smiling. “I think I’ve got to do some laundry.”

  “No, it’s not like that. I was just thinking there’s not enough time before lunch for you to work. Why don’t we go have a pizza together? It’s on me.”

  “Sounds good,” Frank said, a little cautiously, “but we ought to tell Julia what’s up.”

  “I already have,” Francesca said impishly, and grabbed Frank by the hand. “I know a great place right on top of Monte Morello.”

  • • •

  The villa stood on a small plateau halfway up Monte Morello, on the outskirts of the little section of Sesto Fiorentino called Colonnata. Driving from there to the top of Monte Morello would not normally have been anything to write home about. Frank and Joe had already jogged the three miles there and back once. But the way Francesca drove, it was an adventure. Going faster than was safe on a flat road, she would speed up even more so that she could screech her tires on the hairpin turns. She gripped the wheel as if she were trying to wrestle it to the ground.

  “Do you always drive like that?” Frank asked as they came to a screeching stop outside the restaurant.

  “Excuse my brother,” Joe said. “He’s the only guy I know who’s gotten a ticket for going under the speed limit.”

  “You can laugh all the way to your funeral, if you want,” Frank said.

  “Well, you know, you have to give a good car a workout or it won’t be happy—just like a horse,” Francesca explained.

  “Do you ride?” Frank asked.

  “Constantly,” Francesca said as they came to the door. “In fact, you can see our stables from here.” She pointed to a group of buildings and a ring in a clearing near the villa on the plateau below.

  Beyond Francesca’s private little plateau, Frank could see far into the distance, past the airport, the modern apartment buildings, and the factories of the Arno Valley. On the horizon lay the low-lying buildings of Florence, a dense cluster of red-tiled roofs dwarfed by the dome of the cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore.