by Joan Smith
Belami took a deep breath and tried again. “She is. I feel it in my bones,” he insisted. “She stole that guinea from my pocket. She lied to Deirdre about leaving me a note. She led the ladies to the Licorne where Alfred Jalbert picked up notes. She was in Saint Mark’s Square the other night when Jalbert was there. And how do you account for her knowing so much about counterfeiting—the Trial of the Pyx? How did she know that? And,” he added importantly, “she had plaster of paris in her paint box. Does she use that in her work?”
“How should I know? We have better things to talk about than plaster of paris!”
“She doesn’t do sculpture, only painting,” Deirdre said.
“Well, it’s used for making molds in counterfeiting,” Belami said.
Pronto just shook his head. “You’ve made a fool of yourself once already, Dick. That business of bouncing Mrs. Sutton’s money around the table yesterday—don’t mean to rub it in your nose, but you looked nohow. Don’t do it again. Your rubbishing clues are all circumstantial. You lost your coin yesterday. Don’t blame Elvira because you’re clumsy. She did leave you the note in Paris. Those demmed Frenchies misplaced it. You know about the trials and pixies and all that—I don’t see us calling you Mr. Jalbert. Your nose is out of joint because she likes me better than you, and that’s the top and bottom of it.”
“Perhaps she finds you easier to fool,” Belami said.
“Maybe you’re wrong, Dick, “ Deirdre said. “Elvira wouldn’t lead Pronto on if she didn’t care for him—if she were already married, I mean.”
“Would she not? She knows I’m after the Jalbert gang. Their little business is no longer viable. When Claude’s clamped into irons, she’ll want some other protector.”
“You do admit I’m number two with her, then, do you? Big of you.” Pronto scowled.
“No, bigamy,” Belami joked. “A lady’s only allowed one husband at a time.”
“Where is Elvira, Pronto?” Deirdre asked. “I’ll run up and say hello to her while you and Belami talk.”
“She’s gone.”
Dick and Deirdre exchanged a wild stare. “Where? When?” Dick asked.
“She’s gone to visit a friend. Left this morning.”
“Was it Jane, her friend from England?” Deirdre asked.
“That’s it. Miss Blackwell. It’s some place that starts with a v. Just between Verona and Vicenza. Or was it outside Valdagno? Something like that. Italy has too many v’s to suit me. The place is full of them. It’s via this and via that, Venice and Vesuvius. Veni, vidi, vici.” His voice petered out.
“Why?” Dick asked.
“Demmed if I know,” Pronto replied, shaking his head. “Do you remember in the old schoolbooks, they was always sticking in a v instead of u, making it impossible to read?”
“Why did Elvira go away?” Deirdre asked, as Dick seemed in some danger of exploding.
“Visting her friend,” Pronto said. “Already told you.”
“When will she be back?” Deirdre asked.
“Two or three days.”
“When did she leave?” Belami said.
“This morning, around eight-thirty. I walked her down to the landing and saw her into the gondola. They only have the one servant, and she didn’t want to leave her mama short handed. Watched her start out for Mestre. That’s where you’ve got to go first to get out of this place,” he explained.
“You sent her off alone in a gondola?” Belami frowned.
“Dash it, I hadn’t had a bite of breakfast. I offered to go with her. Elvira insisted I go in and have my breakfast. But I didn’t. I hobbled back up to bed instead.”
“I expect Claude was missing her,” Belami said archly. “A man likes to have his wife with him in romantic Italy.” His glance turned to Deirdre, where it softened.
“He will if I have anything to say about it,” Pronto said. “I mean to pop the question when she gets back.”
A sense of urgency was added to Belami’s worry. He remembered his spies, and hoped Réal might have more detailed information as to who had met Elvira at Mestre. He and Deirdre left a very disgruntled Pronto behind, muttering into his cup.
“What do you make of this?” Deirdre asked.
“She’s gone off to meet Claude and report that I’m making waves here in Venice. If they planned to dump their guineas here, they’ll have to change their plans.”
“I wonder if she intends to come back at all. It would almost be best if she didn’t.”
“Possibly she was just waiting to collect that jewelry from her mother and take it to her husband to finance their journey elsewhere,” Belami suggested.
They went directly to the Palazzo Ginnasi, where Réal was pacing the dock, waiting for them.
“Réal, any news from the Léon Bianco?” Belami asked. “Did you happen to see Miss Sutton leave this morning?”
“But yes, I see everythings,” Réal said comprehensively. “She goes in the boat to Mestre, where she hires a carriage.”
“Hires?” Belami asked. “You’re sure it wasn’t there waiting for her?”
“She hired a carriage, with very bad horses, like all the horses in Italy.”
“Where did she go from there?” Belami asked eagerly. He felt the blood pulsing in his veins, pacing his heart faster.
“She went west, to some place starting with a v,” Réal said, and looked fearfully for his master’s approval.
“You mean you let her get away!” Belami gasped.
“You said. ‘If Styger shows up, follow him.’ Styger, he don’t show up. I come back to the hotel. Nick—he was late,” Réal said, hoping to dissipate the blame. “H’as usual.”
Belami grimaced. “I wish you’d stayed with her. She could have led us to the gang. I wager she’s meeting Claude.”
Réal was racked with grief. For five minutes he had stood, trying to determine which course he should take at Mestre. What victory he could have brought home, if only he’d followed Miss Sutton. Regret turned to anger and he lashed out. “If some peoples would say what they mean, it will be making my job much easier. Follow Styger, you said.”
“You’re right,” Belami said placatingly. “The trouble is, I need a dozen men, not just you and Nick. Did anything of interest happen last night at the hotel? Any callers?” he asked hopefully.
“No callers. Miss Lucy and the mother went out—to visit churches. I hear talkings of Saint Mark’s.”
“Hmm—I wonder who they met there. You didn’t—”
“I stayed watching the hotel, like I am told to do,” Réal answered grimly. More coals of shame were heaped on his head that he hadn’t read his master’s mind from afar. He left very soon, his body so suffocated with remorse and regrets that there was only one way to subdue it. He must hire a boat immediately and return to Mestre, to see what he could learn of the travels of Miss Sutton.
It was late in the evening when Réal returned. He didn’t know whether he had real news or whether he would add to his shame by the unlikely tale to be told. He found Belami with all the others in a small saloon sorting through costumes from the contessa’s attic for the masquerade ball. Réal stood, willing Belami to look at the doorway. Such was the intensity of his wish that Belami turned at once and discovered his groom.
Belami hastened to the door and asked, “Why aren’t you at the hotel?’’
“I am just going. Before I leave, I have other newses for you. I went to Mestre this afternoon,” he said.
Belami was hard pressed to imagine why Réal was shifting uneasily on his feet. He feared some ill news was about to be revealed. “Well, what is it?”
“The hired carriage of Miss Sutton, it goes to Mira, a short distance from Mestre. There it goes to a small inn. Miss Sutton hires a room.”
“That’s odd. Did she meet the Blackwells?”
“She meets no one,” Réal said.
“Is she still there?”
“No, she disappeared. She locks herself into the room carrying o
ne small case from the carriage. The maids, they think she is sleeping. Many hours later they are worrying, and knock. There is no answer. They open the door with the key—Miss Sutton, she is gone. Her case is gone. No one is going to visit her all day, and Miss Sutton isn’t leaving her room also. She disappeared,” he said, and stifled the urge to cross himself, for obviously the forces of Satan were at work here.
Réal stood trembling with anxiety to see the effect of his news. A rush of glory entered his breast when Belami clipped him on the arm and said, “Good work, Réal!”
But Réal was never one to take undue credit. “Possibly I am misunderstanding the servants,” he admitted. “I do not speak the Italian very good, though I know the paternoster and Ave Maria by heart.”
“Hmm, that’s a distinct possibility. I have the deuce of a time understanding the language myself. What’s the name of the inn at Mira and where is it, exactly?”
He got the name and the directions. Réal went to the hotel and Belami returned to the saloon to tell Deirdre what he had heard.
“We must go to Mira at once,” she said. “I’ll sneak out tonight. You can question the servants at the inn.”
“I read and write Italian better than I speak it. The idioms confuse me.” He glanced toward Carlotta and knew she would be a better interpreter.
Before Deirdre could change his mind, the duchess joined them. “This robe will do for you, Deirdre,” she said, and handed her niece a heavy brocade gown. The sleeves were long and full, stitched with gold threads. Slashes in the material revealed white cambric inserts below. It was more interesting than beautiful, but the greater deterrent was that the stiff old material looked extremely uncomfortable.
“I rather like this one,” Deirdre said, showing a simple sheperdess’s gown of blue mulled muslin. The sleeves and skirt were full, the top featuring a blue velvet weskit that laced up the front. A wide-brimmed leghorn bonnet went with it.
“I have always wondered at that taste for the common in you,” Charney said, and cast a darkening eye at Belami.
Dick set the straw bonnet on Deirdre’s head and smiled. “Perfect! I wish I were a sheep.”
The duchess thought a wolf was more like it, but she said no more. Actually Charney was in high spirits. The palazzo was very much to her liking. What fun to wheel the conte, ten years younger than herself and in so much worse shape, around the house. She delighted in pointing out to him features that his dim eyes missed. Hands fallen off statues, spots on the carpet, dirty windows.
And when she tired, there was always a fine fire raging in the grate, with a bottle of wine left permanently at the ready. Lavish compliments on this inferior brew had informed her that it came from the conte’s own vineyards. She meant to see a large quantity of it sent to England before she left. The long days left her plenty of time to tease the conte about his wife’s never being home.
“You might give these a try,” Charney suggested to Belami. She handed him a short velvet jacket and a pair of long silk hose. A grotesque feathered hat completed the ensemble.
“I think not. I’m wearing a domino,” he replied firmly. “I’ll ask Carlotta if she has any.”
It made a good excuse to speak to the contessa without arousing suspicions. “I have a favor to ask of you,” he said when he was alone with her. “Can I meet you later tonight, after the others retire?”
Carlotta slanted a long look at him from below her lashes. “I was beginning to think you’d never ask,” she purred. “Your room or mine?”
“I want you to go to Mira with me,” he said. A nervous glance toward Deirdre and the duchess accompanied his answer.
“Perhaps that would be best. The duchessa is a regular Argus. Shall we say, around midnight?”
“As soon as the others retire.”
She tapped him playfully with her fan and glided over to push her spouse out the door, into the hands of his valet.
It was ten-thirty. Carlotta yawned extravagantly. “I’m for bed. Duchessa, would you care to have anything sent to your room? Some cold meat—wine?”
“I am feeling a little peckish,” the duchess admitted. “Bring that gown upstairs, Deirdre, and we’ll see if Haskins can do anything with it. It smells of camphor. It must be laundered at least.”
Deirdre looked a question at Belami. “Good evening, ladies. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, and bowed.
He remained below with Carlotta. The duchess had observed signs of the growing friendship between her niece and her rakish ex-fiancé and was determined to quash it.
“They will want to be alone,” Charney said. “It would be gauche of us to be forever hanging around. You know Belami must be carrying on with some woman. Better the contessa than you, my dear. That one can handle him if I know anything. Shocking the way she bear-leads the dear conte.”
“He’s not carrying on with her,” Deirdre said.
But as she peeped over the bannister, she saw very clearly that Carlotta was carrying on with Dick, and he wasn’t fighting her off as he should. He allowed the hussy to put her arm through his and carry him off like a trophy to the saloon, where they would be alone. The tinkle of Carlotta’s silvery laughter hung on the air. Carlotta had a very suggestive laugh.
Chapter Nine
Belami explained to Carlotta why he wanted to take her to an inn at Mira in secret at night, but her sultry glances said as plain as day that she thought it was a mere excuse.
“Such elaborate explanations are not necessary, caro mio. I will be happy to interpret anything you like. I am a very experienced—interpreter.” She smiled.
“Perhaps it would be better if I took one of your footmen. I don’t want to put you to so much trouble. I just thought the innkeeper would be more helpful to a contessa.”
“He will,” she assured him. “Shall we go? We must be back by breakfast. The conte doesn’t trouble me in my bedroom, but he does expect to see me at the table.”
“We’ll be back long before morning,” he said earnestly.
The contessa smiled her Gioconda smile. “We’ll see.”
In the gondola, Carlotta rested her head on Belami’s chest and captured his hands in both of hers. It was the least mischievous thing her busy fingers could be doing, so he didn’t object.
“What a moon!” Carlotta sighed, turning her face, pale in the moonlight, up to gaze at Belami. She had a lovely face, shaped like a heart, with those great soft eyes glittering. “Venetian nights were made for love,” she crooned.
Belami desperately searched his mind for something to distract her. “I have read there are over a hundred islands altogether in Venice,” he said, and felt like a fool.
“I’ve made love on ninety-nine of them.”
Belami laughed nervously. “And about four hundred bridges, I think.”
“I haven’t made love on many bridges,” she said. “Except the Rialto, where there are all the shops. I’ve never made love at Mira before,” she added, and began stroking her white fingers up his arm. “My favorite place for making love is in a gondola. Feel the gentle swaying of the water, mio Belami.” Her hands strayed to his chest, where they soon sought out the buttons of his jacket.
“Quite a stiff breeze,” Dick said, and did up his buttons as quickly as she unfastened them. “Now behave yourself, Carlotta,” he scolded when her fingers out ran his.
“You know how you can make me do anything you want, carissimo,” she said in a husky voice, and put her arms around his neck. “Just by doing—this.” She pulled his head down and kissed him, very long and hard, till his lips were stinging.
It was a long trip up the S-curve of the Grand Canal, around the island and to the canal of Mestre. Belami’s ingenuity was stretched to the limit. He sang, he quoted everything he could lay his tongue to, he kissed Carlotta and thought of Deirdre. She had been suspicious at his remaining downstairs with Carlotta, and a suspicious Deirdre wasn’t likely to stay in her bed once Charney was asleep. She’d be up prowling by now. At least she
couldn’t very well follow him. The Ginnasis only had one gondola.
They went to Taverna Vecchia, a modest whitewashed inn standing in a small yard. “Tell them we want the room at the far end of the hall, the right side of the staircase,” Belami instructed.
The contessa relayed this information to the innkeeper, then turned to Belami. “It’s taken. I told him the one next to it would do.”
“No, no! It must be that room. Tell him I’ll pay the client’s bill if he’ll change to the next room.”
“Darling, they’ll think we’re mad!” Carlotta laughed.
“Just give him the message.”
Carlotta gave the message, and the innkeeper with a shake of his head went upstairs. He soon returned and led the new arrivals to the required chamber, muttering something unintelligible to himself. Belami caught the word “imbecilles inglese” and smiled sheepishly. When they were installed and the innkeeper had left, Belami took the lamp and began searching the room.
“What are you looking for, carissima! It’s right here,” Carlotta said, pointing to the bed. She had thrown off her wrap and was beginning to remove her dress.
“We’re looking for any sign that Elvira Sutton was here.” He opened the clothespress, and drawers of the dresser, looked under the bed. “There’s nothing.” He pulled the bell cord and the innkeeper returned.
“Ask him about Elvira’s visit—if this is the right room, how long she stayed, and whether she met anyone. See if the name Blackwell rings a bell.”
Carlotta talked for about five minutes, asking questions and frowning. Then she dismissed the man. “She came to this room, locked herself in, and wasn’t seen again. No one named Blackwell was here at all,” she said.
Belami went to the open door and looked up and down the hall. “There’s no fire door upstairs. If she didn’t go out through the lobby, she had to climb out that window.”
He opened the window and looked down. “She’d have broken her neck if she jumped.’’