“Are you sure, Miss?” replied the butler, taken aback. “It might be too heavy for you.”
“It’ll be fine if we knot the cords over my shoulders,” the girl insisted.
Within minutes, Agatha was covered from head to toe by the African headdress. “I bet I look terrifying!” She laughed, stumbling blindly around the room.
“If Mistery House were infested with evil spirits, they would flee in terror,” Chandler confirmed with the hint of a smile.
But it wasn’t a ghost that was terrified . . .
“ARRRRRRGHHH!” someone screamed from the doorway.
Dash, who’d been searching all over the house for his cousin, had been drawn to the Colonial Gallery when he heard thumping noises downstairs. Now he was faced by this nightmare vision. He was ready to bolt when Agatha took off her disguise and did her utmost to calm him down.
“We need to fly to Venice in just over an hour!” announced Dash after he had composed himself. “Are you ready for another mission?”
“Ready as always,” replied Agatha, touching her nose. “I’ll just need a minute to contact a relative. There must be a Mistery living in the most beautiful city in Italy!”
“And I’ll need to repack our bags,” added Chandler.
Agatha ran to her bedroom to consult her family tree—a giant globe marked with the locations, occupations, and relationships of all the Misterys, each accompanied by a photo. She made a quick phone call, tossed a few research books into the suitcase that Chandler had packed, and put Watson into his cat carrier.
She rejoined the others, announcing cheerfully, “Let’s go to the aeroporto, dear colleagues. Next stop, Venice!”
The flight from London to Venice was just two hours long. As soon as they’d fastened their seat belts for takeoff, Dash pulled out his EyeNet to run through the details of the case with the others.
“This is the doge’s crown,” he began, showing them a photo on the screen. “It belongs to a Mr. Alfredo Modigliani and his wife, Melissa. The theft occurred last night at their Venetian palazzo, after a meal with three wealthy friends. Since the guests are all important people, Mr. Modigliani has not yet reported the theft to the local police. But the company that insured the crown has a great deal of money at risk, so this morning they hired Eye International to find out who is responsible.”
“So the client is not the victim of the theft, but the insurance company is,” Agatha summarized. “That’s quite unusual, don’t you think?”
Dash and Chandler nodded.
“Unfortunately, that’s not the only thing that’s unusual,” Dash went on. “Normally, Eye International sends me all the available files in the archives, but this time I’ve been told there’ll be a delay.”
“Very strange!” said Agatha. “What’s in the files?”
“Biographical files on the three dinner guests, an architect’s plan of Palazzo Modigliani, and basically everything else we’d need for a by-the-book investigation,” snorted Dash.
Chandler cleared his throat. “Why the delay, Master Dash?”
“Some sort of technical glitch in the Eye International archives,” the boy replied, rolling his eyes. “I bet I could fix it in ten minutes flat. They need a young brain.” His face lit up with a hopeful smile. “That’s where you come in, Agatha.”
“Me?” Agatha was stunned. Dash, who loved anything high-tech, often teased her about her old-fashioned preference for books and paper maps. “How can I help?”
Dash patted her shoulder. “I’m betting that your famous memory drawers will come in handy,” he said with a chuckle. “For starters, what is a doge?”
Agatha’s precise response sounded as if she were quoting an encyclopedia. “The doge was the political leader of the Republic of Venice, back when Italy was divided into small city-states,” she explained. “He was identified by a style of headgear known as the Corno Ducal, a crownlike rim studded with precious stones and topped by a horn-shaped bonnet of gold or purple brocade.”
Dash and Chandler listened to her lecture in awe. Even Watson stared up at his mistress from inside his cat carrier.
“Wait!” Agatha slapped her palm to her forehead. “I’m forgetting an important detail!”
“We’re all ears, Miss,” said Chandler, smoothing his cravat.
Agatha bit her lip and added dramatically, “Over the centuries, more than a hundred doges held this esteemed title in the Republic of Venice. Each had his own distinctive crown. This may or may not be relevant to our investigation, but if Mr. Modigliani had his own Corno Ducal, it’s likely that he is of noble birth.”
“Right you are,” Dash confirmed. “The few details I managed to dig up online identified Mr. Modigliani as part of an ancient and wealthy house. The palazzo has belonged to his family for centuries.”
“And probably needs expensive upkeep. Do you think he could have orchestrated a fake robbery to pocket the insurance money?” asked Chandler.
“It’s entirely possible,” replied Agatha. “But it’s too early to say for sure.”
“No worries,” said Dash. “As soon as I lay eyes on his face, I’ll be able to tell if he’s the culprit!” The others looked puzzled, until the young detective explained the concept of criminal physiognomy. He leaned back in his airplane seat, looking smug. “I’m kind of an expert on the subject,” he boasted.
In truth, he knew a lot more about battling alien monsters, but he kept that detail to himself.
“Are there any more facts that might help with the case?” asked Chandler.
Agatha gave them a quick recap of Venice’s history. “For centuries, the Most Serene Republic of Venice was a great maritime power with a fleet that dominated the Mediterranean and traded riches with the Orient,” she recalled. “Its unique charms still attract millions of tourists each year.”
“What’s so special about it?” asked Dash, who knew even less about geography than he did about criminal physiognomy.
Agatha pulled a map of Venice out of her bag and laid it across their laps. “What do you notice?”
Dash shrugged. “Why are all the streets blue?”
“Because they’re not streets, dear cousin! The city is built entirely on water,” she said, passing a finger over the map. “There are no cars or trucks. The buildings are surrounded by a network of canals that can be traversed only by boat.”
“The famous gondolas?” Dash asked. “Those long boats that cousin Marco pilots?”
Agatha nodded. She had confirmed their relative’s profession during the short phone call she’d made to him before they left London. Marco Misterioso was a third cousin, part of the Italian branch of the Mistery family.
Chandler cleared his throat and said, “That reminds me. I seem to recall something about Cousin Marco being unable to pick us up at the airport?”
“That’s right,” said Agatha. “He was very sorry, but it’s Carnevale and the city is packed with tourists. We’re going to meet him in the Piazza San Marco, also called St. Mark’s Square.”
Dash was checking the map when his EyeNet suddenly let out a series of very loud BLIPS!
The passengers across the aisle turned to glare at him.
“I forgot to lower the volume on my computer game,” Dash apologized, punching at keys. “I’ll make it shut up now, I swear!”
He managed to turn off the sound just as a list of files popped onto the screen. “Agatha, it’s the information we’re waiting for!” he exclaimed, pumping his fist in the air in victory. “We can finally get started.”
“Too bad we’re ready to land, dear cousin,” she smiled, grasping the armrests.
The plane landed smoothly on the runway and within a short time they were walking along the corridor with their luggage. The airport was crowded with tourists from all over the world, coming to join in the masked balls and citywide party of Ca
rnevale. Despite the chaos, they were able to board a passenger bus to the Grand Canal.
Agatha was right, thought Dash—Venice was a city beyond comparison. The boats gliding on the aqua canals, the buildings that seemed to sprout right out of the water, the arching footbridges, and the colorful stalls with traditional masks would be etched in his memory forever.
They boarded a vaporetto, a ferrylike water bus that rocked under their feet and made Chandler and Watson a little uneasy. During the trip, the aspiring detectives tried to review the files and exchange opinions, but they were distracted by the spectacular ride up the Grand Canal. When they got off at the marble steps at Piazza San Marco, flanked by a statue of St. Theodore and a tall column topped by a winged lion, Agatha gasped at the dreamlike beauty before her eyes. Pigeons wheeled over the busy square, past a tall clock tower and the white wedding-cake domes of St. Mark’s Basilica. A medieval archway led into the maze of shopping streets called the Rialto, which was full of tourists with shopping bags and kids licking cones of brightly colored gelato.
Agatha noticed a young, curly-haired man with a cheerful face and a jaunty grin heading toward them through the crowd. He wore a traditional gondolier’s shirt with black-and-white stripes, and his upper arms were the size of hams.
“Marco!” she shouted, cupping her hands around her mouth. “We’re over here!”
Their cousin rushed over, raising a storm of pigeons. “It’s great to see my English cousins!” he said, giving a low bow.
Agatha and her companions had agreed in advance, as always, not to disclose any more than they had to about Dash’s mission. After an exchange of warm greetings, Agatha told Marco their cover story. “We’re here to celebrate Carnevale, but we’re dizzy with wonder at Venice’s beauty!”
Marco beamed proudly. “I’m at your disposal,” he announced, pounding a fist on his chest. “I’ll take you to see all the most picturesque corners of the city, all from a truly unique perspective: the seats of my gondola!”
“Perfect!” said Dash. “Let’s start with Palazzo Modigliani!”
“Why do you want to go there?” Marco asked. “Just between us, it’s not really one of the hot spots.”
“The Modiglianis are friends of the family,” lied Agatha, who did not want to get caught up in long explanations. “My parents asked me to drop by as soon as we arrived in town.”
“Very good, then!” Marco led the group to the edge of the Grand Canal, where a small fleet of gondolas bobbed in the water, and pointing one out, he said, “Here is my magical boat. Isn’t it the most beautiful one of them all?”
“Are you sure it will hold my weight?” Chandler asked hesitantly.
Smiling, the young man helped Chandler on board, with Agatha and Dash close behind. Marco then positioned himself at the stern, maneuvering the long oar with skill. In a booming voice, he began singing the melody of an ancient Venetian boat song as he propelled them along the canal.
It seemed like only a few moments before the stern profile of Palazzo Modigliani appeared before their eager eyes.
Palazzo Modigliani was a three-story stucco building covered in tangles of ivy. The ancient wrought-iron gate sat directly on the canal alongside a small boat dock.
“Come on, hurry up!” urged Dash, jumping out of the gondola before it was moored. He promptly slipped on the wet stones and almost fell into the water. Thanks to highly trained reflexes, Chandler quickly grabbed him and helped him back onto the dock.
“Th-that was close . . . ,” stammered the young detective. “I almost became fish food!”
“Dash, there aren’t any piranhas in Venice,” laughed Agatha.
Then she turned to Marco. “Would you mind waiting for us? We might be a while.”
“No problem. I kept my whole afternoon free for you,” said the gondolier, breaking into another loud song.
Taking the lead, Agatha glanced at the doorbell. The Modiglianis lived on the top floors of the mansion, while the ground floor was a vacant office. She noticed the front gate was broken and beckoned to her companions to follow her into the lobby.
“How do you want to proceed?” she asked Dash quietly. “You said all three suspects are waiting for us, right?”
“Eye International has gathered them all together so we can reconstruct what happened,” replied Dash, checking his time on his EyeNet. “It’s three o’clock. We’re right on the dot.”
“Have you both memorized the suspects’ files?” Agatha asked.
“Of course, Miss,” replied Chandler.
Dash had already mounted the stairs, taking them three at a time. He pushed the bell and the door was opened by an enormous butler. He looked as if he’d been carved out of marble, and was dressed in the with impeccable style as Chandler.
“Ahhhh!” Dash cried. “You could be twins! Separated at birth!”
Behind him, Chandler raised an eyebrow in astonishment.
“May I help you?” asked the manservant, impassive.
Agatha moved forward. “The insurance company sent us to investigate the theft of the doge’s crown,” she said politely.
The butler moved to let them pass. “Signor and Signora Modigliani are waiting for you in the parlor.”
Five people sat in the room they entered: the two Modiglianis and their three dinner guests from the night before. Agatha recognized them from the photos on the EyeNet.
Baron von Horvath from Hungary was short and plump with bushy gray sideburns. His file described him as a ruthless collector of antiquities, with no qualms about breaking the law to obtain a particular object that caught his interest.
The Englishman, Lord Cedric Spencer Edwards, was tall and reedy with an aristocratic bearing and a pencil-thin mustache. He was known to have a weakness for gambling.
The last guest was a handsome young Spaniard. Gonzago Suárez y Acevedo was in his thirties, the wealthy son of a famous bullfighter.
“Who are these young people, Nunzio?” asked Mr. Modigliani, turning to his butler.
“The insurance company’s investigators, sir.”
“How can that be?” he asked, bristling with irritation. “Two kids and a cat?”
Melissa Modigliani spoke up from her armchair at the far end of the room. “I’d imagine the detective is the robust fellow behind them, my dear,” she said.
“You’ve hit the nail on the head,” said Agatha with a little smile. “Allow me to introduce the infallible detective DM14. My cousin Dash and I are his assistants.”
“Precisely,” agreed the large butler, moving to shake hands with everybody.
Dash elbowed Agatha and whispered, “Check out Mr. Modigliani. His eyes are beady and too close together. According to the rules of criminal physiognomy, he’s hiding something. I just know he’s the guilty party!”
Before Agatha could reply, the Hungarian, Baron von Horvath, jumped to his feet.
“Can we get a move on?” he demanded, glaring at Chandler. “I’m a very busy man and I can’t afford to spend the rest of the day here!”
“Understood,” smiled Agatha. “Why don’t you each tell Agent DM14 what happened here last night?”
Alfredo Modigliani began to speak in somber tones. “As you’re aware, a precious family heirloom was stolen from my study. These gentlemen were invited for dinner at eight, but I don’t hold any of them responsible for the theft. Clearly whoever it was came in through the window.”
“We’ll establish all that in time,” said Agatha, a flash of cleverness lighting her eyes. “The insurance company wants to be very clear on exactly what happened, so you’re all considered suspects until proven otherwise.”
“How dare you, young lady!” cried the English lord in indignation. “To cast aspersions on a member of the great house of Edwards! We are not common thieves!”
Baron von Horvath muttered under his breath a
nd lit a cigar.
Only the Spaniard, Gonzago, sat calmly in place, as though Agatha’s provocation did not concern him in the slightest.
“Go on, Mr. Modigliani,” Chandler said. “What was the first thing that happened at your dinner party?”
Casting a nervous glance at his wife, Alfredo Modigliani continued to speak. “I wanted to show the doge’s crown to my distinguished guests,” he said, hesitating. “We had been in the study for only a few minutes, and I had just taken it out of the safe when Nunzio announced that dinner was served. So I left the crown on my desk and accompanied my guests to the dining room immediately.” His wife shot him a look, and he added, “My darling Melissa doesn’t like it when the soup isn’t piping hot . . .”
“Were you all together throughout the dinner?” Chandler asked.
“Absolutely,” confirmed Modigliani. “That includes Nunzio, who served his delicious specialties: risotto with lagoon shrimp, liver alla veneziana, and of course some fritelle, the traditional Carnevale pastries. We stayed at the table until ten o’clock.”
Agatha carefully noted the time in her notebook. “And then what happened?” she asked without raising her head from the page.
This time Gonzago was first to respond. “I had just arrived from Spain yesterday afternoon, so I was very tired. I excused myself and took a water taxi back to my hotel.”
“I can assure you he’s telling the truth. I accompanied him to the door myself,” confirmed Mrs. Modigliani. “Then I went to bed as well. I had a very bad headache.”
“I went to the parlor to make a private phone call,” explained Lord Edwards.
“Baron von Horvath and I,” continued Modigliani, “continued to chat while Nunzio cleared away the dishes. And then . . .”
“Let me go first, if you don’t mind,” interrupted the Hungarian nobleman. “I could not find my cigars, so I asked Mr. Modigliani’s permission to go back to his study, where I was sure I had left them. That’s when a strange thing happened . . .”
The Crown of Venice Page 2