Torani surveyed us with a cool eye. “Good people, this is Domenico Scalzi—he goes by the stage name of Majorano. He is going to sing Emilio’s role and I expect—”
“Where is Emilio?” Vittoria broke in.
Our maestro threw up his hands. “Who knows? The traitor threw his new part in my face and walked out earlier this afternoon. For all I care, the great Emiliano and his ‘Apollo’s lyre of a throat’ could have fallen headfirst into the canal. It was a precious piece of luck that Majorano was in town and at liberty.”
“But,” the prima donna wailed at the top of her lungs, “this is a catastrophe. We’ve had no rehearsal together. This new man hasn’t even had time to learn where he stands onstage.”
“Now, now,” Torani began, radiating a stalwart calm, “if you’ll just—”
But Majorano darted around Torani and took charge. The young castrato grasped Vittoria’s hand in both of his. He brought it to his lips. “Signora, calm yourself. I’ve had the pleasure of watching Armida several times since I arrived, and Maestro Torani has been drilling me for hours. Thank the good Lord, I learn quickly. With the generous consideration you and the rest of this excellent company will extend, I am certain everything will go smoothly.”
He followed his words with what I was already thinking of as The Smile. Vittoria responded with a glowing smile of her own.
The performance proceeded better than might be expected. For the subdued, rain-chilled audience, this handsome boy served as a spring tonic. The meat of an opera lay in the individual arias crafted to exhibit each singer’s art and virtuosity, and Majorano had those qualities in plenty. He attacked allegro passages with fire and rendered the legato with fine sentiment and judicious embellishments.
Emilio’s claque, unexpectedly robbed of their object of purchased admiration, hardly knew what to do. During the first act, they offered Majorano scattered, tepid applause. During the interval, their leader, Lazarini, must have struck a new deal. Throughout the remainder of the evening, the tempestuous Majorano was greeted with cheers worthy of an established star.
During my silent moments of Act Two, I couldn’t help sneaking a few peeks toward the Albergati box. I expected to see Maria brokenhearted over Emilio’s absence, or perhaps stiff with anger if she had heard about the demotion that precipitated his walkout. But no. I saw no tears or sign of upset. Each time Majorano flashed The Smile, Maria melted like a wax taper left out in the summer sun. By Act Three, she would be his slave.
Madame Dumas was mistaken about the audience not forgetting me. As I had long suspected, all that mattered in the opera house was a passing good voice, a handsome face, and above all, novelty.
***
Several hours later, the Crusaders with their pasteboard lances had overrun Jerusalem and the sorceress Armida had been forcibly converted to the Christian faith. The good people of Venice drifted away to their next pleasurable pursuit, and I was bathing my face at the washbowl in my dressing room. A knock sounded at the door. Benito sprang to answer it. Whispers were exchanged. Footsteps crossed the floor. With my face in a towel, I heard Messer Grande’s deep tones.
“I sent your man downstairs for a while. I hope I’ve not overstepped my bounds.”
“Not at all.” I tossed the towel away and slipped into my dressing gown. “But if you have something momentous to impart, I assure you that Benito can be as discreet as I.”
“Not terribly momentous, but I wager you’ll be interested all the same.” His eyes crinkled with good cheer. “There’ll be no more robberies in the San Polo district. We have the gang of thieves and their chief in custody.”
“Congratulations.”
“Don’t you want to know the ringleader’s name?”
“By all means, but I don’t expect I’ll recognize it.” I inclined my head with a smile. “Very few thieves run in my circle.”
“Does the name Aram Pardo ring any bells for you?”
My knees went mushy and I sank to the sofa. “Aram is married to Zulietta Giardino’s sister.”
Messer Grande nodded, adjusting the folds of his voluminous red robe. He gestured to the small bench in front of my dressing table, the only other seat in the room. “May I?”
“Of course. Please—But you must tell me—how did you catch Aram?”
“It turned out to be a simple investigation. The ghetto connection was obvious days ago—some of the householders had recognized their goods in others’ homes—all obtained from one particular shop on the Campo Nuovo.”
“Aram’s?”
“Yes. Pardo protested that he’d acquired his stock in good faith. With the innocent look of a babe, he asked how he could possibly be expected to know where a painting or sofa or piece of silver had been before it turned up at his shop. Everyone, according to him, brings their items in with the same poor-mouthed stories—‘This has been in my family for generations, Signore, but I must have money.’”
“You could have arrested Aram on the spot—for reselling stolen goods.”
Messer Grande flushed a little. “I could have—but I don’t wish to make a mockery of the law. If Aram came up before the Avogaria for such a petty crime, he would pay a fine and go his thieving way, laughing behind his hand. Within a fortnight he would be executing the same robberies in another district served by decrepit Watchmen—the city is full of them. No—” Messer Grande paused and let a smile quiver at the corner of his lip. “I put some of my new ideas in play.”
“Yes?” I leaned forward, hands on knees.
“It’s generally simple luck that brings a man before the Avogaria. The rogues do their worst while in perfect view of the constables, and are thus apprehended. If not, they rob or injure a victim who has the means to file charges with a magistrate and see the prosecution through.” He nodded sagely. “A crime committed in secret is generally a crime that goes unpunished.”
“That’s the way of it,” I agreed.
“But not the way it should be.”
“Of course not, Excellency.”
He sent me a crooked smile. “If I’m going to tell you some of my secrets, we should use each other’s given names, don’t you think?”
“Then I am Tito.”
“And I am Andrea.”
I shifted my position on the sofa, dimly aware of the other performers shutting doors and calling their good-byes. “You’re making me very curious…Andrea.”
“I’ll enlighten you at once. You see, I’ve paid close attention to the habits of the men locked up in my guardhouse. If allowed, they constantly talk among themselves, bragging of their crimes and seeking to impress their fellows with their daring.”
“You employ confidential informers, I take it.”
“Not at all.” He laughed with infectious gusto. “Professional spies only fill your ears with what they think you want to hear. I get the truth by listening to the inmates myself.”
“Surely they fall silent as soon as you walk into the cell corridor. They’re rogues, not fools.”
He shrugged. “Well, sometimes both. But you’re on the right track.”
“So…”
“So, I become one of them.”
“How?”
“I have myself put in a cell.”
I regarded him for a long moment, disbelief writ large on my face. “You are instantly recognizable. Even if you donned the canvas slops and woolen shirt of the meanest workingman, your face would still stand out.”
“Really? Are you so sure?” He half-turned to examine the cosmetics spread across my dressing table. Picking out the gray pencil Benito employed to transform me into a seasoned general or aged king, he said, “Your man has a dab hand with this. But I wonder, has he ever tried painting wrinkles with a bent hairpin that’s been darkened in candle smoke? The effect is more subtle and quite natural in
appearance.”
Suddenly I understood. Messer Grande—it would take some time before I could think of him as Andrea—was an expert at disguise. I recalled the dark smudge on his handkerchief that had puzzled me at the Pino glassworks. He must have been following Liya and me through the ghetto the day we called on Zulietta’s mother. I thought he had allowed me to wiggle out of our planned trip to Murano much too quickly.
Several emotions ran through my head—wariness, admiration, a sinking sensation at being so easily fooled. “You were the brown-skinned Jew in the eastern robes,” I said accusingly, “at the gates of the ghetto and later in Pincas Del’Vecchio’s alley—only you were taller.”
“Boots with built-up soles—surely you have such things among your costume stores here in the theater.”
I sat back. Anger was rapidly conquering my other emotions, and I felt unwholesomely warm under my dressing gown. I was certain my cheeks were turning red. “Why did you follow us? Didn’t you believe I was going where I said?”
“Tito,” Messer Grande leaned forward and responded with a quirk of his eyebrow. “Our friendship had barely begun. Your errand in the ghetto gave me an opportunity to verify your intentions and also to check up on Aram Pardo. I found it deeply interesting that he entered the widow Grazziano’s household soon after you and your Hebrew wife.”
What was he saying? Did he believe Liya’s old life in the ghetto made her somehow partial to Aram and Reyna? I felt compelled to set him straight at once. “My wife has nothing but contempt for Aram Pardo. He has always been a wrongheaded, untrustworthy—”
Messer Grande held up his hand. “I don’t doubt it. I only mean that it was quite a coincidence—an eddy of coincidence actually. Zulietta’s sister Reyna is married to an unprincipled thief who has a shop on the canal that rings the ghetto. They both stand to gain from Zulietta’s will. And it happens that this thief was engaged to marry your wife when she was still Liya Del’Vecchio.”
My eyebrows must have jumped up to my hairline. Was there anything this man didn’t know?
“Sometimes coincidence is just that,” I replied. “Even when it comes in threes or fours.” My voice sounded harsh even to my ears.
“Settle yourself, my friend. You do me scant justice if you believe I would leap to rash conclusions. I had several of Aram’s lackeys arrested. That was easy enough—they are the type that amuse themselves with untying gondolas moored at private houses or breaking into churches to ring the fire bell. I know because I spent an uncomfortable night in a cell with them. Their chatter made up for the fleabites. On the night of Zulietta’s murder, the gang robbed several houses near San Rocco while their owners were here at the theater for Armida’s opening night. Aram was among them, whispering orders, directing every step of the enterprise.”
“Then Aram had nothing to do with Zulietta’s death.”
“Correct. He is guilty of robbery, but not murder.” Messer Grande gathered his heavy robe around him, seeming to consider. “At least not of Zulietta’s murder. Whoever else he might have killed wouldn’t surprise me. But I must hand it to the little scoundrel—he’s made my murder case go more smoothly.”
“But I understood the Council ordered you to suspend investigation once Alessio escaped.”
“So they did. As an appointed official I bowed my head and received my marching orders from the secretary to the Ten. I did as I was bade, but no order—no matter how highly placed—can bind my thoughts. I’ve continued to work on the problem in my own way, and when necessary, I’ve put my disguises to good use.”
“That has you doing double duty.”
He shrugged. “My official work is often tiresome. Most thieves and rogues are utterly predictable. Sometimes I think they are all following the same script, written by some playwright who fancies himself a master criminal. But when something different comes along, I don’t mind burning the midnight oil. Besides, turning yourself into someone else can be…exhilarating. I imagine it’s a little like what the rope dancers on the Piazza must feel when they look down at the pavement and realize just how high they really are.”
I nodded slowly, recalling several colorful characters who had crossed my path in recent days. “You were the crab-catcher on the bridge near Zulietta’s casino. And the Franciscan on the Campo San Barnaba who refused to let me pass without a donation.”
“The crab-catcher, yes. But impersonating a man of God? No, some things are sacred.”
“If you’ve been watching the casino, then you must know…” I let my words trail off, suddenly conscious of the promise I’d made to Alessio.
“You can speak frankly—the young glass prince’s hiding place is no secret to me.”
“Why haven’t you had him arrested again?”
“Keeping watch over Alessio’s movements offers more possibilities than holding him in a cell. That accomplished nothing. Unlike our usual run of inmates, Alessio kept his lips shut tight as a clam. He’s stubborn, that one.”
“Perhaps loyal is a better word.”
Messer Grande leaned back on an elbow propped against my dressing table. “Alessio has impressed you, I see.”
“Perhaps I do find something admirable in his character.”
“You’re not alone in that. His men from the factory were willing to risk everything to deliver him from my guardhouse”—Messer Grande gave me an outright grin—“Yes, I know all about the proposed flight to Charles Town, and a man doesn’t have to look far to see what was going to fund the trip. La Samsona doesn’t realize how close she came to founding a glassworks halfway across the world.” He finished on a chuckle.
“What are you going to do?” I asked over a lump in my throat, sick at the thought of Zenobio and his fellow workmen coming under arrest for sedition.
“I have no intention of calling the glassmakers to the attention of the Ten, if that’s what you mean. Men are meant to be free, my friend, not fettered to an island, slaves to a glass furnace. If Cesare Pino refuses to admit his workers to the rank they’ve earned, they should be allowed to take their skills elsewhere. Those men made a brave gesture in freeing Alessio. How were they to know they were presenting me with a windfall? I had racked my brain to come up with some way I could release the prime suspect without bringing the Ten down on my head, and they did it for me.”
“You allowed Alessio to escape?” I asked wonderingly.
“Of course. If breaking out of the guardhouse were truly that easy, I might as well rip the locks off the cell doors and let the prisoners stroll in and out as they please. I expected that Alessio’s partisans might try something of the sort once I’d run down the sailing captain Alessio had arranged to meet before the opera.”
As Messer Grande went on to recount the questions he’d put to the harbor master about ships lingering in port and, later, to the captain of the vessel who intended to make the crossing to Charles Town, I hung my head and rubbed my eyes. I was suddenly feeling every step I’d taken that long day, every tense word engendered by Maestro Torani’s new opera, every note I’d sung in competition with young Majorano. Fatigue took possession of my limbs, and a swelling sense of disillusionment invaded my heart. For what little I’d accomplished in searching for Zulietta’s killer, Messer Grande was ten steps ahead. Why had I even bothered to involve myself in the investigation?
Heavy thoughts filled my head. I saw myself as ridiculous as those sweet-voiced ladies who’ve had a few singing lessons and declare they’re ready to take the professional stage by storm. I was an amateur, a dabbler. I had no idea what it takes to catch a truly clever criminal.
“Where does all this leave you?” I asked dully, once Messer Grande fell silent. “Have you come to any conclusion about Zulietta’s killer?”
“Well,” he stood and stretched his arms above his head, causing his wide sleeves to puddle about his shoulders, “now that Aram
is out of the question and light has been shed on Alessio’s mysterious errand, I can turn my attention to other things—”
“The key,” I cut in before I could stop myself.
He brought a key out of his waistcoat pocket. Holding it upright between long fingers, he gave it a concentrated stare. “Odds are the little piece of metal that matches this one is at the bottom of a canal or down a well by now. If by some miracle it’s not, I would very much like to find it.” With a sudden motion, he flipped the key in the air, then made a neat catch and tucked it away once more. “The other tantalizing item is the note that summoned Cesare to the theater. The killer wanted him on the scene, probably to serve as a very well-recognized and obvious suspect.”
“Do you have the note?”
He shook his head. “Cesare burned it. That leaves my hands empty of tangible proofs. From now on, I will simply be following my nose, asking questions. If Signor Albergati would give me admittance to his palazzo, I would start with his hotheaded son Umberto.”
“You still haven’t questioned him? You were waiting for a writ.”
“When the Council of Ten decreed the case closed, the magistrate dismissed my request. The Albergati doors have remained tight shut. Hoping to catch the old gentleman unawares, I approached him as he dozed over his gazettes at a coffeehouse one day—a pair of bravos instantly put themselves in my path.”
“But I’ve been meaning to tell you, I managed to talk to Maria.” I felt absurdly heartened that I could provide some small piece of assistance.
Messer Grande sat down again. He listened to every word of my conversation with Alessio’s young fiancée. “Excellent! Well done, Tito. That gives me somewhere to start.” He cocked his head. “Did you perhaps discover anything of similar importance as you and that splendid wife of yours roamed around Venice today?”
5 - Her Deadly Mischief Page 20