Page 17 of Vengeance in Venice
Lampl blinked at her as though uncertain whether to be disgusted by her interest.
“Yes,” said Foscolo. “It was one of only two ever made.”
“And the only one extant,” Lampl said stiffly. “I have seen it in his home many times.” He rose rather heavily to his feet and bowed. “We thank you for your cooperation and apologize once more for your unpleasant experience of Venice. Come, Foscolo.”
Foscolo’s expression gave little away, though he did appear to take his time gathering up his notebook and pencil, placing them back in his pocket and getting to his feet. He too bowed before following his superior from the room.
Constance looked at Solomon. “What an odd pair. They neither like nor trust each other.”
“Like Omand and Napier,” Solomon remarked, naming two London detectives with whom they had had dealings in the past.
“At least these two here dislike each other more than they dislikeus. I wonder if it’s personal or political?”
“Both, I imagine. In these times, they will be difficult to separate. We need to learn more about Savelli. I think we should call on the widow.”
“Will she receive us?” Constance asked. “What if she has heard that her husband kidnapped me?”
“Then I’m sure she would like the matter cleared up. And yes, I think she will. It could be that she is floundering in this tragedy to the point of desperation, and any company will be better than none.”
“Could she have done it?”
Solomon considered. “I think shecould. I would say there is great strength beneath the frail surface. But I have no idea what feelings lurk there. I don’t even know if she is grieving, though she is certainly shocked.”
“Giusti cares for her. He doesn’t want to, but he does. It was in his face, his voice, when he asked you about her, as though the words were dragged out of him without permission.”
Solomon grimaced. “One way or another, it doesn’t look good for Giusti. And yet I still find myself hoping he didn’t do it.”
*
Ludovico Giusti, Ludoto his many friends, was reckless by nature. Since the crushing of the revolution to which he had given his heart and soul, he seemed to have forgotten that. He remembered it again during his second interview with the policeman Foscolo, when he had the urge to physically kick him out of his house.
Once, he would probably have done it. But Foscolo was a good man who had fought beside him against the Austrians and was only doing his duty. So Giusti kept his worn-out boots on thefloor and explained about Grey’s part in the fight with Savelli’s men, and their mission to rescue Grey’s wife.
“I wanted to keep them out of it,” he said.
“Murder is more serious than that.”
Giusti almost laughed. They had both seen more than enough men killed in their time.
“When did you last see Signora Savelli?” Foscolo asked.
That was when Giusti’s feet were in most danger of kicking. But he shrugged. “How do I know? Venice is a small city. I noticed her in San Marco some time in the last month. In a particularly dazzling shade of gold.”
“I mean, to speak to.”
“That is easier. 1849.”
Foscolo had pressed him no further on that score, but that was when the recklessness took hold in more than fantasy.
So, when it was dark, Ludo took his own boat and traveled the familiar waterways to the Palazzo Savelli. He knew where to wait and watch and blend in with the stone so that no other passing boat would endanger him, nor anyone make him out from nearby windows.
Savelli’s house was in darkness, at least from the back. It was all locked up and there would be no comings and goings even among the servants, on the night after their master’s death.
Using his oar, Ludo glided silently nearer. He didn’t go as far as the Savelli steps, but even so, he had to wait, lying flat on the bottom of his boat, until another had passed and gone on its way. Then he simply climbed out and up.
He was quick and agile and old enough to know better. But there were many hand- and footholds in the old stone and the ornate carvings. His hope was that in a house rattled by sudden death and police investigation, the servants would be careless about locking windows. And he was right—although he had totry three, and almost lost his footing entirely on the third ledge, before he managed to push a window open and wriggle through.
He had brought his own candle and tinder box, so once he had picked himself off the floor, he lit it and found his way out of the room—some minor reception room he couldn’t recall ever being in before—and on into the dark passage beyond. He found the staircase without difficulty and climbed. A few of the steps creaked, but not enough to disturb anyone’s sleep.
