Page 75 of Vengeance in Venice
As it opened, he removed his hat and asked in his best Italian for Signor Foscolo.
The short, stout, middle-aged woman with the hard eyes shook her head emphatically, explaining that Signor Foscolo was not at home.
Solomon frowned. “He told us to come at this time,” he said testily. “My wife is not well enough to walk around the streets… We will wait.”
He took a step forward, and the woman almost rolled up her sleeves for a fight, only her gaze fell on Constance, who clearly did not yet look as well as she felt, for the woman stepped back again and addressed her directly.
“Come in, signora. I will find you a chair to wait.”
Constance took a quick glance around the large, empty foyer. The door nearest the front stood open, revealing part of a small dwelling within—presumably this woman’s.
“I am the caretaker,” she said proudly. Concentrating hard, Constance picked up the gist of the rest. “I see when everyone comes in and out, so I know Signor Foscolo will not be home for—oh, at least half an hour, and probably longer.”
“He would not mind our waiting in his rooms,” Solomon assured her.
“That is not possible,” the caretaker said with finality, toiling up the stairs with Constance and Solomon at her heels.
Constance remembered to walk slowly and to lean heavily on Solomon’s arm. The snail’s pace was eating into their half-hour, making her tense and impatient. Much to her relief, the caretaker paused on the first floor, outside the first door.
“Foscolo,” she said. “Wait.”
She waddled to the end of the passage and opened another door. Something scraped and bumped and scraped again, andshe emerged, pulling a hard chair with her. Solomon strode forward and took it from her, which won a look of approval and a breathless “Grazie.” But she obviously had her own, very strict ideas, for she waddled back to Constance and pointed to a precise place on the floor by the front door.
Obediently, Solomon placed the chair, and handed Constance into it. She sighed as if relieved and grateful, and thanked the caretaker in as weak a voice as she could manage.
The caretaker smiled at her. “Bella, bella,” she said wistfully, then swung again on Solomon. “Signor Foscolo is a very busy man.”
“I know,” Solomon said. “And much respected.”
It was a good opening, but their hopes of learning about the policeman from his neighbor were dashed at once, for the caretaker merely waddled off toward the stairs again. “Half an hour,” she repeated. “Or an hour or more. I cannot say.”
Solomon crouched down beside Constance, as though still worried about her. “Can you wait that long?”
“I’ll see,” Constance said. “I will try.”
Solomon’s eyes began to dance. “My brave wife. Just say the word and I will take you home.”
“Not yet. I will just rest here and then I’m sure all will be well.”
Constance did not put it past the caretaker to begin mopping the foyer floor or finding some other task that would allow her to keep her eyes and ears on the foreign visitors. But much to her relief, the slow footsteps faded across the floor below, and she heard the click of the closing door.
From most of the foyer below, they could not be seen.
Solomon straightened and carefully tried Foscolo’s door. Naturally, it was locked.
“Over to you, my dubiously talented wife,” he murmured.
Constance opened her reticule and took out a couple of narrow steel tools. Talking idly, in case the caretaker or anyone else was listening, he moved to the balustrade and peered over, looking both up and down as Constance knelt by the lock and set to work.
Once, the lockpick slipped from her fingers and landed on the tiled floor with an unnaturally loud, echoing clatter.
“You dropped your scissors, my dear,” Solomon said, again for the benefit of listeners. “Let me… Use my handkerchief while I pick these things up.”
She cast him a lopsided smile, picked the tool up for herself, and got back to work.I wish I were better at this…
She smiled up at Solomon when the lock finally gave. He was already beside her, drawing her to her feet, and then he slid first into the space beyond.
*
