Page 9 of Vengeance in Venice
Even so, there was a short delay before the door flew open suddenly and a man stared at him. Not a gentleman, but then,he hardly expected the owner of the palace to open his own front door. Still, the slightly untidy specimen before him did not seem much like a servant either.
Solomon stretched out one hand with his card between two fingers. “Signor Savelli,per favore,” he said, and walked straight past the man into the large, tiled foyer.
His footsteps echoed. So did the closing of the front door. The manservant, or whoever he was, indicated a wooden settle with cushions and asked him to wait. At least, Solomon gave him the benefit of the doubt, but in truth it sounded more like an order. Solomon was prepared to wait, just not for very long. He sat.
He was not given long to examine the ceiling moldings and the frescoes that brightened the impersonal hall. It was not, he thought, a place where honored guests were left kicking their heels.
The servant had ambled up the staircase in a leisurely manner, but it was quite another man who came down only a minute later—a younger man of energy and determination who clearly felt no need to prove his authority to anyone, he descended at the run and strode across the hall, his hand held out.
Savelli?Solomon had no desire to shake Savelli’s hand.
“Mr. Grey,” the newcomer said briskly. Not particularly tall, he had brown hair and bright blue eyes that met his without a hint of subservience. “My name is Foscolo.”
Solomon deigned to accept the proffered hand, though briefly. “How do you do? My business is with Signor Savelli.”
“And what business, precisely, is that?” Foscolo asked.
“Signor Savelli is well aware.”
Foscolo’s steady eyes grew piercing. “Actually,” he said, “Signor Savelli is aware of nothing. He is dead.”
Chapter Three
“Dead?” Solomon staredat the man, suspecting some kind of subterfuge to avoid an angry husband, a mere foreigner of no account. But there was no jest, no slyness in Foscolo’s sharp face, only profound interest in Solomon’s reaction. It was how Solomon himself—and a couple of policemen of his acquaintance—often looked at people, which gave him his first, uneasy clue.
“Dead,” Foscolo repeated.
“He was very much alive last night,” Solomon said slowly.
“When exactly did you see him last night?”
Solomon raised his eyebrows. “I am afraid if you wish me to answer your questions, Signor Foscolo, I require rather more than your name.”
“Of course you do. I am a policeman—perhaps you would call me an inspector?—of the city of Venice. Would you care to join me upstairs, where my…superior is also eager to meet you?”
There was only the slightest pause before the wordsuperior, but it was enough to remind Solomon of the uneasy government of the city. It was only five years since Venice had rebelled against its Austrian masters, who had only retaken control with some difficulty and much ill feeling. And many lost lives.
Solomon inclined his head and accompanied Foscolo toward the staircase. Although the Venetian had dashed down to him with the brisk steps of a busy, active man, he now set a slow,ambling pace, like someone enjoying a private conversation during a stroll.
“So, at what time last night did you see Signor Savelli?” he asked with deceptive mildness. Clearly, he was not a man to be distracted.
“I did not see him at all,” Solomon replied. “Except as a shadow in the back doorway. About eleven of the clock, or perhaps a little after. Before midnight, at any rate. I was in my boat at the time. I came to confront him today because he abducted my wife.”
Foscolo blinked rapidly, his only sign of startlement. “Are you sure?”
Solomon met his gaze and a smile flickered on the policeman’s face and vanished. He was not without humor.
“You are sure,” Foscolo said. “Where and how did this happen?”
Solomon told the tale of the abduction briefly and without embellishment or obvious emotion. Even so, he could almost feel the policeman’s skepticism. Or perhaps it was just surprise.
“This is not usual behavior for Signor Savelli,” Foscolo remarked. “Are you sure he was responsible for such wickedness?”
“Yes,” Solomon said dryly. “I found her at the back door of this building. Apparently, Savelli was sending her home, but you will understand I chose to take her myself.”
“You must have been very angry.”
“I still am.” There was no point in pretending otherwise. “According to my wife, his ruffians acted beyond their orders, and on a complete misunderstanding of the situation. Savelli released her immediately with apologies, but you will understand I could not let the matter rest there. How did Signor Savelli die?”
