Page 71 of Vengeance in Venice
“Sit, my dear. Every time I see you, you look better.”
Foscolo, clearly tired of the small talk, said abruptly, “What brings you here?”
“Actually,” Solomon said, with a quick, apologetic glance at Elena, “we wanted to know if the police had returned Signor Savelli’s dagger, and if so, if we could see it.”
A spark of anger lit Foscolo’s face. “I could have told you that without the need to distress the signora. The weapon is still in our possession, and no, you may not see it, because it is none of your concern.”
“Then how fares your inquiry into my wife’s poisoning?” Solomon asked steadily. “I presume there is one?”
Pinkness seeped into the policeman’s face. “Naturally. I will keep you informed.” He nodded stiffly to Elena, all but clicking his heels as wishing them all good day, and stalked out.
Constance, who had always preferred him to his Austrian superior, was taken aback by this apparent hostility. “Does he suspect us again?” she wondered aloud.
“Oh, no, Lampl is probably hampering the natural course of his inquiries,” Elena replied. “It must be like working with one’s hands tied.”
“But your husband was a friend to the Austrian government,” Solomon said. “Surely Lampl wants the culprit brought to justice?”
“Of course.”
But did Foscolo? Had Foscolo found the truth and it was somehow unpalatable to him? Or to Lampl and the government of Venice?
“Why did he come?” Constance asked, a new idea struggling into her mind.
“A courtesy, I think. He told me he had found no evidence against the bodyguards Angelo hired, but still he advised me to pay them off.”
“Why haven’t you?” Solomon asked.
Elena sighed. “I suppose I was wary of them vanishing somewhere we couldn’t find them before we discovered they were the culprits.”
“That is brave,” Solomon said, “and risky. I thought you didn’t suspect them?”
“I don’t, really. It makes no sense. But nothing does, now.” Elena spoke flatly, without pathos, and yet it struck Constance as poignant.
There was nothing she could say that would ease the loss, the pain.
Solomon said, “Your husband was a collector of antique weapons, was he not? Perhaps you could show us his collection?”
Constance blinked at him in surprise. It seemed unusually insensitive of him, especially when he had already asked about the murder weapon.
Elena’s brows lifted, though she did not seem to be particularly disturbed. She led the way across the fine gallery to the study she had shown them on their first visit.
Comfortable, functional, and decorative, it looked exactly the same as before, dominated at one end by the large desk and throne-like chair. At the other side of the enormous fireplace were the glass display cabinets, to which Elena led them without obvious emotion.
To Constance’s untrained eye, Savelli’s collection looked like a fine historical armory—swords and daggers of all shapes and lengths, both simple and ornate in style, ancient-looking pistols and a musket, a pair of fine, silver-mounted dueling pistols, and, on the wall, a medieval shield with a coat of arms painted upon its curved surface.
As she gazed around with a mixture of awe and distaste, Constance became only slowly aware that Elena was staring fixedly at an object in the second case. Alarmed, Constance went to join her there. There was only one object on display there—a long dagger with a dazzling jeweled hilt and shining blade.
“What is it?” Solomon asked.
Elena stepped back, one hand flying to her mouth, and then falling to her side.
“That is it,” she gasped. “That is the dagger that killed him.”
Chapter Sixteen
Solomon stared atthe widow. There was no doubt the sight of the dagger upset her, and he was instantly sorry he had asked to see the collection at all. In fact, he wasn’t quite sure why he had suggested it. Perhaps to give him some more idea of the murdered man and at least thekindof weapon that had been used against him. Constance had not quite approved, and of course she was right.
He said gently, “According to Foscolo, the police did not return it.”
