2 - Painted Veil, page 29
part #2 of Tito Amato Mystery Series
Emitting a stench of stagnant canal water, the ghostly horror merely burbled a deep laugh in reply.
Morelli raised a sneer. “You can’t fool me. I know who you are. You must be Tito’s friend, that Englishman who hangs around the theater like a great dolt who doesn’t have anything better to do.”
“What? He’s not talking about me, is he?” Gussie stepped out of the crowd that circled the pool of light around us. Annetta clutched his arm and drew him back.
The faceless figure laughed once more. “Wrong again, Morelli. But it is at the theater that we last met. Can’t you guess who I am? Don’t you know me? We were so close. Just a few short weeks ago, you had your hands around my neck, choking the life out of me.”
The hood fell away as if by magic. A ghastly visage sprang from its folds—slick, pasty flesh; dark, matted hair; and a damp collar and neckcloth torn loose from a bruised throat. A hideous flap of bloody scalp hung down over one ear. The decomposing features were familiar to all of us.
“Luca!” Morelli’s proud patrician mask fell away. He looked like a frightened child awakened by a nightmare. “No, it’s impossible. You can’t be here,” he blubbered. “You were dead. I saw your body in the palace storeroom.” Morelli drew back against the Savio’s stalwart bulk, spreading his hands in front of his face, voice rising to a horrified whine. “You were dead. I know it. I made sure. I rolled your body out of the boat and watched it sink beneath the water.”
“There,” I yelled. Messer Grande dropped my arm. He and the Savio traded a startled look. I couldn’t resist gloating. “There you have it. Do you believe me now—now that you’ve heard it from the murderer’s own mouth?”
Morelli leaped like a stag bounding from a thicket. The Savio lunged and grabbed the back of his jacket, but Morelli wriggled away and the Savio was left holding an empty garment. The guests who had watched the flying Seraph and hooded phantom in frozen awe suddenly panicked. Someone started a stampede for the archway. Screaming aristocrats stumbled and tripped in the darkness.
Luca’s specter yelled, “This way,” then took off. I dove into the crowd to follow. Barely conscious of Liya on my heels, I pushed scurrying bodies aside, straining to keep pace with the light from the phantom’s lurching candelabrum.
Somehow we made it out of the reception hall into the foyer. The crowd was fighting its way through the tall, narrow entry that led out to the waiting gondolas. Morelli had turned the opposite way.
I can’t recall ever taking part in a stranger chase. As the desperate nobleman sprinted into the depths of the palazzo, the foul-smelling murder victim, trailing his black cloak and wisps of smoke from the now extinguished candles, strove to close the gap between them. Following, I pumped my long legs with a winged Seraph on one side and a very confused Messer Grande on the other. The aging Savio, bright medals dancing on his heaving chest, brought up the rear.
We pounded up one stairway, then down another and another. Morelli and his closest pursuer suddenly disappeared into a side passage. Liya, Messer Grande, and I crashed into each other as we all tried to round the corner and squeeze into the narrow corridor at the same time. The police chief swore furiously as he ripped Liya’s delicate feathers from his gold uniform buttons and pushed her aside. By the time we reached the open door at the end of the passage, the Savio had caught up with us.
Beyond the doorway, voices clashed in anger. We stepped into the room. It must have been Morelli’s private study cum library. Bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling on three walls. The fourth held an ornately carved cabinet and a wide writing desk flanked by a pair of standing lamps. Morelli had wedged himself between the desk and a bookcase like a cornered animal.
Silvio Cavalieri, Luca’s look-alike brother whom Gussie had fetched from Padua, deposited the candelabrum on the desk and flung his black cloak aside. It puddled on the flagstone floor like a spill of tar. Silvio stood tall in costume boots atop thick, built-up soles. With his features so like Luca’s and the corpse-like cosmetic effects created by Benito, he could have been a specter from the pits of Hell.
“You thought you could get away with it,” he said savagely, stabbing a grisly finger toward Morelli. “Just strangle Luca and go on with your life like nothing happened. But Tito found you out. You’ll pay for my brother’s murder. They’ll hang you from a gibbet on the Piazza and I’ll be watching from the front row.”
Messer Grande hitched up his belt and approached Morelli with a determined step.
“No, stop. You can’t take me away,” the cowering nobleman gasped. “I’m a Morelli. My family has been in Venice since the relics of St. Mark were enshrined in the Basilica. How can you even think of arresting me?”
The Savio was leaning against a bookcase with his hand to his midsection. Still huffing and puffing, he said, “You dumped Luca Cavalieri’s body in the lagoon. We all heard you admit it. It looks like Tito was right. The Jew didn’t kill Luca. You did.”
Messer Grande curled his lip at me, but began to advance toward Morelli again. I heard the swish of satin skirts behind me. It was Isabella. Pale and trembling, she leaned against the doorframe as if her knees might give way at any moment. Gussie and Annetta appeared right behind her. My friend steadied the noblewoman with a strong arm.
Morelli stood a little straighter. His eyes darted around the room and came to rest on the Savio. “Excellency, I didn’t know what I was saying back there. I was startled. Who wouldn’t be with all those histrionics going on? Of course I knew Luca was dead. I was there when we viewed his body in the Doge’s storeroom, you remember. I knew someone had tossed him into the lagoon. I didn’t mean to say that I had.” He extended an open palm to the Savio. “You see, don’t you? Amato threw out all this nonsense about false magicians and… what was it, a golden temple? I hardly knew what I was saying. I was… shocked, confused.”
Messer Grande halted again, looking toward the Savio for instructions. The old military man frowned and scratched his head. “This whole thing is very far-fetched,” he said.
Morelli’s eyes brightened. “And scandalous. A singing eunuch from the Cannaregio accusing a patrician of the Golden Book. What is Venice coming to?”
The Savio eyed me dubiously. Patrician blood flowed in his veins as surely as it did in Morelli’s. They were brothers of pride and distinction; their ancestors had deliberated together on the Great Council for centuries. Was the Savio going to let their shared social standing override the admission he had heard with his own ears?
Liya must have been thinking the same thing. Wings trembling, she marched up to the Savio and raised her chin. “If the accusation is baseless, why did Morelli run?”
The Savio arched his shaggy eyebrows, questioning Morelli. The harried nobleman took a tentative step forward. He opened his mouth, then shut it. Silvio peeled off the flap of linen soaked with calf’s blood that Benito had gummed to his scalp. He flung the rag on the desk in front of Morelli like a would-be duelist throwing down a gauntlet.
Morelli swayed on his feet. He was exhausted and desperate, but he wasn’t beaten. He pounded a fist on the desktop. “I won’t be questioned by a filthy, wanton Jewess who shouldn’t even be outside the ghetto walls. Look at her. She’s half-naked. She should be ashamed.”
The Savio sighed. “I’m the one who’s asking you. I’m willing to listen if you can give me a good explanation. If you deny Tito’s accusation, why did you run?”
Before Morelli could form a reply, another voice broke in. “I don’t understand,” said Isabella as she released Gussie’s arm and moved to the center of the study. “What is my husband accused of? What did the show signify?”
I took both of her hands in mine. “Signora, I have no wish to cause you distress, but justice must be served. I believe that your husband is guilty of the murder of Luca Cavalieri.”
She furrowed her lovely brow. “The scene painter at the theater? The murder the Jew was hanged for?”
I nodded. Behind me, Morelli snapped, “Lies, all lies. Don’t listen to him.”
Isabella squeezed my hands. “No, I want to hear. What makes you think Leonardo would do such a thing?”
“Luca had blackmailed others. I believe that he was trying the same trick with your husband. Have you heard of the Brotherhood of the Golden Seraphim?”
She shook her head.
“It’s a secret society, with a heavy initiation fee. Your husband created it. As Dr. Palantinus, the Grand Magister, he collects fees for promises of health, wealth, and knowledge of the future.”
“But, how? The State Inquisitors would never allow a patrician to charge money for occult activities. Leonardo would have been hauled before the Tribunal.”
“Dr. Palantinus is very discreet. He always wears a mask—the beaked mask of a medieval plague doctor. No one would ever connect the exceedingly proper Leonardo Morelli with the charlatan Palantinus.”
“But you do.”
“Yes, and you helped me.” I continued as a puzzled frown spread over her face. “The Jew dazed Luca with a blow from a bronze statue of Venus, but it was your husband that finished the painter off and dumped his corpse in the lagoon. When Luca’s body resurfaced, he needed a scapegoat. The tainted wells had already turned the city into a powder keg with a short fuse. Morelli indulged his hatred of the Jewish race by authoring a pamphlet that put flame to the fuse.”
I stopped to glance at Liya. Her mouth was set in a solemn line. She gave a small nod, telling me to go on. Isabella’s eyes never left my face.
“A mob burned the Del’Vecchios’ home and dragged Liya’s cousin Isacco away to his death. Gussie and I traced the authorship of the pamphlet to the mysterious Dr. Palantinus. It contained one unique phrase—‘Hebrew swindlers who make capons of us all.’ Have you ever heard your husband use those words? Others have.”
Isabella shuddered. Her breath caught in a sob. She shot one feverish glance toward Morelli, then turned and ran from the room. She knew what those words signified. I imagined that the revelation of her husband’s guilt overwhelmed her and that she couldn’t bear to look at him another minute. She would probably run to her suite, throw herself on the bed, and flood her pillow with tears. I would send Annetta to check on her later.
The Savio was rubbing his chin. “So, Tito, you believe that Morelli is Palantinus because of some words in a pamphlet.”
I swallowed hard. “That’s not all. It’s a matter of record that his father sold his inheritance to a Jew. Morelli has been hungry for revenge on the Jews ever since.”
“Morelli is not the only man in Venice to carry a grudge against the Hebrew race,” the Savio countered. He looked Liya’s golden sheath up and down, letting his eyes linger on the swell of her hips under the clinging fabric, then directed an apologetic bow in her direction. “Sorry my dear, but you know it’s true.”
Liya folded her wings tightly around her and gave me an imploring look. Silvio glowered at the floor, his hands balled into fists. Gussie and Annetta shook their heads at the doorway. I felt like tearing my hair from my scalp. “But I tell you, Excellency, Morelli is Palantinus. And he strangled Luca after Isacco felled the painter with a blow from the bronze statue.”
The Savio shrugged. “If you could just produce some tangible proof. Where is this statue? A bronze of Diana, is it?”
“No, not Diana,” Liya whispered fiercely. “It’s a statue of Venus. I was with Luca when he bought it. Isacco dropped it before he ran away from Luca’s studio.”
“It was not there the next morning.” I sighed. “The statue probably went to the bottom of the lagoon with Luca.”
“No, not at all.” Isabella returned on a dead run, pushing through Gussie and Annetta. “The Venus isn’t in the lagoon. I have it right here.” Panting, she used her flat palm as a support to display the sculpture before a phalanx of astonished eyes.
The bronze Venus was portrayed in the manner of the ancients, as a nubile nude of sensuous grace, one hand to her upswept braids, the other held modestly before the space where the curves of her thighs came together. I could see why it had reminded Luca so strongly of Liya.
I glanced toward the living Venus sheathed in gold instead of bronze. Her expression had changed from worry to radiance. “Oh, yes,” she breathed. “That is Luca’s statue.”
“Where did you get it?” the Savio quickly questioned.
Isabella moved to one of the bookshelves and indicated a row of tall volumes. “Right here. Leonardo fashioned a hiding place for her behind these books.”
Morelli made a sound like gravel bouncing down a metal chute. He would have sprung toward his wife if Silvio hadn’t restrained him.
Isabella’s eyes were glittering, but not with tears. She wore a triumphant smile. “If you wanted to hide something from me, Leonardo, you should have made a better job of it.”
“My study has always been off-limits to you,” he growled.
“Your petty dictates have never stopped me for long. Since you and Fabrizio are so often away from the palazzo, I have plenty of time to snoop where I choose. I found the Venus a week or so ago. I assumed she was a family treasure that you had tucked away to sell. I thought she was much too pretty to let go, so I removed her to my bedchamber.” Isabella finished on a pointed note. “I knew you would never look for her there.”
“Well, Leonardo.” The Savio cleared his throat and regarded Morelli uneasily. “This is a surprising development. I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, but surely you can see that having the statue in your possession changes everything. Now, you’ll have to cooperate with Ottavio… er… Messer Grande. We don’t want this to be any more difficult than it has to be. I’ll see that you’re well treated. You don’t…”
“Excellency,” Morelli interrupted, “don’t distress yourself. I have no intention of giving Messer Grande the slightest trouble.”
The nobleman seemed to have passed beyond anger and fear. He straightened his neckcloth, adjusted the lace on his cuffs, and stood before us: upright, shameless, and proud. A new dignity had taken possession of his features—a dignity that borrowed nothing from the decaying aristocracy of our diminished Republic.
He raised his chin and addressed me. “I have to congratulate you, Amato. You pursued the truth with a tenacity I never dreamed you possessed. I did go to Luca’s studio that night. He was going to tell the Tribunal about the Temple, accuse me of forcing him to stage the Seraphim’s appearance under threat of losing his position at the theater. To forestall my ruin, he’d demanded a large sum of money, more than I had on hand. I was going to beg him for more time, but Isacco Del’Vecchio handed me such a perfect opportunity.”
Morelli’s candor amazed me. What compelled him to talk so freely? Did he need to impress us with his cleverness? I asked quietly, “The statue? Why did you keep it?”
He answered at once. “I originally intended to plant the Venus among the goods in the cart that the Jew wheeled around to the theaters. But when the mob responded to my pamphlet with such enthusiasm, I no longer needed her. I thought it would be safe to sell the statue once the excitement over Luca’s death had subsided. In a year or so, the incident would barely be remembered.”
While Messer Grande held Silvio back from throttling the nobleman, I posed another question. “When I was pushed through the trap door—was that another perfect opportunity?”
Morelli nodded with a crooked grin. “I couldn’t resist that one either. Carpani had alerted me about the extra rehearsal. The clerk did his job well—not much went on in that theater that he didn’t recount in excruciating detail. I slipped in without being seen and waited until you were alone on the stage. I thought to rid myself of your prying for good, but fortune favored you over me that time.
“However, and in this you must believe me, I hold no further malice toward you, Amato. It’s been a good fight, won by a stroke of singular ingenuity. Venice will be talking about the show you put on here tonight for years to come. Yes, you and your friends have brought this sorry remnant of the house of Morelli to his knees. Not bad work for an effete songbird.
“Of course, I might still have had a chance if my good lady had not seen fit to join the fray.” He inclined his head toward Isabella, who recoiled immediately. “Ah, a proud woman to the end. So be it.”
I could scarcely believe what I was seeing. Morelli’s demeanor had become positively expansive. “Allow me to toast your cleverness, Amato. In the cabinet, you will find a decanter and two glasses. Join me in a glass of muscat.”
Liya stepped to my side in an agitated rustle of feathers. “Let him save his thirst for the swill they’ll give him under the Leads.”
“Please, dear girl.” The nobleman’s voice was smooth as butter. “You will have my life. Allow me this one small favor. In fact, I’d like you to join us in the toast. I’m sure someone could find us another glass.”
“I’d eat a canal rat before I’d raise a glass with the likes of you,” she spat back.
Morelli made her a weary bow and regarded me with sad, tender eyes. He seemed almost relieved that his long masquerade was over. He nodded toward the cabinet and said wistfully, “It is an exquisite Cerigo muscat.”
I opened the cabinet and reached for the decanter.
Liya grabbed my arm. “Tito, no. You can’t share a drink with him. He killed Luca.”
I shook her off gently and removed the decanter. It was of fine crystal overlaid with a lattice of woven silver and sat on a divided tray that also held two matching glasses. They made a lovely set, perhaps one of the last remaining treasures of a family that had guided Venice through her golden centuries.
“Tito!” Liya said savagely.
“It’s all right, Liya. Morelli is the last of his line. A bit of ceremony will hurt no one.”
Tipping the decanter, I said, “I won’t drink with you, Signore, but I will pour you a glass to bid farewell to the home of your ancestors.”
