078 The Phantom Of Venice Read Online Free PDF

colors—raspberry, ochre, russet, pale lime and ivory, rose red and old gold. Loveliest ofall, Nancy thought, were the palazzi with their columned arcades and small, delicate balconies and windows topped by pointed Moorish arches. The fact that many of the buildings were weather-stained and patched or crumbling seemed only to add to their charm. They looked as though they were floating on their own reflections mirrored in the canal.
    For Nancy, the final enchanting touch was provided by the mooring posts, like striped barber poles, scattered along each bank.
    Now and then the water was churned by passing motoscafi darting among the gondolas and barges and occasional vaporetti. Even a few rackety outboards intruded on the fairytale scene. Down the dark, narrow side-canals could be glimpsed small, picturesque humpbacked bridges.
    “Venice is a very noisy city, I fear,” Gianni was saying, as he pointed out the landmarks.
    “Perhaps so, but it’s a pleasant noise,” Nancy mused aloud. Unlike the raucous din of New York’s street traffic, the thrumming sounds on the Grand Canal were predominantly human, a medley of voices from the crowds swarming along the quays mingled with the shouted warnings of the gondoliers veering their craft out of each other’s way.
    Ever since they embarked, Gianni had kept up a stream of flirtatious remarks. Nancy managed to ignore most of them, but breathed an inner sigh of reliefwhen the gondolier finally steered his boat toward the Left Bank to land, narrowly missing another gondola as he did so.
    They had reached the Palazzo Falcone. Nancy recognized it at once from the fierce stone hawk jutting out like a gargoyle from a point high up on the facade. It obviously symbolized the family name of the palace’s owners.
    A flight of stone steps led up from the water to the arcaded front entrance, or loggia. Nancy shouldered her duffel bag, snatched up her suitcase before Gianni could take it, and stepped nimbly out of the boat onto the bottom step. Then she turned abruptly to pay the gondolier before her companion could disembark.
    “Thank you, Gianni, for coming with me this far,” she said coolly, “but I must say goodbye now. You’ll understand, I’m sure, that I can’t invite you in, since I’m only a visitor here myself.”
    Cutting short his plaintive response, she mounted the steps of the palazzo, suitcase in hand. The gondolier, grinning at Gianni’s discomfort, was already rowing away.
    Inside the columned stone porch, Nancy tugged a bellpull. Moments later, a cadaverous butler answered the door. He was wearing a dress suit that was shiny from long wear, and white gloves that looked none too clean. His long, bony horseface showed no expression whatever, and a patch over one eye gave him a villainous air.
    “I’m Nancy Drew,” said the teen from River Heights, somewhat intimidated by his manner. “I, uh, believe I’m expected.”
    The butler bowed in silence and stood aside while she entered. Then, after relieving her of her luggage, he led the way through a marble vestibule and a long dark hall to an ornate drawing room.
    Her father, Carson Drew, rose from his chair with an eager smile. “Nancy dear, how good to see you!”
    He strode toward her with outstretched arms, and they exchanged a hug and kiss. Then the tall, broad-shouldered attorney introduced her to the man with whom he had been speaking.
    “Marchese, this is my daughter Nancy. Honey, this is our host, the Marquis del Falcone—or Marchese del Falcone, to give him his proper title in Italian.”
    Nancy made a mental note that his title rhymed with “Mark Daisy” and for the rest of the day kept thinking of their host by that name. I’ll have to be careful not to call him that to his face! she thought, suppressing a smile.
    The Marchese Francesco del Falcone was a courtly gentleman in his fifties, with dark wavy hair sprinkled with silver at the temples and a waxed mustache. In his beautifully tailored silk