5 - Her Deadly Mischief Read Online Free Page A

Marco key. The Lion of Venice is impressed on the shaft. And D-17. That’s the number of the Pino box.”
    “So…this was not the key that locked the door,” Messer Grande replied thoughtfully. “The killer must have possessed another to lock the door as he exited.”
    The chief constable regained the key and slipped it in his waistcoat pocket. Then he unfurled the handkerchief. With a well-manicured fingertip, he traced the letter stitched into one corner. We could all see the dark, curlicued “A” that stood out plainly against the white cambric. There was no need for comment. “A” for Alessio; what could be more obvious? The cloth followed the key into the depths of his robe.
    Then Messer Grande unfolded the fan, snapping it open as an angry woman might. He studied the painted scene for a long moment, then chuckled and handed the delicate item to Maestro Torani, saying, “Exactly what you might expect a whore to carry.”
    The director appraised the fan, raised his eyebrows, but didn’t speak. As he passed it to me, I saw that the vellum was painted with a harem scene depicting generously proportioned odalisques disrobing themselves for a swim in a pool. I closed the fan and handed it back to the chief constable.
    Messer Grande must have accomplished all the investigating he wished for the moment. After dispatching one of his men to fetch the charnel-house wagon, he gave Torani leave to have the grand chandelier lowered and the candles extinguished. When that operation was well under way, he dismissed the remaining theater staff with the caution that we might still be needed on the morrow.
    Corsi bolted from the auditorium like a rabbit pursued by hounds. Torani tarried to discuss when performances might be allowed to resume.
    I was delighted to see my manservant, Benito, materialize out of the darkening shadows with my cloak and other outdoor attire. It had been a harrowing evening, and I was more than ready to set off for home. I hoped that Titolino’s cough had abated and Liya was snuggled in our warm bed where I would soon join her.
    As I readied myself for the chilly autumn night, I couldn’t resist dallying a bit to give Messer Grande a stealthy inspection. The current chief constable had been appointed last spring. Unlike his weasel of a predecessor with whom I had sparred on several occasions, this Messer Grande seemed positively benign.
    I put his age at five-and-forty: his gray hair dressed in tight waves swept back from a lengthening forehead, and a spider’s web of wrinkles surrounded his eyes. He’d once been a handsome man, spare and tallish, and was impressive still. I’d noted that this man who carried the august title of Messer Grande smiled a great deal more than either clerks or government officials were wont to do. In fact, it was his disposition that warmed me to him. So far, he had addressed everyone in a completely natural manner far removed from the studied arrogance of his predecessor.
    Settling my hands in my muff of soft miniver, I idly wondered if he practiced Freemasonry. Among their oath-bound secrets of Hiram and Boaz, the brethren were said to preach the equality of men and other revolutionary principles.
    Benito and I had passed through the swinging doors to the foyer when a burst of noise echoed off the pink marble walls and columns. Gasps, exclamations, and shrieks emanated from a stairway that led to the upper levels. Messer Grande and Maestro Torani came running, followed by several constables. Another pair of their fellow officers stumbled down the stairs into the foyer. One carried a struggling child slung over his shoulder like a sack of rice; the boy’s feet in tiny buckled shoes pummeled his chest. His captor had to fight to retain his grasp. The other constable sprinted toward us and came to rest before his chief.
    “Excellency,” he said between panting breaths. “We found this…this person shut up in a cloakroom in the fourth-tier corridor.”
    “Ow!” His