5 - Her Deadly Mischief Read Online Free Page B

partner stopped short and clapped one wrist to his mouth. “I’ll be damned,” came his muffled cry, “the little monster’s drawn blood.”
    A gruff voice answered in a shout, “Put me down, I say. Unhand me this minute or I’ll take an even bigger chunk out of you. I’m quite capable of walking on my own.”
    The constable roughly lowered his burden to the terrazzo floor.
    Benito clucked his tongue disapprovingly, thinking the officer had manhandled a boy barely out of the nursery. My hearing and vision were sharper.
    This was not a child, but a small misshapen man who looked every bit as disgusted as he sounded. As he gazed up at his captor with hands on hips, the biggest thing about him seemed to be his head. Beneath his tangled bagwig, his forehead bulged like the egg of some giant bird, and his lantern jaw held a set of teeth that looked like he could eat nails for breakfast. With short arms and legs that joined his torso at an odd angle, he could have been a troll straight out of the stories my childhood nurse used to frighten me with.
    “Shut up in a cloakroom, you say?” Messer Grande’s eyes glittered with intense interest.
    “Hung from a peg and bellowing like a bull calf. Still, we almost didn’t hear him because the door was shut and somebody had thrown a thick cloak over him.”
    Behind his hand, Messer Grande issued a series of terse instructions. His man removed his uniform jacket and went back into the auditorium. Through the glass oval of the door, I saw him move through the dimness to cover Zulietta’s corpse with his jacket.
    Messer Grande approached the constable who was wrapping a cloth around his bleeding wrist and the dwarf who was still remonstrating with him.
    “Something’s happened here and I must find my mistress. She’ll be worried sick wondering what’s become of me.” The little man whirled as he sensed Messer Grande loom up behind him. Completely undaunted by the chief’s official robes, he asked, “Is this big oaf yours? Because if he is, I want to lodge a complaint.”
    Messer Grande was unruffled; I thought I even glimpsed a fleeting grin stretching his lips. Looking the little man up and down, he asked, “Your name, Signore?”
    Before he answered, the angry newcomer straightened his blue waistcoat and jacket, smoothed his pleated neckcloth, and proudly stretched to his full, but minuscule, height. Fascinated, I couldn’t resist drawing near the curious scene. Neither could Maestro Torani. Benito hung back, curling his middle fingers into his palm and aiming the others in an age-old gesture meant to ward off the evil eye.
    “My name is Giacomo Michele Gaetano Brosco,” the dwarf said brusquely. “But if you are asking what I am called, it is Pamarino.”
    “Who is this mistress you speak of?”
    “Zulietta Giardino.”
    “I see.” Messer Grande cocked his head thoughtfully. “And how do you serve Signorina Giardino?”
    “I have the honor of arranging any service she requires. I am her constant companion.”
    “You supervise her household?”
    “To be sure.” Pamarino inclined his head regally.
    “Escort her through the city?”
    “Wherever she goes, I am at her side. My lady has so many admirers I am often called upon to fend off annoyance.”
    “Are you now?” Messer Grande narrowed his eyes skeptically.
    “I carry an iron-knobbed walking stick for the purpose,” Pamarino continued in a dry tone.
    “I see. You’re quite the cavaliere servente , then. I suppose you call her gondola when required?”
    “Of course.”
    “And carry her calling cards?”
    “Yes.”
    “And extra handkerchiefs?”
    “One must be prepared.”
    “And pimp for her?”
    The dwarf drew his chin back and his hands balled into fists. If he’d been conversing with any other man, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see him erupt into a rage of flying feet and fists. Instead, he merely replied icily, “You are misinformed, Excellency. My mistress is no pavement tart.