Frank knew something was wrong by the way Joe froze. He had to decide quickly if he should stick with Joe or stay out of sight and creep back through the tunnel to the garden.
Before he could decide what to do, a bright light glared in his face and he had to freeze, too. Then as Joe moved slowly up and out of the stairway, Frank followed him. He couldn’t understand a word of the Italian that was passing between a woman and two or three men, and the light in his eyes made it impossible to see.
“I have a bad feeling about you two,” said the woman. Frank knew right away that it was Inspector Barducci. “But lucky for you, I checked out your story about your father teaching you detective work.” She said something in Italian, and the lights were lowered. Frank could see that they were in a small three-walled enclosure, and that a statue of the Virgin Mary had been moved aside by the lever. They had emerged in the middle of a small religious shrine.
“It seems Mr. Fenton Hardy is well known in Rome,” Inspector Barducci continued, “which apparently means that I must try to tolerate your meddling in my investigation.” She was pacing back and forth, but it was hard to tell how angry she was.
“And now that you have made a spectacle of discovering this tunnel,” she went on, “we have no doubt lost any chance of surprising the thief should he decide to return.”
“You mean you knew about the secret passageway?” said Joe.
“Of course,” she said.
Frank was wondering how she would have known when she added, with a sly smile, that the count had told her about the secret exit.
“And how did you find it?” she asked.
“Bruno the gardener showed us,” Joe said. “He seemed sure that the thief must have used it. And he was right.” He told the inspector about the broom they had found.
“And I suppose you think that means he is innocent.”
“Bruno?” Joe said, not having thought that Bruno might have been putting on a big act to make himself look innocent. “I haven’t singled out anybody yet.”
“Whatever the case,” she said. “I will give you one last chance. If I catch you tampering with the evidence one more time, I’ll have to arrest you.”
• • •
The next morning Frank and Joe were having breakfast with Cosimo in the dining hall earlier than the rest of the students. As they sat there, it ocurred to Joe that the room was so huge—longer than a bowling alley—that it alone was probably as big as the whole first floor of their house in Bayport.
“So, how does Count Ruffino afford a mansion like this? Does he make that much from his vineyard?” Joe asked Cosimo.
“I don’t know,” Cosimo said, throwing up his hands.
“What do you mean you don’t know?” Joe asked. “You always know something.”
“Well, of course,” said Cosimo, pushing his glasses up on his nose, “we all know something.”
“So what’s that ‘something’ in this case?” Frank asked, smiling.
“Well, the problem is, I can’t quite figure it out,” Cosimo said. “Not many of the old aristocracy can afford to keep up these old ancestral estates, even if they do run a business. If they want to keep them, they often have to rent them out to a business, or to one of your rich American universities.”
“Wait a minute, Cosimo,” said Joe. “You’re not suggesting that the count might have been tempted by our Etruscan jewelry box, are you?”
“Did I say that?” Cosimo’s shoulders went up and his hands looked as if they were holding a loaf of bread. “No, I’m sure he must just be a clever businessman,” Cosimo said.
“I don’t know,” Frank said. “He looks more like a . . . ”
Frank’s jaw dropped a little as he saw Francesca, the count’s daughter, approaching. She was wearing glasses with heavy black frames like Cosimo’s and a white terrycloth bathrobe with a monogram. She was holding a plate of bread and yawning, as she shuffled across the room in her slippers. She had a newspaper tucked under her left arm.
Joe turned around to see what had stopped Frank dead and was surprised to see what Francesca looked like this early in the morning. “Well, I guess this is her house,” he said. “No reason to get all dolled up for the likes of us.”
“Hey,” Cosimo whispered. “I think she looks cute like that. I didn’t know she wore glasses.”
“Cool it, guys,” Frank said. “She’s coming this way.”
Joe turned around and smiled. “Will you join us?” he asked.
“Oh, hi,” Francesca said, slightly embarrassed. “Excuse my bathrobe. I didn’t expect to see anyone so early.” She set her plate on the table and sat down with a sigh, then reached up to push her unruly hair back behind her ears. “Anyone want the newspaper?”
“Sure,” Joe said.
“I guess you could look at the cartoons,” Cosimo said with a smile, just as Joe remembered that it would be an Italian paper.
“No, you take it, Cosimo,” Joe said. He decided to stay on safe ground and ask Francesca what the news was.
“There is a modest article about our little problem with burglars.”
“I wonder who leaked the story,” Frank said, remembering how Julia and Professor Mosca had worried about word getting out to treasure hunters.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Antonio Cafaggio, Papa’s so-called friend, who just happens to be robbing us blind.”
“You mean the guy who owns the china shop?” Joe asked. “What do you mean, he’s robbing you blind?”
Frank wanted to know the same thing, but he was puzzled that Francesca was revealing family secrets to them so easily.
“Well, not really,” she said. “I guess I’m still mad that Papa sold him one of our family heirlooms—at an absurdly low price. If my mother were still alive, she’d never have let it happen. But Papa is like putty in that man’s hands.”
Boy, this is family secret time, Frank thought. I wonder what’s next. He was glad Francesca was being friendly, but this seemed a little too friendly. And she hadn’t even started talking about her psychic yet. It looked as if Cosimo was right about her after all.
Francesca leaned back and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” she said. “This must seem so strange to you. . . . But I couldn’t keep it to myself any longer.” She looked up at Frank and really did seem miserable.
“No, don’t worry about it,” Frank said. “Maybe we can help.” He regretted saying that immediately—what could he and Joe do? And the chances were that the count had his own perfectly good reasons for selling the heirloom. Maybe he needed the money.
Francesca sniffled and kept looking at Frank. “Well, I did hear from the grapevine that you guys have worked as detectives. . . . ”
“You don’t think this guy stole the jewelry, do you?” Joe asked, interrupting her midsentence.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” she replied. “I guess he would know how to get a good price for it.”
“Maybe we should keep an eye on Signore Cafaggio,” Joe said. “What do you think, guys?”
“It seems like a long shot to me,” Frank replied.
“Well,” Cosimo said, “if he did steal the jewelry, I can see how he might think a little publicity would help drive up the price. Not that we actually know that he leaked the story to the press.”
“I could show you where the castle is that he uses as a warehouse,” Francesca volunteered. “I mean, if you think it would help. We could take my car.”
Not knowing exactly why Francesca was so suspicious of Signore Cafaggio, Frank figured it couldn’t do any harm to check him out as long as they were careful. “Okay, I guess if we leave now we can get back to the dig by nine. If it’s not far.”
“No, it’s only about twenty minutes away, in the Mugello.”
“Let’s go, then,” said Joe, happy to be doing something to find the thief.
• • •
Walking on the ancient rutted path through the forest, Joe was the first to catch a glimpse of the castle rising up out of a field of tall grass. Its perfectly smooth exterior stone wall circled around a central square tower that rose about five stories above the hill on which it was perched.
“You could see for miles from the top of that,” Joe said as they reached the edge of the forest and peered out onto the clearing.
“Let’s hope nobody sees us,” Frank said, studying the structure for signs of guards or cameras.
“Oh, I doubt anyone’s watching,” Francesca said. “I’ve often heard Antonio brag that no one could ever break into his precious castle.”
“So what are we doing here?” Joe asked.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “You’re supposed to be the detectives.”
As they crept onto the path in the clearing, trying to keep their heads below the level of the tall grass, Joe noticed Cosimo studying the castle carefully and stroking his chin. “Okay, Cosimo, what are you thinking?”
“Giuseppe, my friend,” he began, using the Italian form of Joseph, “I am doing more than thinking. I am feeling.”
“Okay, so what are you feeling, Cosimo?” Joe asked impatiently. “I hope whatever it is will help us figure out what to do.”
“Perhaps it will,” Cosimo said with a smile. “But first you must appreciate what this place means.”
“Go for it,” Frank said eagerly.
“Well, before me, you see, there have been one or two important people in Italian history named Cosimo.”
“No doubt you will break the mold,” Francesca said sarcastically.
“I plan to. But tell me, Francesca, do you have any idea who built this so-called ‘castle’?”
“Of course not. As far as I’m concerned, it’s just an ugly pile of old rocks stacked up around Antonio Cafaggio’s treasures.”
“But you see,” Cosimo went on, “unless I am wrong, this is one of the citadels Cosimo the Great, the first Grand Duke of Tuscany, built in the sixteenth century in his campaign to revive the old Etruscan empire.”
“Cool, Cosimo,” Joe said, “but how’s that going to help us get in, if that’s what we’re going to try to do?”
“You see, this was not a medieval castle with a moat, but a gun fort. The walls were made thick enough to withstand an artillery siege.”
“So we should obviously give up and go home, right?” Joe said.
“But a citadel like this, in addition to having those pointed and angled bastions you see at each corner, would have had gunports several meters from the bottom of the surrounding ditch.”
“Ditch?” said Frank. “There’s no ditch around this one.”
“My point precisely,” Cosimo said.
“I’m glad you have a point,” Joe said. “Remind me what it is, exactly.”
“This fort probably hasn’t been used as a fort in hundreds of years. The ditch has filled up with sediment. Sometimes in these cases, you can find a gunport in the wall at ground level hidden by the brush. They were made large enough for several high-powered guns, so you can often just walk right in.”
“But wouldn’t they have the gunports blocked off?” asked Frank.
“This place looks pretty run-down. Even the main entrance just has an old wooden door. Maybe they haven’t bothered much with the gunports.”
“Sounds like it’s worth a shot,” Joe said.
“No pun intended?” Cosimo asked, laughing.
“I hope it’s just a pun,” Francesca said nervously.
• • •
After finding cover in the clearing, the group used it to make a dash for the wall. Working their way through the dense, thorny vegetation that grew up beside the wall, they eventually found a gunport at ground level that was mostly obscured by tall bushes. After gaining access, it was an easy matter to find the steep stone stairway that led up through the thick wall. Not a single door blocked their way.
At the top of the stairs they found themselves in a room with a roof and doors that had long since rotted away. Through one of the open doorways they could see an open courtyard surrounding the central tower.
“How hideous,” Francesca whispered as they ventured out into the courtyard. Cafaggio had constructed a modern building made of bright green sheet metal right next to the picturesque old stone tower. “I knew Antonio had no taste,” she said with disgust, “but this really is too much. He’s ruined this place with that warehouse, or whatever it is.”
“If that is a warehouse, I guess we could check it out,” Joe said. “It’s probably locked up, though.”
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Cosimo asked. “What if we get caught?”
“Oh, don’t worry, Cosimo,” Francesca said confidently. “I’ll just say we’re having an adventure. Besides, my psychic told me last night that she’s sure the thief is someone close to the family. Who else could it be?”
“Oh, no,” Joe groaned. “You mean you dragged us out here because of what your crazy psychic said?”
“She was right about the Etruscan site, wasn’t she?” Francesca said seriously. “And she’s right about a lot more than you know.”
“Look,” Frank said. “Maybe we’re here for the wrong reasons, and maybe we shouldn’t be here at all, but since we got this far so easily, we might as well finish what we started.”
Everyone agreed and began inching along the outside perimeter of the courtyard, watching for signs of people, but there were none. When they came to the warehouse door, they were surprised to see that it was wide open.
After waiting a few minutes for someone to appear, they made a dash for the door and got in safely.
Cardboard boxes and wooden crates, stacked haphazardly, cluttered the floor. Plastic foam peanuts, crumpled newspapers, and bubbled cellophane hung out of every box and spilled onto the floor. Immediately Francesca recognized her family heirloom, a small Renaissance urn, nestled in a box like an abandoned ostrich egg.
Frank watched as Francesca reached into the box. He was about to ask her what she was up to, when he noticed the light from the doorway dim. He looked up to see the heavy security door they had entered swing shut. The sudden pitch-black darkness made him feel as if he had fallen into a well.