Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 33, No. 1, January, 1988

Who’s Killing the Class of 1479? by David Braly

Dogs and rats were the only ones dining in the banquet hall when Carlo Vossi left. A few men were still seated at the table, a few more standing in the room, talking about business or the latest outrage of the Asinno family’s partisans, but no human was eating. Carlo considered the cessation thereof and the departure of most guests an indication that the banquet was over and that he could leave. When he bade goodbye to his grandfather, Leon Vossi did not indicate by word or sign that Carlo was leaving too early. He had, in other words, done an adequate job of representing his father, Leon’s eldest son and principal heir, who was absent on business in Venice.

Carlo walked through the main hall and down the stairs that led to the palazzo’s stables where his two attendants waited with the other guests’ attendants and bodyguards. Being only twenty-three years old, Carlo had no enemies other than the Asinno, and the presence of two attendants would be enough to deter most thieves from attacking him when he rode through the streets to his parents’ palazzo on the Via della Scala. Never did he or anyone else anticipate that he would be attacked in Palazzo Vossi itself. At the foot of the stairs, a side hall led to a big carved door with two windows on each side of it, each window twice the height of a grown man and covered with velvet drapes so long that they formed folds on the floor. Carlo was approaching this door when a man appeared from behind the left drape.

The man, big and dressed in dark clothes and a black mask, lunged at Carlo with a dagger.

Carlo had no time to move or even to think. He realized what was happening only when the masked man was already upon him.

The assailant plunged his dagger into what he thought would be Carlo’s chest, but what was in fact a link of the little chain that held the medallion Carlo wore that evening. The tiny chain was too fragile to stop the speeding blade, but before the link broke it slowed it. Only an inch of the knife entered him.

Carlo cried out, stepping back and drawing his own dagger in one motion.

The masked man lifted his blade for a second thrust. He closed on Carlo and swung down the knife on him. Carlo blocked this thrust with his left arm, which was cut to the bone.

The assailant lifted his dagger a third time but heard the footfalls of someone entering the side hall from the stairs to the banquet room. He ran to the door, threw it open, and fled into the night.

“Help me!” called Carlo. “I’ve been robbed!”

Of course Carlo Vossi hadn’t been robbed, but his confusion under the circumstances is understandable.

Adrian della Cle had heard the horses on the Via Ghibellina but had taken no notice. Ordinarily he was the most curious of men, and it was certainly unusual for horsemen to be out in such numbers after dark. If his apartment had been near one of the great palazzi it would have been different because troops of bodyguards often accompanied guests entering or leaving the gates, but there were no palazzi close by. Still, the woman took priority.

Until a fist knocked on his door.

Adrian and the woman both jumped up, she on the far side of the bed and he on the side facing his bedroom door, which led into the front room. They both stared in that direction and waited.

A second knocking followed.

“We’re doomed,” said the woman.

“Doomed?” Adrian swung around, eyes round. “You said you weren’t married.”

“Of course I’m not.”

“Then what’s this talk about being ‘doomed’? Who’s out there?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But nobody knocks on someone’s door at night. Unless they’re expected.”

“Well, I’m not expecting anybody.”

Whoever was at the door knocked a third time, harder than before.

“What’re we going to do?” asked the woman.

“Pick up your clothes and hide. I’ll get dressed.”

“You’re not going to open the door?”

“It sounds like he might break it down if I don’t. Hurry!” Adrian put on his own outer garments except for his shoes and grabbed his sword. He shook off the scabbard and looked back to make sure the woman had concealed herself.

“Wait!” whispered the woman urgently. “It may be my brothers!”

“Brothers?”

For the fourth time, knocking. This time it was less knocking than pounding.

“Adrian della Cle!” called a man at the door. “Please come to the door.”

Adrian walked into the front room.

“This is Della Cle. Who’s out there?”

“Men of Vossi. Open up, please.”

Adrian hesitated only briefly. Possibly this was a trick to get him to open the door. But that was unlikely. Adrian had no enemies except his creditors, and the last thing on earth his creditors wished to do was kill him. His long service for the Vossi kept him in good graces with the aristocratic party; his own democratic politics kept him in good graces with the Asinno party.

He opened the door.

Three men stood outside. The leader was a short man with a grey-streaked black beard. Adrian had seen him when he’d still worked as a troubleshooter for the Vossi. The other two men were private soldiers wearing Vossi livery.

“Signor Della Cle, I’m Piero Yennano. Leon Vossi has sent me here to ask that you come to his palazzo immediately.”

“What’s happened?” asked Adrian. “What’s so important that Leon Vossi would send for me at night?”

“Someone tried to murder Carlo Vossi. The man failed, but his excellency believes that another attempt will be made.”

“Allow me time to dress properly and I’ll accompany you.”

After he shut the door again, Adrian rushed back to his bedroom and began to dress more completely. The woman came out of hiding and started putting on her own clothes even faster than Adrian.

“Is the man at the door gone?” she asked.

“No. He waits for me.”

“Adrian, what’s it about?”

“Employment.”

Adrian was shown into Leon Vossi’s office immediately upon his arrival at the palazzo. The office was the huge room from which the head of the Vossi ran the family’s banking, trading, manufacturing, and political interests. There was a richness and quality about the room, even though there were several obscene paintings among the wall art near the master’s huge stand-up desk.

Leon Vossi paced back and forth on the Byzantine rug, his hands locked behind his back. He was the same tall, dark, full-lipped man as always, with his long face and long aristocratic nose and his mane of long, rough, white hair, but now he was in a greater state of agitation than Adrian had ever seen him in before. When Adrian stepped in and closed the door behind him, Vossi faced him eye to eye.

“You came to work for us right after you finished your studies at Pisa, I believe,” said Vossi without any preamble.

“Yes, sir, a few months after, in 1473.”

“And you did well here, Adrian. You started as a clerk and when you quit two years ago you were... There’s no title for the job, I guess, but suffice it to say that if we had a problem we knew we could usually rely upon you to solve it. But then you decided you wanted to become rich, so you quit and started your own wool trading business, as I believe your father before you had done.”

Adrian smiled. “Yes, sir. And as my father before me had done, I went broke. Only in my case, I didn’t get rich before I went broke.”

“Fewer debts that way, my friend. But that’s the reason I felt I might be able to call upon your services again.”

“If you mean because I have need of employment, you’re as shrewd as ever, your excellency.”

“Good. Then you’re rehired. Now, to business. You were informed about the attack on Carlo?”

“Only that there had been an attack by a masked assailant who escaped. Also, that Carlo was wounded in two places but not fatally. Finally, that you expect a second attack.”

Vossi nodded, then turned and walked back to the tall desk. He removed several sheets of paper with writing on them from its top, shifted them in his hands, and came back around the desk. He glanced from the papers to Adrian, back at the papers again. He stopped in front of Adrian, exactly where he’d stood before.

“This,” said Vossi, indicating the papers, “is a letter from my eldest son Leonardo, Carlo’s father, who is currently on business in Venice. It asks me to take special care to protect Carlo because Leonardo believes that Carlo may be in danger. The letter arrived a week ago.”

“Does Leonardo say where the threat to Carlo comes from, or how he knows of it?”

“You may read the final two pages of Leonardo’s letter for yourself.”

Vossi removed the two pages from the remainder of the letter and handed them to Adrian.

Adrian read, in Latin:

Adrian handed the pages back to Leon Vossi when he finished reading.

“The letter mentions your ‘secret man’ in Milan,” said Adrian. “Have you involved yourself in Milanese politics or with people involved in Milanese politics?”

Vossi didn’t answer. His face assumed an obstinate appearance.

“If I’m going to help you,” pressed Adrian, “I must have all the facts, even at the cost of learning secrets, your excellency.”

Vossi hesitated longer before he answered, but he did answer. “We have secret commercial arrangements with three Milanese families.”

“Are they enemies of the duke?”

“Not to my knowledge. They are the Relle, Cumi, and Luazzenza.”

“Luazzenza? I’m surprised that a proud and old noble family would—” Adrian stopped, embarrassed.

Vossi smiled. “Would what, Adrian? Would do business with mere merchants? Don’t forget that we Vossi aren’t like the Asinno and other new families. We are noble. We fought in wars, on horseback, at the head of armies, long before the city came to dominate the country. Our ties with the Luazzenza go back centuries, although the commercial tie is a new one.”

“I meant no offense, excellency. It only surprised me that the Luazzenza would engage in mercantile activity. They have a reputation for being reactionary.”

“And so they are. Now, to the business at hand...”

“I’ll need to talk to Carlo and to examine the area where the attack occurred.”

“The interview will have to wait until tomorrow. The boy is weak from the blood he lost. I’ll personally take you to the scene of the attack.”

And he did.

Leon Vossi watched while Adrian minutely examined every part of the side hall near the door. The smile on the old banker’s face showed that Adrian wasn’t fooling him by this nonsense, for obviously there was nothing to be discovered in an empty room after the activity there was done.

Adrian for his part looked at the blood on the floor and at the print left on the wall behind the long window drape. The greasy print was of a hand, apparently made when the assailant waited with his back to the wall, trying to make himself flat as possible so that his form wouldn’t be noticed through the drape.

Adrian looked keenly at each line of the palm print and each line of the fingerprints.

“What’re you looking for?” asked Vossi.

“Something in his hand or fingerprints that would distinguish him from all other men. Some sign of a mole or scar. But there’s nothing.”

Adrian stepped out from the drape and walked over to Vossi.

“I’ve been thinking about the letter,” said Adrian. “I’m curious why you thought the first three victims might’ve been involved in a conspiracy against the Duke of Milan. As I heard it, the would-be assassin was a frog-faced man in peasant dress.”

“The ‘peasant’ disappeared too completely. Someone is hiding him, someone with power enough and estates enough to do it successfully, assuming the duke hasn’t already done away with him quietly. That indicates a conspiracy. That’s why we thought the duke’s vengeance might have struck down those three. But when the murders went beyond Milan, and beyond people connected to the duke, the possibility of the duke’s being involved ended. But I agree with my son that system is involved here. Coincidence is out of the question.”

“I agree.”

“You may stay in one of our guest rooms tonight, Adrian. I hope Carlo will be well enough to talk tomorrow... Too bad you couldn’t learn anything from the palm and fingerprints.”

“But I did,” said Adrian. “I learned that the assassin has normal-sized hands without moles or cuts, that he’s of average height, and that he was among your guests.”

“Among my guests! How do you know that?”

“The print itself. Grease from the feast, your excellency. He ate among you without wearing his gloves, and when Carlo left, he pursued in such a hurry that he didn’t take time to wipe his fingers on the bread loaf. Or maybe he saw that Carlo was about to leave and rushed to depart before him, in order to lay his ambush. Whatever the case, he dined among you.”

Vossi shook his head incredulously, then looked back at the drape. “May I have a servant clean off that man’s print now?”

“I have determined everything that may be determined from it, excellency.”

A week later Adrian was still hard at work on the mystery, and he’d begun to fear that progress was over.

At first there’d been much progress. The day after the assault on Carlo, Leon Vossi had provided Adrian with a list naming the twenty-eight guests who had attended the dinner. Of this number, Vossi servants and sentries could attest that twelve had left at least a quarter-hour before the attack. These guests and their attendants and bodyguards had already ridden out into the Via de’ Ginori and turned towards their homes. Of the sixteen remaining guests, probably fifteen had still been in the banquet room when the attack occurred, but Vossi, his servants, and his friends could only name ten of them. Of the six remaining guests, one was known to have eaten with his gloves on and another to have been too short to account for the palm print on the wall. That left four men unaccounted for.

The four were Flamino della Montea, a Florentine silversmith in his early fifties whose knowledge of classical studies made him welcome at both the Vossi and Asinno tables; Ugo Ricco, a Milanese trader in his forties who had lived in Florence for five months; Gian Coslossi, a Florentine trader in his thirties; and Gian Turra, a bankrupt Florentine silk importer in his forties who had one of the best wits in the Republic and a deep hatred for the Asinno. Adrian decided that the assailant was one of these four men.

Carlo was too weak to be questioned for four days. Adrian looked forward to interviewing him, but when that time finally came he found the young man’s recollections a disappointment.

Carlo lay in his bed, a black-haired young man with the large Vossi lips but lacking his grandfather’s or his father’s height. He moved with difficulty because his chest and left arm were bandaged.

All that Carlo could tell him about the assailant was that he was big, wore dark clothing and a black mask, and had a dagger in his bare right hand.

Adrian next asked Carlo to recall the time he spent at the university in Pisa. To remember, especially, the four men who’d since been murdered.

“You knew all of them?” asked Adrian.

“Yes. Especially Guiseppe Noppo. That Venetian was one of my closest friends there. Among the foreigners, my very closest friend.”

“Who was your closest friend among the Florentines?”

“Girolamo Eccli. We traveled home together when we completed our studies.”

“Do you remember anything unusual that happened while you were at Pisa?” asked Adrian.

“Unusual in what way?”

“Did any student or teacher do anything that he would wish to hide from public knowledge or from legal authorities or from the revenge of some powerful person?”

“Can you give me an example of what you’re talking about?”

“Did you become aware of or hear about any murder, theft, rape, beating, cowardice, or anything else that could bring disgrace or embarrassment to someone?”

Carlo looked away, saying nothing.

“Don’t hesitate to talk,” said Adrian. “Whatever you say stops with me. I’m employed by your family.”

“I know of no disgraceful conduct,” said Carlo.

Adrian laughed.

Carlo looked up in shock.

“I went to Pisa myself,” said Adrian. “Only a few years ago, my friend. While I was there one student murdered another, there were two cases of students raping local girls, there was a suicide, and there were numerous thefts, one of which I witnessed. Things must have improved remarkably in the last few years.”

Carlo looked out the window, which faced the palazzo garden. Although his room was on the second floor, the trees of the garden were visible and so were the birds flying among them.

“All right,” he said, still looking out the window. “There were two cases of... misconduct... that I know of which were serious enough to lead to trouble.”

“Did either involve one of the students who has since been murdered?”

“Yes. One of the Milanese students killed a peasant girl who resisted him.”

“Then we’re possibly dealing with her family’s vengeance. Were you and the other students involved?”

“No,” said Carlo. “He was alone. Maybe because we’re all friends the girl’s family thinks we had a hand in it, but I swear we didn’t.”

“What was the girl’s name?”

“Luisa. I don’t know her last name, if she had one.”

Adrian stood in silence for a moment, thinking.

“What will you do?” asked Carlo.

“Have a Vossi agent make inquiries in Pisa about the girl’s family... What was the other incident?”

“Girolamo Eccli stole a jeweled signet ring belonging to a Spanish boy. He was a relative of the late Lord Callistus.”

“Pope Callistus III?”

Carlo nodded.

Adrian shook his head. “If he had to steal, why did he have to steal from a Borgia?”

“The ring was beautiful. Only Girolamo stole it, but he showed it to all of us.”

“By ‘all’ you mean the three Milanese students and Giuseppe Noppo?” When Carlo nodded, Adrian added: “Was the ring ever returned to its rightful owner?”

Carlo looked at Adrian. He said nothing; he didn’t have to. Girolamo Eccli still possessed the Borgia ring.

But who was doing the killing? A peasant family near Pisa to avenge the murder of a daughter? The Borgias to avenge the theft of a valuable signet ring? Or Girolamo Eccli, to kill all the witnesses to his theft before word of his guilt reached the Borgias?

That was when the investigation’s progress stopped.

A Vossi agent in Pisa reported that the father, brothers, uncles, and cousins of the murdered peasant girl had all remained in the Pisa area. None had been absent at the time of any of the murders. Nor could they have afforded to hire an assassin with enough social status to attend a Vossi dinner.

Adrian dared not approach Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia to discover if the clan he headed had embarked upon some sort of vendetta to avenge the theft of the signet ring, because if in fact the Borgias had no idea who stole it Adrian’s doing so would tip them. Instead, he obtained from Carlo the name of the theft victim and asked Leon Vossi to make discreet inquiries about the fellow’s location, so that a Vossi agent might make friends with him and bring up the general subject of thefts. If the victim complained bitterly about thieves, he would not know that Girolamo Eccli stole his ring; if he smiled and said something about thieves getting their due in the end, the Borgias were responsible for the murders.

And then there was Adrian’s interview with Girolamo Eccli.

“It’s false!” the young man shouted. “It’s a lie! I’ve never stolen anything in my life, let alone a valuable signet ring.”

They were seated in a small room in the Eccli mansion overlooking the Via de Serraglia. The room contained several chairs and a stack of unused tables and cabinets. A broken statue of an ancient soldier stood in one corner, guarding a pile of old, tattered woven rugs.

Eccli was a fat young man with black eyes and curly black hair. He continually worried his left sleeve with his right thumb and forefinger while he talked.

“Carlo said that you took it,” pressed Adrian. “He has no reason to lie, especially with his life in danger.”

“Carlo probably took the ring himself. All I know, Signor Della Cle, is that I didn’t.”

“Listen to me,” snarled Adrian. “First your theft and now your refusal to talk has put Carlo’s life at risk. If you don’t adopt a new attitude, it’ll go bad for you.”

Eccli paled. “I’ll call servants,” he stuttered. “They’ll throw you out.”

Adrian shook his head. “How did Carlo ever become friends with a brainless lout like you?”

“You cannot insult me in my own parents’ house.”

Adrian doubled his fists; Eccli backed away. Adrian got control of himself.

“Get out!” ordered Eccli.

“I’ll go if you wish but—”

“Then go!”

“—first there are two things I want you to think about. Afterward, if you still wish me to leave, I shall.”

Eccli said nothing, merely stared angrily at Adrian.

“First, the Borgias,” continued Adrian. “If these murders are their work, and if they know that one of your group stole the ring, your life is as endangered as Carlo’s. In fact, it’s in greater danger because there are more armed men to protect Carlo than there are to protect you. So it’s even more in your interest than in Carlo’s that we determine what’s happening.”

Adrian paused for Eccli to speak; the young man said nothing. But Eccli’s changed expression indicated that he understood Adrian’s point.

“Second, the Vossi,” resumed Adrian. “If you refuse to cooperate, and if Carlo is murdered as a result of your theft, I needn’t tell you how furious the Vossi will be. They will not be stayed in their efforts to get their hands upon you. And — well, you can imagine what they’ll do when they have you in their power.”

Until this moment both men had been standing face to face near the center of the room. Now Eccli walked to a chair near the small window that faced the street. He looked pale and shaken. When he finally spoke, his lips quivered and sweat broke on his forehead.

“All right,” he said. “I admit that I took the ring, but I didn’t do it for any vulgar reason.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I didn’t take it because I wished to profit, but because I wished to revenge myself for the manner in which he and some others lorded their wealth over us. The student with the ring was always wearing expensive jewelry and silk clothes. He was the worst of the nobles. So, you see, I took it for revenge, not profit.”

“You took it for jealousy... But never mind. How did it happen?”

Someone shouted outside the window. Another man shouted back. Soon the two men were yelling together, at each other if the words and curses were an indication. Eccli turned his head to the window, as though intensely interested in hearing this street commotion. But the commotion ended as quickly as it had begun.

Eccli faced Adrian. He wiped his brow with his right sleeve, started to say something, hesitated. He waited a moment, then tried again:

“It happened a couple of weeks before my final examinations. I already knew that that Spaniard had been selected to act as an accuser at my examination. Of course, he had shown us all the signet ring with the Borgia bull on it. So, when I got my chance, I took it to spite him. And he was furious. Not just because of the ring’s monetary value, but also he felt it was an assault on his honor. He swore revenge upon whoever took it. He suspected me, all of us.”

“Whom do you mean by ‘us’?” asked Adrian.

“Three students from Milan, Noppo from Venice, Rohan from France, De Bourgouse from Burgundy, Carlo, and myself. We were a group at the university.”

“Was this Borgia relative also in a group?”

Eccli laughed sardonically. “A group of purse-proud nobles who would be torn to pieces by a mob if ever they set foot in Florence. The Spaniard was the worst, with his silk clothes and perfumed gloves and his powerful connections in Rome. The second worst was Juan Garcia, another Spaniard from Valencia, like the Borgias, but so far as I know not a kinsman of theirs. Then there was Giuseppe Ioli of Naples, Piero Luazzenza, Carlo Longhinini, and the least obnoxious member of their group, Stefano Gaffi.”

“Were there fights or quarrels between these two groups?”

Eccli looked up in surprise. “Of course not. We were just two groups among many. Their group was prominent because of their great wealth and influence, but we had no trouble with them until my last few weeks at the university. Then there were some hard words, leading to my taking the ring and the Spaniard’s accusation of theft. But we stuck together. The others knew I took it but swore they wouldn’t betray me.”

“Was there any way — other than a betrayal by one of your friends — for the Borgia student to learn who took his ring?”

“No. All in our group spent a week at the estate of Cosimo del Runnalo, who invited us to come there and hunt. He teaches sometimes at Pisa. Anyway, we were all riding back to the university and were about an hour from it when we saw the Spaniard and his friend Piero Luazzenza sitting under the shade of a huge tree near the road. They were visiting with some man of great ugliness, and from their relaxed attitude I thought that they expected to remain there for a while. When we reached the school, I immediately went to Ferdinand’s room even before I went to my own, and there I found the ring. No student nor servant saw me take it nor saw me enter or leave the room.”

“Do you still have the ring?”

Eccli nodded.

“Give it to me.”

Eccli hesitated, then stood. “Do you plan to return it?”

“I plan to have it returned, in such a way that the source won’t be traced.”

“Do you think it’ll help?”

“It won’t hurt. Besides, you would never dare wear that ring and you accomplished the purpose you set out to accomplish, such as it was.”

At that point it looked like the investigation had progressed far, but then two events destroyed all of Adrian’s theories about the mystery.

First, the Vossi agent who’d been asked to locate the young robbery victim reported that the man was a victim again — this time of murder. The Spaniard had been slain in his own house by an unknown assassin almost a month earlier.

This murder did more than rule out Borgia vengeance as a motive for the slaughter. Adrian told Leon Vossi that it wasn’t only one group of students from Pisa being killed, but students from Pisa generally. There had to be some pattern for the murders, yet it no longer appeared to be membership in the clique Carlo had belonged to.

The second disturbing event was reported to Adrian in the same manner as had been the attack on Carlo. Vossi men came to his apartment at night, disturbing Adrian’s time with the same woman he had been with before, a woman who had until that night refused to come to him again because of what had happened the last time.

“Never, ever again, Adrian della Cle!” she’d snarled later when she came out of hiding.

Adrian had hardly heard her. His mind was stunned by the news that Girolamo Eccli had been stabbed to death in his own house. Girolamo had been dining with his family when a man dressed in black clothes and wearing a black mask dashed into the room and daggered him in the heart. The assassin had escaped into the street and vanished.

That meant that Eccli couldn’t have been responsible for the murders either.

Adrian shifted his feet. He wasn’t used to waiting on Leon Vossi. Vossi normally made quick decisions.

Vossi was pacing back and forth in front of his desk. This time the pace was slow, thoughtful. His steps followed no pattern, which Adrian believed was because of the old man’s fear of wearing a path into his expensive Byzantine rug. Perhaps that was ungenerous, though.

“I’m paying you to solve this matter without such risks as these,” said Vossi.

“The risk is minor.”

“Minor!” roared Vossi, whirling to face Adrian. “Minor is it? Only my eldest grandson’s life.”

“He’ll be under guard on the highest floor of the palazzo, safe from everything happening below. Although we’ll send all guards except six to the villa, the three best fighting men on your payroll will be with Carlo every moment and the three next best guarding the entrances into the palazzo. The assassin won’t know that. He will only hear that the Vossi have sent all their armed men except three to their country villa, where we plan to remove Carlo for his protection. He won’t know about the three men guarding Carlo personally, nor that the assassin himself is being followed by a Vossi agent.”

“That’s another thing, Adrian. How do you know that we’ll follow the right man? You could offer Carlo for bait, follow the wrong man, and the real assassin could slip through and murder him like he murdered Girolamo Eccli.”

“We know that the assassin is one of four men. Those four who attended your banquet and whose presence in the hall at the time of the attack couldn’t be confirmed. We’ll assign a man to follow each one of them.”

Vossi sighed heavily. He walked around his tall desk. When he was behind it, he leaned upon it, his hands flat upon its top. Vossi looked at his hands, which were large and smooth. Then he looked at Adrian.

When Vossi continued to stare at him without speaking, Adrian became uneasy. He was always uneasy in Leon Vossi’s presence, but never so much as when the old man’s black eyes bored into him as they were doing now. Vossi was the only man who could frighten Adrian merely by staring at him.

“I would never even consider such a plan as this,” said Vossi, “if the situation weren’t extraordinary. But it is extraordinary. An attempt has been made on my grandson’s life. The men Carlo knew at the university are being ruthlessly murdered, one after another, from Rome to Milan, without any apparent motive. I dislike trusting you in something so risky, Adrian, because you’ve always been rash, prone to rush headlong into dangerous situations. But I’ve no choice.”

“I assure you again, excellency, that the risk is minor. The safest place in the palazzo will be in the room occupied by Carlo. Indeed, I strongly advise you to be in that room yourself, along with family members who might happen to be visiting at the time.”

Vossi stared hard at Adrian for a moment; then he appeared to relax. “Eleanora will be with me,” he said, “in the room with Carlo.”

Adrian was sure that the assassin would make no attempt on Leon Vossi’s wife, but he said nothing. Vossi’s eight sons were probably just as safe, but under the circumstances it would be foolish to take chances.

“Are any of your sons staying here?” asked Adrian.

“Only Ramiro and Antonio are in Florence. They are both here.”

“I respectfully suggest that they too remain that night in the guarded room.”

A sly smile crept across the old man’s face. His eyes suggested humor one moment, suspicion the next.

“It has just occurred to me,” said Vossi, “that if you were planning a deceit against us there’s no better way than this. Trapping us together in the same room. After all, Adrian, I know that you’re in need of thousands of florins to pay off your debts, and that politically you’re for the Asinno.”

“I support the political goals that also receive the support of the Asinno, but I’m no adherent of that family, excellency. I work for only one family and that family is yours.”

“I hope so.”

The old man stood erect. He walked around the desk to face Adrian. The big lips appeared twisted and the white hair aflame because of the way they were struck by the light streaming in through the windows.

“I’ve plans for you, Adrian. You’ve a talent for solving puzzles and we Vossi have a talent for encountering them. I plan that you’ll work for us a long time, not only here but in Spain, France, England, and everywhere else that we have a bank. We’ll pay you well, and you’ll travel a lot. If I know you at all, I know you’ll like it.”

“I’m pleased to hear all this, but assure you that your concern is unnecessary.”

Suddenly the old man’s face hardened. “These days,” he said, “every concern is necessary.”

“How far do you intend to let this man come?” asked Vossi. “Surely not into the palazzo?”

“No, excellency. The act of being out at night without an armed friend or bodyguard is proof of criminal intent. Coming here under such conditions is proof that crime is planned against the Vossi. He’ll be grabbed as soon as he reaches the palazzo.”

“If he goes for the bait.”

“I’ll bet five florins that he will.”

Leon Vossi snorted like an angry bull. “You cannot afford to bet five florins, young man, and the reason I can afford to make bets is because I never do.”

Adrian, who knew all about Leon Vossi’s often spectacular gambling habits, managed to restrain a smile.

Until Vossi’s own face broke into a huge grin.

“Halt!”

Adrian jumped when he heard the shout. He rose from the chair in the main hall where he’d been waiting, listened for more noise, and then opened the big front doors. The single guard who stood watch there turned to face him.

“Where did that come from?”

“Near the corner, sir. That was Roberto who shouted. I recognized his voice.”

Adrian ran down the street toward the corner of the palazzo.

“Should I come?” called the guard.

“Guard that door, idiot!”

Adrian could barely see the tall building’s corner in the moonlight and he couldn’t see people there. He tried to hear voices, but all he heard were his own boots hitting upon the paving stones.

“Over here!” someone ahead yelled.

Adrian ran towards the voice at the corner of the big palazzo, which was also the intersection of two streets.

Then men became visible in the darkness. Two were facing one, and all had their swords drawn.

Adrian ran up to the two Vossi guards, and found them facing Gian Coslossi.

Coslossi, the Florentine trader, had been one of the four suspects. Now he stood with a fierce look upon his sharp-etched face and a sword in his hand.

Adrian stepped forward, his own sword lifted towards Coslossi.

“Drop your weapon,” said Adrian, “or I’ll run you through.”

“I would prefer to die from a sword than in one of the Vossi’s private dungeons.”

Adrian realized that Coslossi had a good point there.

So, without further talk and without warning, Adrian swung his sword. Coslossi had no time to parry the blow to his right arm. The blade struck bone.

Coslossi dropped his sword.

The guards seized him.

“Where should we take him?” one of them asked Adrian.

“Into the palazzo. Then one of you inform his excellency.”

Adrian watched the three take the stunned and bleeding Coslossi into the night. He then drew his sword blade across the back of his boots, wiping off the blood. Adrian replaced his sword in its sheath, picked up Coslossi’s sword, and walked toward the big front doors of the palazzo.

Coslossi was interrogated in a small room off the main hall. A long table, several chairs, and two broken wheels were the only things in the room. Adrian knew, however, that the room had the advantage of being only a short walk from the door that opened to steps that descended to the palazzo’s dungeon. Florence, unlike many other cities, frowned upon private dungeons and this one had never been used, but the Vossi had installed it just to be ready in case the political climate improved. Adrian suspected that if Coslossi refused to talk the dungeon would be tested tonight.

But Coslossi talked.

He denied everything at first when Adrian questioned him. He claimed that he’d had private business in the area and had come without guards because it was secret. Even after he was searched and the black mask found, Coslossi insisted upon his innocence.

Then Leon Vossi walked into the room with a guard.

Vossi ordered that Coslossi be seated at the table and surrounded by the three guards. Vossi himself took to the chair directly across the table from the prisoner; his face was only eight handspans from Coslossi’s.

“Now,” said Vossi in a quiet tone, “you will tell me who hired you to kill my grandson and why you accepted such a vile commission and why this person wanted my grandson dead and why you killed the others and why this person wanted them dead.”

“The others?” said Coslossi.

“Don’t waste our time, Gian. It angers me.”

“I swear, excellency, that I don’t know of any ‘others,’ only one other. I... I killed Girolamo Eccli.”

“And in Venice you killed a young man named Giuseppe Noppo,” said Vossi.

“No. I was told to kill Eccli and Carlo Vossi. That’s all. I swear that’s all, excellency.”

Vossi’s face reddened. He half stood from his chair, his big hands gripping the table’s edge so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

“You dare lie to me,” he screamed. “Do you realize what I can do to you? Do you realize what I can do to your whole family? You can play with numbers. You think I care about the Venetian or the Spaniard or the Milanese? I don’t! Yet you deny them and not your plan to murder my grandson.”

“But that was all,” said Coslossi. “I swear, only two, even though one was Carlo Vossi. Only two.”

Vossi looked at the guard standing behind Coslossi. The guard slammed the prisoner in the back of his head with his right fist, propelling his face into the table. He then grabbed Coslossi by the hair and pulled back his head, which now had blood spurting from the nose.

“What was the price?” demanded Vossi.

“Forgiveness of all the money I owed them. Thousands of ducats, excellency. I would be bankrupt if—”

“Owed who!” screamed Vossi.

“Owed the Luazzenza of Milan.”

Vossi stared at Coslossi for a long time before he asked: “Why did they want this... this thing... done?”

“I swear, excellency, I don’t know.”

“I know,” said Adrian. “It’s all clear now.”

Carlo’s movements revealed his pain, but he could walk. That was why Leon Vossi sent for him, rather than allowing Adrian to go to him. Clearly Vossi was upset with the young man. However innocently he might have done it, he had brought trouble to the family. Now that the trouble appeared to be over it was time to show disapproval.

Carlo was accompanied to his grandfather’s office by one of the armed men who had been guarding him throughout the evening. The old banker ordered the guard to stay outside the door. Only the two Vossi and Adrian remained in the office.

“You said it was clear to you now,” the old man said to Adrian. “Make it clear to us.”

Adrian turned to Carlo. “When I talked to Girolamo Eccli, he told me about an incident that occurred shortly before you left the university. You had been staying on a nearby estate and were riding back to the university. You saw two students talking under a big tree with an ugly stranger.”

Carlo nodded. “I remember that. It was the day—” he glanced warily at his grandfather “—that Girolamo took the signet ring. One of the students under the tree was the ring’s owner.”

“A kinsman of the Borgias.”

Carlo nodded.

“And with him,” said Adrian, “was Piero Luazzenza.”

“Yes.”

“Remember carefully, Carlo. Think back to that day. Can you know from the way those three men stood whom it was that the stranger was speaking to?”

“That’s easy. Piero. The Spaniard was on the other side of the tree. Piero and the stranger had their heads together, as though they didn’t want him to overhear them.”

Adrian faced Leon Vossi. “In other words, excellency, these young men were riding down a road and saw an ugly stranger speaking to Piero Luazzenza with care that Luazzenza’s companion not overhear them. Months later, an attempt was made to assassinate the Duke of Milan. The assassin, described as an ugly, frog-faced man, escaped in such a way that it was obvious that some powerful Milanese family or group was protecting him. Naturally, any family found protecting the man or having anything to do with him would be exterminated.”

“The Luazzenza!” said Vossi.

“Within days of the attempt on the duke, someone in Rome murdered the Spaniard who was Piero Luazzenza’s companion of that day. Then, in the following weeks, every person in Italy who was riding in the group that saw Piero Luazzenza talking with the ugly man was murdered, except Carlo — and an attempt was made upon Carlo.”

Vossi leaned on the tall desk, his eyes narrowed. “So, Adrian, what you’re saying is that the ugly man who met with Piero Luazzenza and the ugly man who tried to murder the duke are one and the same person, and that the Luazzenza are trying to protect themselves by murdering anyone who might recognize a description of that man and link him to their family.”

“Yes.”

“Adrian, you have done well.”

Vossi stepped away from the desk and began pacing the floor. Back and forth, back and forth he went, for a quarter hour. Neither Adrian nor Carlo dared intrude upon his thoughts by speaking.

Finally the old man wheeled around to face Adrian. “Coslossi wasn’t the only assassin in their pay?”

“No. They had Coslossi here, another man in Rome, another in Venice, and no telling how many in Milan.”

“Then, Carlo, you’re still in danger. We’ll move you to the country villa tomorrow. It really would be safer there... Pack now.”

“Uh... yes, Grandfather.”

Carlo left.

Vossi looked at Adrian and smiled. “Are you ready for your next assignment, my friend?”

“I... I guess so, excellency.”

Vossi’s smile broadened. “Good. I want you to ride to Milan and have a talk with my old friend, the duke.”