Appearances can be deceiving. But don't be fooled: I was in Venice strictly on business. While a trip down the Grand Canal could have been, on another occasion, fun - even romantic - on this occasion it was serious business.

I was sent for by an old member of the family who had long ago retired to Venice. Uncle Clive was an avid collector of antique Venetian glass - the old museum-quality pieces - and these were "disappearing" from his palazzo. He offered no other explanation. "This simply won't do, my boy!" he had said on the telephone. The call came in just after Valentine's Day and it was my first case in the New Year. I accepted the assignment eagerly, although I didn't know a thing about Venetian glass - antique or otherwise. Uncle Clive insisted I come anyway.

So, looking forward to a new challenge, I drove up to San Francisco International taking the long route via the coast road from Carmel (I sometimes take the long way to get somewhere: it clears the head and helps prepare me for the detective work ahead). I landed in Paris at 7:45 a.m. local time, unrested and a little bleary-eyed. I taxied over to Le Gare de l'Est and boarded the train for Venice. Within ten minutes, my ticket had been punched, my bags stowed and yours truly, safely and snugly installed in my private compartment (the French are very efficient in these matters). I thought I might try to stay awake for the first part of the trip, so I rang the cabin steward for his strongest coffee and settled back with a copy of The Times. Half an hour outside Paris, we were in the country and heading towards the Swiss Alps. My eyes fell lazily from the paper and out the window, where the lush green zipped by in a Degas-abstraction streaked with intermittent patches of snow. The soft, steady clik-klop-klp, clik-klop-klp, clik-klop-klp on the metal tracks lulled me into a daze. I leaned my face against the glass and it was sun-warmed and felt good on my cheek. I realized then that jet-lag was catching up with me and by 10:00 a.m. I was soundly napping.

The steward woke me at 3:30 to announce tea. Twenty minutes later I left my cabin feeling fresh, well rested and in happy anticipation of a first-class meal. But in the dining car I found a commotion utterly incongruous with this most civilized of daily rituals: a fellow traveler, whom I had seen briefly at the station, had organized a game with what seemed to be the entire population of the car. They were all betting on how many cows they'd see on the next hill coming 'round. We were still over an hour out of Zürich and passing through an afternoon of lovely rural green. Since there were so many hills coming 'round (and an obliging abundance of cows), the betting grew increasingly animated. I was drawn in for a while myself, but the stakes got rather high and I retreated to my table. I didn't see the sense getting all caught up in a silly game whose odds depended on bovine grazing habits. When tea was served, the tall passenger who was the center of the game walked to where I was sitting.

"I'm Richard Glass," he offered, his arm outstretched. I shook his paw and having no one at my table, invited him to join me. "H.R. to my friends," he said. It sounded more challenge than greeting.

"Win much?" I inquired. He had clearly enjoyed himself.

"I did ok," was his polite reply. I gathered he did, indeed, win much. But there was an inflection in his voice that didn't sound quite right, as if he had expected the outcome all along. I became absurdly suspicious, wondering how one would go about "fixing" the number of cows on a hill in the Swiss countryside. I couldn't shake the feeling at first. Gambling may be legal here, I thought. But cheating at gambling is still against the law. I had a sudden, unreasonable urge to ask the Chief Engineer to radio ahead for a gendarme. Instead, I put my suspicions on hold and chose a delicious truffle mousse (my favorite) off the waiter's cart. My companion ordered escargot and a chilled palm salad, which he refreshed frequently with Meursault. Soon we were telling each other about our lives and (mis)adventures.

Herbert Richard Glass was originally from Chicago. His parents had moved to Amsterdam when he was ten and the Glass family has lived there since. After attending several schools on the Continent - and no fewer than six colleges in England - Herbert Richard Glass awoke one day to the certain conviction that he could no longer be taught anything he needed to know. And so, he dropped out of school without a degree or qualifications or a single worry in the world about money. The Glass family, you see, had made a fortune in plastics (a funny sort of irony given the patrimonie) and "H.R." was about as rich as you could get without owning all the oil wells in Kuwait. He occupied his time now collecting art and traveling the world. During our conversation he dropped the names of at least a dozen well-known (and very wealthy) families he visited often and counted as friends. It was astonishing to meet someone so well connected that in my fertile imagination I could picture him at the palace, discussing Gainsborough and Reynolds with the Queen.

My own story was rather pale by comparison - although Glass seemed genuinely interested in my sleuthly exploits. He was especially keen to learn more about my recent trip to Moscow. Apparently the Russian art market had opened up lately and he wanted as much intelligence as he could get. I had no intelligence to give him, however, on the "art scene" other than that my Russian employer had once been a curate at the Hermitage in St. Petersburg. It was probably my imagination again, but I could swear his eyes smiled.

At Zürich we had a ninety minute stopover and we each went our own way. I left the station by the south gate for a walk down the Bahnhofstrasse. The pale evening hour spread over the city. There with a suggestion of snow from the clouds overhead but this night offered a brisk, clear walk down the famed boulevard. The shops and bistros lining the broad avenue were aglow, their warm inviting lights interrupted here and there by stopping trams whose passengers would disembark and enter the myriad attractions. I saw the busy waiters outside Camille's in their starched white serving aprons, now a blur of activity. The tuxedoed Maitre D' directed all to the evident satisfaction of the patrons. I had time for a quick coffee, and afterward stopped at Globus where I bought some linen handkerchiefs for Uncle Clive. (I learned long ago that a small gift sometimes soothes the nerves of family members in distress.) Later, back at the station, I saw Glass and almost hailed him; but he was in a heated conversation with his cell phone. From a distance I only caught snippets, barely recognizable phrases; although a few times "Idiot!" echoed down the marble length of the station, turning a few heads. I thought it better not to interrupt him and returned alone to my cabin.

When the train pulled away from the platform, the crowd of the waving and the shouting and the crying flew past my window, receding into the distance until all was quiet again. I stretched out for a quick nap, daydreaming for a while. I woke, hungry, about three hours later. I forgot to ask the steward to wake me for dinner. I reached over the bed and pressed the guest's red 'hot' button; within moments Ernesto was at my door. He informed me that dinner was still being served for another hour. I met Glass in the passageway on my way to the dining car and decided to join him for a late supper.

After dinner, we went to the game car for billiards. This train has everything, I later noted in my journal. Although this particular amusement for the passengers hadn't been quite thought through. For one thing, the three balls were constantly moving. They would occasionally scribe an arc in unison over the green felt, parallel to each curve in the track. Tallying scores was hopeless. We had some great laughs, though. Glass was loosening up and the jollity I had seen earlier amidst the gambling crowd had returned. Whatever had upset him at the station was out of his mind now as we talked about music and art and life. When I asked about his art collection, I learned that he "specialized" - focusing his interest (and considerable purchasing power) on antique sculpture. I remarked that his "interest" must be an expensive one. He laughed again, making a vague gesture with his paw which gave the impression that money was not considered in these matters.

"Sculpture is my passion," declared Glass. "And this year, I'm returning to Venice with an extraordinary find."

I asked him to elaborate.

"All of Venice will know in a few days," was all he was willing to offer. With patience, that mystery would solve itself, I thought and left it at that.

At 11:00 p.m.we reached Innsbruck, the last stop before arriving in Venice at 7:30 the next morning. I stepped outside and took a deep breath of the cold, alpine air. This part of Austria has always been a special place for me. When I was young, I played in the mountains here for two glorious weeks each December during the school break. Those times came back as memories triggered out of the mountain night by the cool, fresh smells of the snow and the green - memories of stars so bright you thought they might fall from the heavens like snowflakes to dissolve lightly on your tongue. As I remembered these things, I was glad I came on this trip and promised myself I'd come back after the business in Venice was over. I returned to the train and just before retiring for the night, I saw a bear go into Glass' compartment. Probably a late night hand of cards, I thought, then turned my lights off and went to sleep.

I awoke the next morning to the light tapping of Uncle Clive's cane against the window. I must have fallen back to sleep after the steward had announced Venice. A moment later, Uncle Clive appeared at the cabin door.

"Enjoy the trip, my boy?" He sat down and reached for a pastry from the breakfast tray. I had a hard time keeping my eyes open.

"Wake up!" he continued. "It's a new day!"

I rang for the cabin steward to bring more coffee and pastries.

"Forget that, my boy. You've got to get started. Six palazzi and a museum have been broken into and robbed so far. The police are in full-stir, I can tell you."

I asked if the local authorities had any leads.

"Not a one - but I've got my suspicions."

I asked Uncle Clive to brief me, only to learn that he suspected my fellow traveler, Herbert Richard Glass!

"H.R. to his enemies," cautioned Uncle Clive.

I was stunned. I didn't quite know how to tell him that Glass had not only been on the train, but that he and I had become rather well-acquainted. It was all coming at me too quickly for so early in the morning. All I could manage to focus on was the pastry plate - devoid now of all but crumbs - and Uncle Clive pouring himself the last cup of my coffee! Luckily the cabin steward was just passing to ask if he could take my luggage. I said I would handle that myself, striking a bargain with him to bring breakfast again. Uncle Clive frowned at the suggestion of delay, but I would have none of it.

"I sometimes take a little extra time when I'm first starting a case, Uncle Clive," was the only justification I felt I needed to make. I also never, ever skip breakfast. He replied by handing me the morning's Il Gazzettino. The headline read:

My limited Italian was no help whatsoever and I could only guess at two or three of the words. My confused look prompted Uncle Clive to translate:

"Venetian glass thefts continue: Police still in the dark - now, let's get moving, my boy!"

So much for taking a little extra time. However, I knew the canal ride ahead would be peaceful enough for me to collect my thoughts. Even after five years, solving cases doesn't seem to get any easier - for me, anyway. Maybe it's the world going faster and faster, perhaps the problems are more complex, or it's just that I'm still learning. All I know is, the cases don't seem to get any easier. And like I said, I didn't know a thing about Venetian glass.

Outside on the platform, we saw Glass directing two worker bears dressed in costume for Carnevale. The assistants - one a clown harlequin, the other impersonating Casanova - were unloading a large wooden crate marked FRAGILE in tall, red letters. This must be the new sculpture Glass had spoken of on the train, I thought. Glass saw me and waved. I waved back, not really knowing what to think.

"Don't forget to look me up," he yelled as a farewell.

Uncle Clive's eyes bulged and his cane tapped furiously - and noisily - on the platform. He was clearly displeased - but what could I do? I decided to say nothing. However, I was worried that arriving in the middle of Carnevale Venezia wouldn't make my job any easier.

"Don't worry about that, my boy," offered Uncle Clive. "Besides it's not even in full swing yet. And you couldn't do anything about it anyway." Great, I thought. I wondered how much of the old gentlebear's assistance I could depend upon and figured I'd better ask for professional help right away. The superintendent of police is usually a good place to start.

"Naturally," said Uncle Clive. "That would be Inspector Loredan Marcello. I have arranged for you to meet him at San Geremia. The church is just down the canal from the station. Take a gondola and you'll be there in ten minutes."

His tone was serious, punctuated by the tap-tap-tap he was still up to that all on the platform could hear. "The local clergy are worried that the church will be robbed next, Basil. Marcello should be with them now. I'll go home with the luggage and meet you back at the palazzo after your first day on the case."

"But…"

"You better get started, my boy. Good luck!" With that, Uncle Clive was off and I was alone in Venice.

A long causeway from the mainland brings the trains across the lagoon to the islands and the city of Venezia. The trains end at the Santa Lucia station - end of one line and enchanted beginning to so many others, I thought, determined to make the best of the situation. Through the long, broad sweep of glass doors, I could see out to the Canal Grande and the great, green-domed church directly across. I exited the station and came upon a glorious Venetian morning. Left, down the Canal, the white marble of the Ponte degli Scalzi gleamed in the sun just risen above the city - the bridge and its pedestrians in sharp relief against a muted pastel sky. Under the bridge, all sorts of water craft were busily moving people and commerce. Anxious to get started, I visited one of the bank kiosks just down the steps from the station doors and exchanged a few hundred dollars into Euros. No sooner had I completed my transaction than I heard someone calling in my direction.

"Signore! Signore! Prego, Signore!"

A gondolier was waiting for me.

"I'm Fabrizio. I take you anywhere in Venice - best price." He actually made it sound a bargain.

"How much to the San Geremia church?" I inquired.

"For you, Signore, only ten Euros. It's just down the Canal a few hundred meters."

I'm never on an expense account, so I paid the fare: I'd heard that tourists were routinely paying ten times that amount for a one way trip down the length of the Canal Grande. But mine was a short fare for a gondola and I didn't feel like walking through a maze of streets.

Fabrizio smiled and waved me aboard. As we pushed away from the station dock, the gondolier waved ahead in a gesture as if to offer me his city.

"Your first time to Venice, Signore?"

"No, I've been here before to visit relatives - but this time it's business."

"What business do you have in our beautiful city, Signore?"

I told him and handed him my card.

"I'm in Venice to help my uncle recover his stolen Venetian glass."

"Si, si, as the papers say - Il Maladora di Venezia," he said, suddenly serious. "I hope these thieves are caught, prego! Scuzi, Signore Basil. I have to pull over to let the vaporetto pass."

We were just coming under the Scalzi bridge. With a few strokes of his oar, Fabrizio glided us out of harm's way, in close under the arch of the bridge. The long waterbus, already filled with tourists, was moving slowly past but with enough wake to jostle the gondola. A panda couple on the vaporetto, passing just twenty feet away, started taking pictures of us. Another thirty or so bears rushed over to get their shots of Fabrizio, genuine Venetian gondolier. Fabrizio seemed to be enjoying all the attention. I'm not that fond of water activities and with all the rocking and frenzied commotion, I was starting to think there were too many bears on that side of the vaporetto.

"Sing for us! Sing for us!" pleaded two, cute twin bears leaning far over the railing.

A short "O, Bella Signorinas" sung in a smooth tenor, Fabrizio's pitch was sweetened by the echo off the marble underside of the bridge. The two girl bears swooned when Fabrizio threw them a kiss - early morning romance they would surely remember back home.

We continued down the Grand Canal and in a few minutes we made the wide, left turn into the Cannaregio canal and pulled up to the dock of the San Geremia church. I thanked Fabrizio and asked him if he could wait. I didn't know how long this would take or where it would lead. I've found that local knowledge is invaluable.

"No problem, Signore. I rest a little now."

The gothic church of San Geremia was built over seven hundred years ago and it looked it. But neither age nor the elements could hide the beauty of the design work; the ancient art was remarkable still. The wide, white marble stairs led to two huge wooden doors framed on either side by columns of marble. The massive doors had been swung open about ten feet. I entered the church and into immediate darkness. As my eyes adjusted, through the first faint light I saw a man riding a horse - through the sky - and a few feet away, a huge hand reaching through a great billowy cloud about to grab them both. Slowly, the image came into focus and I was staring at a mural filling the entire left wall of the church. In the soft light from the stained glass windows, the picture seemed out of a dream as I stood there alone in the quiet. Then I heard a noise to my right and when I turned I saw three hooded figures coming down the altar aisle toward me.

"Siete persi, il mio figlio?" A voice inquired after a few tense moments.

"Pardon me?" I asked.

"Are you lost, my son?"

"I'm supposed to meet Inspector Loredan Marcello. My uncle…"

"May I help you?" came a deep, gruff voice from a nearby alcove. A huge bear in a trenchcoat, golden fleece for fur overflowing his collar and cuffs, emerged into the light. His great fluffy ears seemed on alert, fine tuning for the right frequency.

"Inspector Marcello?" I asked. His ears stopped dead in my direction.

"May I help you?" he repeated.

Oh this was going to be easy, I thought.

"My name is Basil Baker. My uncle, Clive Baker, sent me here to ask you about his case. He..."

"There have been seven robberies so far, Signore Baker," he interrupted, getting right to the point.

"And no suspects?"

"No suspects, Signore." He seemed annoyed giving the answer.

"Any clues?"

"No clues Signore." He was definitely annoyed.

"Please Inspectore, call me Basil."

"There are still no clues, Signore Basil. I suggest that you…."

Just then the Inspector's cell phone chirped and he retreated into an alcove to take the call. He was in the dark again and speaking very fast Italian. I could tell something was up. One of the hooded figures approached and introduced himself. He was Abbot Antonio Zanetti. The other two were friars and kept a respectful distance in the background. The Abbot asked me if I knew anything about antique Venetian glass. I confessed I knew next to nothing.

"It's valuable, I gather." I offered, half-jokingly.

"Oh, very. Some of the oldest pieces are priceless - like our glass chalice." He pointed to the altar.

The Abbot was speaking of the Chalice of San Geremia, created in 1291 by Antonio Borovier. That year, the Abbot explained, the law required all the glassmakers in Venice to move to Murano Island. The chalice was one of the first objects to emerge from the new fires and it was presented as a gift to the church. I asked if I might see it. The Abbot and the two friars escorted me up the aisle to the altar where we stopped before a massive block of pink and white marble carved with saints and angels. At the center of the altar, concealed under a purple cloth was an object about ten inches high. The Abbot removed the covering to reveal a large glass goblet. Even in the dim light of the church I could see the Chalice of San Geremia was beautiful. The stem was made of impossible twists and turns of red and gold glass spiraling up from a ruby base that sparkled from the mass of gold dust suspended in the glass. Under the cup, the stem flowered out into a dozen supporting branches, with gold leaves at the ends just touching the outer rim of the chalice. As I looked from above, down into the cup and through the glass, an image formed of a bird with wings outstretched. When I moved my head slightly, its wings shimmered and appeared to move as if ready to take flight. It was an interesting effect, an eerie trick of the light that was a bit mysterious, suggesting something otherwordly.

Inspector Marcello, finished with his conversation, scuffled briskly up the aisle to where we were all standing still admiring the glass treasure.

"Scuzi, Abbot…Padres," he bowed. "… and Signore Basil," he added with unnecessary emphasis. "But I must leave now. Urgent police business."

"Not another robbery?" asked the Abbot.

But the Chief Inspector had turned and was heading for the door. The friars were clearly concerned, although apparently the thief - or thieves - had not struck any of the churches in Venice. Perhaps that was considered sacrilege and the efforts were confined to robbing palazzi and museo instead. Or perhaps it was only a matter of time.

"The chalice is beautiful," someone sighed.

"Basil, you should go to Murano, where they make Venetian glass," the Abbot suggested. "The Museo Vetrario was where the first robbery took place, seven days ago."

"Seven robberies in as many days?" I asked. Uncle Clive had failed to mention this alarming chronology.

"Si, si, it is a most unfortunate business."

I decided to take the Abbot's advice about Murano. I had no other trail to follow and it was a good suggestion. When I bid farewell, the Abbot gestured his blessing and the three bowed their heads as if to mark the seriousness of my mission.

Outside, Fabrizo was waiting.

"Where to, Signore?"

"Murano!" I said. Where else? I thought.

Fabrizio pushed his gondola off the church dock and we continued our journey down the Canal Grande. We passed the fabulous and decaying palazzi on both sides of the main waterway. Fabrizio provided some rather poignant comments on the most famous ones. I felt privileged - as though ancient secrets were told for me only - but also a little touristy. I certainly had a great view and it didn't take much imagination to see myself in fifteenth century Venice. Another ten minutes and Fabrizio glided us left into Rio San Marcuola and up a short distance into Rio Fosca. We turned into several other canals and one so narrow I could reach out from the gondola and touch the old stones on either side. As we turned left into Rio Gesuiti, I heard a loud meow above coming from a corner palazzo. A black cat was sitting on a balcony, watching over the canal.

"Polo il gatto!"

Fabrizio knew the cat; and with the call, Polo the cat jumped through the railing and ran along the quay in our direction. Almost beside us, the cat took a flying leap and landed gracefully on the prow of the gondola. The cat glanced in my direction for a few moments, as if to size me up - and then at Fabrizio - and then just as quickly, bounded off again to the other side of the canal.

"She likes it better than the bridges!" Fabrizio joked. "I could sell that cat into the circus - if I could ever catch her!"

Fabrizio was laughing, so I knew he wasn't serious about the circus. He told me that Polo knew all the gondoliers and often performed the same trick to the delight of the locals and tourists. I admitted I was impressed - I'd always thought cats hated the water. We continued on the last hundred yards up the Rio Gesuiti to the ferry landings at the Fondamente Nuove.

"This is as far as I can take you, Signore Basil. A ferry to Murano leaves every twenty minutes."

"Where can I find you again?" I asked.

"I'll be around. Ask a gondolier at any of traghetto stations along the Canal. For now, arrivederci, Signore Basil! Buona fortuna!"

From the Fondamente Nuove, I took the No. 52 ferry to Murano. Once out into the lagoon, we passed the cemetery island of St. Michelle, quiet in the bright morning sunlight. Fifteen minutes later we caught our first sighting of Murano: the white lighthouse. And in another fifteen minutes we reached the island itself, making two stops before docking at the Museo landing. The Museo Vetrario was just a short walk along the canal and when I arrived, I could see several police boats tied up in front of the museum. An impressive police effort was guarding what was clearly a recent crime scene. A bold move to hit the same museum twice, was my first thought.

A crowd of onlookers had gathered. I noticed a small group of six near the front but off from the larger crowd. A petite bear with white curly fur was speaking to them in English with some authority. I worked my way through the crowd to get a better view. As I came nearer to the group, I became interested in what she had to say. She was talking about the museum and Murano's history and their connection to a nearby church. At one point I caught her eye and with her smile, I became part of her audience. In a few minutes she dismissed her charges and the group scattered off in different directions. Seeing that I hadn't moved, she walked over and handed me a white card. Cordelia Pembridge-Howl it read and directly below her name, in gold letters, Art Historian. Her mobile phone number and e-mail address were also listed. I handed her my card and introduced myself.

"Basil Baker?" she read aloud. "Sounds positively British!" She was quick and I could only confess to her suspicions. Noticing the country and city code on her business card, I changed the subject and asked if she lived in Venice.

"I run tours throughout Europe; but I do half of my business in Venice. So Venice has become a home base of sorts. I'm from London, originally, but I lived in the States for a few years, in Chicago."

Now that was a coincidence, I thought.

"I was about to visit the museum," I said.

"Oh, are you interested in Venetian glass?" she asked.

"The stolen kind," I said half-aloud.

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, nothing. Do you know what happened here?"

"The museum has been robbed again. The second of two twin vases. Why they didn't take them both the first time is a mystery to me."

It was almost as if the thief was flaunting his abilities. A personality quirk that would definitely help in the profile, I thought. Cordelia excused herself, saying she had to round up her group to visit a nearby glass factory. I walked up the steps to the front doors of the museum where a policebear was posted. When I explained that I knew the chief inspector on the case, I was politely let in. In the foyer I could see Inspector Marcello on his cell phone, talking rapidly again, this time about a custode something, repeating the word several times. The rest of the Italian just went past me.

"Hello, Inspector," I said when his call ended. He seemed surprised to see me.

"You are following this case with some interest, Signore Basil," he said, still maintaining the formality. At least he was using my first name anymore.

"Do you mind if I just observe?" I asked.

"No, I suppose not. But don't disturb anything."

Although he was stern, he was giving me a chance to show that I wouldn't mess with any evidence, which I thought was decent of him really. I looked around on the first floor, down the halls and into the display rooms, now being surveyed by Marcello's officers. I came to a staircase that led down to a small landing. On the wall above, a large sign read Custode and an arrow led me to the bottom of the staircase and to a long narrow corridor. I walked along the damp stones through the dark about a dozen or so paces and stopped. I heard the creaking sound of a rusted hinge behind me and then a voice.

"Signore, are you lost?"

I turned and saw a short brown bear come out of a door below the stairs. He was wearing overalls and carrying newspapers under his arm.

"My name is Basil Baker. I'm investigating the case." I said, trying to sound as official as I could. It seemed to work.

"Oh, si Signore, I reported the theft. My name is Tomaso."

Now this was a stroke of luck, I thought.

"Did you also report the first robbery," I asked.

"No, Signore, I was visiting my mother in Verona last week. She's not been feeling - how you say? - too good, Signore. Petri Donate, the museo curator, was here that morning."

I'd have to come back later to talk to the curator. I asked Tomaso when he discovered the latest theft.

"On my early morning rounds cleaning the museum."

"Did you find anything unusual?" I asked.

"No, Signore," he said flatly, as if he'd given the same response to others this morning. "But," he added, "you'd be amazed at the trash some bears leave behind."

He pointed to a green trash can near the bottom of the stairs. Inside there was a strange assortment of items: a black running shoe - the lace missing, a doll's head, an eight-ball that looked new, gold foil wrappers from a candy of some kind, a yellow rubber duck and an apple core. I rummaged through the lot and didn't see anything suspicious. But I noticed something odd about the gold foil wrappers. There were about five or six of them and they all looked like they had been smudged with ink. On closer inspection, I could see a large DB embossed on the foil side; and on the inside of each wrapper a black, greasy pawprint. I thought that was unusual and so I collected them out of the bin. The custode looked at me and didn't say a word, as though he had gotten used to bears digging through his waste bins. I thanked him and said goodbye. Upstairs I ran into Inspectore Loredan.

"Did you find anything, Signore Basil?" His tone was formal and the slight, mocking emphasis he put on my first name punctured any thought we would be develop a friendly working relationship any time soon.

"I think these candy wrappers may be clues. They have…"

"Candy wrappers? Signore, that is the most popular candy in Venice."

"Still they might…"

"Ok, Signore, you can hold onto those for now," he said and was off again, out the front door as I told his shadow I'd keep the wrappers.

Cordelia was out front with her tour group. She saw me and waved me over.

"Would you like to visit a Venetian glass factory with us, Basil?" she asked.

I thought the education would be useful, so I joined her group. We walked up to the Fondamenta Cavour and turned into Calle Mistro where we stopped before a simple stone building. Two large doors were open wide and the name Barovier written above. Cordelia started giving some history to the group as we entered.

"…and after the relocation of 1291, for the next three hundred years the artisans on Murano produced the finest quality glass in the world. This is one of the oldest glass factories still in operation."

Inside there was a single, large room a hundred or so feet long and almost as wide, rising about twenty feet to a glass ceiling that flooded the room with sunlight. Four huge furnaces blazed in the corners. Four bears worked in front of each, as a team, using various tools and instruments. In the middle of the room was an older bear keeping an eye on everything.

"His name is Vincenzo Barovier and he is the maestro, the master glassblower at Barovier," explained Cordelia to the group. The maestro glanced in our direction and nodded. He seemed to recognize Cordelia and started to walk in our direction.

"Signore Barovier, this is my friend, Basil Baker."

"I am pleased to meet a friend of la bella signorina," he said. I was pleased to be known as the friend of la bella signorina.

"It's nice of you to bring another group to see us, Cordelia," he added. "Tell me, Signore Baker," he continued, "have you ever seen the glass made?" I told him I didn't know very much about Venetian glass or his craft.

He bowed slightly to Cordelia as he backed away and then proceeded to demonstrate. He took a long, thin metal tube from a nearby table and dipped it into a vat of molten glass just inside one of the furnaces. When he pulled the tube out, there was a blob of soft, red-hot glass on the end. He let it cool briefly, then blew through one of end of the tube while an assistant kept the rod gently spinning. Another assistant used two flat bladed metal tools to knead and shape what was soon turning into blue, glass sphere. The master stopped blowing and returned it to the furnace.

"Now, I soften it again," he said. When he removed it from the fires, he continued, "And to make a bowl, I spin the rod quickly so the force will flatten the sphere into a bowl shape. Then, using shears I snip off the end of the sphere and use the other tools to form the bowl's rim before the glass cools." A few operations later and the end result was a beautiful bowl destined, no doubt, to be a fine centerpiece on some ladybear's table.

"That's quite a procedure." I said. It was, as Cordelia told her group, all the more remarkable to consider that proud Venetians have been making glass in this way for over a thousand years.

"How much would a bowl like that sell for in Venice?" I asked.

"This is one of our simpler pieces - but top quality," he said. "A little over eight hundred Euros."

Cordelia converted the currency rate for me: "That's almost a thousand dollars, Basil."

"For those with good taste." The maestro smiled, tapping his paw lightly on his nose.

Our relationship somewhat established, I decided to ask him his thoughts about "Il Maladora di Venezia." But I was unprepared for his outburst.

"Criminali! Sono la peste su mia scarsa Venezia! I hope these thieves are caught, prego!"

"It's a sensitive issue," whispered Cordelia. It was as though Signore Barovier took the thefts as a personal insult. I thought it better to explain why I was asking and when I did he seemed to cheer up immediately.

"O, Signore, you help Venezia and we will be grateful forever." He handed me a small amber-colored glass figure he took from a shelf by the furnace. It was of a winged-lion. The lion was standing on all fours and just below its head was a little glass book, held open by one paw to reveal an inscription in Latin.

"A gift from us, Signore. It may bring you luck. Per un amico speciale di Venezia."

"That's the Lion of St. Mark, the Protector of Venice," said Cordelia, then added, "I've never seen him give away one of his personal pieces, Basil."

It was a fine gesture. I thanked him sincerely and joined Cordelia and her group as they made their way into the adjoining gift shop. Later, we walked over the bridge to the Fondamenta Vetrai and stopped at a trattoria for refreshments. Afterward, we walked the short distance to the Colonna ferry stop for the return trip to the city. On the ferry back to Venice, I asked Cordelia if she would consider 'tutoring' me: it had been years since I was in Venice. I was young at the time and my impressions had faded a bit. She kindly consented; so I invited her to have dinner with me. I didn't think Uncle Clive would mind, and I needed local knowledge as fast as I could get it.

When we landed, Cordelia dismissed her charges to explore and enjoy on their own what remained of the day. Cordelia and I walked two streets down from the Fondamente Nuove to catch a gondola to Uncle Clive's palazzo. I walked up to a group of gondoliers who were standing around waiting for fares. I looked for Fabrizio but he was not one of them and when I inquired, a gondolier broke off from the pack.

"Si, si, Signore, I know Fabrizio. I tell him I saw you. Where you need to go?"

Twenty minutes later, our gondola arrived at San Polo 749 on the Rio Beccarie. We knocked at the front door and were greeted by a butler bear wearing a black tuxedo, yellow vest and bow tie. He escorted us through the foyer and into the dining room. There we found six other bears, in even more elegant evening attire, seated at a long table set for a formal dinner. There was Uncle Clive, and beside him, Vincenzo Gritti the Mayor of Venice, whom I recognized from the morning's paper. Next to the Mayor sat Abbot Zanetti, who seemed pleased to see me again. I was surprised to see Natalia Navritolova, the famous Russian ballerina, sitting directly across from the Mayor and flanked by two short, plumpy, prosperous-looking black bears wearing turbans and paying serious attention to the ballerina. She was lovely and the two black bears, in their public adoration, were ecstatic at her proximity. The black bear to Martina's left raised his glass.

"To the good life," he started. "Gracious living in the lap of luxury."

"Well said, brother!" The other black bear finished his wine and held his glass aloft for the butler to refill.

"Your uncle is well-connected," whispered Cordelia. Uncle Clive rose from the table.

"I see you've made a friend already, Basil."

I introduced Cordelia and mentioned my trip to Murano. I decided to keep the candy wrappers to myself for now.

"Excellent start, my boy! Excellent. Let me present his honor, the Mayor of Venice."

With that the rest of the introductions and the evening meal were on. Uncle Clive laid out an impressive feast. For antipasti there were prosciutto and melon, sardines in garlic and white wine, sauteed prawns, fried calamari and crab puffs, and of course, pickled eel. Cordelia reached in her purse and took a pill from a small oval box she set in front of her plate. I noticed on the top there was a little scene painted of a fox who, having fooled his chasers, sat comfortably in a tree while the party below looked about in confusion.

"Heartburn," she explained. "This looks too good to pass up." She handed me a plate piled high with crab puffs, which I took eagerly. During the first course, Uncle Clive informed his guests of my purpose in Venice.

"Tell us Mayor," one of the black bears asked, "when do you think the thieves will be caught?"

The Mayor had been eating a breadstick and muttered something before removing the crumbs from his fur. He managed to compose himself in a few moments.

"I think that whoever these thieves are..." he said. "They know they cannot get away with such…

"What are we to do in the meantime?" challenged Natalia. "Many of us are at still at risk."

"Natalia's palazzo was robbed the day before mine, Basil." said Uncle Clive.

"Don't worry, Signora." The Mayor offered. "We will do everything we can to make sure you have the attention and protection most befitting an honored and illustrious personage such as la prima ballerina." He seemed genuine, but one could never tell with a politician. They will say almost anything. None of this impressed the ballerina.

"You can't even protect the palazzi on the Grand Canal," she said. "And when am I ever going to see my lovely glass heart again? The one from Rolli?"

She was almost in tears. Cordelia whispered "Rolli Rostopovich" in my ear when she passed the plate of calamari. I knew the name. Apparently he was a dear friend of Natalia - "a very dear friend" - and Cordelia left it at that. Natalia herself was hostess to many lavish entertainments well-known throughout Venice. Who knew how many bears had been through her palazzo? I wondered if the guest lists were still available. Uncle Clive tried to calm her with an offering of eel; but she'd already had enough.

For the second course, three pasta dishes were served: a Venetian specialty direct from the Adriatic, linguine alla seppie in a sauce made with squid ink; a bright green pesto gnocchi garnished with pine nuts and Parmesan cheese, and risotto del mare, a seafood dish direct from heaven. After a few bites, I decided to pursue the current line of questioning.

"I wonder why none of the churches have been robbed? Do many have Venetian glass?" I asked.

"Yes, many do," answered Abbot Zanetti. "And I think it's just a matter of time before…"

The Mayor interrupted the Abbot.

"Tell us, Abbot, about your glass coffin and St. Lucy's bones. I'm sure some of our guests have not heard the story."

I certainly hadn't and I thought it was a strange change in the dinner conversation. The Abbot, a bit annoyed, obliged us after helping himself to some more of the gnocchi. Apparently the fourth-century martyr's remains were moved to San Geremia when the Santa Lucia church was demolished in 1864 to make way for the train station that bears her name. St. Lucy's remains are visible in a glass coffin that rests in the church. But the Abbot, tired of the story he had no doubt told many times, changed the conversation back to the concerns of the hour.

"There have been thefts in all six sestieri. And Murano has been struck twice! Honestly, Mayor Gritti, I do not see how you can be so assured..."

"Now, let's all calm down and enjoy our dinner," pleaded Uncle Clive. "I'm sure the Mayor is doing all that he can." This satisfied the party for the moment as the main course of Sole Florentine was served. Uncle Clive's cook was certainly a marvel and we began the fish course in silent contentment. However, I remained unsatisfied with the inquiry about the robberies.

"Well, whoever the thieves are, they are certainly well organized," I offered.

Uncle Clive flashed me a look of disapproval. I was simply trying to do my job; but I think he was starting to feel like the poor host whose guests had been made to feel uncomfortable.

For dessert, we were served another Venetian specialty, tiramisu, a coffee and brandy flavored cake layered with sweet whipped cream and dark chocolate. After dinner, Natalia left by private gondola accompanied by the Mayor and the two black bears. When Uncle Clive retired to the library with Abbot Zanetti, I invited Cordelia out for some fresh air.

We walked for a while and then caught a gondola down Rio di San Cassiano to the Canal Grande where we turned and headed for the Rialto. Gliding through the silk-smooth, moonlit waters, Cordelia told me more of the great city's history. She really knows her business, I thought. At the Rialto, we got off at a café on the other side of the bridge and took a table overlooking the Canal. Over cappuccino, Cordelia told me about herself: that she'd taken her degree at Oxford, in History, and for three years had been a translator for the Italian Delegation at the U.N. After that she did a tour of duty in the World Wildlife Rescue Federation, and then a year with Bears Without Borders before striking out on her own giving guided tours of the "world's most interesting places" as Cordelia put it. She was fascinating and for a stretch of time we found ourselves staring into each other's eyes. The Rialto Bridge and the reflections in the still night waters completed the picture, and when I sighed, she smiled.

But we were soon disturbed by what sounded like a mid-day rush of little Italian motor scooters, the kind you see running about everywhere in Rome and Milan.

"Oh, no," said Cordelia softly. "Here comes trouble."

From under the bridge came the Acqua Vesper gang. They rode a clever, if noisy, little water craft and from what I could observe, it incorporated a small jet-ski engine and a flat, sculpted running board that acted as a hydroplane. The gang of thirteen made considerable racket which drew the notice of the others in the café. The lead rider was clad in a black leather jumpsuit; his long red scarf, impossibly unwet, flowed behind. He swung a wide berth to the café and came around again in front after his crew completed three raucous circles in the middle of the Canal.

"Hello, Cordelia Pembridge-Howl!" The greeting could barely be heard above the noise but seemed friendly enough considering the circumstances.

"Hello, Bartolomeo," Cordelia returned. She was polite but appeared slightly embarrassed at the connection. Bartolomeo was a handsome bear with light brown fur and dark green eyes. His confident, almost formal manner, was arresting and a certain charisma and charm complimented his energetic performance.

"When are you coming out with me for a ride? One night soon, si bella Signorina?"

"There's nothing in Venice you can show me that I haven't already seen, Bartolomeo. You know that. You better just get on with your fun tonight." The corners of Cordelia's mouth upturned in the slightest smile. She was becoming more interesting by the moment.

A loud whistle made us all turn as another member of the gang signaled Bartolomeo.

"That's Maschio, faithful lieutenant," whispered Cordelia.

Just as abruptly as they came on the scene they were off again, further down the Grand Canal and into the darkness. A perfect evening - thankfully unspoiled - was coming to an end. When the waiter presented the bill, on the tray with the receipt were several pieces of candy wrapped in gold foil with the letters DB on top. The candy again!

"That's Dolce Bacio. It means 'sweet kiss'." She smiled again. "They're really good, Basil - the best chocolate in Venice."

And as we had our sweet kisses, I reflected on my long, first day on the job. I'll call on Glass tomorrow, I thought, then paid for the coffee and the view. We took another gondola and dropped Cordelia off at her apartment in San Marco. I returned to Uncle Clive's and bed.

 

At breakfast the next morning, I told Uncle Clive about the candy wrappers I found at the glass museum. The serving bear frowned as I laid the soiled wrappers out on the linen tablecloth for closer inspection.

"But that candy is popular all over Venice, my boy," said Uncle Clive. "How can that be a clue?"

"Why would there be greasy pawprints on the inside of a candy wrapper?" I asked. "That's a bit unusual, don't you think?"

"I didn't find any candy wrappers here after the robbery," declared my host.

On a hunch, I asked if the housekeeper might have been up earlier and cleaned or swept up before the theft was discovered. Uncle Clive said that was impossible. When I asked why, he led me upstairs to the second floor and the room that housed his Venetian glass collection.

"I always lock this door at night," he said, as we crossed the second story landing. We stopped before a large, red door. "I have the only keys and I unlock it myself each morning after breakfast," he said, satisfied with his security arrangements. "In fact it's locked now," he added.

Uncle Clive approached the door and turned, not one, but three separate locks, finally keying in an eight digit code on an electronic touch pad. There was a loud metallic clack, which, I supposed, were retracting bolts, and the door opened.

The room was spacious, about forty feet square and clearly intended as a viewing gallery. The walls were unadorned, except for the floral velvet wallpaper. Ten pedestals were arranged about the pink marble floor and atop each of these but one was a glass sculpture: Here was Uncle Clive's Venetian glass collection - minus a large green seahorse the thief had taken six nights ago. What remained was impressive though, even to my untrained eye. I knew, of course, that for generations, business pursuits, rather than inheritance, had supported Uncle Clive's branch of the family tree. I was never privy to the reasons why, but uncle's lineage was forced to depend, not on the Baker Trust - to which I owe a serious debt of gratitude - but rather on economic timing and the apparently uncanny Baker ability of anticipating the financial markets. The result, in Uncle Clive's case was obvious. Surveying his Venetian Glass gallery, I was, no doubt, looking at a considerable investment.

I carefully inspected the crime scene. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows formed a wall the entire length of the room overlooking Rio Beccarie thirty feet below. The dozen or so windows were all without locks. Worse, each was secured only by a small metal latch. On closer inspection, I could see that the latches could be lifted with little effort from the outside, using a knife or even a thin plastic ruler. It was sort of comical - and ironic - considering Uncle Clive's security ritual. It was clear how the thief - or thieves - had broken in. Using a rope, the burglar could have easily come down from the roof or climbed up from a waiting boat.

"What did the police say?" I asked.

"They didn't find any evidence of a break-in."

I wasn't surprised.

"What about your alarm system, Uncle?" I had to ask.

But there was no alarm system.

"The crime rate in Venice is very low," he said, desperate to justify his security 'system' despite the fact that six palazzi had been robbed in seven days.

"And still no clues, anywhere - according to the local police." he continued. "I wonder what Marcello is doing about all this. How can there be no clues, Basil?"

I risked upsetting him, but I had to ask about his comments the day before concerning H.R. Glass. It was a longshot, but I needed something else to go on besides the candy wrappers, which now appeared to be my only lead - a lead which I was keenly aware everyone else was quick to dismiss.

"Oh, he thinks he's very clever - very clever indeed," continued Uncle Clive. "But Glass is nothing more than an interloper, an outsider of the worst sort. He's buying favor throughout Venice and makes a mockery of us all with this latest business. I don't know what to make of his new scheme but Venice has withstood the assaults of those greater than H.R. Glass and in the end, he'll be shown up for who and what he is." He sat down heavily in a leather armchair.

"But Uncle Clive..."

"Basil, my boy, I'm counting on you. This has got to stop. These sculptures are irreplaceable. And it's bad for the city's image: you saw the headlines in the papers. It's non-stop television coverage on VCNN. You'd think there was nothing else going on in the world. I'm sure you understand our situation."

I did understand. "But I need a few more details to go on, Uncle Clive. Has Glass been questioned by the police?" I asked.

"Questioned?" he shouted. "Why, he's got Marcello completely fooled. You spent some time with him. You know what he's like."

Other than that incident at the train station in Zurich, Glass seemed nothing but cordial. With the gambling crowd on the train - and H.R. winning a good deal of money predicting the correct number of cows over a twenty-five mile stretch of the lower alps - Glass was friendly, an outgoing, engaging bear. I filled in Uncle Clive about the trip and concluded by saying I saw no reason to suspect Glass.

"Why would he bother stealing Venetian glass, Uncle?" I asked. "He could easily buy whatever he wanted."

"Hmpph!" Not the answer I was hoping for. Uncle's case against Glass was already beginning to crumble.

"Besides, on the train he seemed interested only in large marble sculpture. In fact, he was passionate about it." I continued. "And later at the station, those working bears were unloading a large wooden crate..."

"Don't be absurd, my boy. We don't know what was in that crate."

"But surely you don't think he's transporting stolen goods into Venice?"

"I don't know what he's up to. No good, I suspect."

His suspicions weren't much to go on. I liked Glass and it was it hard to imagine he was behind this Venetian crime wave.

"What would be his motive, Uncle?" I asked.

Another "Hmpph!" which really wasn't helpful at all.

I couldn't see how Uncle's suspicions made much sense. But there was no denying him; I was here on his account. I'd just have to be ready for some 'extra' work. Together we made a list of the robberies from the paper. Il Gazzettino was keeping a running tally on the front page in a side bar above the fold. All of the robberies had occurred at night. Uncle's robbery was last Wednesday evening. Today was Tuesday and I had five other cases to investigate. Murano had netted my only clues.

My plan for the day was simple. I was already familiar with two of the crime scenes, on Murano and at Uncle Clive's. Today I would begin to canvas the other palazzi that had been robbed and see if I could find something the police hadn't uncovered. I was clinging to the hope that a few of the other housekeepers had found the same candy wrappers after the robberies. That would at least establish a pattern. For some reason, I got it into my head to proceed chronologically, in the order of the robberies. So, with Cordelia's map in hand, I set off for San Marco and Natalia Navritolova's palazzo, scene of the second theft. From the emotional scene at Uncle Clive's dinner party, I knew I'd have to tread delicately on the matter of 'Rolli's heart' - her own heart had seemed broken last night.

There are six sestieri, or districts, in Venice: Cannaregio, San Marco and Castello on one side of the Canal Grande and Santa Croce, San Polo and Dorsoduro on the other. And as the Abbot had reminded us last night, the thief - or thieves - had struck them all.

Natalia's palazzo in San Marco was small by some standards; but it occupied a prominent corner on the Grand Canal and rose four stories: all baroque, all in style and at least twenty rooms. The ballet must pay, I thought, as the butler opened the door. I handed him my card and was shown into the music room. Within a few minutes, Natalia appeared. She seemed relieved to see me - which was a pleasant surprise.

"I see you are, as they say in America, 'on the case', Signore Baker."

"Please call me Basil, Signora Navritolova."

"Signorina," corrected the unmarried ballerina.

I apologized for the error.

"How can I help you in your investigation?" she asked, motioning me to sit in the chair beside her.

"I'd like to see the scene of the crime if it's not too much of an inconvenience."

She winced.

"You are in the crime scene, Signore Basil."

I winced. My second blunder in as many minutes.

"Rolli's heart was taken from this very room seven nights ago." Her voice quivered. She was almost crying. This Rolli bear had captured the ballerina's affection with his special gift. It was too cruel that her heart had been stolen on Valentine's Day.

"Are you sure this a good time for you, Signorina?" I asked. "I can come back some other…"

"No...yes...I'm sorry." She tried to regain her composure. "I get so emotional sometimes. But, please…I'll answer your questions, now, if I can."

"What did you tell the police?" I said, as gently as I could.

"Everything...or nothing...depending how you look at it. There was not much to tell. I discovered the theft myself when I came down to the music room at 9:00 that morning. I have breakfast in here most days. There was no clue or sign of a break in - 'no evidence at all' according to Inspector Marcello - just my missing heart."

I asked if the stolen object has been insured.

"Yes, of course, everything is - but that's just money."

I asked how much money we were talking about.

"The heart was made in 1652 as a wedding gift for the niece of Francesco Molin, the Doge of Venice," she said, half-distractedly, as if used to reciting its history.

"And the value?" I pressed.

"It was recently appraised for 850,000 Euros." She didn't seem impressed by declaring the heart's value. But by my rough calculation, this was a million dollar robbery. Another fact was clear: the news reports hadn't mentioned the value of any of the stolen sculpture. Why? Perhaps Uncle Clive would know.

I really had only one hunch to go on, so I showed her the gold foil papers I had found at the museum.

"Signorina, on the morning after the robbery, did you find any candy wrappers like these?"

She looked down at them as one might look at anything distasteful suddenly appearing in a room full of beautiful objects.

"No, I did not." She pulled on a braided cord that hung to the right of the fireplace. "But perhaps the housekeeper did. Inspector Marcello didn't ask about these papers...that is curious, no?"

Before I could answer, the housekeeper came in through a side door.

"Si, Signorina?"

"Maria, this is Signore Baker. He is helping the police with their investigations into the robbery," Natalia explained, then turned to me. "Maria has been housekeeper here for the past fourteen years."

"Fifteen years next month, Signorina," said Maria. She seemed a no-nonsense bear so I got right to the point.

"I did find some candy wrappers," she informed us. "I picked them up right after Signorina phoned for the police. We have had the candy here before. I didn't think they were important. Were they clues? Oh, I'm so sorry, Signorina...if I had only known..."

The housekeeper was crying. Natalia put her arm around Maria's shoulders and walked her out of the music room. I looked around the room and noticed several other Venetian glass objects. It was interesting that the thief had stolen only one sculpture, just like at the museum. I noticed two small glass pieces on the fireplace mantle. Set upright between them was a Valentine's Day card, half opened. I took a peek inside and could see a handwritten note signed Love, Rolli. Just then Natalia returned.

"So, are we making any progress, Signore Basil?"

"I'm curious about the recent parties you've held here over the last three or four months," I said. "Perhaps you might still have the guest lists?"

She left briefly and returned with a red, leather-bound notebook.

"My secretary keeps a schedule of social engagements in here. But I'm afraid this won't be of much help."

She was right. The book recorded five parties in the last four months and the guests lists had included just about every important name in Venice, including Uncle Clive. I didn't realize just how well-connected he was. European royalty and several American stars of stage and screen completed the international guest lists. As I scanned the names, I commented that Herbert Richard Glass had attended her most recent party on New Year's Eve.

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

I told her about our train ride from Paris and that we had become well acquainted. At his invitation I was to call on him later today.

"We've known each other for years," said Natalia. "He's holding a costume ball this Saturday evening. It will be the biggest social event during Carnevale. Perhaps he means to invite you to his party today."

Perhaps, I thought. Having completed my initial interview with the ballerina, I asked her if she could recommend a local costumer in case her hunch proved correct.

Without hesitation she said, "Tragicomica on Calle dei Nomboli in San Polo."

I wrote the address down in my journal and said goodbye.

"I hope to see you again, Basil," she said in farewell, finally dropping formality as her butler led me to the front door. Perhaps she'd save a dance for me at Glass' costume ball, I hoped.

 

 

Francesca Morosini's palazzo was my next stop in the Castello sestieri just off the Rio di Pieta. It was a little over a mile's walk from Natalia's and I decided to take the back streets to avoid the Piazza San Marco, which would be swarming with tourists at this hour. Besides the walk would be refreshing and take me past one of my favorite palazzi in San Marco, the Contarini "Dal Bovolo" - a wonder of fifteenth century Venetian engineering, built with a spectacular four story stone spiral staircase. When I was young, a Venetian playmate of mine, Marco DiBearola - my best friend in Venice - lived in the Santa Croce sestieri opposite the train station. I spent several summers in Venice courtesy of Uncle Clive, and Marco took me all about his city. I remember spending many weekends at Marco's, and on Sundays attending services at the church of San Simeone Picollo with his family. I had stayed in touch with Marco via e-mail all through his time at Universidad Musica in Madrid where he studied flamenco guitar. Last year, I invited him to Carmel and he spent the better part of the summer with me. We had tremendous fun and every other girl bear we met fell in love with Marco's accent and his guitar playing, which was, I must admit, virtuosic. I remembered on the 4th of July, Marco brought his guitar to Devendorf Park in the center of Carmel for an impromptu solo concert. Before long several hundred had gathered to hear my friend. He absolutely wowed the crowd. It was funny to think that ten years ago we were in Venice chasing each other up and down the Dal Bovola spiral staircase, playing cops and robbers, Italian style. Now Marco was living in Venice and headlining a local flamenco jazz group playing at a club in Dorsoduro. I wanted to catch his act and made a note to call Cordelia to see if she had any plans for the evening.

Francesca Morosini's palazzo was in the largest sestieri in Venice. From the thirteenth century, the Castello district had grown around the famous naval dockyard, the Arsenale. Her residence overlooked a beautiful little square, Campo Bandiera e Moro. I knocked on the front door and the servant bear who answered ushered me into a sitting room only to be followed a few minutes later by Signora Morosini, an elderly bear, regally attired even at this early hour. She wore a green silk suit with a small diamond lizard on her lapel. She was adorned with an elaborate emerald necklace complimented by matching earrings and bracelet. Two lady bears-in-waiting also accompanied her and when Signora Morosini finally sat, they placed themselves in matching side chairs by the fireplace. The Signora's fur showed a few signs of gray (and a little wear here and there) but she was sprightly and thin with energetic eyes which were now trained on me closely. They struck me as eyes that wouldn't miss much.

"I am Basil Baker, Signora Morosini." I introduced myself and politely handed her my card.

"Contessa Morosini," she corrected me at once. She examined my card intently, then said "And who may I ask is your family, Signore Baker?"

I knew this was a delicate matter and should tread carefully, obeying proper protocol if I wanted the Contessa's help. From my web research before breakfast, I knew the Morosini family had produced four rulers, or Doges, of Venice. Their portraits on her drawing room wall were a distinct reminder to all who her family was.

But still, I had a job to do. Overcoming my nervousness, I explained that I was the nephew of Clive Baker, former Member of Parliament, retired to Venice these past ten years (she was vaguely aware of his existence). Now conscious of Contessa's status in Venetian society (this was definitely on-the-job training), I thought to mention that I was nephew to Lord Henry Houndsworth of Devonshire. I was in Venice on 'family business' relating to, as the papers had it, Il Maladora di Venezia, and I had come at Lord Henry's and Uncle Clives' request. I mentioned that my investigation might also be of some service to her family as well.

"La mia famiglia!" she sniffed at my inadvertent impertinence; and although she did seem impressed by my mention of Sir Henry, she was determined not to let me see it. She communicated through an air of perfected superiority that she could hardly understand how I could be of help to her family. "I was hoping to receive a report from Inspectore Loredan Marcello," she asserted. "Certainly after four days, some official progress has been made." I winced at her emphasis.

"Contessa, I spoke to the Inspector yesterday afternoon at the second robbery at Museo Vetrario. The official explanation is disappointing: there are still no clues or suspects."

"That is both ridiculous and absurd!" The Contessa's command of the English language was impressive. "I shall have to speak to him again."

"Contessa, I was hoping you might kindly consent to answer a few questions from me about the robbery here on February 16th." I knew that Il Gazzettino, the local paper was keeping a running tally of the robberies and had listed a ten inch tall crested ewer crafted in 1875 by Salviati & Co, a premier glass maker. The ewer had been a Morosini family heirloom. I'm sure it must have been insured for thousands. As I've said, I'm no expert on antique Venetian glass, but my research had informed me that this particular sculpture had been featured in several glossy magazine articles from Venice to London and Paris to New York. I was sure the Contessa wanted it returned safely.

"I told Inspector Loredan all there was to tell. Are you officially authorized to be on this case, Signore Baker"?

Despite her emphasis on that word again, I knew I was on sanctioned ground. I told her that the Inspector had personally put me in charge of the only "clues" I had found - the gold foil candy wrappers. I did, however, feel obliged to inform the Contessa about the Inspector's doubts concerning this evidence.

"I'm not at all surprised. Dolce Bacio is the most popular candy in Venice, Signore Baker." At this point one of the lady bears-in-waiting leaned over and whispered something into the Contessa's ear.

"Madre del dio!" Contessa Morosini seemed seriously displeased. "What have you done, Margarita Foscari?"

What Margarita had done was to find three gold candy wrappers the morning after the robbery. She had severely scolded the downstairs maid for her untidiness and the candy wrappers were discarded. Needless to say, none of this was mentioned to the police.

Now, with solid information about the gold foil wrappers at three of the four robberies I had investigated in only two days, I thought I might have enough evidence to speak to - and perhaps interest - Inspector Marcello. I admit that Uncle Clive's crime scene did have a missing piece. Unless there might be a similar story with Uncle's housekeeper as there had with Natalia's and even Contessa Morosini's for that matter. I planned to talk to Uncle about this tonight.

Meanwhile, I would talk to Inspector Loredan since the Questore, Venice's police headquarters, was also in the Castello sestieri and only about a third of a mile away from the Contessa's. If I went street by street across Rio di Pieta and turned right along Rio de San Lorenzo, I could be at the Questura in about fifteen minutes. However, I thought I might take a little detour first to clear my mind and decide how best to approach the police. So I walked from the campo down Calle Dose to the Riva degli Schiavoni. This riva is the frontage walk overlooking the broad lagoon at the southern end of the Grand Canal. In a few minutes I found myself at La Pieta, Vivaldi's church, and I tried to imagine Venice's favorite son composing and conducting here. I never get tired of Le Quattro Formaggi (The Four Seasons) and I made a reminder to ask Cordelia if she knew of a performance in the city this week. As I turned, something else caught my eye: the magnificent bell tower on San Giorgio Maggiore island. Views like this present Venice in the best light and you are reminded how special the place is. It's one of those cities that seem to expand your outlook: everywhere, a thousand years of history and majestic, centuries-worn beauty take you beyond your present problems, out of yourself, to something larger. And as I looked out across the lagoon to the church of San Giorgio Maggiore, and beyond, the blue horizontal line of the Adriatic, I suddenly had the idea that this case might be much bigger than anyone had expected so far. I can't explain the feeling. Maybe just experience and the intuition from being on so many cases - even though this one was different in just about every way a case could be different.

Just as I was taking this all in I heard "Signore...Signore Basil" from a nearby gondola landing. It was Fabrizio and I was glad to see a familiar face. I told him I needed to go the Questura.

"Are you in trouble, Signore Baker?" asked Fabrizio.

I appreciated his concern but assured him all was well and that I was simply following up on my case. He seemed relieved and welcome me aboard. He said the Questura was just a few hundred meters down the Rio Dei Grechi, which was right next to the La Pieta church. This canale, he explained, led directly into the Rio San Lorenzo and to the boat launch dock of the Questura a short distance down. I told Fabrizio that I might need him to wait for me un poco tempo - only for a little while, I hoped. My plan was to speak briefly with Loredan about the candy wrappers. My next visit would be Baldassare Massari's palazzo in the Dorsoduro sestieri at the other end of the Canal Grande. I could take the Number 1 vaporetto waterbus from Piazza San Marco, which was only a short distance from the Questura. But the Number 1 boat is slow and crowded and I wanted time alone with Fabrizio to get his take on this whole Maladora di Venezia thing. There were eight robberies so far! I'd heard that gossip being a favorite Venetian past-time, I was hoping Fabrizio might have heard something that could be helpful. I was planning to employ his services for rest of the day. In a few minutes we were in front of the Questura, tying up the gondola.

"Ciao, Nicolo!" greeted Fabrizio intimately. A policebear tending to the police launches knew Fabrizio and they immediately struck up a conversation in Italian. I had gathered Fabrizio had introduced me and my mission and Nicolo extended his hand and pulled me up on the dock.

"Grazie, Nicolo! Can you tell me where Inspectore Marcello's office is? I have some important information for him."

"You will have to speak to Sergeant Lucca at the front desk." His tone was not encouraging.

I thanked him again and entered the Questura. I've been in plenty of police stations, in and out of the United States, and this one was decidedly unique. For one thing, the Sergeant in charge paid no attention to me as I walked up to his desk. It was about six feet tall - no doubt to intimidate - and very ornately carved wood that looked like mahogany, showing its age like the rest of Venice. It was not only high - but almost as wide the reception hall. There were no other visitors present and he was reading Il Gazzettino - I suppose to find out as much as he could about the robberies. No doubt six or seven other bears could be reading the same paper comfortably behind that imposing desk similarly engaged in the case.

"Scusi il interuption, Sergeant Lucca," Looking up to where he was sitting, I managed my best Italian. He put the papers down and commanded simply "Avanti!" in a deep baritone, though I couldn't have been more than ten feet away. I approached a bit nervously and stated my business.

"Inspectore Marcello is not here and I do not know when to expect him." was the only information the Sergeant was going to supply. I asked if he might know where the Inspectore might be at this hour. I explained that Inspector Marcello and I had met twice already.

"He is on special assignment. Would you like to leave your name, telephone number and address where he might reach you?"

I asked if I could at least have Inspector Marcello's cell phone number.

"I am sorry, Signore, but that is official police information." I understood that I wasn't about to get anywhere. I thanked him again, turned and left the Questura.

Once Outside I asked Fabrizio to take me to the nearest public telephone; I needed to call Uncle Clive. He might have Loredan's cell number. Fabrizio handed me his own cell phone instead so I dialed Uncle's number. The housekeeper answered and put me right through.

"I see I'm going to have to buy you a telefonino," insisted Uncle Clive.

"A what?" I inquired.

"It's what the Venetians call the cell phone, my boy. You simply cannot do business in Venice without one." He was rather emphatic and told me he was going to send out for one right away. It would be waiting for me at lunch at 2:00pm when he expected an update. But meanwhile there was big news: a second robbery in San Marco in a palazzo on the Grand Canal. Lorenzo Enrizo's palazzo had been broken into in the middle of the night and another precious work of Venetian glass sculpture had been stolen. What made this robbery particularly interesting to the local press was twofold: first, the latest crime scene was next to the all white Palazzo Corner-Loredan on the Canale Grande which, built in the thirteenth century, was now the official headquarters of the Commune of Venice, an administrative body that exercised great cultural control over what could and could not be done or built in Venice. But secondly - and much more important to the police and the increasing concern of Venetians - the stolen goblet was one of the city's rarest treasures. The ancient goblet was often loaned to various museum exhibitions and charity fund raising events for artistic committees dedicated to the preservation of all things Venetian. The goblet had been a gift from one of the most illustrious members of the Medici family in 1481. During his trip from Florence to Rome, this ruler - and major patron of the arts - made a stopover in Venice to visit an old family friend. Legend has it that he lost a game of cards: his 'penance' was to visit Murano Island and direct one of the glass maestros to make something that would befit his host. Ever the gracious lord, he more than complied and the results were two exquisite Venetian sculptures: a pair of golden glass goblets which, declared their benefactor, was to toast their good fortune the next time the families met. The brazen thief had stolen only one of the goblets. It reminded me of the Museo di Vetrario's two robberies and Cordelia's comments how it was a mystery that the thief - or thieves - hadn't taken both twin vases during the first robbery. Then it was a mystery, but now with the two goblets - and only one being stolen - we seemed to be seeing a definite pattern taunting the authorities by our master criminali.

After Uncle Clive filled me in on all this, he gave me Inspector Marcello's telefonino number; but said to use it sparingly. "Anyway he's bound to be at the latest crime scene; so I would go right over and learn what you can." All I could do was obey and remind him I would be home for lunch after my meeting with Loredan.

From the Questura dock, Fabrizio untied his gondola. "Ciao, Nicolo!", who was still tending the police launches. Fabrizio explained that Nicolo was Fabrizio's cousin and that his wife, Graziana, was about to have a baby bear any day now. Fabrizio was going to be the godfather, which to the Venetians is a very sacred duty. Fabrizio untied and rowed from the dock waving good-bye, but not before I saw Sergeant Lucca standing on the dock speaking intently with Nicolo. Fabrizio saw, too. "Venezia would stop functioning without gossip." I hoped Nicolo gave a good report of Fabrizio's new friend and that I would have a slightly easier time when I met Sergeant Lucca again. After all, we were on the same team.

After pulling away from the dock at the Questura, Fabrizio was all business and his expert rowing gave me the feeling he was about to show his true navigational skills through the backwaters of Venice. I wasn't disappointed. He first took us up Rio San Lorenzo a short distance and turned left into Rio Tetta, a smaller canale, until it merged with the larger Rio San Giovanni Laterano. Another hundred meters we turned left into Rio Pestrin and left again into Rio Mondo Nuovo. We then passed Campo San Maria Formosa, one of the more open and livelier squares in Venice. Nearby was the church of Santa Maria Formosa, built in the seventh century and later reconstructed in 1492 (Fabrizio felt the need to inform me - as he no doubt told other passengers - that there was no connection to Columbus' achievement). The ancient church was magnificent, though. In a few minutes we turned right on Rio San Zulian and then left into Rio Scoacamini. A short distance later we turned into Rio San Salvador and up another three hundred meters we entered the Grand Canal itself and a scene of frenzied activity - or perhaps frenzied inactivity, would be a better description.

A vaporetto, three water taxis, a smaller passenger boat, called a motoscafo, and several gondolas were bobbing, nearly motionless on the water in front of Palazzo Corner-Loredan and Lorenzo Enrizo's palazzo - all vying for the best view of the most recent crime scene. "Il Maladora di Venezia" had been front page news for over a week now and this latest theft would certainly be considered the most spectacular to date. About a hundred meters down the canal Fabrizio and I were well out of the way of the commotion. But tourists had already amassed along the front walk, the Riva di Ferro, to witness all the water craft blocking the four police launches desperately trying to get through to the crime scene. The police boat pilots, their patience lost, resorted to screaming orders to the other boats. In fact, tempers were at a high pitch and everyone, police and even the water-bound civilians, were screaming at each other - in an Italian best left untranslated. It seemed out of a some comic opera with pandemonium ruling the day, all to the great amusement of the tourists safely on the Riva di Ferro. The police became very agitated and for a moment I thought there might be some arrests. Through the hysterical scene, I could see that one police launch was already tied up in front of Lorenzo Enrizo's palazzo. I was hoping Inspectore Loredan had made it through the Grand Canal madness and had already reached the crime scene. Fabrizio thought it best to drop me off on the corner at Palazzo Bembo, now a hotel, and suggested I walk the rest of the way. I asked him to wait for me; I had a lot of ground - and water - to cover. I told Fabrizio I'd likely need his services for the rest of the day. He was very accommodating and Uncle Clive was picking up the bill, including Fabrizio's lunch. Our friendship was beginning to develop and I had a gut feeling Fabrizio was someone I could trust as well as depend upon.

On the other side of Palazzo Corner-Loredan rose Venice's City Hall, Palazzo Dandolo Farsettti. The thief, or thieves, were either foolishly imprudent or were making an in-your-face statement of defiance striking so close to Venezia's administrative offices. I suspected the latter given their successful larceny and their complete bewilderment of the authorities. I left Fabrizio and walked along the Riva di Ferro up to the front of Lorenzo Enrizo's palazzo. Two policebears were standing guard, keeping the curious away. I presented my credentials, informing them I had important information for Inspectore Loredan. One of the guards gave me a skeptical look up and down; but the bear examining my papers decided to give me the benefit of the doubt even though I had no appointment. He accompanied me to the foyer of the palazzo. He told me to wait while he consulted the Inspectore, who had apparently arrived scarcely ten minutes before me. He was just starting his investigation of the latest crime scene and I was surely interrupting him - but my information was too important not to report. In a few minutes Loredan himself appeared.

“How may I help you now, Signore?” There would be no pleasantries: he was annoyed and looked a little ruffled. But Uncle Clive's prominence in the community - and the fact that Uncle was a victim of this crime spree - was giving me at least some access.

"I believe I now have some solid evidence for you," I said.

"And may I see this 'evidence' Signore?" he asked condescendingly. I knew, of course, he was patronizing me. Maybe he looked forward to a bit of comic relief from the stress of the day. When I started to produce the candy wrappers, his eyes rolled over a sharp frown. But I was determined to stand my ground and waited, unprepared for his response.

"Not these again. Surely not, Signore Baker?" We were back to last names. "You see how busy the police are, do you not, Signore?" he continued. "We simply cannot track down every theory that comes along. Surely you can see that?" He sounded exasperated. I decided to be simple and direct.

"That's why you need my help, Inspectore." I dared the impertinence but had no choice if I was to make any progress. Loredan walked over to a side chair and sat down in a heavy slump.

"Continue," sighed the Inspectore.

"I have discovered that three of the crime scenes now report finding these same candy wrappers the morning after each robbery," I began.

The entire conversation really didn't take that long, focusing on the most likely explanation: that whoever was committing these robberies was also leaving Dolce Bacio candy wrappers behind. And these wrappers, as far an I understood, were in fact the only clues to go on.

"Do you think they are being left by accident, then, Signore Baker?" He asked. "Or perhaps deliberately to mislead us?"

I admitted I hadn't thought of it either way.

"The pawprints may give us answers," I offered. I showed him my list of the crime scenes I had visited and he wrote these down in his notebook. He agreed to re-examine the remaining locations in search of additional clues. Inspectore Marcello then rose to go and very formally, bowed slightly and said, "Grazie, Signore. We shall be in touch."

As I left, though, two thoughts were bothering me. The first was the idea that there was a criminal mastermind out there, apparently untouchable, who was deliberately taunting the authorities. These were audacious thefts. The second thought was of the certain humiliation all 'round if many more of these thefts occurred and still no progress to report. Loredan's career could be on the line: From the politicians to the media to the citizenry, all of Venezia was demanding the culprit(s) be identified, captured, convicted and confined, preferably forced to work in the prison kitchens hand-polishing the plastic cups.

Their thousand year history, however, has made the Venetians pragmatic as well as proud. The consensus was that the objects d' art had probably been sold already and transported to wealthy private collectors far from Venezia. If so, this case wiould surely involve Interpol eventually. Poor Loredan, I thought. I was all the more determined now to help him solve his case.

I walked back to Uncle Clive's for lunch, taking a traghetto to cross from San Marco to San Polo sestiere. Over antipasto and fettuccine alfredo (and a single glass of a delightfully light Frascati), I informed Uncle of my progress so far: the Navritolova and Morosini interviews and especially the conversation with Inspectore Marcello that resulted in the candy wrappers officially considered evidence.

"Good show, Basil! The first solid evidence to go on and you found it!" Uncle Clive raised his glass. "To success, my boy."

He was doubly impressed when I gave him the history of my encounters with Il Inspectore and that finally the relationship with Marcello was thawing, or so I felt. Uncle and I concluded that he must be resigned to the fact that I was definitely 'on the case' and going nowhere until the matter was resolved. Uncle Clive was in the mood to celebrate and told the serving bear to open a bottle of Chateau Haut-Brion with the soon to be served roast course. Uncle apparently keeps magnums of the stuff (his favorite, vint.1961) and the occasion demanded another one be poured immediately.

"Progress, my boy, is the cornerstone of civilization." Uncle Clive raised his glass again and gave me that look - the unmistakable, generous look that conveyed total, unreserved confidence - an eternal reassurance - in my abilities. Not long after starting my sleuthing career, my relatives have always been like that, for which I am grateful. And while I've never failed to solve a case - thus far, anyway - I knew no one had a perfect record forever, not even Sherlock Holmes. But the pressure I was feeling was somewhat relieved by the wine and a very fine luncheon.

After dessert, the butler bear bore a silver tray laden with a gift wrapped in patterned Venetian paper. It wasn't exactly a surprise: Uncle Clive was famous in the family for giving extravagant presents for no other reason than the giving. This present, however, was the telefonino Uncle had promised and he seemed well-pleased with himself, although a little impatient as I struggled with the wrapping. But at last, the latest model RazBerry smart-phone revealed itself. Uncle was true to his word: the RazBerry was the hot mobile communications device of the moment. Besides making calls and storing twelve-hundred names and addresses of my most important contacts, the phone maintained my calendar of things-to-do. According to the User's Guide, I would, apparently, never forget to do anything ever again. The RazBerry, of course, sent and received e-mail and it was already set-up with my account address: basilbaker@basilbaker.com. All I had to do was type in the password to my e-mail account. Best of all, it came with one of those cordless bluetooth wireless headsets that sat unobtrusively on my ear. So now I could appear to talk to myself wherever and whenever I wandered the streets or canals alone on a call. I had yet another surprise: during 'downtime' I could don a stereo wireless headset and listen to my favorite tunes. Lately I've been revisiting Vivaldi, Beethoven and Led Zeppelin. Now they could go with me wherever adventure led.

After lunch, my first call was to Cordelia to ask her out to see my friend Marco play at Teatro Jazz in San Marco. I left a voice mail and my new mobile number. I also called the number H.R. Glass had given me yesterday at the train station. He sounded delighted to hear from me and invited me to come over about four o'clock when, he said, he would be free for the rest of the day.

I had well over an hour to kill before meeting Glass, so I decided to pay a call on the fifth victim, Baldassare Massari, who lived in Dorsoduro on Rio D' Frescada near the great Palazzo Balbi. However, when I arrived, I saw that the residence had been shuttered closed and two rather formidable bears were guarding the front entrance. When I approached, they informed me Signore Massari had moved to his villa in Padua, about 40 kilometers west of the city. They had no information regarding his return. I had no choice but to come back another time.

Still in a walking mood, I crossed the bridge which connects Dorsoduro to the San Marco sestiere. A crowd had gathered on the San Marco side of the ponte dell' Accademia where a Carnevale reveler, costumed as an infamous senator of the old Republic, was entertaining the crowd with 'drunken' antics and crude bloviations. He carried an empty wine bottle as a prop, pausing now and then to pull it from his coat pocket and 'drink.' His wore no mask but his expressions of privilege and superiority, alternating with the stupefied look of a drunken letch. This pantomime was complemented by his exaggerated staggering. He took mock-exercise chasing several of the females present. The senator carried an oversized purse, open and overflowing with bribes ("campaign contributions") from his constituency. He would now and then engage the crowd in a game of pretend solicitation and the historical figure - drunken, corrupt and dishonorable - was thus given life. It was a fine bit of play-acting. The 'senator' bowed to great applause and seeing another crowd gathered near the flower market over on the Dorsoduro side, started to cross the bridge.

But the mummeries had just begun. Harley Kino, newly arrived on the scene and witnessing the crowd's enthusiastic reception of his predecessor, was determined to earn his share of the audience's attention now. As the 'senator' crossed the bridge, Harley tagged behind, miming the politician, gesture for gesture. When the senator stopped and pretended to drink again, someone tossed Harley a bottle of genuine wine (this was, after all, Carnevale). Not missing the cue, Harley pulled the cork out with his teeth and toasted the crowd. Then, holding the bottle six inches above his mouth, poured the shimmering ruby liquid past his greedy lips until the bottle was empty. With that gesture, Harley's imitation was complete. But applause all 'round brought an end to only this part of his performance. Harley hurled himself into an impromptu series of cartwheels over the bridge and back again, waving to the 'senator' as he passed him each way.

Encore! Encore! screamed the crowd. Harley's courage and sense of the theatrical were no doubt emboldened by his eager ingestion of wine: what came next was memorable. Harley commandeered a pair of pantalooned walking stilts from two young performers taking a break from the bright afternoon. Without hesitating, Harley mounted the stilts. But once aloft, he began swaying inexpertly (though this could have been part of the act), taking wide, uneven strides like some berserk cast-off from the Cirque du Soleil. The encouraging crowd parted and Harley, fifteen feet in the air, started to walk the bridge. Wild applause was heard from both sides of the water as Harley teetered above us. Wobbling violently at the apex of the bridge, Harley Kino concluded his act by diving head-first into the Grand Canal. An eerie, surreal moment of quiet followed. All eyes were on the performer's hat, floating precisely where Harley had entered the water. Fifteen seconds went by. Twenty seconds. Thirty! The suspense was finally broken when Harley bobbed to the surface, waving madly - and wearing his hat! The crowd roared once again. It was an inspired improvisation that would be immortalized by videocam operators who would later post their clips on YouTube for all the world to see.

 

 

I saw Fabrizio below the bridge helping passengers out of his gondola. I looked at my watch and thought it best if Fabrizio took me straight to Glass' palazzo. It fronted the the Canal Grande and arriving by gondola would be quicker than walking through a maze of side streets. So we headed north up the Grand Canal toward the Rialto. We passed under the bridge and when we had just passed the fish market at Campo Pescaria, Fabrizio pointed ahead to Glass' residence. It was an imposing - and familiar - structure and for a moment I was confused that this was Glass' residence.

"Fabrizio, isn't that the palazzo Ca' Pesaro?"

I knew that it was and I also knew it housed one of Venice's great modern art collections."

"Si, Si Signore. But Signore Glass purchased it from the city two years ago and kept the name."

I couldn't believe the city council would sell off one of its greatest architectural treasures and I told Fabrizio so.

"Signore Glass made the city an offer it couldn't refuse," he said. "Besides paying one billion Euros for the palazzo, he agreed to transfer, at his own cost, the entire art collection of the museo as soon as the additions to Museo Guggenheim were completed, again, at his own cost."

"I don't understand, I though the Guggenheim was already one of the foremost modern art museums in Venice."

"Si, that is true. In 1750 construction began on Palazzo Venier dei Leoni, as it was then called, but the project was never finished. Some say the money ran out. Others say that the powerful Corner family living opposite blocked the completion because it would have been grander than their own palazzo. The architect, Lorenzo Boschetti, had designed a three story, magnificent classical façade that would have rivaled any palazzo in Venice. Signore Glass offered to pay another billion Euros to add the two additional stories from Boschetti' original design. Any left over monies would be donated to the Guggenheim Foundation. That was two years ago and now Signore Glass has taken up residence in one of Venezia's most beautiful palazzi and Museo Guggenheim is now the greatest art museum in the city."

I was astounded by the story (and equally impressed by Fabrizio's knowledge). "But you don't seem upset by any of this, Fabrizio?"

"Well, to tell the truth, most Venetians like Signore Glass molto, very much. He has been generous to his adopted city, working hard for its preservation. He even donated another one billion Euros to the MOSE project."

I had heard of the MOdulo Sperimentale Elettromeccanico project, dubbed MOSE. Venice, having been built on millions of wooden piles driven into marshy ground, has been sinking into the Adriatic for a thousand years. While Venetians normally cope with the annual aqua alta, or high waters, the floods of November 1966 were much deeper than usual and affected much of Venice. Work has been under way on MOSE, an ambitious plan involving rows of massive gates positioned at four inlets to the Venetian lagoon. These gigantic constructions, rivaling anything built to date, will rise from the sea bed to cut the lagoon off from the open sea when high tides threaten the city. I also knew that the MOSE project would cost 4.5 billion Euros. Glass' magnanimous bequest to the city for the MOSE project must have taken some of the sting out of the controversial undertaking.

I had to admit that Fabrizio's account shed important light on Glass' character and my opinion of him went up a few notches. It certainly made Uncle Clive's suspicions all the more incredulous. I had no idea Glass was that rich. Donating billions of Euros?! This was serious money; and apparently a win-win for all involved. Here was my new friend, H.R.Glass: Art Patron, Civic Leader and Protector of Venice.

Fabrizio dropped me off at the dock of Ca' Pesaro where I saw Glass waiting. Having given my friend such a sterling review, I thought it appropriate to introduce Fabrizio. Fabrizio seemed honored to meet Glass. His formal bow - oar upright in best gondolier form- said it all. And Glass, for his part, was genuinely friendly despite the disparity of rank and fortune. He even asked Fabrizio to stay for a drink. Fabrizio apologized and said he was still working. Glass gave him a knowing nod that said, even with his vast wealth, he was acquainted with hard work as well. "Perhaps another time then," offered Glass. Fabrizio smiled and turning to me said, "I leave you in excellent company, Signore Basil." Then Fabrizio was off down the Grand Canal.

Glass led me into his palazzo. Though I've been in many of the fine homes and city buildings in Venice, nothing prepared me for the opulence I saw inside Ca' Pesaro. Of course, I'd seen pictures in books like Venetian Palaces and Portrait of Venice; but up close, everything from the marble floors and statuary to the frescoed ceilings were stunningly - hauntingly - beautiful, in that same way I had felt when first entering the Sistine Chapel in Rome: awe-struck beyond all thought, radiant impressions of art and history overwhelming the senses.

"And in another fifteen months or so," Glass was explaining, "I will have finally restored Ca' Pesaro to its original eighteenth-century grandeur." He was speaking as one might speak to a group of important visitors he was eager to impress. "And, if my plan is adopted by the City Council," he continued, "The much older palazzi, and historic government buildings as well, will be restored and protected for centuries to come."

For the first time I began to see that Glass might have an agenda and not merely aesthetic or artistic interests or even grand financial schemes (although the later probably did play an important part of his plans). I remember someone once said that "everything is political" but I couldn't discern yet how Glass might be involved in the unsteady (some say 'treacherous') waters of Venetian politics. I also remembered from that afternoon a Venetian witticism I heard Glass utter: "Yes, it's all very old and very beautiful," he said with a sigh at the end of our tour. "But every now and then I see Venice in a different light: where everything needs a new coat of paint."

All this, however, was but a preamble to what Glass really wanted me to see: his private collection. He led me into a ballroom - or what was once a ballroom - now converted to an enormous viewing gallery. As he was about to begin, his telefonino sounded a snip from a Vivaldi concerto and Glass excused himself to take the call. I was left alone to survey his art collection. It was certainly an eclectic grouping. There were at least three dozen sculptures: all at least head height and in a variety of styles displayed throughout. I correctly identified the artist (Rodine) of a huge, six foot tall copper-blued armadillo. Another Rodine, an eight foot high black marble bear entitled Ursus Major, sat on the opposite side of the gallery. Several more of the pieces looked familiar, like I'd seen them in textbooks. I recognized (courtesy of a liberal arts education) an Assyrian stone horse and three Greek statues, each marble, each missing vital body parts. There was also a marble of my favorite figure from Greek mythology, the Arktaur, half bear, half horse. A jade chalice - almost certainly Ming Dynasty work (or a forgery) - stood on a pedestal near a window where the late afternoon sun could show off the jade to best effect. A multi-armed, bronzed Shiva from India danced in a far corner. In another, a Pueblo Indian Papa Bear and Baby Bear greeted the onlooker. A magnificent glass dolphin floated head-height above the floor, supported by near invisible wires attached to the ceiling. It was life-size: eight feet of the most beautiful blue-green, translucent glass I've ever seen, unmarred by bubble or imperfection. Another stunning sculpture was hard to miss: a gold rabbit, polished and gleaming in the sunlight, beckoning the observer from across the room. Literally worth its weight in gold, if solid the five foot statue had to weigh two hundred pounds or more. I'd spotted my first million dollar bunny! The only item not fitting in with the grandeur of the room was a large wooden crate marked FRAGILE which stood upright against the wall. It was the crate I saw yesterday at the train station.

When Glass returned, he walked over to a mirrored cabinet and opening it, offered me a drink.

"Just a sparkling water, if you have it. Cold, no ice. Thanks." Anything stronger would have to wait until tonight. My host poured himself a glass of white wine.

"Well," he said. "What do you think of my little collection of objects d’art, Basil?" We walked around the room, drinking our drinks and examining his objects d’art. Beside each sculpture was a silver plaque engraved with information on the work. Several of my guesses proved correct.

"And here is my latest prize," said Glass when we came to the wooden crate. "All of Venezia shall see it unveiled this Saturday. I'm giving my annual Carnevale costume ball. Which reminds me - have you received the invitation I sent to your family yesterday at your Uncle's address in San Polo?"

I told him I hadn't. Perhaps Uncle Clive received it in this morning's mail but he hadn't mentioned it during lunch. Considering Uncle's suspicions, maybe he wouldn't. But I didn't tell Glass this. Remembering Natalia Navritolova's earlier referral to a costumer near Uncle Clive in San Polo, I was confident enough to tell my host that I looked forward to his masquerade.

"And bring a friend, if you like," said Glass.

We finished our tour, stopping in the center of the gallery where we stood before the only modern sculpture in the room. It was a floor-to-ceiling glass monolith. An intricate maze of colored glass was suspended within and changed shades and hues as you varied your angle of view. I'd seen this 'dichroic' effect used before by an American artist whose glass sculptures were sold in galleries in Carmel, Pebble Beach and Big Sur. But this piece was huge. The three sides appeared to be of equal dimension - about three feet across - making it a perfect three dimensional triangle, a vertical prism which grew from the marble floor and joined the ceiling eighteen feet above us. It was as though some modern-day Cubist had gotten the idea to create a Venetian column in an all-together new style. But this column didn't support anything. Its primary function, it seemed, was to capture the rays from the sun and the gallery lights and reflect them throughout the room. Glass looked about the room admiring all the beautiful objects surrounding us.

"Come to dinner with me this evening, Basil," Glass said unexpectedly.

I couldn't refuse, considering his courtesy. Besides, I thought that if I could get a look at the rest of his palazzo later, I could give Uncle Clive a good report on my new friend.

"The only engagement I have is at 11:00 tonight," I said. "I'm taking someone to see a friend play at Teatro Jazz." Glass said he had heard of the nightclub. But my working day was not yet over and curiosity compelled me to ask Glass, "Is your collection secure, H.R?" He gave me that same brush of the air with his paw that communicated it was not worth thinking about.

"There have been nine thefts," I reminded him. "Aren't you concerned H.R.?

"I'm not concerned at all," he said. "And you shouldn't be either, my friend. My security system defines state-of-the-art."

"Really," I said, not meaning to doubt him. But Glass took it as a friendly challenge anyway.

"May I demonstrate?" he asked.

My curiosity was on high-alert.

"Good afternoon, JEN," he said, with a special emphasis on the name. There were only the two of us in the room. Then I realized he was speaking to the Cubist sculpture.

"Good afternoon, H.R." intoned a friendly female voice as the colors in the glass column brightened. The voice seemed to come from everywhere and the glass column, now alive with activity, threw a spectrum of dancing colors onto the walls. Glass beamed and I suddenly remembered what he had told me on the train: H.R. to my friends.

"This is the J.E.N. 9000 Optical Super Computer, Basil," said Glass, sounding out each of the letters. "But we just call her JEN."

I was speechless.

"JEN," Glass continued, "this is our new acquaintance, Basil Baker. Why don't you tell Basil about yourself?"

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Basil," said the friendly voice. "I am the latest model of the JEN 9000 super-computer," she began. "I am responsible for the entire operations of the Glass palazzo, from staff supervision and scheduled maintenance, to all the financial transactions involving the residence. I also protect the palazzo's extensive art collection."

I see now why his palazzo hasn't been burgled; although that large glass dolphin might be a bit difficult to transport, I thought.

"Thank you JEN," said Glass. "Can you please list my schedule for tomorrow?"

"Certainly, H.R. Tomorrow, Wednesday, February 22nd, at 10:00 am you have a meeting with the Mayor, followed by lunch with Martina Maxilova at noon here at Ca' Pesaro. Your afternoon is free until 3:30 pm when you are being fitted by your costumer for the Carnevale Ball. At 9:00 pm you have a dinner engagement at Antico Giardinetto Ristorante with Dominica Firenze, Director of Museo Vetrario. You retire to your bed chambers no later than 12:00 midnight, per doctor's orders.”

Very impressive, I thought. I was curious about that last item but thought it was too personal to inquire about.

"Thank you, JEN," said my host. "Would you like to ask JEN a question, Basil?"

I'd never spoken to a super-computer before.

"JEN…" I started.

"Yes, Basil?"

"Are you aware that there have been a number of Venetian glass thefts here in the city over the past fortnight?"

"Yes, Basil, I am aware of that fact. There have been nine thefts from February 13th to February 20th. All the robberies occurred at night and only a single piece of Venetian glass sculpture was stolen on each occasion. Total value of the objects stolen, so far, has reached eight million Euros."

So far? That sounded odd.

"Why do you say 'so far' JEN?"

"My systems conclude that since no one has been apprehended and there are no clues for the police to follow, there is a ninety-eight percent probability the thefts will continue."

She had my attention. I decided to go deeper.

"At this time, JEN, can you detect a pattern in the thefts that might help us find the thief?"

"Or thieves," she offered "There is no reason to assume that only one thief is responsible for these thefts. In fact…just a moment, just a moment…Basil, there is an eighty percent likelihood a pattern does exist: on six consecutive nights, the criminali have alternated their thefts from location