said Jordan.
“Neither?”
“To me, the direct approach seems hopeless. As hopeless as calling in an outside organization like Interpol. We agreed that if you called Interpol or anyone else, they couldn’t just come here and barge into San Lazzaro. An outsider would contact the Soviets or Italians, who would deny the kidnapping while whisking MacDonald away, and then they would invite the foreign investigators to look for themselves. Well, it would be the same if we went to the police or to the Armenian monks. No one could abduct someone like MacDonald right here in Venice, keep him a prisoner, without both police complicity and the voluntary or involuntary cooperation of the monks. So if we go to either of them with the note, they will say it is a crazy forgery, say they have no knowledge of MacDonald’s whereabouts, move him off San Lazzaro, and invite us to see for ourselves. At best, the police might pretend to look into the matter, investigate, and then tell us they had found no trace of a Professor MacDonald, imprisoned or otherwise. No, Alison, the direct approach won’t do.”
“But we’ve got to do something,” Alison said desperately. “We’re running out of time.”
Jordan was lost in thought. Gradually, he began to speak his mind. “It’s no use going to the police. Let’s forget them. That leaves the monks on San Lazzaro. I know all about them. They’re a decent lot, goodhearted, charitable. I’ve been over there sightseeing and have visited with some of them. Besides, one of my best friends here in Venice—an Armenian who owns a glass shop)—has a nephew who is a member of the order on San Lazzaro, and he’s always telling…” Abruptly, in mid sentence, Jordan stopped speaking. He sat up, staring at Alison. “By God,” he said, “maybe that’s the way. Sembut. Sembut Nurikhan.”
Alison showed her bewilderment. “What are you saying?”
“Listen,” said Jordan excitedly, almost coming off the chair, “I have an Armenian friend here, a good friend, named Sembut Nurikhan. He has an older brother in Mestre—that’s the nearest mainland city—who has been very ill. The brother’s youngest son became a member of the Mechitarist Congregation on San Lazzaro. For his brother’s sake, and because he likes the boy, Sembut keeps in close touch with his nephew, helps him with money and in other ways. Don’t you see, Alison? This gives us a contact on San Lazzaro.” Jordan stood up. “I know Sembut telephones his nephew at least once a week, to report to the boy on his father’s condition and to find out how the boy is doing. That means it is possible to get a phone call through to San Lazzaro. I’ll go to Sembut and explain the situation honestly. Tell him what’s happened.”
“Can you trust him?” Alison interrupted. “After all—”
“Completely,” said Jordan. “I’ll get Sembut to call his nephew. Try to find out for us what’s going on—and if there is some way his nephew can help us, or get someone to help us…”
Alison was still worried. “Will he be able to talk on the phone?”
“We can only find out.”
“When?”
He took her by the arm. “Right now.”
* * *
Night was beginning to fall when they hurried up the alley called Ramo San Zulian and into the Campo San Zulian. The store windows in the small square were lighting up for the evening’s business, but as far as Jordan could see, Nurikhan’s Glass Shop was darkened. That instant, Sembut Nurikhan stepped out of the store into the thoroughfare and began to draw down the metal shutters that protected his front entrance.
Holding Alison’s arm, Jordan hailed his friend and accelerated his pace.
The Armenian proprietor halted what he was doing, adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses to make out who had called his name, and then broke into a smile. “Ah, Tim, it is you. I was closing the shop early to go to Mestre to visit my brother. He is confined to bed, I am sorry to say. He appreciates company.
“Neither?”
“To me, the direct approach seems hopeless. As hopeless as calling in an outside organization like Interpol. We agreed that if you called Interpol or anyone else, they couldn’t just come here and barge into San Lazzaro. An outsider would contact the Soviets or Italians, who would deny the kidnapping while whisking MacDonald away, and then they would invite the foreign investigators to look for themselves. Well, it would be the same if we went to the police or to the Armenian monks. No one could abduct someone like MacDonald right here in Venice, keep him a prisoner, without both police complicity and the voluntary or involuntary cooperation of the monks. So if we go to either of them with the note, they will say it is a crazy forgery, say they have no knowledge of MacDonald’s whereabouts, move him off San Lazzaro, and invite us to see for ourselves. At best, the police might pretend to look into the matter, investigate, and then tell us they had found no trace of a Professor MacDonald, imprisoned or otherwise. No, Alison, the direct approach won’t do.”
“But we’ve got to do something,” Alison said desperately. “We’re running out of time.”
Jordan was lost in thought. Gradually, he began to speak his mind. “It’s no use going to the police. Let’s forget them. That leaves the monks on San Lazzaro. I know all about them. They’re a decent lot, goodhearted, charitable. I’ve been over there sightseeing and have visited with some of them. Besides, one of my best friends here in Venice—an Armenian who owns a glass shop)—has a nephew who is a member of the order on San Lazzaro, and he’s always telling…” Abruptly, in mid sentence, Jordan stopped speaking. He sat up, staring at Alison. “By God,” he said, “maybe that’s the way. Sembut. Sembut Nurikhan.”
Alison showed her bewilderment. “What are you saying?”
“Listen,” said Jordan excitedly, almost coming off the chair, “I have an Armenian friend here, a good friend, named Sembut Nurikhan. He has an older brother in Mestre—that’s the nearest mainland city—who has been very ill. The brother’s youngest son became a member of the Mechitarist Congregation on San Lazzaro. For his brother’s sake, and because he likes the boy, Sembut keeps in close touch with his nephew, helps him with money and in other ways. Don’t you see, Alison? This gives us a contact on San Lazzaro.” Jordan stood up. “I know Sembut telephones his nephew at least once a week, to report to the boy on his father’s condition and to find out how the boy is doing. That means it is possible to get a phone call through to San Lazzaro. I’ll go to Sembut and explain the situation honestly. Tell him what’s happened.”
“Can you trust him?” Alison interrupted. “After all—”
“Completely,” said Jordan. “I’ll get Sembut to call his nephew. Try to find out for us what’s going on—and if there is some way his nephew can help us, or get someone to help us…”
Alison was still worried. “Will he be able to talk on the phone?”
“We can only find out.”
“When?”
He took her by the arm. “Right now.”
* * *
Night was beginning to fall when they hurried up the alley called Ramo San Zulian and into the Campo San Zulian. The store windows in the small square were lighting up for the evening’s business, but as far as Jordan could see, Nurikhan’s Glass Shop was darkened. That instant, Sembut Nurikhan stepped out of the store into the thoroughfare and began to draw down the metal shutters that protected his front entrance.
Holding Alison’s arm, Jordan hailed his friend and accelerated his pace.
The Armenian proprietor halted what he was doing, adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses to make out who had called his name, and then broke into a smile. “Ah, Tim, it is you. I was closing the shop early to go to Mestre to visit my brother. He is confined to bed, I am sorry to say. He appreciates company.
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