I Spy Read Free

him. “You must mean Monsieur Giovedi...”
    “That’s him,” beamed Trey, holding out the matchbox. “Will you give this back to him – I would’ve, but it said ‘Do not derange’ on his door, and I
didn’t want to make him mad...”
    “When I next see him.” The steward nodded curtly, taking the object from Trey’s hand as if it was quite possibly infectious.
    So “Monsieur Mustache” turned out to be called Monsieur Giovedi, which Trey thought sounded as if he maybe came from somewhere like Italy, which meant that he was
more than likely called Signor Giovedi. But the real surprise, as he and his father came into the dining car, was that Signor Giovedi had a travelling companion. And she was a platinum blonde
looker, in the style of that actress Thelma Todd, right off the cover of one of his magazines!
    His father didn’t seem to notice as he was in mid-flow, telling Trey about all the things they were going to be doing during their three-day stay in Venice. And, as Trey had figured, it
boiled down to yet more museums and galleries, but so far there had been no mention of theatres, which was what his mother would call “a small blessing”.
    The head waiter beckoned them down the carriage and then pulled a chair out from the table he’d chosen for them; Trey’s father ushered him forward, and as he went past Signor Giovedi
and his companion he realized the woman was wearing the exact same perfume his mother liked to use. This really did not fit with the way she looked – because she looked absolutely nothing like his mother, who was undoubtedly very pretty, but would never make the cover of Black Ace in a million years.
    The seat that Trey was shown to gave him no view at all of the Giovedis (he was assuming they were married – although he knew that any sleuth wishing to stay alive till the end of a story
should never assume anything and always worked on the facts alone – as he hadn’t thought to check the woman’s left hand as he went past).
    “Close your mouth, Trey, you look like a galumph...and whoever it is you’re staring at, stop.”
    Trey snapped back, automatically sitting up straight and looking at his father. “Just daydreaming, Pops...wondering what was for lunch.”
    “Well I’d recommend looking at the menu, rather than anywhere else...” Putting on his horn-rimmed reading glasses, T. Drummond MacIntyre II picked his menu up and
followed his own advice, nodding to himself as he turned over the pages. “All very nice...”
    A cursory glance told Trey that, in his father’s own words, he begged to differ. For a start the menu was all in Italian and just looked so darned classy that it was obvious there
wouldn’t be anything on it he’d like. “I suggest you have the Fettuccine alle polpette , Trey, followed by the Gelato alla fragola ,” he said as the waiter came
and stood by their table. “That should keep you going until we reach the hotel.”
    “But Pops!” Trey watched the waiter’s pencil hover over his pad. “Can’t I just have a baloney sandwich, please?”
    “My suggestion is that you have something very like your beloved spaghetti and meatballs, Trey, followed by strawberry ice cream.”
    Trey looked up from the menu to find his father smiling back at him. “It is?”
    “Sure. But if all you want is a sandwich, I’m sure I can ask the waiter here to see what they can rustle up for you...”
    “Spaghetti and meatballs, right?”
    Trey’s father nodded.
    “Okay...”

 
4 ONE STORY ENDS...
    A fter a very satisfactory lunch, try as he might, Trey had been unable to get away from his father to continue his investigations on the train,
and, now here they were, with their luggage, chugging off towards the Hotel Excelsior on some overcrowded water taxi.
    “...they call this a vaporetto , son,” came the answer to an unasked question, “because it’s steam-powered.”
    Frankly, as far as Trey was concerned, they could call the boat whatever they