Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19 As rich Cahill superstars went, Fidelio Racco was definitely on the B-list. Maybe even the D-list. Google had heard of him, but a search for his surname placed him below Racco Auto Body in Toronto and Trattoria Racco in Florence, and only slightly ahead of the Rack O'Lamb Irish Chop House in Des Moines. The multimillionaire merchant might have been hot stuff in the eighteenth century, but the composer he had driven to the poorhouse had fared much better in the eyes of history. Although he was no Mozart, Racco's great wealth had founded Collezione di Racco, a private exhibit displaying the treasures and artwork Racco collected during his world travels. It was there that Amy and Dan decided to continue their search the next afternoon, leaving Nellie at the hotel with Saladin and several varieties of Italian cat food.

Maybe the change of country would lead to a change of fortune in ending the hunger strike. The exhibit was located in Racco's eighteenth-century home, which rubbed Dan the wrong way right from the start. "Racco house, Mozart house," he grumbled as they marched along the cobblestone streets. "Boring house would be more like it." Amy was losing patience. "Why do you always have to say that? Boring this, boring that! If this house gives us the next clue, it's the most unboring place on the planet." "Amen to that," Dan agreed. "Bring it on, the sooner the better." "We're getting close," Amy promised. "I can smell it." Dan wrinkled his nose. "All I smell is canal water. Man, I might never get it out of my nasal passages." Venice really was a great pedestrian city, if you knew where you were going, Amy reflected. The walk to Collezione di Racco was only twenty minutes. That modest distance brought them from

their shabby hotel to a large stone mansion in what was obviously a very expensive part of town. "I guess the ripping-off-Mozart business paid pretty well," Dan commented. "It wasn't just the money he made from Mozart," Amy explained. "The guy was a major player in international trade. He had fleets of ships all over the globe." Dan nodded. "Our old-time cousins were such big shots. What happened to all the loser Cahills? You know, regular Joes like us who never got rich and famous." At the front entrance, they were greeted by a statue of Fidelio Racco himself. If the likeness was life-size, the millionaire merchant had been very short — only an inch or two taller than Dan. Most surprising of all, though, Racco was strumming a mandolin, and his open mouth seemed to imply he was singing. Dan's eyes narrowed. "Another Janus?" His sister nodded. "That would explain why Mozart came to him to import that special steel. He figured he'd be safe with someone from his

own branch." "Bad move, Wolfgang," Dan said sagely. "Never trust a Cahill." They entered the mansion and paid the hefty admission fee of twenty euros. Even now, centuries after his death, Fidelio Racco was still overcharging people. They toured the exhibit's various rooms, which housed most of the riches of the eighteenth- century world — silk, heavy brocades, and pottery from the orient; silver and gold from the Americas; diamonds, ivory, and spectacular wood carvings from Africa; and exquisitely woven carpets from Arabia and Persia. "This stuff is amazing," Amy whispered to Dan. "Only a Janus could have such incredible taste!" The decorative arts were dizzyingly impressive, but the information display explained that most of Racco's great wealth had come from less glamorous commodities — teas, spices, and a rare Japanese steel alloyed with wolfram, which had the highest melting point of any metal. "For sure that's the steel Racco was selling to

Mozart," Amy said positively. "Wolfram," Dan mused, a far-off look in his eye. "I've heard of that from somewhere." Amy was skeptical. "Are you sure you're not thinking of Wolfgang?" "No, wolfram. Grace told me about it." He rounded on his sister. "You're not the only grandchild she told stuff to, you know." Amy sighed. "All right, what did she say?" He looked stricken. "I was sort of tuning her out." "That's why she told most of it to me — because she knew you'd forget it all." They wandered through a hallway of exquisite carved and gilt furniture from all corners of the world, which dead-ended in a round room. At the center, bathed in blue light, stood a polished mahogany harpsichord. "I'm out of here," said Dan. "This is starting to look a lot like you-know-who." Amy put a grip on his arm strong enough to splinter bone. "It is you-know-who! It says right

here — this is the instrument Mozart played at his performance in Racco's house in 1770!" "There's only one problem: It's a harpsichord. It doesn't tell us what D > HIC means. And it has nothing to do with cake, in French or any other language." "Still," Amy insisted. "Everything we've been through has been leading us to this instrument. It's going to give us the next clue. I'm sure of it." Dan reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a wadded, crumpled napkin. "Good thing I wasn't wearing these pants when we went into the canal." Amy was confused. "What's that?" He unfolded the napkin to reveal the train logo. "The only thing to do with a harpsichord is play music. This is music." He turned it over, and there was the version of KV 617 he had reproduced on the train. Amy had to keep herself from cheering. "Dan, you're a genius! We take a musical clue from Ben Franklin and play it on Mozart's instrument!" They looked around. The harpsichord was