Compounded Interest

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The stranger said in miserable Italian, “I wish to see Sior Marin Goldini on business.”

The concierge’s manner was suspicious. Through the wicket he ran his eyes over the newcomer’s clothing. “On business, Sior?” He hesitated. “Possibly, Sior, you could inform me as to the nature of your business, so that I might inform his Zelenza’s secretary, Vico Letta…” He let his sentence dribble away.

The stranger thought about that. “It pertains,” he said finally, “to gold.” He brought a hand from his pocket and opened it to disclose a half dozen yellow coins.

“A moment, Lustrissimo,” the servant blurted quickly. “Forgive me. Your costume, Lustrissimo…” He let his sentence dribble away again and was gone.

A few moments later he returned to swing the door open wide. “If you please, Lustrissimo, his Zelenza awaits you.”

He led the way down a vaulted hall to the central court, to the left past a fountain well to a heavy outer staircase supported by Gothic arches and sided by a carved parapet. They mounted, turned through a dark doorway and into a poorly lit corridor. The servant stopped and drummed carefully on a thick wooden door. A voice murmured from within and the servant held the door open and then retreated.

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