FEAR,” said the voice over the telephone. “I mean that, Tony. I’m sitting here in my own study and I can smell murder. As clearly as you ever smelled mildew in a damp cellar. Get out of Venice and come to me; now; tonight.” Anthony Newcomen, newly wakened by the snoring buzzer of the telephone beside his bed, turned on his side and looked out the hotel window at the illumined face of Santa Maria della Salute across the Grand Canal.