Days Without Number (36 page)

The room was small, low-ceilinged and minimally furnished, with a bed, a wardrobe, a cabinet and a hard chair. There was a wash-hand basin in one corner, a framed bird's-eye view of Venice in 1500 by way of decoration and a tiny window commanding a congested vista of chimneypots and washing lines.

It was immediately apparent to Nick that Basil had left with every intention of being back in the near future. His alarm clock was still on the bedside cabinet, his toiletries still jumbled around the basin. And his rucksack, half-filled with clothes, was still where he had stowed it in the wardrobe. In quest of some clue as to where he had been since Monday, Nick ferreted through the rucksack, discovering precisely nothing, before turning his attention to the rest of the room. But there was nothing to be discovered there either. The shallow drawer of the bedside cabinet contained a crumpled copy of Carri�re d�lia Sera. That was all.

Nick sat on the edge of the bed and stared blankly into the grey morning beyond the window. Where had Basil gone? Where and why? There was only one trail to follow. The sooner he set off for the Palazzo Falcetto the better. He stood up.

Then he sat down again, as a thought suddenly crystallized in his mind. Basil's Italian was certainly better than his, but did it stretch to combing the columns of Carri�re d�lia Serai Nick slid the drawer open and picked up the paper. It was a week-old edition, folded open at an inner page. Nick laid it out flat on the bed. Almost at once, he noticed a circle of red ballpoint round one medium-sized article. He could make little of it, of course, but there was a word in the headline - omicidio - which he felt sure meant murder.

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For the price of another espresso, Luigi supplied Nick with a rough translation. The article concerned the progress - or lack of it - of police enquiries into the murder of Valerio Nardini, a 54-year-old dealer in antique maps, whose body had been found in a disused warehouse in the Arsenale district early in January; he had been shot through the head. There was speculation linking Nardini's murder to the sale at auction in Geneva two months previously of several medieval portolani which had allegedly been exported illegally from Italy. Luigi could not find an English word equivalent to portolano. 'A special kind of map for sailors' was the best he could do. He remembered the case only vaguely. The Italian word for auctioneer was banditore and might as well be bandito, he joked. They were not to be trusted. He doubted the police would be making an arrest any time soon.

Nick headed south through the gun-metal morning, the page he had torn from the newspaper stuffed in his pocket. He was aiming for the nearest vaporetto stop, Luigi having advised him how best to reach the Palazzo Falcetto. Why Basil should be interested in a murdered map dealer he had no idea, but he also had no doubt that the reason was in some way connected with the other deaths that had brought him to Venice. If he could only grasp what the connection was, everything else might fall into place. Technically, he could not be sure the newspaper had not been left in the room by a previous ,, occupant. It was dated two days earlier than Basil's arrival in *

the city, after all. But he felt sure. He felt absolutely certain. It was only a pity he did not feel so certain about much else.

The number 1 vaporetto criss-crossed slowly from bank to bank down the Grand Canal. It was half-filled with a subdued assortment of tourists and residents. The Carnival seemed explicitly to be over, as a drift of rain across the decaying fa�ades of the canalside palazzi somehow confirmed. The massed architecture of Venice's glorious past drifted dankly 304

past as Nick's mind dwelt on ancient maps of the oceans. They specialized in dire warnings against entering certain waters, he reflected. 'Here be Sea-serpents' - that kind of thing. If you ignored the warnings, well, then as now, he supposed, the consequences were on your own head.

Nick spotted the Palazzo Falcetto while the vaporetto was nudging in towards the landing-stage at the San Tom� stop, where Luigi had told him to get off. It might well have out-Gothicked its elegantly proportioned neighbour - all quatrefoiled arches and traceried balconies - but there was no way to tell, since its fa�ade was swathed in scaffolding and thick-gauge plastic. Workmen were unloading cement sacks from a boat on to a pontoon in front of a scaffolded porch, through which a flagstoned terrace could be glimpsed. The contractor's sign proclaimed ricostruzione and there was clearly a lot of it going on.

Once off the vaporetto, Nick followed a devious route he had traced on his map round to the landward entrance to the palazzo. High walls blocked his view all the way along the narrow Calle Falcetto. At the far end, through a massive wrought-iron gate, he could see an overgrown garden to one side and a soaring, unscaffolded flank of the building to the other. He yanked at the bell.

He had yanked a second time before a heavy-lidded, unshaven young man in dusty overalls wandered into view. 'Buongiorno' the man mumbled through a mouthful of midmorning snack, followed by some unintelligible remark as he edged open the gate.

'Parla inglese?'

'A little. What you want?'

'I'm looking for Signore Paleologus. He lives here, doesn't he?'

'// capo? Si, ma . . .' The man shrugged. 'He is not living here now. Non al momento. Because of . . . la ricostruzione. Understand? He comes to see the work. Then he goes.'

'But he's due today, isn't he?'

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'S/. Later.'

'What time?'

'What time? You think he make . . . un appunlamento! He comes when he wants.'

'It's vital I speak to him. Believe me. It's . . . mollo importante. Have you any idea when he's likely to be here?'

The man shrugged. 'Three. Four. Who knows? He comes with . . . il architetto. After they eat good lunch. You know?'

'When would be the best time to try?' Nick took some money from his wallet and proffered a note. 'Do you think?'

The man thought. 'About three forty-five.' He took hold of the note and Nick let go. 'This is when I would try.'

'Thanks.'

'You want me tell him you're coming?'

Nick hesitated, then said, 'No.'

'OK.' The man grinned and pocketed the cash. 'Our secret.' Then he closed the gate, turned on his heel and vanished.

Nick had hoped to speak to cousin Demetrius before trying his luck at the British Consulate, but it would have to be the other way round now. The Consulate might just know something about Basil and Nick suspected that the morning was the best time to go calling. According to the knowledgeable Luigi, it was located right next to the Accademia Bridge, two vaporetto stops south of San Tom�. Nick went straight there.

The area was a massing-point for tourists, what with the views along the Grand Canal available from the bridge and the artistic treasures of the nearby Galleria deH'Accademia. On one side of the crowded campo in front of the gallery stood a pink-stuccoed palazzo with a Union flag hanging limply from the piano nobile balcony. Access for the public was via a side-gate, controlled by CCTV and entryphone. Nick was relieved to note that he was within the limited opening hours displayed on the sign - Monday to Friday, ten till one. He pressed the buzzer, asked to be admitted and, without ado, he was. He crossed a walled garden, entered the building and followed another sign up an imposing staircase past a couple 306

of vast Grecian busts to a reception area. No-one else was making any call on the receptionist's time and she seemed genuinely sympathetic when he explained that he was in Venice trying to find his brother, who had vanished from his hotel. She would see if there was someone who could help.

There was: a bland-faced, sandy-haired fellow called Brooks, who occupied a small office on the other side of the palazzo, looking north. He was a young man with middle aged airs, dressed for Whitehall and perhaps dreaming thereof. But he greeted Nick cordially enough.

'You have an exotic surname, Mr Paleologus. Do you boast Byzantine ancestry?'

'So quite a few members of my family like to believe.'

'Who can blame them?'

'I was wondering if you knew anything about my brother, Mr Brooks. Basil Paleologus. He's been in Venice since the end of last week.'

'I'm afraid not. And I would remember the name. He's gone missing, as I understand it.'

'Yes.' Nick set out the facts of Basil's disappearance as succinctly as he could, without of course revealing their true context. He let Brooks believe he was dealing with a case of a tourist in distress. He made no mention of cousin Demetrius. Reticence was hardly the best policy when seeking assistance, of course, but for the moment it was the only policy he could afford to adopt.

'When did you last speak to your brother, Mr Paleologus?' was Brooks's opening shot when Nick had finished.

'Sunday morning.'

'And he was last seen at his hotel?'

'Monday morning.'

'Well, it's only Wednesday today. It may be premature to raise the alarm.'

'I don't think so. He left all his stuff in his hotel room. He obviously intended to return there.'

'Venice can be a distracting place. Perhaps he's ... found a friend.'

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'He'd still need to brush his teeth and change his clothes.'

'Point taken. What does the hotelier think?'

'She suspected him of doing a bunk. But I've sorted that out.'

'Good. We wouldn't want the police after him, would we?'

'I wouldn't mind, if they could find him.'

'Well, you could report the matter to them, of course. I could even phone them on your behalf - the Questura is hardly a bastion of multilingualism. But I doubt they'd take a disappearance of such short duration very seriously. There's really nothing to suggest he's come to any harm. A middle aged man, alone in Italy, gone walkabout. Is it possible that you're . . . overreacting?'

Nick stifled his irritation. From Brooks's viewpoint, it probably seemed very possible. 'I came to check if Basil had been in touch with anyone here or if you'd heard anything about him. The answer's no. So . . .' Nick stood up. 'Thanks for your time.'

'Give it a few days, Mr Paleologus. That's my advice.'

'Maybe I will.' Then again, maybe he would not. 'Oh, you don't happen to know what portolani are, do you?'

Brooks's eyebrows shot up. 'Portolanil As a matter of fact, I do. What makes you ask?'

Suddenly, Nick felt reluctant to mention the newspaper article. He substituted a simple if hasty lie. 'The word was scribbled on a scrap of paper I found in Basil's hotel room. It looked like his writing.'

'Really? Does your brother speak Italian?'

'A little.'

Ts he interested in old maps?'

'Not particularly. Is that what portolani are?'

Tn a sense. In English, we call them portolans.'

'I've never heard of them.'

'They're a little known byway of cartographic history. I take a modest interest in the subject.'

'So, what are they?'

'Linear maps designed for mariners, charting coastlines and the waters between for specific journeys: harbours, head308

lands, shallows, reefs, rocks and so forth. They're often more accurate, within their limits, than general maps of the same period. The earliest surviving example dates from about thirteen hundred. A lot of them were produced here in Venice. The Correr Museum has quite a good collection if you want to see what I'm talking about. It's in the Piazza San Marco.'

'I might take a look.'

'Do. You'll find them fascinating, I think. Would they have appealed to your brother?'

'I don't know.'

'Only, it's odd . . .' Brooks frowned. 'They, ah, hit the local news a few months ago.'

'Oh. How did they do that?'

'There were allegations that a set of very early Venetian portolans auctioned in Geneva last November had been smuggled out of Italy. The set fetched more than half a million Swiss francs, as I recall. That was before the allegations blew up, of course. There was something else strange about those particular portolans, which prompted another allegation - that they were forgeries. I can't remember exactly what the problem was and I'm not sure whether they were ever authenticated or not. Either way, however, forged or smuggled, they were undeniably . . . hot.' Brooks smiled weakly. 'A local map dealer implicated in the affair was murdered earlier this year. Draw your own conclusions.'

'I'm not sure I'm qualified to.'

'Who is, Mr Paleologus? Deep waters, though. That we can say. Best not to dip one's toe in.' Brooks's gaze narrowed. 'There's no possibility your brother might have' - he cleared his throat meaningfully - 'become involved?'

'None whatever.'

'No. Thought not. In which case . . .' Brooks spread his hands. T'm confident he'll turn up soon.'

Nick did not share Brooks's confidence. He knew too much to be able to.

He left the Consulate, crossed the bridge and followed the

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signs and the loose knots of tourists towards San Marco. The piazza, when he reached it, was much as he recalled, the crowds thickest in the arcades either side and in front of the Basilica and the Doge's Palace.

The Correr Museum had fewer takers. It occupied the upper floors of the buildings on two sides of the piazza and Nick had to march through room after room of statues and coins and suits of armour before he came to the maps.

The portolans on display were clearly designed for professional sailors. Coastal features were depicted in minute detail. Inland was a blank. They were mariners' strip-maps, conveying essential information and nothing else. Frolicking sea-serpents did not get in on the act. None of them was earlier than sixteenth-century, though. What fourteenth or even thirteenth-century portolans would look like was hard to judge. And Brooks had not said just how early the controversial portolans auctioned in Geneva were supposed to be.

Nick left the museum and trailed slowly across the piazza, wondering what he should do next. He had more than two hours to kill before there was any point returning to the Palazzo Falcetto. He should probably have lunch, but he seemed to possess no appetite. He decided to walk up to the Rialto, eat something there, then take a vaporetto back to San Tom�.