The Good Thief's Guide to Venice (31 page)

Dear Friend. As a fan of mystery fiction, you might appreciate this twist. Your pal the Count isn’t dead – he’s safe in police custody. Sincerely, Charles E. Howard
.

I jabbed my pen into the page, laying down a mighty full stop. I was quite pleased with the way I’d structured the message. The reference to ‘police custody’ had just the right degree of ambiguity. It covered me if the Count was being cared for by the authorities following his kidnap ordeal, but Graziella might also interpret it as meaning that Borelli had been arrested, perhaps in connection with the murders in Monte Carlo. That could plant a timely seed of doubt in her mind – maybe even cause her to experience some of the angst I imagined her uncle had undergone before taking his life. Granted, she hadn’t struck me as the type to show a great deal of remorse for her actions, but it didn’t take a psychologist to speculate that her uncle’s death might change all that.

I tossed the book down onto her bed and set my mind to considering my next move. My next move was to conduct a quick search. I started with the hollow in the wall and it didn’t take me long to conclude that all the alcove contained was shoes, and all the shoes contained was stale air and the occasional shred of sock fluff. I moved across to the hanging rail and patted down her clothes. There was nothing that felt like a hardback book or an incriminating piece of evidence. The same was almost true of the packing crate beside the bed. I lifted it clear from the ground and checked underneath. A clear plastic bag had been taped to the inside of the crate. It was filled with a modest stash of casino chips. I reached for a blue chip and saw that it was branded with the words
Casinò di Venezia
. I thought it likely she’d been palming the odd chip to herself while dealing, but my suspicion wouldn’t get me very far.

Normally, I’d have swiped the bag, but since I couldn’t imagine I’d have an opportunity to return to the casino, I popped the chip back, dropped the crate and tackled the bed. Pillows, then duvet, then mattress. It was only as I rolled up the lower half of the mattress to peek beneath that I spotted something on the floor through the wooden slats of the futon frame. A small, glossy pamphlet, the pages stapled together along the spine.

I let go of the mattress and fell to my knees, hooking the pamphlet out from under the frame with the end of my penlight. Then I pointed the beam at the pamphlet and released a pitiful groan.

‘So that’s how you knew about my book,’ I said, to no one in particular.

Printed on the page I was looking at was an article all about me. What was it – seven, eight months ago now? I’d been at a dinner party that Martin and Antea had invited me to, where I’d got stuck chatting to some ex-pat windbag who ran a freebie English-language arts journal in the city. He’d convinced me to answer some questions on my burglar novels – even though I very much doubted that the chattering classes would be inclined to sully their hands reading anything of the sort. Oh, and my picture had been featured, too – a shot of me sitting at the desk in my apartment with my laptop behind me, a cigarette on the go, and, of course, my signed copy of
The Maltese Falcon
hanging in its frame on the wall above my shoulder.

I’d answered some questions about the book – explaining how important it was to me, how I viewed it as a lucky charm that helped me to write, and claiming that I’d bought it with an inheritance I’d received from one of my grandparents not long before my first novel was published. The twit who’d interviewed me had even made some foolish remark about how Sam Spade might have fared on the mean streets of the City of Bridges.

Good grief
.

I’d let myself be persuaded into thinking the piece might be good publicity, but all it had really been was a full-colour advertisement for someone with the appropriate knowledge and skills to come and burgle me. Graziella’s uncle knew about books – maybe she did too – so it wouldn’t have been hard for her to find out how much my Hammett novel was worth, and I’d made its personal value to me blindingly clear. Worse still, I’d had some fun in the piece by implying that I had a more practical appreciation of how to burgle a place than I might care to let on. And sure, that was nothing new, considering I’d composed a moderately successful memoir some years ago, but it seemed clear to me now that my charming little routine had been sufficient to pique Graziella’s interest – enough, at least, for her to resolve to test my abilities by tricking me into breaking into the bookshop.

Vanity and ego. I’d be the first to admit that I had plenty of both, and not for the first time, they’d combined to land me in a steaming pile of doo-doo.

I raised my middle finger in salute to the grinning imbecile in the glossy pamphlet – the past version of me who’d so witlessly sown the seeds of my recent troubles. I tell you, if I ever caught up with that guy, he was in for a pummelling.

For the time being, though, the pamphlet went back beneath the bed and I went back to the hallway. The cat figurine was still grooming itself in front of the closed door, and I thought I could detect something new in its glinting eyes – a kind of haughty superiority, as if it was aware of a devious secret I hadn’t the first clue about. I was sorely tempted to have an unfortunate accident, to lash out and kick the little bugger into a gazillion pieces. I didn’t, though. It would be cruel and unnecessary, and it would make an awful lot of noise. And besides, knowing my luck the remains of its beady green eyes would still be visible among the shards of broken china, staring smugly up like the final biting remark in a lost argument.

I curled my lip and did my best to appear unruffled, then aimed my torch in front of me and pushed open the door the cat was guarding. There was another futon, this time arranged like a chair, and it was furnished with a collection of plush fabric cushions. A beanbag was positioned nearby, close to a portable radio. There was a large canvas print on the wall – a mass-produced likeness of Audrey Hepburn. Audrey was smoking a cigarette in a long-stemmed holder, and if she wasn’t careful she was in danger of dropping ash into the fronds of the spider plant that was wilting on the console unit beneath her.

I turned and discovered a series of fitted kitchen units at the end of the room, beyond a circular table that was covered in a jaunty gingham tablecloth. A collection of playing cards were spread across the table, some face up, others face down, and alongside them was a black plastic dealer’s shoe. There were two wine glasses, a half-finished bottle of red Bordeaux wine, and a number of spent cigarettes in an ashtray. Seemed like this was where Graziella had practised with her hairy stooge before shaking down the casino.

I was just reaching for a card when a sense of movement caught my eye and I glanced up at a lopsided sash window positioned above the kitchen sink. I could see the reflection of my torch beam in the glass, along with a translucent outline of myself. There was something about my opaque double that didn’t quite add up – a second form behind the first, like the ghost on a badly tuned television. Then, quite suddenly, it made sense in the most abrupt and grievous way I could have imagined, and I experienced a hard, sharp jolt to the back of my head.

My legs gave out and I slumped to my knees, my torch falling from my slackened hands. I cried out in shock, then in pain, and was aiming to twist around when the blur of an arm came down a second time. There was a crunching noise I didn’t appreciate, and my head pitched sideways until my chin played kissy-kissy with the wooden floor. The impact seemed to have dislodged something inside me – something that was too big to be contained. It swelled and pressed up against my skull, then trickled out in a warm dribble from my ear. I was still conscious, but only just. I’d been struck twice, and neither blow had been quite on the money, but I wasn’t dumb enough to invite another attempt. I stayed down and closed my eyes, jaw gaping open as I performed my best impression of an Englishman beaten utterly senseless.

A shoe was planted beside my nose, smelling of rubber, and my head was yanked up by the hair, close to where I’d been hit. It hurt just fine, but I was determined not to whimper. I was pretty good at it, even if I do say so myself, and I must have lasted a clear half-second before the sound of footfall and voices became audible from the spiral stairs at the end of the hall.

My attacker let go of my hair, giving my nose a fair stab at breaking itself on the floor. Then a pair of hands were hooked beneath my armpits and I was heaved back behind the door.

The voices belonged to a woman and a man. Even with a dashed skull I recognised Graziella. She was talking with her companion in rapid-fire French, which gave me a pretty good idea of who to expect.

My shadowy friend with the speedy arm had forgotten to snatch up my torch. It was shining in a diagonal slant across the floor, casting the spider plant and the picture of Audrey Hepburn in a weak spotlight. If things had been going my way, it might have been enough to alert Graziella to the danger that was lurking behind her door, but it wasn’t to be. An overhead light
snicked
on and she bustled inside, followed by the oversize blackjack champ with the pronounced limp and out-of-control beard. His fedora was missing – perhaps he’d tossed it onto the hat stand – but he did have on his XXL camel-hair coat, his black suit trousers and white sports socks. Graziella was wearing her tuxedo, minus the bow tie, with her pearl-white blouse open at the collar.

They approached the kitchen table, chatting at a quick tempo. It sounded as if they were in high spirits, which suggested that she hadn’t popped her head inside the bookshop on the way upstairs to see what had become of her uncle.

Beardy was carrying a metal attaché briefcase of a design I couldn’t fail to recognise. He swung it freely in his huge fist and slapped it down on top of the playing cards on the chequered tablecloth, then twirled it around so that the combination dials were pointing towards Graziella. He spread his arms wide, grinning toothily, like a game-show host flaunting a star prize. Graziella smirked, then hung her tongue out of the corner of her mouth and was just in the process of entering the combination when she happened to glance sideways and fix directly on me.

The colour left her face. So did the animation.

I heard a click, followed by a ratchet sound, and then my mysterious companion stepped out from behind me and shouted, ‘Peek-a-boo!’

Well all right, he didn’t do
that
, but he did straighten his arm and point a finger. Scratch that – a
gun
. I might have been slumped on the ground, peering out from half-lidded eyes as I performed my man-in-a-coma routine, but I could see the pistol quite clearly. It was a big, clumsy thing, fitted with a screw-on suppressor. And hell, it looked an awful lot like the weapon Graziella had provided me with.

I’d last seen the pistol when I’d ditched my bumbag on the floor of the bedroom in which we’d restrained Borelli. Since that was also the last time I’d seen the Count, I suppose it was only fitting that he was the chap toting the gun.

Borelli’s face was flushed and he was perspiring heavily. His forehead and upper lip were coated in an oily sheen and his wavy grey hair was flattened on top of his head, as if he’d been smoothing his wet palm over it. His greasy fingers seemed to be slipping on the dimpled pistol grip, but not enough to make life any more comfortable for Graziella and Beardy.

The clothes he had on didn’t exactly suit him, but that shouldn’t have surprised me, considering they were mine. A hooded sweatshirt and faded jeans, plus a pair of smelly baseball shoes. The jeans were too long for him, caught up around the heels of the trainers, and the hoodie made him look like he was in the grip of a mid-life crisis. He was woefully underdressed, considering the rest of us were in dinner wear, and if only the circumstances had been different, I might have suggested swapping outfits again. Somehow, though, I imagined he’d be reluctant to go the whole way and return my gun-shaped accessory.

He must have discovered the pistol when he’d been climbing into my duds, but that still left questions unanswered. Questions like: Why wasn’t he being interviewed by the police right now? If he’d been found by the officers I’d seen outside my building, wouldn’t they have insisted on keeping my clothes as evidence of the abduction? And fine, Borelli might have powerful contacts, but could the police really turn a blind eye while he skulked around Venice with a weapon taken from a crime scene?

I didn’t know, and I wasn’t about to find out any time soon. He raised his chin in the air, peered down his nose, and barked something to Graziella in Italian. She held up her palms and backed off from the table. He repeated the command to Beardy and the hairy slob didn’t require a translation to comply. He did take his time over it, though. I got the impression there wasn’t much he did in a hurry and his grudging reaction suggested this wasn’t the first time he’d been confronted with a gun.

Borelli waited until he was satisfied with their positioning, then stepped forwards and snatched up the case as if it had been delivered to the room expressly for his convenience. He felt the weight in his hand, bobbing his head from side to side like a set of scales, and snarled more Italian at Graziella. She answered with a sullen nod. I wasn’t entirely clear what he’d asked, but I could hazard an educated guess. If I was him, I’d want to be certain it was all there – the entire 500,000 euros – and judging by the nasty grin that curled his lip and split his face in two, that’s precisely what he’d been told.

He shuffled backwards, covering Graziella and Beardy with the gun. I didn’t know if he was a good shot but I rated his chances of hitting them as pretty high, and evidently they did too. I could see the anger and frustration bubbling away in Graziella. Her eyes were narrowed, chin jutting forwards, but she didn’t make a move. Beardy sighed loudly and leaned to one side, favouring his good leg.

Borelli was close to me by now. From where I was lying prone on the floor, it would have been a simple matter to grab his ankle and yank him off his feet, and if this was your typical Hollywood movie, I dare say that’s just what I would have been expected to do. Problem being, like any actor working a scene, I needed to know what my motivation was supposed to be, and quite frankly, I couldn’t think of one. Based on what Alfred had told me, not to mention my recent pistol whipping, I had good reason to suspect that the Count was what one might call a
baddie
. Then again, Graziella and Beardy were no saints, and if I managed to disarm the Count, there was no guarantee that my situation would improve a whole lot. It didn’t help that my head was pounding in a quite sickening way, or that I’d broken out in a heavy sweat. And then there was the small matter of the bloody big gun the Count had in his hand – a weapon that was liable to go off in a struggle and that might very well be pointed towards some vital part of my anatomy when it did.