The Good Thief's Guide to Venice (9 page)

I carried the tea through to her, along with two biscuits. I dare say you can put the chocolate digestives down to my guilty conscience.

‘This section works well,’ she told me, with a strained smile that reminded me of the look my old art teacher would give me when I’d produced something dazzling with a set of poster paints and a potato stamp.

‘Oh? Which one?’

She angled the manuscript towards me. The passage she was referring to happened to describe Faulks’ third break-in – the one that went horribly wrong and turned everything on its head. Lucky I don’t believe in bad omens, I guess.

‘Listen, I’m sorry about tonight, my mood and everything,’ I told her.

‘It’s okay, Charlie. I know what you writer types are like. I should have been more sensitive.’

‘Are you planning to read for long?’

‘A few hours, probably.’ A series of frown lines appeared between her eyes. ‘Should I wake you when I stop? Give you some feedback?’

I shook my head and waved my hands. ‘Not what I had in mind. Look, I realise this may sound crazy, but I’m going to head out for a while.’

‘Out?’ She pushed herself up in bed. ‘But it’s started to rain. And it’s late.’

‘It’ll help me to relax,’ I said. ‘Take my mind off things.’

Victoria flattened her hands on the manuscript and scrutinised me. ‘Is this going to be a law-abiding walk?’

Christ, she really did know me a little too well.

‘Absolutely.’

She studied me for a long moment, as if she expected me to slip up and confess what I was really planning. ‘All right then,’ she said, at last. ‘Knock on my door when you get back.
Lightly
. If I’m still up, I’ll tell you how I’ve got on.’

‘Perfect.’

‘Yes, I am rather. Now, skedaddle.’

And so skedaddle I did. And while I was at it, I gathered together my spectacles case, my plastic gloves and the rest of my burglary equipment, and then I stuffed the envelope of information about Palazzo Borelli into my overcoat pocket, eased the attaché case out from beneath my bed and sneaked past Victoria’s room to embark upon my foolhardy assignment.

The palazzo was a statement in crumbling Veneto-Byzantine splendour, overlooking a sweeping curve in the Grand Canal to the front, and sandwiched between the Palazzo Mangilli-Valmerama on one side and a constricted passageway known as Ramo Dragan on the other. Four storeys in height, the buff-coloured façade was adorned with marble lion statues and several imprints of the Borelli family’s coat of arms, and it was dominated by a prominent stone balcony that stretched for the entire width of the building, interrupted only by a series of sculpted columns and stilted arches.

The balcony could be reached through the glass French doors of the
piano nobile
, and it extended outwards above three metal watergates that formed the canal-side entrance to the palazzo. The water entrance didn’t appear to be used very often. There was no floating wooden jetty, ringed by candy-striped mooring posts, although a nearby pontoon did stretch out into the rain-pocked canal from the shadowed alley running alongside the building. Since the front was far too visible, not to mention too wet, I was planning to gain access from the pedestrian entrance around the back.

The rear of the palazzo featured a high-walled garden, fringed with sodden, overhanging shrubs. Even supposing I had a rope with me – which I didn’t – there was no way I could scale the damp brickwork with the heavy briefcase for company. It was fortunate, then, that a tall iron gate had been fitted at the rear of the garden, where only a sizeable cylinder lock, an alarm sensor, a security light and a closed-circuit camera stood in my way.

Before getting too close, I rested the briefcase on the slick ground at my feet, flexed my good fingers and turned to scan the murky pathway behind me. There was nobody nearby, which came as little surprise. The confined passage ended abruptly at the timber pontoon and the icy waters beyond, and the only property it offered access to was the very one I was interested in.

It felt strange standing in the blackened alley on my own, with the misty rain beading in my hair, only a short hop and a skip away from the bustling Strada Nova, with its tacky restaurants and English-language bars and souvenir outlets. This was a private Venice, unknown to all but the wealthiest residents, the odd disorientated soul and the occasional reluctant thief.

Reaching upwards, I grasped the edge of my woollen hat and rolled the material down over my face until the eye holes were in place. As a general rule, I don’t like to wear a balaclava. Too many terrorists and career criminals have given the garment a bad name, and I’ve never relished the idea of being spotted wearing a ski mask and having someone assume that I’m an armed robber. Tonight, I was willing to change my approach. There were the security cameras for one thing, but since this wasn’t a job I’d gone looking for, or cased by myself, it made sense to be as cautious as possible. And besides, the balaclava would keep my face warm and dry.

I hefted the weighty briefcase and made directly for the gate, triggering the security light and embarking upon my patented Step Programme for Recovering Law-Abiding Citizens.

Step one: I planted the briefcase down, jumped onto it and scrambled up the slippery fretwork of the gate until I was level with the security camera. The lens was pointed directly at me, but it didn’t see me for long. Removing my mittens, I stuck one of them on the end as a makeshift lens cap. According to my instructions, this wasn’t the type of situation where a watchful security guard would be glued to a bank of security monitors at all hours of the day. Instead, the camera footage was simply recorded. That suited me, and it also suited my Italian pen friend. Her plan involved me returning the case without being caught, all while leaving enough evidence to pinpoint the exact time at which the dastardly deed was done – thus keeping her in the clear, if it ever became relevant, by virtue of the fact that she was currently enjoying the company of Count Borelli at the oldest, and some would say, finest casino in all of Europe.

Step two: I jumped down from the gate and inspected the magnetic sensor alarm.
Jeez
. I was starting to think that maybe I should set up a company selling modern security systems in the city, because at this rate I’d make an absolute killing. The alarm was about as basic as it gets – short of tying a string of tin cans to your door – and after pulling the necessary tools from my spectacles case, I had the thing neutralised in less time than it takes to tell it.

Step three: I armed myself with the heftiest pick I carried and tinkered with the lock. It was trickier than it had any right to be. The temperature didn’t help. Yes, it was getting to my fingers through my plastic gloves, but it seemed like the mechanism had frozen up just a touch. I dug around in my pocket for my cigarette packet and fished out my lighter. I worked the flame and held it to the keyhole and counted to ten. I stopped at eight when I realised the tip of my glove was melting, then I poked at the lock a second time round. Lucky for me, the thing yielded and clunked open, and I was finally able to grab for the briefcase and scurry away from the glare of the lamp.

The garden was carpeted in sodden lawn, with no discernible path. I took my time crossing it, wary of any sudden dips or concealed fish ponds. The footprints I was leaving in the muddy grass didn’t make me spectacularly happy, but they didn’t bother me all that much, either. It was too dark for them to be seen from the house, and even if they were still visible in the morning and some wily detective decided to record my tread imprints, I didn’t see what harm it could cause. After all, there had to be more than one or two people residing in Venice with size-ten feet.

Halfway through the garden, I caught sight of a gap in the wall and made my way to a courtyard area, where the cobblestones were greasy with rain. A nude male statue was coated in water droplets over to my left, and an ornate well-head plugged an old drinking well in the very centre of the space. The main entrance to the living quarters was on the floor above, reached by an external stone staircase supported by a vaulted red-brick structure. Above the large wooden door were a number of lighted windows. Directly ahead of me was a darkened archway.

I scurried beneath the arch and clicked on my penlight. There was a strong smell of brine and decay, and I could hear the slap of waves. The flagstones beneath my feet were clogged with moss and algae, and when I pointed my torch ahead into the darkness I could pick out the shimmer of blackened water beyond the scroll-work of the entrance gates.

I backed off and went in search of the door I was looking for. It was constructed from green, riveted metal, edged in rubber, and a white-on-blue sign had been screwed to the front of it reading:
Cabina Elettrica
. It was also unlocked. I heaved it open and sprayed the light from my flash over the fuse boards and hazard warning signs I found there. Now true, I don’t go in for a lot of that hi-tech twaddle you see in most caper movies, but even without my handwritten instructions, I like to think that I could have cast my eyes over the mess of wiring and panels and switches, and still figured out that the giant lever with the bright red handle was sort of important. I tightened my fingers around it and checked my watch: 11.40 p.m.

‘Okay Charlie,’ I whispered in the darkness,‘you have ten minutes to complete this exam. Starting
now
.’

I threw the switch, and to my genuine disappointment, there was no pleasing sound effect of the entire residence powering down. Back out in the courtyard, however, I could see that the lights were no longer shining in the windows above, and in less than a minute, the sound of voices – a grumbling man and a nagging woman – could be heard from the direction of the internal stairs leading down to the ground-floor area I’d just vacated. I hurried up the external staircase to the huge front door with the briefcase in my hand, dropped to my knees in the wetness and assessed the lock.

It was an old-fashioned warded lock with a keyhole that was almost large enough for me to crawl through, if only I hadn’t gorged myself at dinner. I fumbled inside my spectacles case for my ring of skeleton pass keys, peeled my balaclava up as far as my nose, popped my penlight into my mouth and set to work. Modesty aside, I honestly don’t believe that I could have been any faster. The third key I tried fitted the bill and the lock turned every bit as easily as I imagine it had done for the hundreds of years since the place had been built. So easily, in fact, that I was back on my feet almost before the cold and moisture had penetrated to my kneecaps.

I turned and glanced over my shoulder, but all that was behind me was rain and darkness and silence. Strange. Things had been going pretty well so far, but I couldn’t shake an odd sense of foreboding. I wanted to tell myself that it was just Venice – the peculiar way the city had of lending menace to an unlit canal, a deserted street or the echo of your own footsteps. But for all my efforts, I was afraid it was something more than that, and as I pulled my balaclava down, eased the mighty door open and stepped inside, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was making a horrible mistake.

The interior was striking, even by torchlight. I knew from Graziella’s handwritten directions that the door opened directly onto the
portego
– a formal hallway that ended in a T-shaped space overlooking the balcony and the Grand Canal beyond. What her instructions had failed to prepare me for was just how imposing and elaborate this ‘hallway’ would be.

Put simply, the space was immense. The terrazzo floor was a stunning mixture of coloured stone, mother of pearl and cut glass that glimmered in the light from my flash in a most appealing way. One entire wall appeared to be draped in heavy red silk and gold brocade, and the opposing wall featured a number of large oil paintings of bearded, Godlike figures. In between the paintings, lavish stucco work drew my eye up towards the biggest treat of all.

The coved and frescoed ceiling wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Sistine Chapel. It was a riot of pudgy cherubs, raven-haired nudes and prancing stallions tussling with noble lions. Naturally, I shouldn’t have been pointing my torch up at it, and I certainly shouldn’t have been wasting time, but I honestly couldn’t help myself. Never in my life had I been anywhere quite like it, and on that basis alone, I thought I should cut myself a little slack.

A little, but not too much, and after no more than a minute, I picked my jaw up off the floor along with the attaché case and headed into the heart of the galleried room. I passed a narrow flight of wooden stairs that led to the upper floors of the palace and a wider stone staircase that connected with the basement area below. I listened carefully for any indication that the man and woman who’d decided to investigate the electricity failure might be about to return, but I couldn’t hear anything at all. True, the ski mask was muffling my senses to a degree, but not enough to cause me to miss something like that.

Up ahead, beyond a pair of banquette-settees and a richly lacquered side unit, the picture windows were draped with simple net curtains that had been tied back to leave the view unobstructed. I crept as close as I dared, killed my penlight and allowed myself a quick peek at the expanse of lamp-lit water below. A lonely
vaporetto
was churning through the drizzle, bleeding milky light from its sides as it charted a diagonal course towards the Rialto Mercato stop, just along from the
traghetto
station. To the left, I could see the darkened exterior of the empty fish market and the recessed windows of the restaurant where Victoria and I had eaten.

Peeling myself away, I located a stately door fashioned from lush walnut to my right and was brazen enough to pass right through. It opened onto a small room lined with dark wooden panelling. The beam from my torch revealed a ladder-backed chair, an ornamental rug and a marble fireplace decorated with Murano glass tiles. A pair of French doors opened onto the balcony.

I set the briefcase down on the chair and started to feel my way along the panelling on the back wall. Around a third of the way along, I sensed the outline of a crack, and I followed it down to waist level before reaching across to the panel to the right. I flattened my hand against the wood and pressed firmly. It eased back, I heard a pleasing clunk, and a concealed door swung open to my left.