“Oh, I know. A creature like that, she floats above the world. But even girls who float on air sometimes need a fellow to, you know. Buy them dresses and pet kittens and whatnot. She’d come to love me, I know she would.”
All I could do was thank him and send him back to Terry’s procession of triumph, now a beach-full of cheering strangers. As the dock’s attendant tied off the ropes of the pretty little Runabout, I reached out a hand to run it idly up and down the polished wood.
What a grand afternoon. All that practice would make it so much easier, when the time came to steal my new friend’s boat.
Chapter Thirty-eight
AT HALF-FOUR IN THE AFTERNOON, as Holmes was longing for tea (and, he suspected, the American for a cocktail), Linda walked in. Not that she hadn’t been walking in and out all day, along with half the people, pets, and servants in the palazzo, but this time she was alone, and this time her face was uncertain.
“Cole, dear, there’s a…gentleman wanting a word.”
“He can’t have one, he’ll have to take a sackful,” Porter said, then noticed her face. His hands came off the keyboard. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, nothing at all. He’s perfectly polite, charming even, just—” She gave an embarrassed laugh. “Well, those outfits they wear, they’re a bit…”
“Intimidating?” Holmes provided.
“Exactly. The Fascisti, dear. You know, black, black, black. As grim as New York in January.”
“I’ll come down in a minute.”
“Actually, Cole, do you mind—that is, I thought I’d bring him up. If that’s all right?”
Even Holmes could see that Linda Porter did not want this intruding Blackshirt mingling with her guests as the cocktail hour got under way. He was not surprised when Cole stood up and said, “Oh, it’s time we were stopping anyway. Bring him along.”
But not, it seemed, into the music room. Instead, Cole wandered slowly after Linda, Holmes on his heels, as far as the portego, the connecting room and general reception hall that overlooked the Grand Canal. A room filled with art and dignity, where even a large man felt small—and a small man could feel large, were he the master of the house.
The Fascist was following Linda up the stairway, and there was no mistaking the direction of his eyes as she climbed. His gaze lingered on her skirt as she moved into the room, shifting at last to take in the two men waiting for him: tall and old; short and young.
He looked between them. “Signor Porter?” As if a man in a suit gone shiny with age might be paying for a summer at Ca’ Rezzonico.
Cole put out his hand without hesitation, although Holmes could see tension in his jaw.
The newcomer did a sort of click of the heels as he shook hands. “Renato Francoletti, Capitano of the Milizia Nazionale, at your service. I wanted to thank you for your invitation tomorrow night. And to ask your indulgence, that I might bring a guest as well?”
Porter produced a charming smile that did not quite reach the eyes. “Sure, no problem. It’ll be enough of a crowd that one or ten more won’t be noticed.”
“Oh, not ten—ah, but you are making the joke.”
“Might be.”
“Thank you, Signore, I am sure he will enjoy the evening.”
Porter’s eyes flickered briefly at the pronoun as he considered, then instantly dismissed, the chance that the man was hinting at his own interests: no, his guest was more colleague than friend.
The Capitano was not finished. “This is an important gentleman, from England, who is in a position to do much for the city and for Italia, in the eyes of the world.” And, it was clear, for one Capitano Renato Francoletti.
“We’ll do our best to keep him entertained.”
“And if I may, I also wished to suggest a further…indulgence, for the future.”
“And what is that?” Looking on, Holmes was amused to see that Francoletti was one of those who could not tell the difference between friendliness and good manners.
Linda could. She moved around beside her husband so that the two faced the Venetian militia man, shoulder to shoulder, for all the world a pair of welcoming householders.
Francoletti lowered his voice to confide, “I am told that Il Duce may be coming to Venice, later in this summer. Il Presidente, yes?”
“Mr Mussolini, I know.”
“He finds an interest in Americans, and he does enjoy music. I would be most happy if you were to come and meet him, if he honours my house with a visit. And perhaps to play an American song for him.”
“Oh, I’m no professional, not at all. There’s loads of better people around.”
“That may be, but he finds you of interest. You and the delightful Mrs Porter, of course.” Captain Francoletti inclined his head, his glance lingering on Linda’s bust as it went past. Linda’s face took on the kind of gracious smile that Southern ladies wear just before the knives are drawn, although the Captain did not appear to notice. “You have become such a force in Venice, these past years. Many of us in the city feel that we should make note of that, in some way.”
In other words: The two of you throw around so much money, even the President of Italy wants to get on your good side.
“Well, then, I’d be honoured to do a song or two, if you don’t mind that I can’t sing worth a damn.” Porter’s smile had grown a touch more genuine, as the opportunity of performing for honest admirers presented itself.
“Good, then. I will let you know when Il Duce is considering a visit here. And I will look forward to our time tomorrow night.”
Porter started to extend his hand for another shake, but the Capitano paused. “Oh, but one suggestion. Both for my…colleague tomorrow and for Il Duce later on. You perhaps should play nothing too…pansy.”
Both Porters went as still as the portego’s statues. Eventually, Cole’s head tipped a fraction.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Maybe I use the wrong word, pansy? Modern music, it’s often not masculine, but Il Duce, he is most masculine person. And of course, my English friend. It is perhaps an American taste, I do not know. But you will remember this, please, when you play for them.”
The portego was, for a long moment, suspended from the real world. The air ceased to stir, no tumult rose from the Grand Canal, the cat in the balcony doorway held itself very still. Linda was the first to draw breath, straightening to her full height as she did so. Her eyes blazed, her shoulders went back, her mouth came open—
And she stopped. Holmes, standing to the side, had seen the tiny motion: Cole Porter’s hand had moved, one finger touching his wife’s arm, ever so lightly.
After a moment, she tore her outraged eyes from the Capitano to look at her husband. He gave her the tiniest shake of the head, the most silent of warning looks.
She held his gaze, an argument of a thousand words taking place in utter silence and in the space of four seconds. Her eyes suddenly glistened, and she turned abruptly away.
“Terribly sorry, gentlemen, there’s something I’ve forgotten.” Her heels hurried across the portego tiles, nearly running by the time she hit the stairs.
Cole drew a breath of his own, and raised his pale features to the burly man in black.
The Capitano, satisfied, thrust out a hand that was like a contract.
And slowly, unwillingly, Cole Porter took it.
The two men watched the Capitano walk away, watched him disappear down the stairway. The outer world crept back into the palazzo.
Holmes did not want to look at the young musician. He knew what he would see there, knew that he’d never be forgiven for seeing it: shame as a husband, resentment as a proud man, gnawing disbelief as a person with civilised manners.
Humiliation, that he had not had the servants throw Francoletti in the canal.
Self-loathing, that he had abjectly
received a heap of casual abuse as a thing he had to eat.
Even a man with his money, his gifts, his joy in life—even such a man.
Holmes took a deep breath, blew it out deliberately. “By God, Porter,” he said. “I hope to hell you’ve got some alcohol downstairs.”
Porter’s choked laughter told Holmes he’d got it right: that if a stranger’s insult could be borne, then so could a friend’s having witnessed it.
Chapter Thirty-nine
DESPITE MY LONG SILKEN GARMENTS, and despite having worn my hat securely tied down, my hours at the wheel of the Runabout had left me fairly comprehensively burnt. I tried to reassure myself, as I eyed the glowing person in the bath-room mirror, that in spite of my hair-colour, sun-burns tended to fade to a tan fairly quickly. Still, for the next twenty-four hours, I was going to resemble a freshly cooked lobster.
Holmes did a double-take when he came in. “Did you fall asleep in the sun, Russell?” He went to the drinks table, and handed me a glass.
“I had a rather more active day than that. I was helping a young man to water-ski.”
One eyebrow quirked. “Skiing on water? Like those young men riding the surf near San Francisco? I shouldn’t have thought the Adriatic waves high enough for that.”
“They’re not. No, this involves standing on skis and holding for dear life on to a rope attached to the back of a fast boat.”
He winced as he tried to picture it. I laughed.
“I remained firmly at the wheel. Even so, Holmes, I am starving. I could eat a horse—a kosher horse. And then we may have a little project.”
“I shall dress quickly.”
We took our meal down in the dining room again, ignoring the maître d’s injured expression as he ushered us in, pointedly welcoming us back to “our” table.
However, perhaps our absence from his dining room since Sunday served to warn him that we were culinary Philistines, unwilling to take the proper time over a meal: our courses arrived without delay, and none of the staff lingered to offer their advice. Which tonight was precisely what was required.
When we were alone, I lowered my voice. “Holmes, do you have anything going tonight?”
“There will be a round of festivities chez Porter, but I am not required to attend.”
“Would you like to come and help me commit grand larceny and trespass instead?”
“What, no battery and assault?”
“I’m hoping it doesn’t come to that.”
“Just as well. Italian prisons are not places of comfort. I should be honoured to assist in your felonious pursuits, my dear Russell.”
“If we’re lucky, it will only be trespass.”
“I have never found ‘luck’ a dependable companion,” Holmes noted calmly, and tucked into his soup.
In between intrusions from the waiters and the passing-by of other diners, I told Holmes about my day and the discovery of Bongo Farquart-Sitherleigh’s beloved Cinderella.
“I think it’s Vivian and Nurse Trevisan.”
He frowned. “How does this involve your proposed felony?”
“The young man was smitten by her. When I finally tracked him down this afternoon, he told me that he’d run after her, and saw her boat pulling out of the harbour. But he was interested enough to follow as far as the lagoon, so he saw what direction she was going.”
“And you think that narrows things down?”
“It’s worth a shot.”
“We need to ensure that she goes nowhere near Ca’ Rezzonico on Saturday. No, she’s not on the list, although there are various names that could be she. However, the Capitano has asked permission to bring a guest. An English guest.”
“The Marquess?”
“The name was not provided, merely the nationality.”
“If it is him, the last thing we want is for Vivian to walk in. But she’s already been once at the Lido, chances are she’ll be there again tomorrow night instead. Oh, why haven’t we heard from Mycroft?” I complained. “I suppose this means you’ll need to remain there the whole time, rather than come by the Excelsior first.”
“It would be difficult to watch Ca’ Rezzonico from the Lido.”
“Even for a man of your skills. And you’re certain the Marquess doesn’t know you?”
“We have not met in person, and my present face does not look like the images that have been in the press.”
He’d touched up his hair again, to an even sleeker black, and his moustache was so precisely shaped it might have been drawn on with ink. He’d also done something to his eyes that made them seem darker.
I pulled my thoughts back to the task at hand. “Shall we have coffee?”
“I suspect we will need it, before this night is gone.”
“And what about your day, Holmes? Was it a success?”
“I am not certain that word describes it, but yes, I have a considerable amount of information to hand over to my brother.”
“So we may not need to commit a second dose of trespass there?”
“Compounded by breaking and entering? Into the Fascists’ headquarters? Perhaps not.”
Looking better and better.
After dinner, Holmes and I went for a stroll up the Riva degli Schiavoni, leaning over a canal for a time while he smoked and we both thought our thoughts. We saw no Blackshirts. On our way back through the hotel, I wrote out a message to my intrepid gondoliers and gave it to the bellman to deliver. Then Holmes and I retreated upstairs to change into dark clothing.
We left the hotel just before eleven o’clock, silken burglars’ masks and small electric torches in one pocket, pick-locks in the other.
Giovanni and Carlo were waiting.
I introduced the three men, then took my seat on the cushions. Holmes settled beside me. Giovanni and Carlo hung dim lanterns on either end of the craft, and we pushed out into the darkened San Marco Basin. I was pleased to find a slight breeze up—not enough to affect their rowing, but sufficient to clear the mist. Another pair of visitors to La Serenissima might have found the quarter-moon overhead romantic; we found it useful.
Shortly after midnight, we stepped off the gondola, walked a short distance in the direction of the Excelsior’s wild racket, and peered into the little harbour, half-full of expensive boats of many sizes. When I spotted our target, I pointed it out to Holmes, then worked my way through the shadows while he went to create a small diversion. When he joined me, I hit the ignition and eased away, as the night-watchman dealt with a very minor and easily extinguished blaze at the other side of the gardens.
Out in the lagoon, Holmes switched on the lamps and I turned the Runabout’s prow towards the quarantine island-turned-cult-headquarters, Poveglia.
Going south along the Lido, we passed through a series of distant cacophonies: jazz from Chez Vous; a Gershwin band from the Grand Hôtel des Bains; something sedate from one of the lesser hotels; and finally, women’s shrieks, men’s laughter, and the indistinct gramophone crackle of “Yes Sir! That’s My Baby” from the veranda of a house on the lagoon.
Then even that died away, and the low beat of the motor was the only thing to be heard above the breeze.
Keeping well back from the island lest our motor attract attention, I described a circle around Poveglia. Holmes peered through the field glasses. It was mostly dark, other than some navigation lights, but when we rounded the hexagonal part at the south, we saw lights from one of the buildings inland.
Before leaving the hotel, Holmes and I had studied the general maps and my slightly more detailed sketch of this tripartite island. The boat-house, on the southern of the two dividing canals, faced the abandoned military hexagon, but was close to the area where I had seen signs of work—precisely the area where we now saw lights from behind a shuttered window.
But I kept us moving, as slowly as
the big motor would permit, until we had circled around to the northern end again. “The eastern side?” I suggested, and felt more than saw his assenting nod. We doused our running lights, and by the thin glow of the moon steered towards the opening of the upper canal. I shut off the motor and reached for a paddle. When we were close enough, Holmes scrambled to shore with the tie-rope, fastening us to a convenient tree.
He led the way down the narrow stone path along the edge of the island, which was light enough to show in the night, but a dozen steps down it I slowed, then stopped altogether. “Holmes, I smell something very dead. Do we want to risk walking through it?”
“I’d rather not use our torches.”
“Can we try the other direction?” That was where the buildings lay, but on the other hand, the place was hardly overpopulated.
We doubled back, to walk the canal-side path-way as far as the foot-bridge. To our left a wide path stretched into the island’s centre, which, as the other had been, was little more than a lighter area of ground in the darkness. This one was wider, and went in the direction of the building in which we had seen lights. We took that, pleased to find it firm and silent underfoot. Ahead, a black tower against the night suggested the church; to its right, a faint glow, well above the ground.
It proved to be a couple of upper-storey windows, shuttered against the night. I leaned against Holmes’ arm, to breathe. “I don’t see any way to look inside, do you?”
Again came the sensation of his shaking head, and we moved on.
The path widened to a sort of tree-dotted campo, or maybe orchard, but we kept to the left and found a smaller way circling the church end of the long building. As we came around it, I heard the patter of water against hard stone: this was the small canal that divided central Poveglia from its octagon.
The surface became firmer beneath the weeds. Best of all, the light spilling out from the far end of the building clearly came from ground-floor shutters. We crept past the church, then the high middle portion that had three or four storeys. Dim rectangles glowed above us—suggesting either heavy curtains, or lights from an adjoining inner room.
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