Scipio inhaled sharply. “Yes,” he said, “we have a deal. When should we deliver the item?”
“Oh, as quickly as your skills permit. I am an old man and I would like to achieve the goal of my lifelong quest. I have no wish left in this life, except to hold in my hands what you are to steal for me.”
Longing rang through his voice. What could “the item” be? Prosper thought. What could be so wonderful as to cause such mad desire? It was still only an object. It wasn’t alive. What could be worth such a fortune?
Scipio stared thoughtfully into the dark window. “How will I report to you that I have been successful?” he asked. “Barbarossa told us you’re difficult to reach.”
“That is true.” Out of the darkness came quiet coughing. “But you will find everything you need in this confessional after I have left. Once I have closed this curtain, you will count to fifty, and then you may retrieve what I have left behind for you. I also like to keep my secrets and I do not have a mask to aid me. Send me news of your success and you will receive my answer the next day at Barbarossa’s. I will then tell you when you can exchange “the item” for your reward. I’d better tell you now where we will carry out the bargain. Barbarossa is a little too fond of opening other people’s letters and I would prefer to conduct this transaction without his interference. So remember this well: We will meet at the Sacca della Misericordia, a small bay to the north of the city. You can find the Sacca on any street map of Venice should it not be familiar to you. I wish you luck, Thief Lord. My heart has been longing so passionately for what you shall steal for me that it has grown quite weary.”
The Conte quickly pulled the curtain shut. Scipio got up and listened. A party of tourists shuffled past the confessional while their guide described the mosaics above their heads in a muted voice.
“Forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty!” Mosca said as soon as the tourists had moved on and the voice of the guide had faded away.
Scipio glanced at him, amused. “Well, you’re certainly quick at counting,” he said and pushed the curtain aside. Carefully, one after another, they stepped into the open.
“You have a look, Prosper,” Scipio whispered, while he and Mosca shielded the confessional from view.
Prosper carefully opened the door meant only for priests and slipped inside. On the small bench underneath the window he found a sealed envelope and a basket with a woven lid. When Prosper lifted the basket he heard rustling inside. He nearly dropped it again in surprise. Scipio and Mosca looked amazed when he emerged from the confessional with his find.
“A basket? What’s inside?” Mosca whispered suspiciously.
“Whatever it is, it moves.” Prosper carefully lifted the lid, but Mosca hurriedly pushed it back down. “Wait!” he hissed. “It moves? Maybe it’s a snake!”
“A snake?” Scipio teased. “Why would the Conte give us a snake? You get these strange ideas from all those stories Hornet reads you.” He put his ear to the basket. “Yes, there’s something rustling. But I can also hear pecking sounds,” he muttered. “Ever heard of a pecking snake?”
Scipio frowned and opened the lid just enough to peer inside. “Well!” he said, and quickly closed the lid again. “It’s a pigeon.”
13
What are they doing in the Basilica? Victor thought as he watched Prosper and Mosca vanish with Scipio through the side entrance. It seemed highly unlikely that the three boys just wanted to look at the mosaics. I hope they’re not going to pick the tourists’ pockets, he thought, or I’ll have to hand Prosper over to the police. Not that Esther Hartlieb could care less. As far as she’s concerned, it would just go to show that she’d always been right about her sister’s eldest son. But if the little one was also caught thieving, that would probably be quite a blow to her.
The little one … Over his newspaper, Victor carefully peered toward the lion fountain. Prosper had left Bo with the girl and the little hedgehog. He probably trusted them or he wouldn’t have left his precious little brother in their care. The girl was talking to Bo. She was obviously trying to make him laugh. The little one, however, looked pretty gloomy. As did the little hedgehog, who was staring into the water of the fountain as if he were about to drown himself in it.
What do I do now? Victor thought. He frowned and folded up his newspaper. I could grab the little one, but I would probably be lynched as a child snatcher before I had the chance to show my detective’s badge. No, too many people around. Victor didn’t like to admit it to himself, but there was another reason why he didn’t want to take Bo. It was ridiculous, but he just couldn’t do that to Prosper — to have him find his brother missing when he came out of the Basilica.
Victor shook his head and sighed. I shouldn’t have taken on this case, he thought to himself. What next? You can’t feel pity during a game of hide-and-seek. And even less when you play tag. Stop worrying!
“Exactly!” Victor grumbled. “I will have to get some more information first. About that gang they’re hanging out with, for starters.” He pulled his baseball cap lower over his face and made sure that he hadn’t finished the film in his camera. Then he strolled out into the open, just far enough for Bo to be able to see him from the lion fountain. Victor bought a bag of birdseed from one of the hawkers that stood around everywhere. He filled his pockets with seeds and scattered them with both his hands across the piazza.
“Putt, puttputtputt!” he cooed, putting on his most harmless smile. “Come here, you winged rats, and don’t you dare poop on my sleeves.”
And they came. A whole flock of pigeons rose, in a cloud of gray feathers and yellow beaks, fluttered toward Victor, and settled on his shoulders, arms, and even on his head, where they pecked inquisitively at his cap. This wasn’t pleasant at all. Victor had to admit that he was afraid of anything that flapped with a sharp beak. But how else could he attract the attention of the little boy? So Victor smiled and cooed and puttputted — and watched the children by the fountain.
The hedgehog was now sitting quite a ways from the others, staring at the crowds with a face like thunder. The girl had her head in a book. And Bo was bored.
“Look over here, boy!” Victor whispered while pigeons tripped all over his head. “Go on now, look at this silly man who’s playing scarecrow just for you.”
Bo pulled at his dyed hair, rubbed his nose, yawned — and then, suddenly, he discovered Victor. Victor, the pigeon roost. He cast a quick glance at the girl and checked that she was absorbed in her book. And then he slipped off the fountain.
At last! Victor sighed with relief and filled his hands with more seed. Bo strolled hesitantly toward him. He kept looking back toward the others as he pushed his way past three screaming girls who were trying to remove a couple of pigeons from their hair. Then he stood in front of Victor with his head cocked to one side.
When the pigeon on Victor’s head leaned forward and pecked at the glass of his fake glasses, Bo giggled.
“Buongiorno,” Victor said, chasing the cheeky bird from his head. Another pigeon immediately settled down on it.
Bo screwed his eyes together and tilted his head the other way. “Does that hurt?”
“What?”
“Those claws, of course. And when they peck at your glasses.” The little boy’s Italian sounded nearly as good as Victor’s, maybe even better.
Victor shrugged, and the pigeons fluttered into the air only to settle down again immediately. “Ah,” he replied. “It’s not so bad. And I like it when they fly around me.” What a big fat lie! But then Victor had always been good at lying, even when he was little. “You know,” Victor said while Bo watched him intently, “when the birds flutter around me I always imagine that I might take off at any moment and soar right up to those golden horses there.”
Bo turned around and looked at the stamping hooves above the entrance to the Basilica. “Yes, they’re awesome! I want to sit on one of them. Hornet says they had to cut off their heads when they brought them here. I mean, when they stole th
em. And then they stuck them back on the wrong way around.”
“Really?” Victor had to sneeze because one of the feathers had flown up his nose. “They look all right to me. But those are copies anyway. The real ones have been in a museum for a while now, so that the salty air doesn’t eat them up. Do you like pigeons?”
“Not really,” Bo answered. “They flap around too much. And my brother says you can get worms from touching them.” He giggled. “Now one of them has pooed on your shoulder.”
“Vermin!” Victor threw his arms in the air so that all the pigeons scattered. “Your brother said that? He seems to take care of you really well.”
“Yes, sometimes he looks after me a bit too much.” Bo looked up at the circling pigeons. Then he glanced back toward the lion fountain where the girl was still reading her book and the hedgehog was stirring the filthy water with his hands. Satisfied that he hadn’t been missed, he looked back at Victor. “Can I have some of those seeds?”
“Sure.” Victor put his hand in his pocket and poured some of the seeds into the little hand.
Carefully, Bo stretched out his arm — and when a pigeon settled on it immediately, he started to laugh and looked so happy that for a moment Victor forgot why he was standing there with birdseed in his hands. And then a whiff of hairspray, from a young, sour-faced woman pushing by, reminded him of the job to be done.
“What’s your name?” Victor asked, picking a gray feather from his jacket. Maybe I’m wrong about them, he thought — children’s faces all look alike anyway, like peas in a pod. Perhaps the ink-black hair is his real color and perhaps the little boy genuinely came here with some friends and will go back home tonight, to his mother. His Italian was really very good.
“Me? Bo. What’s yours?” Bo giggled again as the pigeon hobbled up his arm.
“Victor,” Victor answered. Immediately he could have slapped himself. Why, by all the devils and demons, did he tell the little one his real name? Had the pigeons pecked his last bit of sense away?
“Aren’t you a bit young to be walking around alone in these crowds?” he asked nonchalantly while pouring some more seeds on to the boy’s hand. “Aren’t your parents afraid that you’ll get lost among all these people?”
“But my brother’s here,” Bo replied. He watched in delight as a second pigeon landed on his arm. “And my friends. Do you come from America? You talk funny. You’re not a Venetian, are you?”
Victor felt his nose. It felt sore. “No,” he answered. He adjusted his cap. “I’m from all over the place. Where do you come from?” Victor looked across toward the fountain. The girl had raised her head and was looking around.
“From a long way away. But I live here now,” Bo answered. “It’s much nicer here,” he added. He was smiling at the pigeons on his arm. “There are lions everywhere with wings, and angels and dragons. They all look after Venice, Prosper says, and after us. But there’s not so much danger — because there are no cars here. And that’s why you can hear better — because of the water and the pigeons. And you don’t have to be scared of being run over.”
“Yes, that’s right.” Victor held back a smile. “Still, you just have to be a little careful not to fall into a canal.” He turned around. “Are those your friends over there, at the fountain?”
Bo nodded.
“I think the girl is looking for you,” Victor said. “Why don’t you give her a wave, so she doesn’t worry?”
“That’s Hornet.” Bo waved at her with his pigeon-free hand.
Reassured, Hornet sat down on the wall again. However, she now kept her book shut and didn’t let Bo out of her sight.
Victor decided to do the pigeon-roost trick once more. That seemed the most innocent thing to do. “I live in a hotel right by the Grand Canal,” he said while the pigeons settled down on him again. “And you?”
“In a movie theater.” Bo drew back with fright as one of the birds tried to hold on to his hair.
“In a movie theater?” Victor looked at him incredulously. “That’s great. You can watch movies all day.”
“No, we can’t. Mosca says the projector is gone. And most of the seats are gone too. And the screen is all eaten up by moths and now it’s completely useless.”
“Mosca? Is that one of your friends? Do you live with your friends?”
Bo nodded proudly. “Yes, we all live together.”
Victor looked at him closely. Was it really possible? Or was this little angel face telling him more lies? A bunch of children living alone? They certainly didn’t look hungry, or as if they were sleeping under bridges. Admittedly, the knees on Bo’s pants had poorly stitched patches on them, and he wasn’t exactly wearing the cleanest of sweaters, but that wasn’t unusual. And it was obvious that someone combed the little boy’s hair from time to time and washed behind his ears. But perhaps that was his brother?
Well, perhaps he can’t tell me anymore, Victor thought. He let his arms drop again. Disappointed, the pigeons fluttered away. Victor rubbed his aching shoulders. “What do you say,” he asked as casually as possible, “should we have an ice cream over there in the café?”
Instantly, Bo became suspicious.
“I never go anywhere with strangers,” he answered haughtily and took a step back. “Not without my big brother.”
“Of course not!” Victor said quickly. “That’s very sensible of you.”
The girl at the fountain had roused herself. She was pointing in his direction and Victor could see now that the others had returned. The masked one was carrying a basket and Prosper was looking agitated as he peered in their direction.
He can’t recognize me, Victor thought, absolutely impossible. I had that walrus mustache stuck on my face before. But he still felt uncomfortable. “I’ve got to go, Bo!” he said hastily as Prosper made his way toward them with a very anxious face. “Nice of you to chat with me. I’ll just take a quick picture of you, as a souvenir, OK?”
Bo smiled and posed for the camera. He still had a pigeon on his hand. As soon as Victor raised his camera, Prosper quickened his pace. He was nearly running now.
Victor pressed the release, wound the film, and took another photograph. “Thanks, kid. It was nice talking to you,” he said, ruffling Bo’s ink-black hair. Yes, it was definitely dyed, no doubt about it.
Prosper was now just a few steps away. He pushed through the crowd without ever taking his eyes off Victor.
“Take care, and don’t accept ice cream from strangers!” Victor called out to Bo. Then he took a few brisk steps backward, and slipped into the next large group wandering across the square, letting the crowd pull him away. Anybody could make himself hard to see, if he played it right. Quickly, Victor stuffed his cap into his left pocket, took off the glasses, and pulled a small beard and a pair of sunglasses out of his right pocket. Carefully, and without rushing, he sauntered back to where the two brothers were still standing among a big flock of pigeons. Victor, now squeezed between five large old ladies, discreetly moved past the boys.
I won’t let them shake me off again, he thought, oh no, I’m ready this time. But what if Prosper recognized him? Nonsense. How could he possibly know him again? He’d have to be a child genius to see through a Getz disguise!
“Back to work, Mr. Detective,” Victor reminded himself. “Now let’s see where these little rascals have their den.” Victor tried not to think about what he would do once he found their hiding place. Later, he thought, I’ll worry about that later.
He followed the children into the maze of alleys.
14
“Darn it, Bo, can’t you just do as you’re told for once?” Scipio scolded Bo as Prosper returned with him.
“You were gone for ages!” Bo grumbled. “And I was bored.” He looked around but Victor the pigeon man was nowhere to be seen.
“I had him in sight all the time,” Hornet said. “So calm down.”
“What’s in the basket?” Bo poked his fingers under the lid, but Prosper pulled his ar
m back.
“It’s a carrier pigeon, so keep your hand away from it, OK?”
“Come on, let’s get back to the Star-Palace.” Scipio turned away from the big square and impatiently waved to the others to follow him. “I haven’t got much time today.”
“What about the job?” Bo called out, hopping excitedly after him. “What do we have to steal?”
“Calm down, Bo!” Mosca put his hand over the boy’s mouth. “We don’t know yet, OK?”
“The Conte gave us an envelope,” Prosper explained quietly to Bo. “But Scipio wants to open it only when we’ve reached the hideout.”
“And Scipio is the boss,” Riccio grumbled. His face was all gloomy and his hands dug deep into his pockets as he walked alongside the others, appearing far more interested in the pavement than this business with the Conte.
“And who was the Conte?” Hornet pulled Scipio’s ponytail. She knew how much he hated that. “Tell us about it, since we weren’t allowed to come with you. What did he look like? Was he spooky?”
Mosca laughed. “Spooky? No idea. We never saw him. Or did you see his face, Thief Lord?”
Scipio shook his head.
Prosper was walking right behind him, Bo’s hand firmly in his, but he kept looking over his shoulder. “Thief Lord …” Prosper’s voice choked with nervousness. “You’ll probably think I’m crazy but,” he looked around once more, “the man on the square, the one who talked to Bo …”
“Yes?” Scipio turned around. “What about him? He looked like a tourist to me.”
“I know, but … on the way to the Basilica, perhaps Hornet told you about the detective who followed Riccio and me …”
Scipio frowned. “Yes.”
“The man just there …” Prosper desperately searched for words while Scipio just stared at him. “I think it was him. He really did look like a tourist, but when he walked away I —”
The Thief Lord Page 7