by James Munro
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The ship turned westward, seeking the opening in the long, low shoreline. The ringing blue of the Adriatic became shallow, opaque. Along the eastern reef there were a straggle of fishing villages; violently painted fishing boats, each one decorated on the bows with an eye or a star to ward off evil; a maze of nets, drying in the evening sun; and other boats, restless, searching for the comfort of the city. Motor-boats, dinghies, barges, wary of the shallows. The Philippa eased to half speed, as opulence took over from poverty; white hotels; caf6s, gardens with umbrellas like mad, striped toadstools, twin rows of barbered, symmetrical trees. Then the last promontory disappeared, and before them was Venice, towers, domes, campaniles, palazzos, a shimmering haze of white and pink and blue. The Philippa sailed on to the basin of Saint Mark's, and dropped anchor off Saint George's Island.
Craig stood between Flip and Naxos, and looked at the city, its waters alive with gondolas, barges, sandolos, vaporettos, and crowded on to the land, pushing in hard for room like the home crowd at a cup tie, the palaces and churches, gorgeous, arrogant, triumphal as the men who made them.
"Aren't you glad we had to come here?" Flip asked.
"It's magnificent," Craig said, "but it's dangerous."
"That's part of its charm," Phihppa said.
Naxos said: T own one of those," and nodded at the line of palazzos on the Grand Canal. "That one." He pointed, and handed Craig a pair of binoculars. Craig took the glasses and saw a slim, elegant building, with magnificent balconies and a vast shaded portico. Two gondolas tied up at the painted poles by its steps stained its honey-yellow marble. The gondolas too, were Harry's, but not the rabble of other craft that jostled to tie up alongside, row-boats, motorboats, barges, loaded with food, drink, carpets, glassware, crockery, chairs, even musical instruments.
"What on earth—"
"There'll be more round the back," said Naxos, and turned to Craig.
"I'm sorry, John. We're having a party tonight."
"How many guests?"
"About three hundred," said Naxos.
"And reporters and photographers and TV cameras?"
"Well of course. It's a big party." He paused. "Trot-tia's designing it for me."
'Trottia?"
"Yes," said Naxos. "It's very important for me, John." "Okay," he said. "You'd better show me a plan of the
house."
He worked over it carefully, in infinite detail, with Naxos. There was one way in, and one way out. That was a gain. The house looked out in front on to the Grand Canal, and was a hollow square, enclosing a courtyard that was bounded on one side by a narrow waterway, on the two others by even narrower streets. It would be staffed by the stewards of the yacht, policed by its sailors. The band was to be flown in from Rome, the guests from half Europe. Naxos deemed it a necessary exercise in public relations, and nothing Craig could say would shift him. It was too late to cancel, and Trottia had organized it anyway. "AH right," Craig said at last. "But you both get there and stay there—in a crowd. I want everybody to See you—and recognize you."
"Of course," said Naxos. "There's just one more thing. This is a costume ball, John—I have a costume for you—and everyone will go masked."
"That's all I needed," said Craig.
"We begin at midnight and unmask at dawn. Trottia says it's the way the Venetians lived in the old days. The great ones, I mean. The merchant princes."
And he's conned you into being the last of them, Craig thought.
He said at last: "You won't leave the ship until midnight. Promise?"
"Sure," said Naxos.
"Who will?"
"The stewards will leave in an hour. They have to set the house in order. The crew—the ones who will be policing the place—they'll go over at eleven."
"Your guests?"
"They'll stay here if I ask them. We're eating at ten." "Ask them," said Craig. "I will."
"I'd like to go ashore now. Can I take the bosun with
me?"
"Take what you like," said Naxos.
"Just the bosun. Have you said anything about me?"
Naxos shook his head.
"Tell him I'm your new security chief. Tell him he's to do as I say. And, Harry—" Naxos turned to him. "You know what you're doing, don't you?"
"Only what I have to," said Naxos.
5"Chapter 11 *
The small launch roared across to Lido and put Craig ashore. Craig told the Hydriote to wait and hurried to a cafe in the piazza, and a telephone. No time to go to the Danieli, near as it was. He phoned Grierson and told his friend to meet him and to bring an extra gun. He then raced for the maze of shops near the Largo San Marco, found a chemist's, and walked inside. Afterwards he returned to the Hy-driote.
"I've tried to telephone the palazzo," he said. "There's no answer. Go and see what's wrong. Ill wait here."
The Greek nodded and set off in the motorboat. Craig looked out from the piazzetta. In the middle of the crowd an Englishman walked, tall, dapper, aloof. Dark slacks, dark-blue sport shirt, handmade Florentine shoes, a hat of coffee-colored straw. He carried a map, and looked puzzled. Craig stood up and sauntered easily into the most earnest crowd in the world, as it gaped at one of its finest views. The tall Englishman bumped into him, then looked up, apologetic.
"I'm awfully sorry," he said.
'That's all right."
"Oh, you're English? Jolly good," said the tall one, then added: "I say. You don't happen to know a place where they sell a decent beer, do you?"
'There's a cafe round the corner," said Craig. "Come and 111 show you."
They turned down to the piazzetta, sheltered from the crowd in a doorway. Craig made explanatory gestures and said: "Nice to see you. Did you bring a gun?"
"Just let me show you the map," said Grierson.
He opened it wide, and Craig, holding one side, felt a weight in the pocket of his jacket.
"Thanks," he said. "You're going to a masked ball tonight."
"Oh, goody," said Grierson.
"Get yourself a costume and meet me here at eleven o'clock."
"Will do. Anything else?"
Maize pellets rattled on the stone in front of them, a flock of overfed pigeons swooped, and a flurry of German tourists aimed Leicas. Grierson lifted the map again.
"Go and get your beer," said Craig. "Have one for
me.
Grierson left him, and Craig waited for the Hydriote to return. He admired the skill with which the bosun ran the boat alongside the molo, then tied up and left it, going at once to Craig. Greeks never expected to be robbed, Craig thought, but maybe Theseus was right anyway. Who would dare rob Naxos?
"Phone's okay," he said.
"I must have got the number wrong," Craig said. Theseus said nothing.
"We've got time for a drink," said Craig.
The idea pleased the Hydriote so much he was moved to speech.
"Good," he said.
Craig led the way to the maze of alleys by St. Mark's and found the Cafe he was looking for. It was ten years since he had been there, but everything was just as it had always been. Even the cats looked the same. Everything in Venice is there for ever.
They sat outside together, their backs against a wall two feet thick, their nearest neighbors a group of market-men sitting over coffee and talking endlessly, effortlessly, about the price of tomatoes. Theseus asked for wine, and Craig ordered Orvieto, then looked at the Hydriote's enormous body.
"Bring the bottle," he said, and when it came, watched Theseus drink and ordered another.
"Busy night," said Theseus. Craig nodded. "Money. Too much money. There'll be thieves." He drank again.
"They won't have invitation cards," said Craig.
"They'll make their own," said Theseus. "They've done it before."
He drank gloomily.
"We'll have men watching," said Craig. "Sneak thieves I don't mind, but I want you to watch out for the hard boys. Have some of your sailors handy. If
you see me signal, come running."
"You think there may be a fight?"
"It's possible."
"I'd like that," said the Hydriote. He poured more wine, and the empty bottle swung in his hand like a belaying pin. Suddenly his fingers clamped round the bottleneck, and he began to squeeze hard, harder, until the sweat rolled down his face, and his arms were wet with it. At last the bottle neck cracked, and opened, and he turned to the waiter who had brought the second bottle.
"Could you do that?" he asked.
"All right," said Craig. "You're strong. Just be there when I want you."
Theseus drank, poured another glass, then looked into Craig's mquiring eyes.
"No more till after the party," he said.
Craig nodded. "Me too."
"There'll be trouble tonight," said Theseus.
"What kind of trouble?"
"The women. Clothes trouble."
'Try speaking in sentences," Craig said.
"Mrs. Naxos has a costume, and Pia Busoni has the same costume."
"You're sure?"
Theseus's massive head, the head of a Hercules sunk in gloom, nodded once.
"Certain." He sighed. 'Trouble," he said. "For you. Pity. I like you."
He finished the bottle and took Craig back to the yacht. The guests were already dressed for the party, and Craig fought his way through a mob of harlequins, columbines, abbots, Napoleons, painters, poets, pirates, peasants, doges, courtesans, Othellos, Desdemonas, Crusaders, Byzantines, queens of Cyprus, and emperors of the Holy Roman Empire, who were milling around the buffet, drinking Scotch and smoking king-sized tipped cigarettes. In the big hotels on Lido, in rented palazzos, in Venice itself, several hundred more would be changing too: all in costumes that had a link with Venice as she once had been. The Serenissima, queen of the sea, the one point in the earth where East met West, lord of a quarter and a half quarter of the Roman Empire; a city of fantastic wealth, beauty, power, and cruelty. Craig squeezed past Titian's Young Man with a Glove, nodded at Swyven, a half-convincing Lord Byron, and went to his cabin.
He was a corsair—baggy trousers, soft leather boots, white shirt, black velvet waistcoat, and a scarlet handkerchief for his head. There was a red sash too, stuck with plastic imitations of daggers, cutlasses, yataghans, and pistols. Craig added his new Smith and Wesson and the German's knife to the collection. They looked at home there. Someone knocked on the door, and he pushed the pistol down into the sash. The door opened, and Andrews came in and handed Craig a radiogram.
"From your broker," he said.
Magna Electrics and Marine Foods had jumped, but Railton Plastics was sluggish. So far Craig had made £ 2,000. Beneath the stock-market quotations Andrews had written: Tavel—negative. Busoni—negative. Swyven believed to be business partner of Trottia. Important nothing happens to Naxos. Stay sober. Loomis.
"That's all?" said Craig.
Andrews said: "I dare say you'll get more news later." He turned to the door, then added: "Oh, by the way, sir, I'm going to this shindig tonight too."
Craig said carefully: "I shan't try to reach my broker tonight anyway."
"Cigarette, sir?" Andrews asked.
"No," said Craig. "You try one of these." He eased the Smith and Wesson up from the sash.
Andrews left, and Craig went to see Naxos.
He was dressed as a Turkish pasha, and he looked like a toad in a turban, a toad with the thrust of a jet. Beside him was the queen of the harem, an olive-skinned, black-haired beauty in filmy pantaloons, slave bangles on wrists and ankles, a velvet jacket, gold lam6 breast coverings, gold necklace, and a velvet cap, gold-trimmed. A muslin veil hid her face but not her body. Craig looked round for Philippa, and the olive-skinned houri laughed.
I'm still here," said Philippa, and took off her veil. "When one's husband feels like a Turk, the best thing to do is feel like a harem." She snapped her fingers, and lifted her arms above her head; her body began to writhe.
"Flip, for God's sake," said Harry. His voice was a blast from a foghorn.
Philippa let her arms drop, loosed her muslin veil.
I'm sorry, John," she said. "I feel lousy tonight."
"Give the party a miss then," Craig said.
"I can't. It's all arranged, you see. I've got to go."
"It'll do you good, honey," Naxos said. "What can we do for you, John?"
Craig looked at the woman, her hands pulling restlessly at her veil, a nerve in her cheek twitching so that her face was never still. She needed a fix. Desperately.
"I haven't got an invitation card," said Craig.
"Help yourself," said Naxos, and gestured to a pile of huge, stiff cards.
"Thanks," said Craig, and turned to Philippa. 'Tour necklace is coming loose," he said. "Shall I fix it for you?"
"I'll do it," said Naxos, and his great body came round his wife's like a wall.
Craig took two invitation cards.
I'll be off then," he said. "See you at the ball."
Grierson was waiting at the piazzetta. He was dressed in red velvet with a velvet mask, a quattrocento Venetian dandy with a rapier by his side. The two men walked along the molo to a point opposite the palazzo, watching the yacht's big tender running a ferry service of stewards and sailors from the ship to the house.
"I like your costume," said Craig.
"It's terribly me," said Grierson.
Craig handed him his invitation card. A small crowd' watched respectfully, a gaggle of gondoliers swooped to them like swallows.
'It cost the earth," Grierson said. "Every shop in Venice was besieged. Lucky I'm on an expense account."
He gestured, regally, and the selected gondolier darted forward. His day was made. Craig and Grierson sat, and the boat moved off to the Palazzo Molin, its polished marble and granite brilliant under arc lamps. "I suppose we should have arrived in the palace gondola," Grierson said, and adjusted his cloak that was black, slashed with crimson. "But I don't like ostentation."
They reached the palazzo landing stage, and sailors in white held the gondola with boathooks as Craig and Grierson stepped ashore. There was a soft "Aaah!" from the crowd on the molo. The first of the extras had arrived, the curtain would go up soon. Theseus appeared, took their invitation cards, and saluted. The crowd sighed again.
"One can't help feeling ostentatious," said Grierson.
They went inside, preceded by a sailor Theseus summoned to show them the way. The great hall on the ground floor was a blaze of chandeliers, a hot brilhant light that warmed the cool elegance of the blue walls, the blue and white stuccoed ceiling. At intervals on the walls Craig could see pictures, and Grierson stopped in front of one.
"That's the best copy of a Titian I've ever seen," he said. "I wonder who did it?"
"Titian," said Craig.
'Titian, Veronese, Tiepolo, Longhi, Carpaccio—there's about a quarter of a million quid's worth here," said Grierson. "It's fantastic." But it was more than money, it was power. And vulnerability, too. At one end of the room the band from Rome was tuning up, at the other, stewards were polishing glasses at a bar backed with flowers. Behind the bar a fountain played. It was champagne. Grierson called for a glass, sipped, and shuddered.
"It's Italian," he said.
"The French champagne's in the other fountain, sir," said the barman. "It won't be switched on until Mr. Naxos arrives."
They went up the great central staircase, massive, magnificent, galleon-like, and on to the second floor, a maze of rooms opening into each other, those looking out on to the Grand Canal shuttered, and all of them glowing like pearls in the light of candles that softened and made tremulous the richness of green brocade, the pink and yellow splendor of marble. They saw a room set up for a main, and fighting cocks clucking in basket cages, a room set for cards, where all the cards were of ivory, rooms for dancing, dueling, making love, and one long, narrow room, where the candles were islands of light on a black canal, and the wooden floor was sanded. Craig turned t
o Grierson. "A room for dueling?" Grierson asked.
"What else?" asked a voice.
Craig turned to the door. A fat man stood just inside its frame, a fat man with Titian hair and the face of a cupid by Tiepolo. He was dressed as a cardinal, and held a matching purple mask attached to an ivory shaft.
"You must be Trottia," said Craig, and walked toward
him.
"Designer in chief, regisseur, director, comptroller of the household," said the fat man. "Trottia." He bowed.
Craig continued toward him, his booted feet almost soundless on the sanded floor, the cutlass trailing behind him. Like a cat, Trottia thought. A deadly grace, an elegant cruelty. Precise and feline and terrible. When he kills he will move like a dancer. Yet the one he strikes will still be dead.
I'm Craig—in charge of security. This is Grierson. He's helping me."
"Splendid," said Trottia. "I'd better explain the entertainment."
As he talked, his self-confidence returned. Venice would see nothing like it, ever again. In the great hall the dancing, where ex-kings, film stars, noblemen, matadors, racing motorists, opera singers, detergent manufacturers, boxers, thousand-dollar call girls, ski champions, brewers, the members of seven governments, five armies, and nine oil companies would twist, shout, cha-cha, locomotive, and glide. And above, the happenings, the animated paintings with actors taking the part of Titian's figures, the scenes from Venetian life, the Galluppi toccatas with a concert harpsichord player improvising to order, the gambling, the flirtations, the duel.
"The what?" asked Grierson.
"The duel," said Trottia. 'Two Olympic swordsmen —it's all on the program. You have a program?"
"No," said Craig. "Naxos forgot to give me one." T find that strange," said Trottia. "So do I," said Craig. "So do I."
Grierson said: "People can wander about both floors?" "And the roof," said Trottia. "The roofr
"It's laid out as a garden. One can take supper there and hear the gondola serenade. It will be splendid."
The two men left him, and he thought again how splendid it would be, after Craig died. A hard man to kill. Trottia shivered, and went to wait for the actors.
The roof, too, was a maze—of trees in enormous tubs, of fairy lights, of chairs and tables, bars and buffets, and banks of flowers. Craig looked at it in despair. Below him the Grand Canal glowed like oil, the molo glittered with lights.