The Venetian Venture

by Suzette A. Hill

  Rosy followed him along the ill-lit passage and up the winding stone steps. He was right, the ascent was both gloomy and taxing, and arriving slightly breathless on the empty, dusty landing she felt a squeeze of disappointment. If this was the piano nobile the noble element was hard to discern! But as with Felix and Cedric earlier, her impressions revived the moment she stepped inside the main salon. To quote Felix’s own words, the accommodation was indeed ‘quite nice’. Her eyes swept the flower-bedecked room with its exquisitely ornate ceiling, Venetian wall brackets and elegant proportions. Yes definitely better. The longer of the two sofas contained Cedric and the basset hound – one at either end – and each rose at her entry to pay the customary attentions, the dog sniffing her ankles and Cedric (soberly suited) to compliment her on her dress and offer a drink.

  ‘We have our fellow resident and an American friend of his coming in later,’ he explained, ‘but first we wanted to show you this in the hope that it just might be what you are looking for.’ He went over to the desk, rooted around and then returned thrusting the book into her hands.

  The volume was subjected to a ‘close forensic analysis’ – pages leafed through, signature examined, dedication discussed and laughed over and edition date checked. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘it looks to me as if it’s the one all right; seems to tally with what Dr Stanley described. But how extraordinary that you should find it here. I wonder how your cousin came by it.’

  Felix shrugged. ‘No idea; and when I phoned her she seemed pretty vague about the whole thing. I think her mind was on other things – the jazz probably. Anyway not much interest shown so you may as well have it with our compliments. I very much doubt if she will be clamouring for its return the moment we have left. And if so I shall tell her it is safe in the British Museum being gloated over by one of London’s most distinguished scholars.’

  ‘Hmm, I suppose that’s one way of describing him,’ said Rosy dryly. But she felt in high spirits, pleased she could return triumphant and, for a short time at least, bask in Stanley’s respect and approbation. It wouldn’t last of course but she would jolly well make the most of it while she could. She grinned and accepted another dose of champagne with which she toasted her two benefactors.

  She quite liked Guy Hope-Landers – personable, as her mother would have put it. And the painter Bill Hewson was easy company and full of amusing tales about the Boston art scene. They showed polite interest in her recent acquisition and toasted her good luck. But both were cynical of the Farinelli Berenstein rumour. ‘Can’t say that I ever got wind of it,’ remarked Hope-Landers, ‘although now I come to think of it I did hear Lucia’s brother mentioning something like that the other day – something Lucia had heard on the radio, though she hasn’t mentioned it to me. But I don’t take much notice of what he says anyway, there never seems much substance. He talks for effect most of the time, silly ass.’ He gave a dismissive laugh.

  ‘Huh,’ muttered Hewson, ‘if you ask me he’s an insolent young puppy,’ and turning to Rosy added, ‘and that’s putting it nicely Miss Gilchrist. Not one of my favourite people.’ For an instant the bonhomie vanished but was quickly replaced by his next remark. ‘On the other hand, the sister’s all right – wouldn’t you say so Guy? Lucky chap, she’s crazy about you!’ And he gave a guffaw of laughter.

  The lucky chap smiled politely, looked slightly uncomfortable and muttered something about exaggeration. Cedric steered the conversation to less personal matters, such as the state of the American presidency and Eisenhower’s war record, Mr Churchill’s likely successor and the Guggenheim art collection.

  ‘But what about this murder?’ Felix asked after a while, tired of such generalities and relishing a little gossip.

  ‘Which of the many?’ enquired Guy Hope-Landers.

  ‘The one here in Venice of course, that bookseller. Rather surprising I should have thought. One has always heard the city to be rather law-abiding; something to do with its location I suppose, restricts flight.’

  ‘Ah you mean Giuseppe Pacelli,’ Hope-Landers said. ‘Yes a bit peculiar really. Nothing has emerged so far. They say he had an awful battering but no cash taken. A private vendetta I should think; one gathers he had certain sidelines of a questionable kind. Probably double-crossed someone; one wouldn’t be surprised.’ He laughed and turned to Hewson. ‘Did you ever buy anything there?’

  The other shook his head. ‘You bet I didn’t,’ he declared. ‘I wouldn’t throw a dime in his direction – a nasty little toad by all accounts! Probably deserved his end.’

  ‘But not quite like that,’ Rosy murmured.

  ‘What? Oh … no I guess not. No certainly not like that.’

  They turned to other things and the time passed convivially. Indeed when the two guests took their leave, Hewson declared in a slightly slurred tone that they must all meet the following night at Florian’s or some other watering hole to re-celebrate Guy’s recent good fortune and Miss Gilchrist’s lucky find.

  ‘Huh,’ sniffed Felix after they had gone, ‘tomorrow night? I very much doubt that. Out for the count I should think for at least two days. I’ve never seen anyone put it away so smartly!’

  Rosy giggled and Cedric wagged a finger. ‘Are we being just a mite prissy, dear boy? You must admit he was quite entertaining.’

  ‘Mildly, I would say,’ was the response. ‘And why he should think so well of that Lucia girl I cannot imagine.’ He turned to Rosy and in kindlier tones said, ‘Now Miss Gil—Rosy, what about a little cheese soufflé to round things off? The kitchen facilities here are really very good, and though I say it myself the chef is—’

  ‘Remarkable,’ Cedric said.

  ‘Precisely,’ purred Felix.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The next day, returning from their evening ramble (or passeggiata as Felix preferred to call it), they found a small white envelope on the table by the front door evidently left there by Hope-Landers. Cedric glanced at it casually and then turning to Felix said, ‘Oh, this would seem to be for you.’

  Felix was startled. ‘For me? Really? Perhaps it’s from Cousin Violet, though I can’t think why she would want to—’

  ‘Oh there’s no postmark, it’s local; delivered by hand. Look.’ Cedric handed Felix the envelope.

  Signor Felix Smythe,

  C/o Signora Hoffman,

  Palazzo Reiss.

  Puzzled, Felix scrutinised the meticulous script. ‘How odd. Surely not a bill already! We’ve only been here a short while.’

  ‘Could be I suppose; although in England tradesmen’s envelopes are invariably brown – and in my experience crumpled. This is pristine. Though I daresay Italian style permeates all classes.’

  Releasing the dog Felix pocketed the letter and they embarked on the stairs.

  ‘So who’s it from?’ Cedric asked as they reclined on their separate sofas in the salon.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The letter, who’s it from?’

  ‘Oh yes of course, the letter. I’d quite forgotten that. All this sightseeing it quite tires one out!’ Felix fished in his pocket and reaching for the paperknife on the bureau slit open the envelope.

  My dear Sir, the words ran,

  Forgive my impertinence but I believe you are a relation of my esteemed friend Signora Violet Hoffman and are currently residing in her abode while she is away. I should be more than grateful to make your acquaintance and to discuss with you a small matter regarding a book she has of mine. Alas, circumstances dictate that I should reacquaint myself with this book; and thus, much to my embarrassment I require its return. If you could accommodate me in this matter I should be most obliged.

  As a visitor to La Serenissima you will doubtless be busy admiring its myriad gems. However, if you were by chance ‘a casa’ at six o’clock tomorrow evening I should be happy to call on you. Unless I hear to the contrary I shall assume my suggestion is convenient.

  Carlo Roberto

  Cannaregio 49612006

  ‘Not
sure what this is all about,’ Felix said, ‘but it’s from a chap called Carlo who wants to come here tomorrow night. Seems to think Violet has a book of his. What do you think?’

  He passed the note to Cedric who read it through carefully. ‘I wonder where he acquired his English, Miss Prendergast’s Academy for the Cultured & Aspiring? I like the myriad gems bit – very dulcet!’

  ‘Blow the style. What do you think he wants? And shall we be “a casa” tomorrow evening?’

  ‘No reason not to be. Doubtless we can squeeze him in amidst the myriad demands of our social whirl!’ Cedric scanned the letter again. ‘Carlo Roberto,’ he mused. ‘You don’t think it’s the same Carlo that Lucia Borgino was talking about, the one she was going to introduce Rosy to and then changed her mind?’

  Felix shrugged. ‘Possible I suppose: he appears to read books. Ring the number, it won’t hurt to confirm.’

  Cedric tried the number but there was no answer. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see,’ he remarked. ‘Meanwhile I must get ready.’

  ‘Get ready for what?’ Felix asked.

  ‘I told you: the soirée musicale at the Goldoni. I think there are still tickets if you’d care to come.’

  Felix shook his head. ‘Too fatigued from the rigours of the day, dear boy: one needs a soothing evening. I’ll have a light snack and then curl up with Caruso and my embroidery.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you brought that with you!’

  ‘But naturally – I take it everywhere. After all, music isn’t the only thing that soothes the savage breast.’

  ‘But you don’t have a savage breast.’

  ‘I might just develop one if you don’t hurry up and leave me in peace!’ Felix closed his eyes.

  Snack, dog and embroidery did their work and Felix was suitably soothed. In fact after a couple of hours he was soothed enough to contemplate a short stroll and a digestivo. He glanced at his watch. Cedric wouldn’t be back for at least an hour; time enough to have a little wander and explore that rather charming little campo behind the palazzo … And he might of course drop in on that corner bar the gondoliers seemed to patronise. After all one was always being encouraged to fraternise with the locals … He smiled and sleeked his hair in the mirror.

  When Felix returned he found that Cedric had preceded him and was lying on the sofa with what could only be described as a beatific expression on his face. It was a face that was normally fairly immobile, but that night it was suffused with a look both barmy and inebriated.

  ‘Good concert was it?’ Felix enquired.

  ‘Fantastico,’ Cedric sighed.

  ‘Delighted to hear that. So what was so good about it?’

  ‘What wasn’t?’ came the slurred reply.

  Felix went over to the cocktail cabinet and mixed himself a drink, carefully omitting to offer one to Cedric.

  ‘But what in particular?’ he persisted. ‘You clearly enjoyed it.’

  ‘Oh yes, dear boy, but not something you would understand.’

  ‘Try me,’ Felix said evenly.

  There was a lengthy pause as Cedric evidently mused. ‘It was,’ he pronounced, ‘a sort of exquisite harmony of Bach, Borodin, and Noël Coward; a melange so potent I thought I would lose my mind!’

  ‘I think you have,’ retorted Felix dryly.

  ‘Hmm, per … haps,’ Cedric replied, and passed out.

  On the dot of six the following evening the bell sounded and a voice on the intercom announced itself as Carlo Roberto.

  ‘Un momento. Scendo subito!’ Felix announced with a flourish. And feeling rather pleased with himself trotted down the staircase to welcome his guest.

  He pulled open the heavy door and was confronted by a small man in a raincoat bearing a sheaf of pink gladioli. He gave a brisk formal bow and stepped inside.

  Felix was startled. He hadn’t expected bouquets and was both flattered and flustered.

  The visitor beamed and with the faintest of accents said in perfect English, ‘Forgive this little liberty Signor Smythe, but your cousin once told me of your floral pursuits and the prestigious emporium in London. Please accept these with my compliments on your recent royal honour.’

  Felix felt even more flattered. (How news travelled: that was the second person who had alluded to his warrant!) He especially liked the term ‘prestigious emporium’, a most fitting description of his modest establishment. He smirked inwardly and made a mental note to repeat the term to Cedric.

  Upstairs he took the man’s raincoat and made introductions. Drinks were poured and lighters clicked.

  Carlo Roberto nodded appreciatively as he swept his eyes around the salon. ‘Such a lovely room I always think. Violet has delightful taste. It is an invariable pleasure to be here – so restful. Alas my own apartment though large is too full of books to seem truly spacious. I dwell in what I believe the English call organised chaos! And as for charming pictures’ – he gestured to the Canalettos – ‘I fear such embellishments perforce give way to printers’ ink.’

  Cedric was amused. The man’s oral delivery was as formally poised as his verbal. (And certainly preferable to the mutual discomfort of fractured grammar and tortured idiom. Fluency, even of an old-fashioned kind, made communication so much easier!) From the reference to his books the fellow could very possibly be the same Carlo that Lucia had spoken of.

  Felix too had made that assumption. ‘So you’re a book dealer, are you?’ he enquired a trifle baldly. ‘Someone mentioned your name only the other day. She said—’

  The man winced and cleared his throat. ‘No I am not a dealer. I do not do deals. The commercial element plays little part in my interest – although I will occasionally procure an item for a friend. I am a collector: one of those oddities who cherish books for their own sake and cannot keep his hands off the beautiful, the quaint and the rare. My volumes are my children and I have far too many of them!’ He gave a soft chuckle. ‘And like children, from time to time they become wayward and unruly and must be restored to order: summoned or (dare I say it) called to book and re-catalogued. A laborious process and one I am currently engaged upon.’ He spread his hands in a suddenly very Italianate gesture: ‘And thus my mission here. I come in the hope of finding a lost child.’

  ‘Which one?’ Cedric asked.

  Carlo explained that a couple of months earlier he had dropped in at the palazzo to partake of a coffee and a nightcap with his dear friend Violet Hoffmann. (‘She mixes the most ethereal Bat’s Wing,’ he confided.) And on that particular evening he had been returning from a bibliophile convention in Verona. He had with him several new acquisitions which he was eager for his friend to admire. They had spread the books out on the coffee table and he had commented upon each, detailing its content and provenance. Unfortunately such had been the potency of the Bat’s Wing and the lateness of the hour that he had lost his usual alertness; and thus when he had scooped up the books prior to leaving he had carelessly left one behind. The following morning Violet had telephoned pointing out the error and he had assured her he would call back to collect it. In fact, ‘things being what they so often are,’ he had omitted to do this and subsequently forgot all about the book. ‘Until now.’

  ‘Why now?’ Felix asked.

  ‘My annual inventory. As said, October is the month for the Grand Reckoning!’

  ‘Ah yes of course,’ Cedric nodded, ‘but you still haven’t given us its title.’

  ‘Didn’t I? How silly of me. It’s a collection of nineteenth-century English translations of the poet Horace. Rather a rare edition compiled by one R. D. M. Bodger.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Cedric, ‘that did cross my mind.’

  There had followed an awkward silence while the two hosts pondered the best way to inform Carlo Roberto of his wasted journey.

  Felix was the first to speak. Hastily offering his guest another cigarette he said, ‘Actually, I am afraid the bird has flown.’

  Carlo looked puzzled. ‘What bird?’

  ‘Well to b
e exact your book.’

  There followed apologies, explanations and earnest assurances that they would retrieve the book from Miss Gilchrist the very next day.

  The man took the news well – that is to say he showed no outward sign of annoyance, but made it clear that rather than rely on Felix and Cedric as intermediaries he would approach the lady himself and explain the situation. ‘She will be sorry to give it up,’ he smiled, ‘and thus the least I can do is to go in person and offer my apologies. Perhaps you will be so kind as to tell me where she is staying.’

  They gave him Rosy’s address; and after a few pleasantries and a polite enquiry after Caruso, Carlo Roberto took his leave and went on his way.

  After he had gone they looked at each other in some dismay.

  ‘She won’t like that,’ Cedric sighed.

  ‘No. What you might call a turn down for the books!’

  ‘Actually I wouldn’t call it that,’ Cedric replied witheringly. ‘My days in the fourth form are long since passed.’

  Felix was about to agree wholeheartedly with the latter statement but thought better of it. Cedric was right, it wasn’t one of his better jests. Besides this was not the time for verbal skirmish, they had to decide what to do about Rosy. ‘Do you think we should telephone and tell her the bad news ourselves? Or would it be simpler to say nothing and let her find out from this Carlo? He obviously intends to go there.’

  Cedric mused. ‘My instinct tells me to do nothing – often the best course in such matters. Leave others to relay the bad news, less stressful.’ Felix nodded. ‘On the other hand,’ he continued, ‘I suppose it would be a courtesy; and also less of a shock when friend Carlo makes his approach – forewarned is forearmed et cetera. Not that she needs arming of course, he seemed a very mild little fellow; quite pleasant in fact. Will you telephone?’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Felix quickly, ‘I’ve got the dog’s dinner to deal with. We’re experimenting with some new biscuits. Frightfully expensive; Paolo recommended them. Wooffo: Biscotti migliore per i cani migliore. Apparently they are based on a recipe by a Signor Fortnum.’ He giggled and went off to the kitchen to prepare the feast.