Good Thief's Guide to Venice

by Ewan, Chris

  ‘So what’s next?’ Victoria asked. ‘Should we go to the police?’

  I frowned. ‘What would be the point of that?’

  ‘Well, I know you’re not exactly a fan . . .’

  ‘Because they’re usually trying to arrest me, Vic. And more often than not, for the wrong crime.’

  ‘But think about it, Charlie. A female burglar. There can’t be too many of those around. Perhaps they’ll know who she is.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on it. And I dread to think how long we’d have to wait to speak to someone. All day, probably.’

  She prodded me in the chest. ‘That book was worth a bloody fortune.’

  ‘Still is,’ I told her. ‘Just not my fortune, regrettably.’

  Victoria squealed in frustration and stamped her heel into the ground. It wasn’t her smartest move ever. A cluster of pigeons scattered in a burst of wings, charting a course for her hair. She yelped, flailing her arms like she’d stumbled into a bat cave.

  Once the last of the winged rodents had cleared the air space in the vicinity of her head, she cursed me under her breath and bit down on her lip. ‘You don’t fool me, Charlie. You’ve told me before what that book means to you. What it means for your writing.’

  The joke was Victoria didn’t know the half of it. Stealing the Falcon had involved one of the biggest gambles I’d ever taken. As a professional thief-for-hire, ripping off one’s employer is a dumb move. The chances of being caught are high, because you’re an obvious suspect, and even if nothing can be proven against you, you still risk causing irreparable damage to your reputation. So rule one of the burglary game is never to bite the hand that feeds you. It’s a good rule. A fine one, even. And that’s why I’ve seldom broken it.

  But I broke it for Hammett.

  At the time in question, my client was a bloated old Etonian – a boastful lush who’d inherited a vast and sprawling family estate that happened to include a renowned library of rare volumes. The library was of scant interest to him – in fact, I was reliably informed that the only thing he read for pleasure was the Wisden Cricketers’ Almanack. His passion, you see, was cricket, and I’d been hired by a go-between to acquire a piece of memorabilia for his private collection – a bat that had been used by a particular player in a particular Test that I’m not at liberty to mention just now. Needless to say, I stole the bat and I was paid handsomely for my toils, but from the moment I’d heard talk of my client’s library of books, I’d had a hankering to break in and peruse it.

  Several weeks later, when I happened to know that he was in Yorkshire for a County Championship match, I did precisely that, and it’s fair to say the quality of the collection was far beyond anything I could have anticipated. But the greatest surprise was on a shelf high up to my right, where I happened to notice a familiar yellow dust jacket winking out at me. Somewhat breathlessly, I wheeled across a stepladder and took the book down, turning it in my hands and gently opening it to the first printed page where, to my life-long surprise, I found that my hero had signed his name, in his very own hand.

  I wanted to take the book, right there and then, but I reminded myself what a hazardous thing it would be to do, and I reluctantly slipped it back in its place. But from that night on, through the days and weeks that followed, I could think of little else. Ideas of snatching the book plagued me during the day and haunted me in my dreams. I’d swiped plenty of things by then – some for myself, others for clients – and nearly everything had been worth an awful lot of money. But with The Maltese Falcon, it was the first and only time I’d truly known what it meant to covet something. I was obsessed by the book, I couldn’t rest without taking it, and gradually I convinced myself that there was a good chance its theft wouldn’t be noticed by the library’s cricket-obsessed owner. So I broke in, and I nabbed the Falcon, but I also left England for the Continent the very next day, at the start of what was destined to become my roving lifestyle throughout Europe and beyond.

  ‘Oh, I’ll get by,’ I told Victoria, doing my best to rid my mind of the memories I’d just conjured.

  ‘Will you, though?’

  I reached for her chin, lifting it with my thumb. ‘Well, you tell me,’ I said, in what I hoped passed for a carefree tone. ‘How about we head home and you can start reading my new manuscript?’

  A sad smile flirted with her lips. ‘Oh, terrific. No pressure there, then.’

  Reaching for her hand, I swung her arm and led her on through the square towards the steely waters of the lagoon. The main expanse of the piazza was away to our right and the pink-on-white fancy of the Doge’s Palace was off to our left. But I wasn’t interested in either of them. My attention was focussed on the two granite columns ahead of us, at the entrance to the Piazetta. The columns framed a view across the lagoon to the cathedral of San Giorgio Maggiore, and in times gone by, thieves and criminals had been strung up from them, as a warning to others not to follow their example. And there I was, ignoring the lesson, already planning in my own mind how I might set about breaking into the bookshop after dark and, more to the point, asking myself how best to access the antique floor-safe I’d spotted behind the shopkeeper’s desk.

  FOUR

  If there’s one thing I try to focus on when I’m writing my Michael Faulks burglar novels, it’s barriers. By tossing as many obstacles as possible into the path of my hero, and making life fiendishly challenging for him, I hope my readers will feel compelled to read on to find out what happens next. It’s a handy technique, and it’s served me pretty well over the years. The part that troubled me, however, was that someone seemed to be pulling the exact same trick with yours truly.

  Take, for example, my decision to break into the bookshop. It was by no means easy. I’d made a promise to myself to focus on my writing while I was in Venice – to see what kind of crime novel I could produce when I really committed to the novel rather than the crime side of the equation – and I felt guilty turning away from that pact.

  Just to make things more awkward, I’d given Victoria the same pledge, and I could well remember how pleased she’d been when I’d told her the news. Yes, she enjoyed hearing about the stunts I’d pulled over the years, and I’d long suspected that she found the roguish side of my personality somewhat endearing, but the thing that had originally brought us together had been my writing. She was the first person to truly believe in my work, and she had absolute faith that one day my stories would reach a wider audience. It was because of her that I’d decided to attempt the kind of ambitious thriller I might never have tried otherwise – and it was for her, as much as for me, that I’d been prepared to knuckle down to my career in writing and draw a line under my career in theft.

  So it was for this reason, above all others, that I found myself not long after midnight, in the somewhat curious position of having to sneak around my own home (very much like a burglar in the night) with the intention of letting myself out undetected.

  Fortunately, Victoria was snoring, and being a keen student of human behaviour, I took this to mean that she was asleep. I nudged her door open a fraction to peer inside. Sure enough, she was out cold, eyes shut and jaw slackened, with the duvet pulled up to her chin. I suppose I should have been relieved to see it, because it made leaving my apartment a good deal simpler, but the truth is I felt stung.

  Why? Well, it was only a few hours since I’d passed her a copy of my new manuscript. And granted, I’d been nervous because I’d invested time and energy into the novel, and there was a lot riding on her verdict. But one thing I’d felt confident about was the opening third. I thought it was gripping. Unputdownable, in fact. And yet Victoria had happily abandoned the script on her bedside cabinet before plunging into a deep and tranquil sleep.

  I backed away and returned to my bedroom, trying not to let it get to me. Too late. It already had. What could I have overlooked, I wondered? More to the point, what had she missed? And just how far had she got before tossing my work aside?

  Now, if I we
re a normal person, I imagine that I would have been able to give the matter some sensible consideration, and that I might have concluded that I was being unreasonable. It was only the previous night that her sleep had been interrupted by the break-in. On top of that, she was due to stay with me for at least another week, so perhaps she was hoping to read my novel at a leisurely pace, to enjoy it all the more.

  But alas, I’m not normal – I’m a paranoid writer – and by the time I’d dressed in dark clothes, freed my trusty burglary tools from inside the lining of my suitcase and stuffed my faithful map into my pocket, I’d convinced myself that there was only one thing to do.

  Sneaking back across the hallway, I crawled on my hands and knees over the thin carpet towards her bed. Her snoring had become fainter, and there appeared to be a longer pause between breaths. I cautiously raised my head, freed the top page of the manuscript from the pile and lowered it to the floor. I checked on Victoria, and once I was certain that she hadn’t stirred, I flashed the beam of my penlight.

  Now, speaking as a thief, I can tell you that there are some things you simply don’t lose, no matter how rusty you might be, and it’s a testament to my composure that I didn’t gasp loudly or swear and give myself away. Because the sad discovery I’d made, and the troubling fact that stuck with me as I slipped out of my apartment and trudged through the sombre alleys and abandoned campi to Calle Fiubera, was that Victoria had stopped reading my book midway through chapter four.

  Even when I’m on my game, this burglary lark is a risky business, and it had been a long time since I’d last applied my skills. Talk about barriers. I could have sworn I had enough to be going on with, and that was before I clocked the metal grilles that had been pulled down in front of the darkened exterior of the bookbinding business.

  I paused and pretended to tie my shoe. I couldn’t see anyone in the darkness surrounding me. Further up the alley was an osteria that had long since been closed for the night, as well as a number of shops protected by metal shutters and several layers of graffiti. The only nearby light came from the safety lamps that had been fixed to scaffolding poles outside a boarded-up building undergoing renovation. In short, the coast appeared to be clear, and so I gave the grille a good shake. It creaked and rattled, but it was securely fastened to the ground with three industrial padlocks.

  I considered the other obstacles in my way. There didn’t appear to be an alarm, thank goodness, because although I knew how to bypass all but the most complex of systems, I wouldn’t have relished the prospect of poking around in any of the dodgy Italian wiring snaking across the exterior of the shop. Aside from the padlocks, I could spy a modest collection of locks and bolts on the front door itself. And that, so far as I could tell, appeared to be it.

  Satisfied with my assessment, I took a stroll to the end of the alley and stuck my head out into Calledei Fabbri, just to make sure that nobody was likely to interrupt me. It was just as well I did. The tunnel-like space had appeared empty at first glance, but as I turned, I glimpsed a hunched figure leaning against the doorway of an unlit restaurant.

  I couldn’t remember seeing the man when I’d approached the shop, and I doubted very much that I would have forgotten him if I had. He was very large, almost bear-shaped, and he was dressed in a scruffy camel-hair coat that must have made quite a dent in some unfortunate herd, and that fitted him the way a mess tent fits an army unit. A pair of black suit trousers extended below the hem of his coat to hover disconcertingly above his polished black brogues, revealing a slither of white ankle sock. A tatty black fedora was plonked on top of his sizeable head, among a mass of knotted black curls, shading his eyes. What I could see of the face was mostly beard – a thick, tangled number that obscured his jawline and ringed his open mouth. Coiled about his feet was a mangy-looking cat.

  For a moment, I was too stunned to say anything, and then I remembered that my Italian wasn’t up to the task in any event. I wasn’t sure what I planned to do next, so it was kind of him to save me the trouble. With a nasal grunt and a sudden swing of his foot, he sent the cat yowling across the alley, then lowered the brim of his hat, turned on his heel and limped awkwardly away in the direction of the Rialto.

  I suppose if I was a lesser thief, the encounter might have unsettled me, but the truth is that it takes more than a shambling, overweight chap with a disregard for animal welfare to put me off my stride. Evidently, the same was true of the stray cat, because it stalked along behind its bashful companion until I was all on my lonesome once more.

  Never one to be shy about seizing the moment, I returned to the shop, reached inside my jacket for the spectacles case that contained my torch and my picks, removed my mittens and exposed my hands to the cold. Yes, I had on a pair of plastic disposable gloves, but they provided my arthritic joints with barely any protection. It didn’t help that I’d had to snip away two of the fingers on my right-hand glove to accommodate my gnarled fingers. They were wrapped in surgical tape to prevent my leaving any prints, but my knuckles still had a tendency to seize up all too fast, and that was something I couldn’t readily afford. Speed was of the essence, so I crouched and addressed the first padlock.

  Even though I do say so myself, I was mighty pleased with the way things turned out. Yes, in my pomp I might have been a touch quicker, and perhaps my approach might have been a shade more elegant, but there was no denying that I still had the knack. And heck, when I pulled a can of lubricant from my pocket and squirted it into the shutter mechanism, then hauled up the weighty grille and ducked beneath it with barely a sound, I couldn’t ignore the wave of satisfaction that washed over me.

  Easing the grille back down, I cupped my hands around my eyes and pressed my face against the blackened glass until I was certain that I couldn’t see the infrared blink of any sensors. Then I went down on one knee and offered a heartfelt proposal to the pin and tumbler lock in the middle of the door. At first it played coy, but after a spell of prodding and tickling, it came around to my advances. The bolt down by my feet was of a more stubborn disposition, and for a while it had me debating whether I should break the glass. I’ve never favoured that approach – there’s the risk of cutting oneself, as well as making too much noise – and it has always struck me as the last resort of any self-respecting thief. Eventually, it turned out that a little breathless fumbling was all that was needed before the bolt was putty in my hands, and as soon as I’d withdrawn the thing, the door swung open on its hinges.

  I surprised myself by hesitating. Yes, I might have just picked some locks, but the moment I entered the shop, I really would have reverted to my bad old ways. And granted, I could console myself with the thought that all I was doing was trying to reclaim my own property, rather than stealing someone else’s, but if I were to get caught, I doubted the owner of the shop, or more to the point, the Italian police, would see it that way.

  But despite what I’d said to Victoria, I didn’t trust the shopkeeper. Anyone with a genuine knowledge of books would know the value of a first edition of The Maltese Falcon. If he’d had a copy available to him, he would have been aware of it without needing to consult any records. That made me think that the routine with the ledger had been a way of stalling me while he tried to figure out what my angle might be. And that, in turn, led me to suspect that he knew about my copy of the book.

  I headed for the safe. Now admittedly, there was no reason to think that my book would be inside. He could be keeping it anywhere he pleased. It might be that he lived in a nearby apartment stuffed with priceless volumes, or it might be that he had a safe storage box in a local bank where my book was temporarily hidden, awaiting shipment to a collector somewhere else in the world. But my only lead was the shop, and the only secure place I’d spied inside the shop was the safe.

  Well, I say secure, but really it was vulnerable. In the light from my torch, I could see that it was a squat, heavy-looking brute, dating from the 1940s or ’50s. It had been finished in a dark-blue enamel, and it wouldn’
t have surprised me to learn that the paint was thicker than the metal it covered. If I’d had a decent drill with me, I dare say I could have attacked it quite productively from the side. But, as it happened, I was content to focus my attentions on the very basic locking mechanism.

  There was no combination dial, and certainly no electronic keypad. A brass keyhole and a multi-pin lock was all that stood between me and the interior of the thing, and after sorting through my burglary equipment for a likely looking pick and a sturdy torsion wrench, I gripped my torch between my teeth and got down to business. Moments later, the weighty tumblers turned with a deathly echo, the brass handle rotated and a gust of stale air wafted out.

  I covered my mouth with my hand and flashed my torch inside. There was a shelf in the middle and the space beneath it contained four cloth bags. The bags were heavy, and when I lifted them from the safe I discovered that they contained euro coins in various denominations. I put the petty cash back inside. I was after my book, not a profit.

  On top of the shelf were two books with blue cloth covers, frayed around the edges. The pages were yellowed and the text was in a language I didn’t recognise – Russian, perhaps. Disappointed, I reached for a set of keys that had been hidden beneath the books. They were attached to a Fiat key fob. The car they fitted was most likely parked at the Piazzale Roma – unlikely to be used on a daily basis but ready to be driven across the bridge to mainland Italy whenever convenient. I returned them to the safe and removed the final item.

  A mobile telephone.

  The handset looked cheap, with large rubber buttons and a dim-lit monochrome screen upon which a telephone number had been entered. If I was ever to buy a mobile myself, it was just the kind of thing I’d go for – the base model in a manufacturer’s range, with the ability to make and receive calls and, on a good day with a following breeze, perhaps even send a text message or two. Ordinarily, I might have said that there was nothing the least bit remarkable about it. But that would be to ignore the yellow Post-it note that had been stuck to the keypad, and the arrow on the note that pointed upwards to the button with the little green handset on it. And it would also require me to overlook the writing beneath the arrow, where someone had scrawled the words: Ring Me, Englishman.