by Ewan, Chris
‘If you drop the briefcase, I will drop your book. This is not what I want. But if you make me, I will do it.’
Kind of stupid that I hadn’t thought of that.
‘Well, this is interesting,’ I told her, doing my best to sound composed.
‘Do not drop the case.’
‘Then don’t drop my book.’
She transferred her gaze from the novel in her hand, to the case at the end of my wobbling arm, to the grimace I was wearing. My fingers were beginning to numb in the chill, in spite of my plastic gloves and the surgical tape, and I wasn’t sure how long I’d be able to maintain my grip.
‘I make you a promise,’ she said. ‘If you return the case, you will have your book back. I swear it. But if you drop it now, you will never see your book again.’
‘Then at least tell me what you have in here. It’s damn heavy. My arm’s getting tired.’
‘But I cannot tell you.’
‘Not sure . . . how much longer . . . I can hold on.’
She gauged me for a crucial few seconds and then, to my considerable relief, she returned my book to safety. Or rather, she returned my book to what I’d mistakenly imagined to be safety. Because mere seconds after having it in both hands again, she opened the thing up and gripped the top corner of a single page between her finger and thumb. She tugged at the paper, testing its hold. She held my eye, seemed to wince slightly, and then to my everlasting horror, I heard the faintest tear.
‘All right,’ I yelled, hauling the case back onto the balcony and holding up a hand. The impasse had left me at a real disadvantage. We both knew how important the book was to me, but I had no idea how significant the contents of the case really were to her. ‘I give in.’
Her shoulders sagged. ‘You will do as I say?’
‘I’ll return the case.’
‘And you will not look inside?’ Her voice was small now. Pining.
‘If you insist. But just so there’s no misunderstanding, how will you know if I do look? Granted, I might not have the combination, but with a little time I think I could crack this sucker. You must realise that.’
‘I will know if you try,’ she said, steeling herself.
Hmm. Was that really possible? It could be she’d done something simple, like pasted a hair to the lip of the case, or something more complicated, involving a sensor of some sort. Either that, or she was bluffing. All of which was something I could turn my mind to when I had a little more time (and a little less weight) on my hands.
‘When is it you want me to do this thing?’ I asked, not bothering to conceal my resentment.
‘Tomorrow night. I will call you when it is time. You still have the phone, yes?’
I felt for the device in my coat pocket, then nodded at her. ‘You’d better give me some details. Tell me what to expect.’
She assessed me warily, as if my sudden compliance was more troublesome than the resistance I’d previously offered. While she looked me over, I plonked the case down by my feet and consulted my watch. Way past my bedtime.
‘Details?’ I pressed.
Turning her back on me, she reached for her satchel, slipping Hammett’s book inside and removing a small white envelope. The envelope bulged in the middle, the paper crinkled, as if overstuffed. She lifted the flap to her mouth, ran her pink and very appealing tongue across the gum, and stuck it down. Then she crossed to the side of her balcony and stood on her toes to peg the envelope to one of the washing lines that stretched between us. I tried not to ogle her bottom, failing miserably.
The line was wrapped around a pulley wheel at both ends, and after checking on me for a final time, as though afraid I was planning an elaborate trick, she tugged hard, sending the envelope over to me with a few determined jerks on the squeaking mechanism.
I waited until the envelope was quivering beside my head, then plucked it out of the frigid air and turned it in my hands. Prising open the soggy flap, I removed a folded bundle of paper. The sheets had been torn from a spiral-bound pad and they were covered in detailed notes and haphazard sketches. The package would take some studying, but at first glance, it looked like a comprehensive breakdown of everything I was likely to come up against.
Stuffing the pages back inside the envelope, I bent down for the briefcase, then stood in my winter coat, the case in one hand and the envelope in the other, looking, I imagine, a lot like a businessman about to set out for a day at the office. ‘Be sure and look after my book,’ I told her, turning to open the doors to the empty apartment.
‘Then do not look inside the case.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ I called over my shoulder.
But not for the first time that night, I turned out to be wrong.
NINE
I slept like a man in a coma – assuming, that is, that men in comas don’t just find themselves in the very deepest of slumbers, but that they also experience the most vivid and disturbing dreams imaginable. The terrors that visited me were all connected to the briefcase. In some, I mislaid it or had it stolen from me. In others, I returned the case, just as I was supposed to, only to find myself arrested and locked up in some dismal Italian prison. But mostly, I opened the briefcase inside my dreams, and each time I flipped back the lid the contents became ever more sickening: snakes and spiders; eyeballs and body parts; photographs of Victoria being subjected to the most appalling torture imaginable. You name it, I saw it, and when at last I woke with a pitiful groan, drenched in cold sweat, I stumbled to the bathroom wishing that I could rinse clean my brain in the same way that I was able to swill the gummy muck from my teeth with mouthwash.
Peeling off my pyjamas and stepping into my shower, I didn’t just feel drained and groggy – I also felt ashamed, and not a little embarrassed. Truth was, mixed in with the looped nightmares, I’d had one or two dreams of an altogether different nature – torrid, erotic numbers, if you really must know. And since I’m nothing if not predictable, it probably won’t surprise you to learn that the star of these segments was none other than the curvy Venetian who’d taken to meeting me on strange balconies. I suppose, if we’re to indulge in a spot of pop psychology for a moment, that my attraction might have had something to do with the way Graziella was ordering me around. I’ve heard it said that men with female bosses often find the scenario quite intoxicating, and apparently I was susceptible to the same weakness. Mind you, I also didn’t think it hurt that she had a figure capable of leading a magazine artist to lay down his airbrush for good, or a way of looking out from beneath half-lidded eyes, lips parted just so, that made me feel like a man standing on a very high ledge who was oddly tempted to jump off.
The spit of water coming from my shower was enough to wash by, but it achieved little else. So I still felt uncomfortable in my own skin, let alone my own mind, as I wrapped a towel about my waist and ambled into the kitchen, where I found a note stuck to the kettle.
Morning Sleepyhead. I’m off to explore. Speak later.
Now, since I’m a crime writer by profession, I was able to deduce that far from having two mysterious individuals leaving clues about my apartment, the note in question had been written by Victoria. On any other morning, I suppose I might have been content to bask in the warmth of my mental faculties and steaming kettle for a pleasant few minutes, but rather than make things simple for myself, I hurried along the hallway to Victoria’s room and invaded her privacy.
It didn’t take long to find my manuscript. In fact, it didn’t take any time at all. To my not-inconsiderable disappointment, the printed bundle hadn’t moved in the slightest – the middle page of chapter four was still on top.
From what I could see, she hadn’t felt the need to read any further during the morning, or even to take the script with her to some friendly café. She’d simply preferred to go outside in the biting cold to wander aimlessly around, leaving my book as far behind her as she possibly could.
No doubt that was unfair, but I was feeling grumpy and irritable, and it he
lped to blame someone other than me for my foul mood. In fact, it helped so much that I blamed Victoria for the rest of the afternoon, nurturing my huff with care and attention by turning my focus to the notes Graziella had passed me about the security at Palazzo Borelli. There were pages and pages of information, ranging from detailed reports on the type of locks fitted throughout the property, to haphazard schematics of the electricity circuits and rushed sketches of the different floors, to a list of potential entry and exit points (including the benefits and risks associated with each one), and a run-down of the palazzo staff and their hours of employment. She’d flagged wonky floorboards and creaking door hinges, inserted approximate timings for moving between rooms, and even included a short essay on how she wanted me to exploit the surveillance cameras. In short, Graziella had gone far beyond casing the joint – she’d practically autopsied the place – and I suppose I should have been grateful for the heads-up. But I wasn’t thankful. Not in the least.
Frankly, I found her notes insulting. As a fellow pro, it would have been nice if she could have trusted me a bit more. And yes, maybe to her mind I’d been winging it all these years, or perhaps her exhaustive planning was just a sign of how serious the situation was for her, but it seemed to me that a little spontaneity was key to a truly satisfying theft. A good burglary takes skill and ability. But a great burglary involves flair. The best thieves are known as break-in artists for a reason. And Graziella’s more scientific approach left me cold.
I tucked the notes away and fed my bad temper with uncharitable thoughts while I rocked backwards on the hind legs of my writing chair, waiting for my new mobile phone to ring. I spent the long minutes balancing an unlit cigarette on my bottom lip, staring mawkishly at the space on the wall where Hammett’s novel used to hang. And I gave my sulk a useful shot in the arm every time I sneaked into my bedroom to slide the heavy aluminium briefcase out from under my bed and asked myself if I should tease the locks open. I was pretty good at being peeved, I must say, and truth be told, I’d got myself in quite the fug by the time I heard Victoria climb the stairs to my apartment, fit her key in the lock and call out a singsong, ‘Hello!’ as she stepped through my door.
I was on the floor of my bedroom at the time, subjecting the briefcase to a gruelling examination. I still hadn’t found anything to indicate that Graziella really could tell if I tricked my way through the combination dials, and it was beginning to kill me not to do just that. As a natural-born burglar, a sense of curiosity is a given, and I’m proud to say that my snooping gene is very highly developed. If I’d stumbled upon the case by pure chance, my first instinct would have been to flip back the lid and see if it contained anything I desired, and being forbidden from doing exactly that simply made me want to do it even more. The only thing stopping me was the enormous value I placed on my copy of The Maltese Falcon and my reluctance to take any kind or risk – no matter how small – that might wreck my chances of having it returned to me. Oh, and Victoria’s inconvenient return.
Sliding the case beneath my bed and peeling off my plastic gloves, I moved into the hall to find her wiping her feet. Of course, by the time she’d treated me to a blazing grin and gushed about what a fabulous day she’d had, all while climbing out of her coat and insisting that I simply must touch her cheeks to see how freezing it was outside, my healthy dose of righteous indignation had rather begun to escape me. And once she’d announced that she was taking me out for an evening meal in a charming little restaurant she’d found down by the Rialto markets, I’d almost reached the stage where I could have forgotten what I’d been upset with her for in the first place.
Almost.
We’d cleaned our plates and were waiting for dessert before it all got too much for me. The restaurant was located on a mezzanine level above a popular bar, and it featured rustic furniture, vaulted brick ceilings, a good deal of candlelight, and three arched windows that looked out onto the Grand Canal. It was a small place, filled to the gills with Venetians, and mostly serving gills, as it happens – on account of it being a fish restaurant. Not far from our table was an ice tray stocked with a colourful selection of molluscs and crustaceans, eels and octopuses, dead-eyed red mullet, gawping skate, cod-sized sharks, and an ugly-looking fellow I couldn’t readily identify. Across the room, beside the door to the bustling kitchen, a gang of brownish lobsters stalked a murky fish tank, their pincers secured with yellow elastic bands.
‘Isn’t this fabulous?’ Victoria said, leaning back in her chair and spreading her fingers on her belly.
‘It’s certainly something.’
‘You could go to a hundred restaurants in London and you’d never find fish this fresh.’
‘Uh huh.’
‘And I absolutely love prosecco.’ She took a swig from her tall wine glass as if to confirm the revelation.
‘Why wouldn’t you?’
Victoria hesitated, then did something clever with her face, so that one eyebrow dropped much lower than the other, taking on a diagonal slant. ‘Charlie, is there something you want to say to me?’
‘Say? I don’t think so.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Believe me, if there was something I wanted to say, I’d say it.’
‘Okay.’ She leaned across the table and grabbed the empty bottle of prosecco by the neck, tilting it by way of invitation. ‘Shall we order more bubbly?’
I gritted my teeth. ‘If you like.’
‘Super.’ She lifted a finger in the air, signalling our waiter.
‘After all,’ I told her, ‘if it fits in with your plans, why shouldn’t we order another bottle?’
‘O-kay.’ She showed the label to the waiter, together with a hopeful thumbs up.
‘I mean, your schedule is important. If you want to get blotto and go back to my flat and pass out on your bed, I shouldn’t have a problem with that, should I?’
Victoria dabbed her lips with her napkin and backed away from me with a palms-up gesture, like I was a stack of playing cards she’d carefully balanced and was loath to upset.
I scowled at the table and snatched up my wine glass. I could have done without the bubbles. Sparkling wine isn’t the best accompaniment to a bad temper. Then again, neither is it the most suitable preparation for a night of pilfering. I could feel the weight of the mobile phone in my trouser pocket, and I had no idea when it might begin to vibrate.
Perhaps I’d have felt less grouchy if I hadn’t been facing the windows. Somewhere out there, beyond the reflections of twinkling candles and our fellow diners, was Palazzo Borelli. I wasn’t sure I needed the reminder. I was even less sure that I wanted it.
‘Is this about your manuscript?’ Victoria asked me.
I glanced down, straightening my dessert spoon on the tablecloth. ‘What if it is?’
‘Then I think we should talk about it, don’t you? I am your agent, after all.’
‘Oh, so you’ve remembered, then.’
‘Charlie.’
‘Forgive me.’ I kept my eyes down. It seemed my pastry fork needed rearranging too. ‘It’s just with all the sightseeing you’ve been doing, one might be forgiven for thinking you’d forgotten about my novel altogether.’
Victoria drew an audible breath. I got the impression she was counting numbers in her head. I wondered how far she might get before letting me have it with both barrels.
‘Charlie, I’m going to be honest with you.’
Oh boy. Nothing that starts out with those words is ever destined to be good. I was beginning to wish I hadn’t pushed things – maybe it would have been better to let Victoria leave Venice with both of us pretending I’d never handed her a new script at all.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’ve only read the beginning. Barely got into it. But it’s very . . .’ she raised her eyes to the ceiling, searching for the right word, ‘different.’
Christ, stab me in the gut, why didn’t she? Different. That was just wonderful. Next thing she’d be delivering the old ‘taste i
s subjective’ line.
‘Listen, everything is subjective, you know that.’ Told you. ‘What one person likes, another might not. Agreed?’
‘Ah, I see,’ I said. ‘And what you’re saying is – you don’t like it.’
Victoria winced, as if I’d kicked her under the table. I was pretty sure I hadn’t kicked her under the table. Although, now I thought of it, maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea.
‘It’s not that I don’t like it per se. It’s just that it’s . . .’
‘Different?’
‘Exactly.’
We reached for our wine, monitoring each other closely, as if neither one of us was entirely sure which glass contained the deadly poison. We swallowed dryly and set our drinks to one side. Victoria circled the rim of her glass with her fingertip and I switched the salt and pepper pots around.
‘It seems very commercial,’ Victoria told me, in an apologetic tone. ‘Almost overtly so.’
‘That’s what I was aiming for,’ I mumbled, moving the pepper behind the salt pot, like a magician working the three-cups routine. ‘You do want to sell it, don’t you?’
‘Yes, but as a Faulks book, I’m just not sure how it sits alongside the rest of the titles in the series.’
‘Maybe it won’t sit beside them. Maybe it’ll sit on one of those shelves where the books that actually sell end up.’
Victoria reached across and stilled the salt and pepper pots. She was about to say more when our waiter reappeared. He popped the cork on our new bottle and poured the frothing alcohol into our glasses.
I met Victoria’s eyes. She smirked and covered her mouth with her hand. I couldn’t help smiling too.
‘Listen, if you hate it, just tell me,’ I said. ‘It’s not the end of the world, right?’
‘I don’t hate it . . . yet. The truth is I don’t know how I feel about it. I’ve only read the opening chapters, so I’m really not in a position to comment.’ She shrugged. ‘I suppose the truth is I’m scared.’
‘Scared? I’m the one who just spent months planning and writing the damn thing.’