Good Thief's Guide to Venice

by Ewan, Chris

  I hummed, then I hawed. ‘Doesn’t that make you read on, though?’

  ‘Yes, but it doesn’t always have to be such a big thing. It could just be a matter of having one character ask a question that hasn’t been posed before. Or even better, a simple knock at the door.’

  Now, you may very well not believe me, but I swear that just as Victoria said those self-same words, there was a tap-tap-tap on the front door. She tensed and exchanged a look with me. It wasn’t the most complacent expression I’d ever seen. In fact, it was downright accusing.

  ‘Was that you?’ she whispered.

  ‘Nope.’

  The knock sounded again, a jaunty little rap, the kind a friend might make – or a burglar-cum-killer in a deceptively good mood. I showed Victoria my palms, as if to prove I’d had nothing to do with it.

  She looked from me, to the hallway, and back again. ‘What do we do?’ she hissed.

  ‘Well, I know what Faulks would say. If you want to find out what happens next, he’d tell you to go and answer the door.’

  FIFTEEN

  Victoria took her pepper spray with her, concealed in the sleeve of her dressing gown, and I kept watch from my bed with her Taser for company. The Taser was fitted with a laser to assist my aim. I closed one eye and circled the red dot menacingly over the wall at the end of my bed, straining to hear what was happening.

  Naturally, it would have been a lot easier if my ears hadn’t been buzzing like a couple of horse flies were trapped in them. The interference wasn’t quite as bad as it had been, but it was enough to cloak Victoria’s words. Luckily, I could at least make out her tone, and she didn’t sound alarmed or threatened. Perhaps more reassuringly, there was no howling or wailing or, in fact, any other indication that she’d opted to discharge a dose of chemicals in our visitor’s face.

  A few moments later, footsteps approached. I hooked my finger around the trigger on the Taser, depressed it slightly and edged the red dot towards the back of my bedroom door. The handle turned, the door opened, and Victoria poked her head through the gap, then recoiled as the laser hit her square in the eye. She glared at me and I cringed an apology before lowering the gun.

  ‘Charlie,’ she said, in her most polite society voice, ‘your landlords are here. They’d like to check that you’re okay.’

  As she finished speaking, Victoria jabbed an accusing finger towards her weapons cache. I shoved the case beneath my bed covers, along with the Taser.

  ‘Er, okay,’ I said, rearranging my blanket.

  ‘Ciao, Charlie,’ Antea called, in a cheery, sing-song voice, from somewhere out of sight behind Victoria’s shoulder. ‘We are just a little worried about you.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I replied, my throat still hoarse. ‘But you can come in.’

  Victoria stepped inside, followed by Antea and Martin, and I watched with some embarrassment as Antea’s jaw dropped and she made the sign of the cross over her generous bosom. She had a round, pudgy face, and an equally round and pudgy body. Her customary outfit, which she’d favoured again this morning, was some variety of floral house dress with a plunging neckline, usually set-off with a chunky Murano glass necklace. She wore plenty of make-up, and her raven-black hair was permanently fixed into a tight bun. Flighty and emotional, she was the polar opposite of her husband.

  ‘Bastards really roughed you up,’ Martin said. ‘Best let me see.’

  He advanced towards me and swung an old-fashioned medical bag onto the foot of my bed, close to where I’d concealed the Taser. He removed a pair of disposable surgical gloves that he stretched over his hands and snapped against his wrists. The gloves were something to bear in mind – a convenient future supply, perhaps.

  Martin was dressed in brown corduroy trousers and a plum-coloured V-neck jumper over a plain white shirt, yellowing at the collar. He was rake-thin, with a full head of silver-grey hair that he liked to comb into a floppy, slanted fringe. The fringe was Martin’s pride and joy. He was constantly smoothing it down or throwing it back over his head with a foppish waft of his hand. He might have retired as a doctor many years ago, but I’d long-since formed the impression that he’d never fully abandon his medical persona.

  Placing his hands on either side of my head, he probed my skull with his fingers and thumbs. I could smell the rubber of his gloves, and the musty scent of his forearms.

  ‘I explained about the mugging,’ Victoria said, finally bringing me up to speed on the tale she’d weaved.

  ‘We hear you last night.’ Antea rubbed her hands together in an anxious fashion. ‘And when we hear talk of the polizia.’ She gasped and clapped a palm to her cheek. ‘I tell Martin to come check on you, but he say we must wait until morning.’

  ‘No fractures,’ Martin announced, as if there was a nurse in the room to take notes. ‘I understand you took a blow to the head.’

  I locked eyes with Victoria. She nodded minutely.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘No sign of any serious trauma. What about these cuts on your arms?’ He raised my limbs for closer inspection, then turned up his nose as if underwhelmed.

  ‘I was pushed into a wall. I used my arms to protect myself.’

  ‘Hmm. They’ll heal.’ He dropped my wrists and flicked his head back, clearing his fringe from his eyes. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘My hearing,’ I told him. ‘There was a loud noise when they first attacked me. I think they may have used some kind of banger to disorient me.’

  ‘Mamma Mia!’ Antea cried, and covered her mouth with her hands.

  Martin ignored her outburst and returned to his medical bag for an otoscope. He clicked the little light on, poked the pointy end into my ear and crouched down to take a peek at my deepest, darkest thoughts. ‘Hmm. Looks like you may have sustained some damage. There’s a small amount of blood, and the area looks inflamed. Check the other side.’ I tilted my head as much as I dared. ‘Same thing,’ Martin said. ‘They must have fired this banger bloody close.’

  He backed up and looked at me with a stern expression that suggested he didn’t entirely believe me.

  ‘I don’t remember too much about it, to be honest.’

  ‘Mmm.’ That got a scowl. ‘Any dizziness?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘Well, you’re doing the right thing by staying in bed. Hearing should improve with rest, but I’ll check up on you tomorrow. Get much sleep?’

  ‘Not a lot.’

  ‘He lost consciousness for a while,’ Victoria put in. ‘I’m not sure you’d call it sleep.’

  ‘Should he go to l’ospedale, Martin?’ Antea asked, worrying her hands in such a complex manner that I was amazed she didn’t break a finger.

  ‘The hospital and the police.’ He smoothed back his fringe, then fixed on me. ‘Going to do it?’

  I shook my head. Cautiously.

  ‘Didn’t think so. Can’t blame you, either – lot of red tape over here. I’ll give you something for the pain, help you sleep.’ He dropped the otoscope into his bag and searched around until he removed a disposable syringe and a tiny vial containing a clear plastic liquid. He passed the vial to Antea. ‘Read the date will you? Didn’t bring my glasses.’

  Antea held the little glass bottle up to the light of the standing lamp and peered at the label. ‘It go out of date last year, Martin.’

  ‘That’ll do.’

  ‘Er, will it?’ I asked.

  ‘Absolutely, old man. Not licensed to get fresh supplies these days, understand? But the dates are just flimflam. Drug might be a little less potent. I’ll up the dosage to compensate.’

  Taking the vial back from Antea, he upended it and pierced the seal with the needle, then eased back the plunger, peering myopically at the measurements along the side. Once he was satisfied, he squirted a little of the liquid into the air, flicked the syringe with his nail, swabbed a spot on my bicep and stabbed me.

  ‘Nothing to it,’ he said. And he was right – when you compared the sensation to being in the mi
ddle of an explosive inferno. ‘You’ll begin to feel drowsy. But it may help with the hearing.’

  ‘I appreciate it.’

  ‘Poor bambino,’ Antea said. ‘We are sorry, but his is not normal. It’s not Venezia.’

  ‘Crime wave,’ Martin said, removing his gloves and tossing them into his medical bag. He closed the bag with a snap of the clasps and smoothed back his fringe. ‘You’ll have heard about the explosion at Palazzo Borelli last night?’

  He subjected me to a hawkish assessment and I watched his pupils shift left and right as he gauged my response.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ I told him, doing my best to keep my face as blank as possible. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nobody knows for sure. There’s talk of a bomb.’

  Antea clucked her tongue. ‘No Martin. It will be gas. Or electricity. Something like this.’

  ‘The radio said that a masked man was seen falling from the balcony at the front of the palazzo just after the blast,’ Martin told her.

  ‘But this is too much,’ Antea said. ‘It is like something out of one of your books, Charlie, yes?’

  I didn’t know what to say to that, but fortunately Victoria had a contribution. ‘My word,’ she put in. ‘Makes you wonder sometimes, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Mmm,’ Martin replied, looking no less suspicious of me, or my supposed mugging.

  ‘I will make you soup!’ Antea announced, and patted my toes through my bed covers. ‘A family recipe. It make you better, no problem.’

  Martin shook his head with pained indulgence, as if he was listening to the ravings of a tribal shaman. ‘Well, come along Antea.’ He lifted his medical bag from my bed. ‘Time that we were going.’

  Yes, I thought. Time indeed.

  I regained consciousness more than six hours later. Whether the dosage Martin had administered was responsible for my slumber, I couldn’t say, but one thing I could tell you was that until Victoria informed me that it was almost 3 p.m., I could have quite happily believed that I’d had my eyes shut for half an hour at the very most. Mind you, as I indulged myself with a spot of stretching and yawning, I was at least able to recall that I hadn’t passed the time in a state of complete nothingness. No, true to form, my pesky subconscious had bombarded me with yet more striking and undeniably kinky images of Graziella. Forget oysters – if you want to expose yourself to a powerful aphrodisiac, just arrange to have someone break into your home and dupe you into making an assassination attempt.

  ‘Your soup arrived,’ Victoria told me. She was dressed in jeans and a lengthy knitted cardigan. ‘Plus some fruit from the market. And some fish. And bread. And two jars of fresh pasta sauce, along with some homemade ravioli. Antea spoils you, you know.’

  ‘Told you she was a saint.’

  ‘That, or a sweet old lady whose good nature you’re only too happy to exploit.’

  ‘I’ll thank her,’ I told Victoria. ‘Profusely. But right now, I’m going to get up. Could you have a look in my wardrobe and pass me my jogging trousers and a shirt?’

  She glanced sceptically at the wardrobe, then back at me. ‘Need any help?’

  ‘How about you wait outside the door? If you hear me fall over, you have my permission to come in and pick me up.’

  ‘My, that sounds tempting.’

  Victoria fetched the items I’d requested, then moved outside into the hall. I carefully fed my arms through the sleeves of the shirt, wary of my cuts snagging on the material, then squirmed into the elasticised trousers before attempting to stand. To my relief, the room didn’t lurch violently to one side. Or the other.

  ‘Hey,’ I said. ‘I’ve just realised something. My hearing’s better.’

  It was true. A small amount of buzzing still lingered – the kind one might get when one’s heart rate is up – but compared to before, it was like being gifted a whole new set of ears.

  ‘Say something,’ I called.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘That’s perfect,’ I told her. ‘It’s bloody perfect.’

  I snatched the door open and clapped her on the shoulders. And if only this was a musical, I would have leapt into the air, snapped my heels together and burst into a rousing song.

  ‘Martin’s some kind of medical genius,’ I told her. ‘Let’s go out. I mean, obviously, first let me pee and wash – but then let’s go for a walk.’

  ‘A walk? Where on earth do you want to walk to?’

  ‘Oh come now,’ I said, nudging her with my elbow, ‘don’t tell me you’re not just a tad intrigued to see how the palazzo is looking?’

  SIXTEEN

  The palazzo wasn’t looking good, and Victoria was more than a bit intrigued – she was positively full of questions. We’d already been through a number of them, but apparently there were plenty more still to come.

  ‘And that hole,’ she said, ‘that huge, gaping, charred hole, is where the strongroom is?’

  ‘Was, I’d guess you’d say.’

  ‘And that’s the balcony you fell from?’

  ‘Hush,’ I said, ‘keep your voice down.’

  We weren’t alone. Half of Venice seemed to be gathered around us, standing on the opposite bank of the canal from the devastation I’d been responsible for, on the square of land in front of the restaurant where we’d eaten the previous night. Most of the onlookers were a grey-haired bunch talking in the local Venetian dialect, and there was a lot of arm-waving and head-shaking and proclamations of despair – at least, that’s what I took them for. There was also a gaggle of tourists – their camera flashes illuminating the gathering dusk, throwing the tarnished exterior of the palazzo into bright relief. Private boats dawdled on the greying, rippled waters of the canal, their passengers marvelling at the destruction that had been visited on a building that had endured hundreds of years without sinking or collapsing and now, it appeared, would survive this too.

  The windows of the piano nobile that remained intact were brightly lit by a collection of temporary arc lights that had been set up inside, and I could see figures moving around behind the glass. Some were dressed in tan raincoats – standard issue for police detectives, even in Italy. Others were clad entirely in white disposable jumpsuits. Forensics officers. If anything remained of the attaché briefcase, at least I could console myself with the knowledge that I’d worn gloves whenever I’d touched it. And while it was reasonable to suppose that I might have left hairs behind, not to mention the odd layer of skin, it wasn’t too outlandish to think the explosion and the fire might have done a good job of destroying any biological evidence. That just left the surveillance footage, and even assuming it hadn’t been consumed by the inferno, all it could really reveal was the masked figure that eye-witnesses had already described.

  Perhaps that should have been a reassuring thought, but the truth was it didn’t make me especially proud to see the devastation I’d been responsible for, or the distress it had caused the locals surrounding us.

  Victoria whistled, then spoke in a low voice from the corner of her mouth. ‘Charlie, that balcony has to be at least fifteen feet high. You were lucky.’

  ‘Falling from the balcony was the easy part,’ I whispered. ‘The bomb blast was the tricky bit.’

  ‘Was it very loud?’

  ‘Enough to deafen me.’

  Victoria bumped me with her hip and gave me a lopsided smile. ‘Point taken.’ She turned back to consider the palazzo once more, her face tangled in thought. ‘Could anyone else have been hurt?’

  I frowned. It was something I’d been trying to avoid thinking about too hard. ‘I don’t believe so,’ I said, letting my words linger. ‘The vault was reinforced with steel, and it contained most of the explosion, or else I wouldn’t be here. I suppose there might have been some structural damage behind the strongroom – and if so, there’s a chance one of the staff could have been caught up in it. But I imagine Martin and Antea would have said if that was the case, because it would have been on the news.’

  ‘I hope you�
��re right.’

  ‘You’re not the only one.’

  While we’d been speaking, my eyes had started to water. It was partly because of the breeze whipping off the choppy canal water, but it didn’t help that bits of debris from the explosion seemed to have worked themselves into the backs of my eyes, and were only now beginning to work themselves out again. I could feel tiny chunks of who-knows-what floating around in there, which wasn’t a very appealing sensation.

  ‘Oh, Charlie, this has really shaken you up, hasn’t it?’

  I peered through my blurred sight to see Victoria offering me a sympathetic smile. She wrapped an arm around my waist and clinched me to her, resting her head on my chest. And all right, I was a fraud, as well as a thief, but being hugged was sort of nice. I had been through a nasty experience. And since my winter coat was still drying out after my impromptu dip the night before, I was feeling the cold despite the roll-neck jumper and sports jacket I’d slipped on.

  Victoria helped. She was warm and comforting, and she smelled perfectly fragrant too. More pleasant, in any case, than the sweaty odours emanating from the chef who was standing behind us in a tight white T-shirt and chequered trousers, his fatty torso steaming in the chill.

  Shuffling to one side, I wrapped my arm around Victoria and hugged her back. We stood there for a few moments, holding one another, my sham tears running down my face. Then I had a thought that really should have occurred to me a good deal sooner.

  ‘Hey,’ I said, ‘when you, er, helped to undress me last night – you didn’t happen to find a mobile phone, did you?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I did.’

  ‘Well that’s a stroke of luck,’ I told her. ‘That’s the phone Graziella has been contacting me on.’

  ‘Not any more.’ Victoria grimaced. ‘I tried switching it on and nothing happened. Then I took it apart, dried everything with a towel and left it on your radiator. No joy, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Balls.’