by Ewan, Chris
‘Don’t be daft,’ I said. ‘It was so much fun, we’ll call it my treat.’
Before Victoria could argue the point, I took her by the elbow and led her to Campo Santo Stefano. The large, wedge-shaped square was one of my favourite spots in the city. During the day, I often walked to it to buy an English newspaper from the magazine stall and spend time reading over a cappuccino at one of the pavement cafés. Children might play football against the wall of the domed church, where the faded chalk outline of a goal was just visible, or trail a kite behind them as they ran circles around the bronze well-head in the middle of the square. Neighbourhood dogs would stroll unaccompanied, sniffing for a rare unfamiliar scent, while tourists pondered the menu cards of the restaurants that ringed the campo.
The night was quite different. The magazine stall was closed and boarded up, the outside café tables and chairs had been stacked away, and there was not a child to be seen.
Leaving the square by a side alley at the far end, I ushered Victoria on as far as a cramped neighbourhood bacàro I’d visited a few times before. The walls were lined with shelves of dusty wine bottles, rising from the floor to the low, beamed ceiling, and a mismatch of rough-hewn tables were located at the far end of the marble-topped counter, where three gnarled old men were perched on high stools. A television screened a Serie A football match in a high corner above the bar, the voiceover so fast and enthusiastic that it sounded as if the commentator might hyperventilate. One of the men had a pink La Gazetta dello Sport folded in front of him, his hands reaching absently for the varied dishes of cichèti spread along the counter. The small plates of spicy sausage, pork rissoles, calamari, langoustines, and thinly sliced ham looked mouth-wateringly good.
The barman was barrel-chested and balding. He was watching the football too, leaning against the cash register with a cigarette in his hand, his white shirtsleeves rolled up to expose the hairs on his lower arms.
None of the men offered a friendly ‘ciao’ or paid any attention as I guided Victoria to one of the tables, or when I approached the counter and ordered us two Spritz con Campari, a Venetian speciality. The orange-red drinks were prepared without a word of greeting or of comment, and the barman didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow as he plonked an olive and a slice of lemon in each glass before reaching below the counter and passing me a plate of sandwiches wrapped in cling film.
I carried the tumblers over to Victoria, ice cubes rattling, then returned for the sandwiches.
‘What’s this?’ Victoria asked, pointing at her drink.
‘Just try it. You’ll like it.’
She gave me a suspicious look, then raised the glass to her mouth and sipped cautiously. ‘Tastes pretty good.’ She smacked her lips together, running her tongue around.
‘Better than me?’
She coloured, and looked down into her glass, prodding at her olive with her nail. ‘Can we just pretend that whole thing never happened?’ she said, her voice tight.
‘If you like.’
‘Wipe it from our memory banks?’
‘Wipe what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
I wiggled my eyebrows and took a mouthful of Spritz. The first time I’d tried the concoction, I’d imagined it would taste like orangeade. Lately, I’d begun to think it was reminiscent of diluted cough medicine. Not necessarily a bad thing – it might even protect me from any bugs I’d picked up during my dip in the Grand Canal.
‘Sandwich?’ I asked, removing the cling film and tilting the plate of little, white bread squares towards her. ‘These are called francobollo,’ I explained. ‘It means “postage stamp”.’
Victoria prised up the corner of one of the snacks. ‘Is this aubergine?’
‘Roasted vegetables. I think there are some with meat too.’
Victoria shrugged and nibbled the corner. My own selection had some variety of dried salami in it. I chewed it thoughtfully, trying not to pine after the chilli prawns the barman was presenting to his wordless friends at the bar.
‘So do you have any idea who the big guy with the beard is?’ Victoria asked me, covering her mouth with her hand as she swallowed.
‘No more than you, I’m afraid.’
‘He seemed very keen to follow us.’
‘But reluctant to speak. Maybe he’s a mute.’
I rummaged in my pocket for my cigarette packet. Holding the box in the air, I shook it until I caught the barman’s attention. He gave his consent with a reserved nod. It would have been hard for him to say no, considering he was puffing merrily away.
‘Perhaps he followed us on a whim,’ I said to Victoria, meanwhile selecting one of my cigarettes and firing it up. ‘He could have heard some of our conversation, I suppose.’
‘But didn’t you say you’d bumped into him before?’
I took a long drag, shaking my head. ‘I’m beginning to regret having told you that.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I can’t explain it. The first time I saw him, I thought he was some kind of tramp. Maybe even a drunk.’
‘And now?’
‘Now, he’s another part of the mystery.’
Victoria’s eyes seemed transfixed by the glowing tip of my cigarette. I got the impression that if I circled it in the air, her head would move with it. Perhaps I could even swing it from left to right, luring her into a deep trance.
‘Want one?’ I asked.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Cigarette,’ I said, lifting the guilty exhibit between my finger and thumb.
‘Oh, sorry. I was miles away, wondering if this man with the beard could be linked to our cat burglar in some way.’
‘Almost certainly.’
She backed off from me. ‘You think?’
‘Sure.’ I selected another mini-sandwich and popped it into my mouth.
‘You sound very confident.’
‘Tissue of connections,’ I told her, speaking with my mouth full.
‘Come again?’
I swallowed. ‘A pet theory of mine. In any half-decent mystery novel, all the characters should be connected in some way. Keeps the story tight. Ensures every character serves a purpose.’
She rolled her eyes in mock despair. ‘I can see we’re going to have to run through that dreary fantasy-versus-reality thing again.’
I smiled and took another pull on my cigarette. ‘Seriously, though. He must have had a good reason to track us as far as he did – especially with that nasty limp of his.’ I vented the smoke through my nostrils, for variety if nothing else. ‘The interesting part will be whether he’s waiting for us when we get home.’
‘That’s the interesting part?’
‘Well, it occurred to me that perhaps he didn’t try to stop us getting away on the gondola because he knows where I live. And if that’s the case, it increases the likelihood that he’s working with Graziella in some capacity. It could even be that he followed us from my apartment in the first place.’
‘You sound oddly relaxed about the possibility, I must say,’ Victoria told me, pausing to take a sip from her Spritz.
‘Listen, if he’d wanted to cause us harm, he could have done it in that alley.’
‘Maybe he just wanted to scare us.’
‘And are you scared?’
Victoria pouted as she considered her response. ‘I suppose unnerved might be a better way of putting it. I wonder if we should have spoken to him.’
‘Funny. I wonder the same thing myself.’
‘And?’
I shrugged. ‘Who knows? If it’s important, I expect we’ll see him again.’
‘Because none of this is over yet, is it?’
‘Not even close. Too many loose ends. And from Graziella’s perspective, I’m afraid I’m one of them.’
‘Then maybe you should leave Venice, Charlie. Go somewhere else for a while.’
I turned my cigarette in my hand, watching the ash develop.
‘Problem is, Vic, I’d really like to get my
book back. And I enjoy living here,’ I added, delicately sprinkling ash on the edge of the plate, away from the remaining sandwiches.
‘I got that impression. But there’s every chance she’ll come for you, Charlie.’
‘She might.’
‘And?’
I winked at her. ‘And I’ve been thinking there’s someone I should call about that.’
I borrowed Victoria’s mobile and dialled a number I knew off by heart. There aren’t too many people in my phone book. To be perfectly blunt, there are so few that I don’t own a phone book at all. I tend to think of myself as a personable chap, someone who can hold his own at a dinner party and contribute a winning anecdote or two, but one consequence of my chosen lifestyle is that it’s tough to maintain friendships. Oh, there are a couple of fellow writers I know, and one or two acquaintances of a shadier nature, but I rarely speak with them. I call my parents occasionally, and Victoria much more often than that, and then, every once in a while, I contact Pierre.
Pierre is my fence, as well as a patron of sorts. Before my self-imposed career break, he’d pass work my way from his base in Paris and I’d pass goods his, and over the years our relationship had proved beneficial enough that we’d survived the odd bump in the road. During my time in Venice, we hadn’t spoken so frequently – partly because he couldn’t understand why I’d decided to go straight in a city fairly brimming over with wealth and opportunities, and partly because I hadn’t wanted him to put temptation in my way. But, like all solid friendships, he was someone I could call out of the blue without the least sense of awkwardness, which was something I elected to do right now.
‘Allo?’ His voice was warm and relaxed, the way it gets when he has a glass of wine on the go. I could hear a classical track playing on a stereo in the background – either that, or he had the French National Orchestra in his living room.
‘Pierre, it’s Charlie,’ I told him. ‘How’s tricks?’
‘Charlie! It is good to hear from you. Ça va?’
‘Oui,’ I told him. ‘And you?’
‘Not so bad, my friend. But, it is quiet, yes? A slow time of year.’
‘Oh?’
‘The cold. The rain. Nobody will work for me. I tell them it is dark, this is good, but they do not care. They are lazy. Not like you, Charlie. You are my best.’
‘Was,’ I corrected him. ‘And you can save the flattery. I’m not scouting for work.’
He made a snorting noise. It wasn’t the most pleasant of sounds. ‘You write still?’ he asked, and he couldn’t have sounded more dismissive if he’d tried.
‘That’s the general idea,’ I replied, and shot a guilty look towards Victoria. She had an eager expression on her face, as if she wanted to snatch the phone away from me. ‘Victoria says hello.’
‘Ah, très bien. She is with you?’
‘I’m on her mobile right now. She’s waving.’
‘Then I blow her kisses.’
I covered the mouthpiece and shared the happy news with Victoria. ‘She’s blowing them back,’ I told Pierre. And she was, too.
‘You know, Charlie, she has asked me to write a book myself. The little stories from my life. I tell her I am too young for this – that I still have work to do. But she is persuasive, no?’
‘Oh, she’s that, all right.’ Victoria frowned at me, suspicious all of a sudden. I tried my best to look entirely innocent. ‘Listen, Pierre,’ I went on, swirling the orange liquid in my glass. ‘I have something to ask you. I’ve bumped into someone here in Venice. A female someone – in my old line of work. I wondered if she might be on your books?’
‘A woman?’
‘Precisely.’
‘Then non.’ He whistled. ‘I am sorry Charlie, but this is unusual, yes?’
‘I have a name – Graziella – but it may be a fake.’
‘She is Italian?’
‘Almost certainly. In fact, I think she may be from Venice originally. Does that ring any bells?’
‘I am sorry, Charlie. There was a German. Mais, she is retired now. It is a shame – she was good.’
Victoria tapped me on the arm. ‘Ask him if he has any men on his books here. They may know something about Graziella. Perhaps Pierre can speak to them and see if they have any information about her.’
‘Good idea,’ I said, and then I told Pierre just what the idea happened to be.
‘I will try,’ he said. ‘For sure, there are people I can speak with.’
‘That’s great Pierre. I appreciate it. But listen, there is one more thing you could do for me.’
‘Name it. Please.’
‘Would you keep an ear out for anybody trying to sell a signed first edition of The Maltese Falcon?’
Pierre hesitated. ‘Charlie, no. Your book, it has been stolen? Tell me it is not so.’
But alas, it was so. And as much as losing the book had pained me, I was afraid that there was a lot worse still to come.
NINETEEN
Later that night, back in my apartment, I tried to make some sense of the situation I’d found myself in. It was easier said than done. I knew I’d been tricked, no question, but I didn’t know why. Yes, it was fair to assume that the bomb had been intended to kill Count Borelli, but aside from the fact he was worth a bob or two, and that he happened to live at a desirable address, I didn’t know a single reason why anyone would want him dead.
A trawl through the internet hadn’t shed much light on matters. It seemed he conducted his life with a reasonable degree of discretion. I’d found a few hits in the Italian papers, all of them captions to some variety of society photograph. From what I could gather, he was active in supporting the Carnevale festivities, and he was a leading benefactor of an American-based charity that preserved some of the city’s endangered buildings (which was somewhat ironic, considering what I’d done to his home).
The figure in the photographs was pretty much what I might have expected for a European Count. A tanned and wealthy-looking, middle-aged gent, with a prominent hooked nose, flawless teeth and thick grey hair set in waves, he was accompanied by a different glamorous woman in each image. In some of the pictures he wore a tux, and other times a bespoke jacket over a silk shirt and V-neck sweater. He sported no jewellery (aside from a pricey timepiece), and most assuredly no wedding ring – the Count was a bachelor, and judging by the daring necklines and fawning poses of the beautiful creatures who clung to his arm, he made the very most of his status.
None of the women in the photographs happened to be Graziella – that would have been much too simple – but she shared certain features with all of them. An attractive figure, a striking face, the ability to turn heads and keep them turned. So it wasn’t hard to believe that she really had accompanied the Count to the casino while I was breaking into his home, nor that they might have been more than just friends. Could that mean that I’d become caught up in a lover’s tiff? Somehow, I didn’t think so. Yes, I’d heard of jilted women carrying out vendettas, but never something this extreme.
Still, if they’d attended the casino together, there was a chance that some of the staff would remember them and might be able to identify Graziella for me. It was certainly something to ponder and in all probability something to act upon, too. In fact, I was a little surprised I hadn’t thought of it before, and that only made me wonder what else I might have overlooked. There had to be other angles to work, more avenues to explore.
One thought that did occur to me was that Martin and Antea might be able to tell me something useful about the Count, but I wasn’t sure how to ask without rousing their suspicions. Martin had obviously harboured reservations about my mugging story, and even if I sent Victoria down to speak with them on my behalf, it was an obvious risk, and one I wasn’t prepared to run just yet.
Another avenue to explore was the heavyset character with the pronounced limp who’d followed Victoria and me into the dead-end alley. I didn’t know whether his involvement went anywhere beyond an overdevelope
d sense of curiosity, but the way he’d tracked us had suggested he was interested in my movements at the very least. If he approached me a second time, I made a promise to myself that I’d talk to him and try to find out what was behind his snooping.
Then, of course, there was Count Borelli himself. Perhaps I could call at his home – legally this time – and ask him very politely why Graziella wanted him dead, before going on to enquire if he knew where she might be storing my book? Unfortunately, it didn’t strike me as a very credible option. A slightly more appealing alternative was to break back into his palazzo to see if I could find the answers to those questions for myself. Problem was, the place was crawling with police, and even if I went in the dead of night, I’d be taking a huge gamble. The Count and his live-in staff would be on edge right now, their senses heightened, and that made the chances of my being caught infinitely higher.
More to the point, why did I care? True enough, I was a touch miffed by the way Graziella had hoodwinked me, but it could be I was overcomplicating things. So far as I was aware, she was the only person who could link me to the bombing, and I had a funny feeling she wouldn’t be giving my name to the police anytime soon, since I could put them onto her in turn.
Hmm. So okay, maybe now I was simplifying things a little too much. The happy scenario I’d just outlined ignored one or two salient points. Like, for instance, it hadn’t escaped me that Graziella might not be altogether satisfied by the way the Count had evaded her dastardly plan, and it wasn’t too extreme to suppose she might decide to make another attempt on his life. And while, on the one hand, I supposed I could run with the notion that it was no concern of mine, if I did nothing to stop her, I’d have a man’s death on my conscience. Worse still, if she was caught, I didn’t imagine she’d hesitate to lead the authorities straight to me in the hope that her punishment might be reduced.
Oh, and then there was that other trifling detail – Graziella still had my copy of The Maltese Falcon and I still wanted it back. Yes, I’d put on a brave face with Victoria, but superstitions are the damnedest things. They get deep inside you, work on you, until you trust them instinctively no matter what your head might say. I could tell myself that I was capable of penning a good story without Hammett’s novel for company, but in my heart, I didn’t really believe it.