Good Thief's Guide to Venice

by Ewan, Chris

  I placed a hand on his arm to calm him. It didn’t work. He flinched as if an electric charge had passed between us.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Victoria told him, from over my shoulder. ‘We’re not going to hurt you.’

  Nice try. Her voice had a soothing tone but I had a suspicion that the Venetian plague doctor’s mask she was wearing might have compromised the effect somewhat. The mask was blood-red, with a hooked nose and recessed eyeholes, and it covered everything except her mouth and her jaw. It had been the best we could come up with at short notice. We’d taken it down from the wall of my lounge, where it had been hanging since before I’d moved in. I only had one balaclava and we didn’t want the Count to see our faces. Even so, I couldn’t help thinking that we might have been better off cutting some holes in a pillow case. The poor sod probably thought he’d woken in some kind of Halloween nightmare.

  He recoiled from us. True, it wasn’t easy for him to recoil, but he managed it all the same, turning his head away and straining to follow his nose across the floor to a blackened corner of the room. His neck muscles had pulled tight and he wriggled against the ropes we’d wrapped around his chest and thighs. No doubt he was also fighting the handcuffs, thumbcuffs and anklecuffs we’d treated him to, courtesy of Victoria’s espionage gear.

  ‘Easy’ I said, which, as it goes, was easy for me to say.

  It had no effect. The guy still wasn’t happy. I turned to Victoria.

  ‘Help me to lift him a moment, will you?’

  We did just that, and then I cradled the Count’s sweaty face between my hands and looked him straight in the eye. His pupils contracted to pin-pricks of black against the fierce lamplight and his grey hair was slick beneath my fingertips. He was scared, I could see that, but he was angry, too. Enraged might be a better word for it. It was almost as if he couldn’t believe anyone could have the nerve to place a man of his stature in this position.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ I asked.

  Thoughts darted around behind his lighted eyes. Maybe the thoughts connected back to the masked figure who’d planted a bomb in his home. He sucked air through his nostrils at an irregular pace, as if he was hyperventilating, and snatched his head away from my grip. He tried to yell. I watched the sound build from his chest, funnel up towards his raised mouth and become trapped by the gag. There was no danger of him being heard but it didn’t stop him. He summoned more energy and went for a repeat performance. It looked bad for his health. His face had taken on a purplish tinge.

  ‘Calm down.’ I reached for his scalp again. ‘Just answer the question. Do you speak English?’

  He let go of another strangled shout. This one went on longer than the first. I was becoming afraid he might fit if he carried on with it. And I didn’t exactly appreciate the way he was ignoring my instructions. Wasn’t I meant to be in charge here?

  ‘Hey,’ I said. ‘Hey!’

  Then I slapped him. Hard. I can’t say I’ve ever understood the logic of the move, but it seemed to have the desired effect. He stared dumbly at me for a short moment, eyes watering. Then his beady pupils tippy-toed over and snuck a pensive look at my open palm. He needn’t have worried. I wasn’t about to repeat myself. It had hurt too much – the impact had jarred my bad fingers in a way I didn’t appreciate.

  ‘Now, do you speak English?’

  At last, the Count nodded, though he managed to do it with disdain. I hadn’t really doubted that the answer would be yes. What had concerned me was whether he’d be sensible enough to deliver it.

  I backed off, nudged the lamp with my foot so that the light was pointing just away from his eyes and pulled my cigarettes from my pocket. I took my time over lighting one. Partly it was to calm my nerves, give myself time to think. But it also seemed like the appropriate thing to do. I wasn’t a thug, and I didn’t plan on beating my man into submission. But I did want to appear in control, as if this was something I’d done many times before. The cigarette struck me as a useful prop, a way of making myself appear more at ease than I felt. More in command, too.

  ‘First thing you should know,’ I told him, rolling up the bottom of the balaclava and taking a quick puff, ‘is that we don’t intend to hurt you.’ I exhaled the smoke from the corner of my mouth. ‘Truth is, we’ve brought you here for your own protection. It might not seem that way to you, but it’s true, okay?’

  He nodded slowly. Contemptuously. I don’t suppose it meant a great deal. I dare say I could have got him to agree to just about anything right then.

  ‘Second thing you should know is that this room is in a very discreet location. Nobody is going to find you here, and that includes the people who are a threat to you. It also means you won’t be heard if you try to scream or shout. The reason I’m telling you this is that I’d like to remove your gag. I need to ask you some questions. Understand?’

  He scowled at me, then at Victoria, and back again. I had a feeling the masks weren’t helping, but I wasn’t about to suggest that we remove them. Instead, I crouched down in front of him and held his gaze, smoking my cigarette in a leisurely fashion. After a minute or so, I tried again, rolling my hand and tracing figure of eights in the air with the lit embers.

  ‘Understand?’

  There was fire in his eyes. A tangible loathing. But he nodded.

  ‘Excellent,’ I said, and moved around behind him, balancing my cigarette on my tongue as I tried to loosen his gag. It wasn’t easy. The knot we’d used had tightened with his exertions and my dud fingers made the job difficult. I gave up and beckoned at Victoria to put her nails to good use.

  Once she’d freed the rag, the Count moved his jaw around cautiously, like a man coming round from a deep and leisurely nap. He licked his lips. They were gummy and dry.

  ‘Would you like some water?’ Victoria asked.

  ‘Si,’ he said, in a gruff voice that sounded as if it needed it.

  We waited in silence until Victoria had returned with a mug of tapwater from the unlit kitchen along the hall. She lifted it to his mouth and he swallowed greedily. The water ran down from the corners of his lips over his chin, but he didn’t appear to care.

  ‘More,’ he panted.

  Victoria complied, disappearing into darkness and then re-emerging with a dripping mug. Once he’d polished off a second helping, she used a tea towel to wipe his chin and mop his face. Maybe the plague doctor’s mask wasn’t so out of place, after all. She was becoming a regular Florence Nightingale.

  ‘Who are you?’ His Italian accent was strong, but he spoke at a measured pace and his voice had taken on a soft, coaxing tone, the kind that befits a man with plentiful experience of seducing women.

  ‘That’s not important,’ I told him, trying to regain the upper hand.

  ‘You are English,’ he sneered, as if our nationality was insult enough. ‘Both of you.’

  ‘That won’t get you very far.’ I took a contemplative draw on my cigarette. ‘There are plenty of English people in Venice.’

  He curled his lip, like he was trying a smirk on for size. It suited him very well. He was the type of man who was used to looking down on others. He’d spent a lifetime enjoying the sensation.

  ‘I know who you work for,’ he told me, with a snarl. ‘He is a smart man, I am told. A clever opponent. But this I did not expect.’

  ‘You’ve lost me I’m afraid.’

  He grinned drunkenly, eyes lazy and hooded – as if he was calculating what punishment he’d exact the instant this was over. ‘You even speak like him.’

  ‘Listen, pal,’ I said, jabbing my finger in his direction, ‘we don’t work for anyone. So you can stop gurning and start telling us who you’re talking about. Is he the one who tried to kill you?’

  ‘To kill me?’ he frowned, as if he didn’t trust the words.

  ‘With the bomb. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about that.’

  A new expression seeped into his face, scornful and lofty. I didn’t like it a great deal. It had all the appeal
of slow poison.

  ‘The bomb,’ he repeated, as if I was a simpleton. ‘To kill me.’

  ‘Yes, the bomb,’ Victoria cut in, throwing up her hands. ‘The bloody big explosion in your palazzo. You do remember, don’t you? It was meant to blow you and your silly little smile into a million tiny pieces.’

  He watched Victoria for a moment, mouthing her words back to himself. Then he chuckled. The chuckle turned into a self-satisfied laugh. He slouched in his chair as if he was mighty comfortable all of a sudden. His manner was so relaxed that I had to fight the urge not to walk around and check that his hands and feet were still secured.

  ‘Allora . . .’ He grinned. ‘So it’s true, you don’t work for him.’ He tipped his head back and lifted his chin in the air so that the track of blood on his neck was clearly visible, glistening in the electric light like a scald mark that had only recently healed.

  I’d just about had my fill of him by now. I flicked my cigarette off into a distant corner of the room and did my best to crowd him, blowing the last of my smoke into his face.

  ‘Who do you mean? You mean a large guy, full beard? Wears a camel-hair coat and a fedora?’

  ‘No,’ he said, smiling even wider, not even blinking as the smoke enveloped him. I got the impression that if his hands hadn’t been tied behind him, he’d have been airily considering his nails. ‘This is not who I mean. And I am beginning to think that you are of little concern to me.’

  ‘We hold you prisoner and you think that, huh?’

  He shrugged. Pouted. ‘You have already told me you will not hurt me.’

  I spun round to face Victoria. ‘Where’s your stun gun?’ I asked.

  ‘Charlie.’

  ‘No, I’m serious, I’ve had enough of this guy. I think maybe we should fry his face.’

  ‘What about Graziella?’ Victoria asked him. Just by posing the question, she’d gone further than we’d planned. It had been my intention to keep Graziella’s name out of it – at least for the time being – but not any more. ‘You know, the girl who accompanied you to the casino the night of the explosion,’ Victoria went on. ‘Are you aware that she asked us to kill you?’

  That seemed to affect him. He frowned, as if confounded by the question, his lips moving soundlessly.

  ‘Aspetta,’ he muttered, his voice tight all of a sudden. He flexed the muscles of his right arm and lowered his head, as if to consult his watch. When he realised that he couldn’t, he gazed up into my eyes. ‘You must tell me the time.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  There was a wavering in his pupils – a look of genuine concern. Something told me he was worried about more than a missed dinner date. ‘The time,’ he pressed. ‘I must know it. Tell me. Now.’

  ‘Listen, friend, I really think you might have forgotten the situation you’re in. Talk to us about Graziella.’

  ‘Is it later than nine o’clock? Just tell me this. It is a simple question.’

  I placed my hands on my hips and glared at him. The glaring didn’t seem to affect his attitude. He was used to people doing as he said, and damn if I didn’t find myself doing exactly that.

  ‘It’s a quarter after ten,’ I said, going down on one knee to check my watch in the light from the lamp.

  The information caused a small crack in his defence. He swallowed dryly.

  ‘Then you must release me.’ His voice was grave, as if the matter was of the utmost importance. ‘Immediately.’

  ‘Er, not likely. Not until you answer our questions, in any event.’

  ‘Immediately,’ he barked, teeth bared, spittle clinging to his lips.

  I turned and smiled up at Victoria. Her eyes glimmered from behind her mask.

  ‘And why’s that?’ she asked, placing a hand on her hip.

  The Count curled his lip and stared down at the ropes we’d wrapped around his chest and arms. He flexed his biceps. Then he grunted and tried to kick his feet away from the legs of his chair. It was futile, but he stuck at it. It didn’t look all that dignified, or sound it, either.

  ‘Tick tock,’ I said, and tapped my watch. ‘What’s bothering you so much? You have an important appointment?’

  He wasn’t listening to me as closely as I might have liked. He was fighting his restraints, fidgeting and gnashing his teeth as if we were no longer in the room watching over him. His face was ruddy, speckled with perspiration. I stepped forward and clenched his shoulder. I had to pinch hard before he gave any indication that he was bothered by it.

  ‘Listen, we’ll make you a deal,’ I said. ‘You tell us what’s vexing you so much and we’ll release you. We’ll let you go.’

  He growled and tried to bite my hand. I snatched it free just as his teeth scraped my skin.

  ‘Nuh uh,’ I said. ‘Now, you play nice and I promise you – I give you my word – that if you tell us what the problem is, you’ll be a free man.’

  His head jerked upright and he considered me with watchful eyes. I could see the rage burning deep within them.

  ‘Time’s moving on,’ I told him. ‘So how about it? Will you trust us?’

  He checked on Victoria once more, then glanced down at his lap, concealing his face as if overcome with shame. ‘The casino,’ he muttered, in a voice that could barely be heard. ‘I must be there.’

  ‘See,’ I told him, and patted his cheek, ‘that wasn’t so hard now, was it?’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Never trust a crook. It’s a simple lesson, but it’s one worth bearing in mind. I might have been an amateur in the art of kidnapping, but I was an experienced thief, and I was used to cheating people. So I had no qualms about lying to the Count. Hell, if I was in the business of keeping my word, I’d have been responsible for shooting the chap by now. Point was, I didn’t want him to die. I didn’t need his death on my conscience (nor, for that matter, my police record). And if telling a whopper about releasing him would help me to find out who wanted him dead, and why, then I had no hesitation in doing it.

  By the same token, I didn’t feel all that guilty about delving a hand inside my bumbag to remove Victoria’s pen, loading it with a second cartridge of chemical lullabies and sticking him in the neck. He lost consciousness instantly, just as before, and I wasted no time in removing my balaclava and setting about untying him.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Victoria asked, tipping her mask up onto her head and rubbing at her face.

  ‘I want to put him in the bedroom. He’ll be more comfortable lying down. And I’m worried about his circulation.’

  ‘So you’re not going to release him?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said, grunting as I tackled the ropes behind his back. ‘Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘But what about the casino?’

  ‘That’s the other reason I want to get him off this chair. I’d say we’re about the same size, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘His tux,’ I said. ‘I don’t happen to own one myself, and I get the impression this casino is pretty fancy.’

  ‘Wait a minute – are you planning to go there?’

  ‘Absolutely. And you’re coming with me. Although, no offence, but I think you may need to glam up just a touch. Oh, and perhaps ditch the mask.’

  Now, Victoria has many talents. She’s an excellent agent, with an eye for a great story, and she can identify plot holes at a hundred paces. She has nerve and tenacity, she’s willing to take a risk when the situation demands it and, if I’m permitted to say as much, she’s not a bad kisser. But one skill I hadn’t been aware of before, and that I could learn to appreciate, was her ability as a quick-change artist. Seriously. I’d barely had time to free the Count from his bindings, strip him down to his underwear and dump him on the bare mattress in the back bedroom by the time she was standing in the doorway in a long green dress of a stretchy material that clung to her figure the way syrup sticks to a spoon. Her figure looked undeniably good. So did her high-heeled shoes and her tasteful make-up and the way she’d ti
ed her hair to expose her delicate neck and shoulders. If I was the type of character who could pull off an appreciative whistle, I’d have done just that. Unfortunately, I’m more adept at looking startled and awkward.

  ‘Will this do?’ she asked, patting her hair.

  ‘Looks good,’ I managed.

  ‘How are you getting on? Need a hand?’

  ‘Funnily enough, I do. I’m not in the habit of strapping men down in bed, and I’ve been trying to work out the best way to set about it.’

  I suppose I could have been disturbed by the variety of suggestions that Victoria provided me with, but I chose to focus on the positives and be grateful for her input. After a good deal of discussion, and some experimentation, we decided to dispense with any attempts to secure the Count to the mattress. Instead, we simply bound his wrists, thumbs and ankles with Victoria’s cuffs, then tied his feet to his hands with a length of rope. I was fairly pleased with the job we’d done. Flopped on his side on the stained mattress, securely trussed-up, he certainly looked like an authentic kidnap victim.

  After placing the keys to the cuffs on a high chest of drawers on the far side of the room, I collected together the Count’s dress shirt, tuxedo jacket and trousers, doing my best to brush the dirt from them. Then I kicked off my baseball shoes, unclipped my bumbag and started to unbutton my fly.

  ‘Er, a little privacy?’

  Victoria pouted. ‘Spoilsport.’

  ‘Go on, scram.’

  She rolled her eyes and backed off from the door, and I climbed into my new outfit before moving into the bathroom to wash my face, wet my hair and assess my appearance. The jacket wasn’t too bad. A little wide in the shoulders, perhaps, but it was passable, and it was certainly made of a very fine fabric. The trousers were a trifle short, but after I’d used a damp towel to mop away the odd muddy splash, I thought they’d do nicely. The shirt was more crumpled than I would have liked, and I could have done without the fancy pleats over the chest area, but the fit was passable, especially if I didn’t attempt to wear a bow tie.

  ‘That won’t do,’ Victoria said, clucking her tongue as she entered the room. ‘Look, you’ve still got blood on the collar.’