The Rape of Venice

by Dennis Wheatley

  When he had gone, Roger thought out his letter with great care, sentence by sentence, until he was satisfied that he had composed one on lines that were most likely to be effective. It was not an appeal but a most vigorous protest. Having given particulars of himself as Citizen Breuc, he displayed intense indignation that the French authorities in Venice should allow any Frenchman to be treated in the way he had been. He claimed that his conduct in the Malderini Palace had at worst been no more than a minor offence, then hinted that his real reason for entering it had been in connection with a mission he had undertaken for a person of importance in Paris. Finally, he said that if steps were not taken to secure his release at once, he would bring the matter to the attention of General Buonaparte.

  Soon after the turnkey had collected the letter, his rush light burnt out and he spent another fourteen hours of misery and anxiety in pitch-black darkness. All the following day he waited, hoping to be sent for and trying to distract his mind with Dante’s masterpiece; but he did both in vain. Another night crawled by, during which he was tortured by the fear that the turnkey had, after all, cheated him and taken his ten precious sequins for nothing. Then, on his third day in the Leads, at about ten o’clock in the morning, to his unutterable relief two officials of the court came to fetch him.

  Now full of confidence that he was about to be released, he accompanied them with buoyant steps back across the Bridge of Sighs, down the long staircase and across the great open courtyard to the court room. There were many more people in it than there had been three days before and, as Roger was put into the dock, he caught sight of Malderini, the Princess Sirisha and Pietro, sitting together on one of the benches. Their presence caused him a sudden uneasiness.

  He had thought it unlikely that Malderini would be informed of his demand to be brought before the court again, or that the original case would again be gone into, and anticipated that he would have only to convince the French authorities that in Paris he was regarded as a person of some importance; but the presence of the Malderini party suggested that they were to be called on to give evidence and, if so, it was certain that his enemy would do everything in his power to prevent his release.

  The same elderly man with the pursed-up mouth was acting as President, but his younger colleague had been replaced by a neatly dressed little man with a bulbous nose on the end of which was balanced a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles. The Provost-Marshal was also changed: an elderly Colonel with a bristling red moustache. It was he who conducted the enquiry from the beginning, and the two Italians remained silent throughout. Picking up a paper that Roger recognised as his letter, the Colonel gave a loud cough, and said:

  ‘You state in this that you are the Citizen Breuc, who by various acts in the glorious Revolution deserves well of your country.’

  ‘I am,’ replied Roger firmly. ‘And were we in Paris, I would have no difficulty in producing a hundred people to prove it.’

  ‘Perhaps; but we are not in Paris.’ The Provost-Marshal again held up the letter. ‘In this you imply that you were sent here on a secret mission. How long is it since you left Paris?’

  Roger was quick to see the need for caution, so he answered, ‘A considerable time. Other work for the Republic has since necessitated my going on a long journey.’

  ‘First witness,’ snapped the Colonel and Roger saw Gulio Battista emerge from the crowd. The stout sea captain gave him a friendly look and was obviously reluctant to give evidence that might prove to his detriment; but when questioned he admitted that he had carried Roger as a passenger from Crete.

  As he stood down, the Provost-Marshal asked, ‘Where did you come from before you arrived in Crete?’

  Not daring to lie in case he was caught out, Roger replied, ‘Alexandria.’

  ‘And you expect us to believe that you were sent on a mission to Venice via Alexandria and Crete?’ The Colonel brushed up his fiery moustache. ‘Well, we shall see. There are good reasons for believing you to be an impostor. Second witness!’

  Roger moistened his lips. The enquiry had opened far from well, and as the Princess Sirisha was brought forward he had no reason at all to hope that she would improve matters. Although at first she appeared slightly confused, that was no more than any Eastern woman might have been in such unfamiliar surroundings, and was certainly not sufficient evidence on which to allege that she was acting under her husband’s hypnotic influence, despite Roger’s certainty that she was.

  After a hesitant beginning she told her story clearly. Believing Roger to be an Arab perfume-seller she had taken him up to her boudoir. He had then disclosed his true identity and she recognised him as an Englishman whom she had met in England when there with her husband, the previous summer. He had told her that he had been sent from England by Mr. Pitt to stir up trouble in Venice for the French, but had been robbed of his funds so wanted her to help him with money. She knew her husband to be a loyal supporter of the new Government so naturally she had refused. Thereupon Roger had snatched a valuable ring from her finger; but before he could get away, her husband and the servants had arrived on the scene.

  The diabolical cunning with which Malderini had elaborated the original charge filled Roger with considerable alarm. In an attempt to spike his guns once and for all, he cried loudly to the Princess:

  ‘Tell the truth, Madame! In God’s name make an effort. Tell the court the truth about your husband. Show him up for what he is. Free yourself from this evil....’

  He got no further. The President hammered furiously on his desk with his gavel, the Colonel, the other magistrate and two ushers all shouted at him to be silent, drowning his words. Meanwhile, the Princess had given him one terrified look, then half collapsed against Malderini who had come swiftly up behind her.

  Pietro was the next witness called. He substantiated his mistress’s story, then described the week-end party at Stillwater where he had first seen Roger in his true colours as an English aristocrat.

  Malderini followed. He was wearing a dark shade over his eyes, so evidently the pepper had inflamed them seriously; but that was little consolation to Roger at the moment with all this sworn testimony piling up against him. His enemy skilfully embroidered the statements of the other two, then produced a trump card in support of his verbal assertions. It was a printed paper which, he asserted, must have fallen from one of Roger’s pockets during his struggle to escape, as, he said, it had been found on the floor of the Princess’s room immediately afterwards.

  After the Provost-Marshal had examined it and it had been explained to him, it was handed to Roger. On the one side of the paper was a printed plan of Vauxhall Gardens; on the other a programme of music and price list of wines. There were also two addresses scribbled on it in different shades of ink. One, in an educated hand, read—Lucy Cresswell, at Mrs. Goosens, three doors from the Cock Tavern, Drury Lane—the other, in printed letters, was that of the British Consul in Venice.

  The writing of the first was vaguely familiar to Roger and, after a moment, he recognised it as that of Richard Sheridan; then he guessed at once how the programme had come into Malderini’s possession. Evidently the playwright had taken him to Vauxhall one evening and scribbled on it the address of some lady of the town that he had picked up there; then later, by which time Sheridan had probably become fairly drunk, Malderini had pocketed the programme as a souvenir. The Consul’s address he would have added that morning.

  But to the court, the implication was clear. Roger had kept the paper for the young woman’s address, and jotted down that of the Consul’s upon it. As the latter was in capitals, he could not prove that he had not written it, and his having had it on him was the strongest possible support for the contention that he was a British spy.

  The case against him was now extremely black, but he knew that any sign of weakness would be fatal; so he launched a violent attack on his enemy. With some skill he argued that the three last witnesses must all be taken as one, and that one was inspired by jealous hatred. T
he servant, Pietro, naturally said what his master told him to say; the unfortunate wife was completely under her husband’s domination and had, no doubt, been persuaded to perjure herself from fear of him; while he had hatched this iniquitous plot in an attempt to revenge himself on a man he believed he had found on the point of seducing his wife.

  In swift trenchant French, Roger went on to call the shades of Lafayette, Mirabeau and Danton to witness that he was no British spy, but Citizen Breuc, patriot of the Revolution. He had just got to the point of demanding to be sent before General Buonaparte, who would vouch for him, when there was a stir at the back of the court, and a youngish, thin-faced man, with a very long sharp nose, thrust his way through the crowd.

  Silencing Roger, the Colonel addressed the newcomer. ‘Citizen Villetard, your arrival is most opportune. You can settle this question for us.’

  Roger shot a swift glance at the thin-faced man. Villetard was, he knew, the clever and indefatigable French Chargé d’Affaires who had stirred up the Venice mob in May and engineered the downfall of the Serenissima.

  With a bow to the magistrates, Villetard said, ‘Citizens, I must apologise for being late, but the many preparations for today’s festivities delayed me.’

  The Provost-Marshal returned his bow and said, ‘Citizen Minister, am I right in believing that all agents sent from Paris on missions to Venice are under obligation to report to you on their arrival?’

  Villetard nodded. ‘Yes, that is so.’

  ‘Very well then. The prisoner claims to be one Citizen Breuc, who has deserved well of the Republic, and asserts that he came here on such a mission. Is that the truth, or is he lying?’

  After one glance at Roger, Villetard replied promptly, ‘He is lying. There was a Citizen Breuc who was at times employed by Citizen Carnot, and stood in high favour with Citizen Barras; but I have heard nothing of him for a year at least. For him to have dropped out of things suggests that he is probably dead, and this man, having learnt that, has endeavoured to make use of his identity. He is unquestionably an impostor.’

  The Provost-Marshal bowed again. ‘I thank you, Citizen Minister.’ Then he signed to a Sergeant, pointed at Roger, and added, Take him down to the Arsenal and tell my deputy to deal with him.’

  ‘I protest!’ cried Roger. ‘I demand to be sent before General Buonaparte!’

  With a shrug and a twirl of his red moustache, the Colonel retorted roughly, The General-in-Chief is far too occupied with matters of importance to be troubled with English spies!’

  The President rapped with his gavel, stood up and declared the sitting closed. The people began to crowd out of the court. Two French soldiers took Roger by the arms and with him between followed the Sergeant out into a long draughty corridor. Some way along it the Sergeant unlocked a door. Roger was thrust through it into a cell. As he turned, the Sergeant, a real grizzled old soldier with a walrus moustache, said:

  ‘You can cool yer ‘eels,’ere for a bit while we ‘ave our midday grub; then we’ll take you fer a little walk dahn to the Arsenal.’

  ‘Why am I being taken there?’ Roger asked anxiously. ‘Is part of it used as a military prison?’

  The Sergeant gave a throaty chuckle. ‘Not likely, chum. We’re takin’ you there ter be shot.’

  24

  Half an Hour to Live

  Roger had known the answer before he asked the question. For a few moments he had tried to persuade himself that he was being transferred to a different prison and had clutched, as at a straw, at the thought that, spies being a matter for the military, he was only being removed from the custody of the civil authorities. But convicted spies were shot. And he had been convicted. There were no convenient walls in the Doge’s Palace, or the solid block of the Leads, against which a man might be shot out of sight of the public; whereas, in the many acres covered by the great Arsenal, there were plenty. Instinct had told him what to expect immediately the Provost-Marshal had given the order for him to be taken there.

  In the past ten years he had had a dozen narrow escapes, and a wonderful run for his money; but now the game was up. It was the normal end to anyone who plied his trade long enough and he had taken the pitcher to the well once too often. Yet it was a bitter pill that his downfall had been brought about through his private vendetta against Malderini. Death at the hands of a firing squad would at least have been more acceptable as the penalty of failure in some worthwhile coup planned in the service of his country and Mr. Pitt.

  It galled him terribly to think that Malderini had outwitted him, and he wondered if he could have played his cards better. Perhaps, after all, the Municipality would have released him after a few weeks, had he had the fortitude to endure misery and uncertainty for a while in the Leads. He might at least have held his hand for a month before taking the step by which he had burnt his boats. But on second thoughts, he felt again that the dice had been loaded against such a hope. Malderini had known that he was in the Leads and would have spared no pains or bribes to have had him kept there.

  Again, he might have addressed his letter to General Buonaparte instead of to the French Chargé d’Affaires. But, if he had, would it ever have reached that immensely busy, and now great, man? He thought it very unlikely. No, for once the stars had been against him in his knowing no one in Venice who could vouch for him as the Citizen Breuc, and the damnable cunning of Malderini. had prevented him being given the benefit of the doubt.

  For three-quarters of an hour he sat on a three-legged stool in the cell, striving to regard his situation philosophically; then the Sergeant and two soldiers returned for him. One of the soldiers had a length of cord and with it proceeded to tie his arms behind his back, while the Sergeant remarked:

  ‘Don’t want you tryin’ no tricks on us while we take our little walk along the Plagegio Schiavonio. Lots of people about ter day, an’ it wouldn’t do us no good with our officer if we was to let you make a bolt for it among that crowd.’

  When his arms had been tied, there was enough cord over for each of the soldiers to take a long loose end and they attached these to their belts, so that if he did take to his heels he would only drag them after him.

  ‘Here we go,’ said the Sergeant. ‘Nice day for a stroll, though a bit ‘ot out in the sunshine.’ Then he led the way from the cell with his men bringing Roger along between them.

  It was just on midday and outside the sun was blazing down; but that fact passed unnoticed by Roger as they came out of the great gateway of the palace. The Piazza was packed with people and he was able to advance only because a broad lane was being kept clear from the gateway down to the landing steps on the Grand Canal. Soldiers posted every few feet on both sides were having difficulty in keeping back the solid masses of men, women and children.

  ‘Speshul fer you,’ remarked the grimly jovial Sergeant. Turned out the guard, they ’ave, an’ done yer proper.’

  Roger, looking twice his age, his hair a mop, his beard uncombed, his soiled and torn Arab garments flapping about him, was far from presenting the type of spectacle calculated to bring tears to the eyes of onlookers; and from the crowd he received as many jeers as looks of pity. But he walked forward with a firm step, and, on lifting his chin, noticed that flags were flying from every point of vantage. He had naturally not taken the Sergeant seriously, and Villetard’s having said that the delay in his arriving at the court had been owing to arranging ‘the festivities’, he assumed that one of the new Republican holidays—perhaps a Feast to the Goddess of Reason—was being celebrated.

  Twenty feet from the gateway, the lane through the crowd made a curve, then ran straight on between the two lofty columns, one topped by a figure of St. Mark and the other by the Winged Lion of Venice, to the quay-side. As Roger rounded the bend, he saw that a little crowd of richly dressed officials was standing at the top of the steps, and that a great gilded barge had just drawn up to them. Everyone was now craning their necks in that direction but at that moment an officer caught sight of Roge
r’s party. Waving his drawn sword, he shouted angrily to the Sergeant to get off the route. Hastily, and greatly to the annoyance of some members of the crowd. Roger was bundled sideways into its front rank; for, instead of thusting through it, the Sergeant said to his men, with a grin:

  ‘Timed it nicely, didn’t I, boys? Couldn’t ‘ave a better view, not if we was the Directors themselves awearin’ their plumes an’ cocked ‘ats.’

  In spite of the tumultuous agitation that seethed in Roger’s mind, instinct impelled him to ask, ‘What’s happening? What is all the excitement about?’

  ‘It’s the Little Corporal’s Missus,’ the Sergeant told him. ‘’E’s sent ‘er ‘ere on a visit.’

  That meant nothing to Roger, and he remained silent for a minute; then, a vague interest aroused again, he enquired, ‘Who is the Little Corporal?’

  ‘Well; of all the ignorance!’ exclaimed the Sergeant. ‘You must ‘ave been dead six months already not ter know that. It’s our name for ’op-o’-me-thumb—the little General. We give ‘im ‘is stripes fer the way he led us to all our victories.’

  Instantly Roger became as stiff as a ramrod. Next moment he saw her. The group of officials forty yards away had parted. Carrying a great bouquet of flowers, La belle Creole, as she was called—Josephine, widow of the Vicomte de Beauharnais and now Madame Buonaparte—was still nodding to right and left, acknowledging their homage. Then she began to walk forward, and the crowd burst into cheers.

  Like a cannonball with a double charge of powder behind it, Roger launched himself towards her. Taken completely by surprise, the two soldiers were dragged after him. At the top of his lungs, he yelled:

  ‘Madame Buonaparte! It is I. Citizen Breuc. Help! Help! They are going to shoot me! Help!’