I walked straight for about a city block and looked again. He was still there, and perhaps it was my imagination, but he appeared to be closing the distance between us. I picked up my pace still more, made another left turn, and this time when I looked behind me, he was no longer there. The sound of lapping water came to my ears, and I realized the canal was only a short distance in front of me. It was too narrow to be on a regular vaporetto route, but I might, if I was lucky, be able to flag down a water taxi. Letting out a long sigh of relief, I walked toward the canal, reaching the edge just in time to see another figure, this one dressed in regular street clothes, step out from the shadows.
“Good evening, Miss Fletcher,” Devos said. “Or should I say, Buonasera?”
Chapter 17
How cheerfully he seems to grin,
How neatly spreads his claws,
And welcomes little fishes in
With gently smiling jaws!
LEWIS CARROLL,
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
Mr. Devos,” I said, wishing my voice didn’t sound so wobbly. “What a pleasant surprise.” It wasn’t, of course, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing how frightened I was.
“Yes, isn’t it? But you should not be wandering about Venice by yourself. It is not safe for a young woman alone. Some of the canals are quite deep. One might—fall in—and never be seen again.”
“I didn’t intend to ‘wander about Venice’ on my own,” I said, suppressing a shudder at the picture his warning—or was it a threat?—evoked. “I’ve been searching high and low for the Hollises ever since I got off the launch.”
“Is that who you were seeking? I thought you were looking for—someone else.”
“Oh, you saw me searching?” I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about that. Whatever his motives for not making his presence known, they couldn’t be good. “I never saw you.”
His teeth gleamed in the fading twilight. “I did surveillance in the war, Miss Fletcher. For someone trained to elude the Nazis, avoiding the gaze of one young woman presents no particular difficulty. Although you did give me a bad moment or two when you exited your gondola so abruptly. I congratulate you.”
“Never mind the congratulations,” I said sharply. “If you can’t tell me where the Hollises are, I won’t trouble you any further.”
I started to turn away, but he grabbed my arm. “Not just yet, Miss Fletcher. We have unfinished business, you and I.”
“I can’t imagine what you’re talking about.” They were brave words, but my voice betrayed me, and my arm trembled in his hold.
He stepped nearer, and I could feel his fingers biting into my arm, bruising me. “You have something in your possession that I want very much.”
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do. Let us not play games, Miss Fletcher. You possess certain photographs taken in Pisa. They are not in your cabin, else I would have found them, or in your aunt’s, else Sylvia would have.”
“Then it was you in my stateroom! I suppose that was why you insisted on escorting me back to my cabin—to discover my room number, and my aunt’s.”
He continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “Nor are they in the photography shop. Therefore the film must still be in your camera. Do not try to tell me you have left your camera in your cabin; I have seen you taking photos with it all day.” His breath was hot and fetid in my ear as he added, “I am prepared to do whatever it takes to get those photos. The history of Venice is long and violent. What is the disappear-ance of one rather foolish young woman against so much bloodshed? If you doubt my sincerity, you have only to look to Sylvia. She could tell you I mean what I say—if she were alive to do so.”
“Sylvia—” A lump formed in the pit of my stomach. He would not be telling me such things if he thought there was any chance of my repeating them.
“It was I who killed her—but you already suspected as much, did you not? The stupid woman had one task: to get that camera from your aunt while your group was in Rome. Yes, I admit to a mistake there: I thought it was Mrs. Watson’s camera at first, for it was she who had been taking photos with it in Pisa. But Sylvia failed, and when I ordered her to search your aunt’s cabin for it the next day, she failed again. She had clearly become a, what do you say, a liability, and so she had to go.” He leaned nearer, his lips all but touching my ear, and I shuddered in spite of myself. “Why should I balk at ridding myself of a meddlesome stranger, when I did not hesitate to eliminate my own wife, hm?”
“Your wife?” The lump in my stomach began turning somersaults, and I thought I was going to be physically ill. Still, I had one ace up my sleeve that Sylvia hadn’t. “Markos Rondo knows what you’re up to,” I said, drawing courage from speaking the words aloud. “If any-thing happens to me, he’ll know where to look.”
To my dismay, Devos began to laugh, a rumbling chuckle under his breath that was far more terrifying than his threats had been. “Is there anyone more trusting than a young woman in love? My dear Miss Fletcher, who do you think is behind the whole enterprise?”
“No!” I shrugged off his hand and backed away. “It isn’t true! I don’t believe you!”
Devos was lying. I knew he was. And yet ... And yet there were certain things Markos had said, certain things that, in the light of Devos’s accusation, could be interpreted in an entirely different way than they had first appeared. His supposed suspicions of me could have been nothing more than an attempt to discover how much I knew, his romantic interest in me no more than a ploy to make me lower my guard sufficiently to confide in him. Was that why he’d offered to show me about Mykonos before Sylvia’s body was even cold? Had I been playing right into his hands all along?
“He’s with the Ministry of Culture!” I insisted, not quite sure if I was trying to convince Devos or myself.
“Of course he is. Who would be in a better position to arrange such an operation than a highly-educated insider? And who would have greater reason than a lower-level bureaucrat who feels his talents are being wasted?”
Not very impressive, I fear, Markos’s voice rang in my head. Undersecretary to an undersecretary ...
With a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I realized that while he’d let me keep the photos, he’d never returned the negatives to me, nor said exactly what he intended to do with the enlargement he’d made. A simple oversight on his part, or was there something else, something more sinister, at work here? Had the purpose of that enlargement been, not to identify Devos’s activities, as I’d thought, but to determine exactly to what extent the smuggling scheme had been compromised?
Suddenly I felt as if I’d stepped into one of those negatives with their weirdly reversed colors. Black was white and white was black, and nothing was as it seemed. My heart cried out that Markos was innocent—but what if I was wrong? In that case, I had only to tell Devos that Markos already had the photos, and I would be out of danger. But no, Devos had told me too much. I would have to be gotten rid of either way, and in the meantime, if Markos was as innocent as I believed him to be—as I wanted so desperately for him to be—I would have put him in mortal danger. Right now, as far as Devos was concerned, my supposed possession of the photos was the only thing keeping me alive.
“By all means, believe whatever you wish.” Devos was talking again, but I could hardly hear him for the conflicting thoughts clamoring inside my head. “Only give me the photos.”
“And—and what will happen to me if I do?” I asked, stalling for time—time to think, time to plan. Time for Markos to come to my rescue? I had better not count on that. At best, Markos was hard at work in the ship’s darkroom. At worst—but I couldn’t think about that, not now.
“You will be free to return to the ship, of course,” Devos said smoothly. “You may report me to the captain—or to Dr. Rondo, if you prefer—but with no proof to back up your outrageous claims—” He shrugged.
No proof, I thought, but certa
inly enough to make things very uncomfortable for him. And for Markos as well? I rejected that thought at once, or at least pushed it aside for consideration later. Outrageous they might be, but my accusations might result in the search of Devos’s cabin by the port authorities, who would find the artifacts he hadn’t yet had time to pass on to their buyers. No, whatever his assurances, Devos would not allow me to survive this encounter.
“And all you want is my camera?” I didn’t have to fake the fearful quaver in my voice.
“That is all.” His voice was soothing, placating. “Only give it to me, and I will escort you back to the Piazzetta myself.” Of that I was certain, although I doubted very much if I would ever reach it alive.
I took a deep breath, and came to a decision. “All right, then. Here it is.” I fumbled in my bag and withdrew my camera, the new one I’d bought just for this trip. As he reached for it, I hurled the camera over his shoulder, and heard it land in the canal with a splash. “Swim for it!”
The film was certainly ruined the moment the camera entered the water, but in the split second it took for Devos to realize this, I had dropped my cumbersome bag and was running, running as fast as I could down the narrow thoroughfare, cutting first down one side street and then another in an attempt to escape my pursuer. And that he was pursuing me I had no doubt; I could hear the ringing of his footsteps on the flagstone pavement somewhere behind me—and I was sure he could hear mine, even if he could no longer see me in the dark passageway. I rounded the nearest corner and kicked off my shoes, leaving them where they fell as I ran silently ahead on stockinged feet. Night had fallen by now, and the occasional pool of yellow light cast by the lamps overhanging the street provided the only illumination. I wasn’t quite sure whether to be sorry or glad; the darkness would make it more difficult for Devos to see me, but it also made it impossible for me to read any street signs or recognize any landmarks.
I had no idea how long I ran, but eventually my side ached, my stockings were in shreds, and the soles of my feet were cut and bruised. I had lost any sense of direction long ago, and had no idea where I was or whether I was any nearer to the Piazza San Marco, where I might lose myself among the crowds. I ducked around another corner and paused, listening. My breath came in labored gasps, making it difficult to hear much of anything, but I thought—yes, I was almost certain I could hear the plaintive song of a gondolier. And, nearer at hand, the slower but unrelenting footsteps of Konstantin Devos. Ignoring the screams of protest from feet and lungs, I ran again—and came to an abrupt halt on the very edge of a canal, windmilling my arms to keep from falling in. I glanced wildly to left and right, but there was no sidewalk, no passageway—nothing. I’d reached a dead end, and Devos was even now rounding the corner, slowing to a leisurely pace when he realized there was nowhere else I could run.
“For shame, Miss Fletcher,” he chided, and even though he was fully twenty years older than I, it seemed to me that he wasn’t even breathing hard. “All that running, and where has it got us?”
He reached into the pocket of his jacket, and my blood ran cold as the light from the streetlamp glinted on the blade of a knife. He was nearly upon me, but what could I do? Running was no longer an option, for I dared not attempt to dodge past him when he held a knife in his hand, while behind me lay nothing but the dark, oily waters of the canal.
The canal ...
And suddenly I realized I did know what to do, that I had known ever since the lifeboat drill on our first day at sea. I put one hand over my mouth and pinched my nostrils shut with thumb and forefinger, then closed my eyes and stepped off the edge of the pavement.
My last thought before entering the water was that I would feel an awful fool, and would very likely be a dead one, if the canal was only four feet deep. But in the next moment, the water closed over my head, and my skirts, filled with air, billowed up around me like a balloon. I broke the surface a moment later, gasping from cold and shock, to the sounds of Devos’s cursing.
“You can’t stay in there forever, skýla!” He waved his knife threateningly, and for a moment I thought he meant to fling it at my head. But apparently he didn’t trust his aim, for he satisfied himself with hurling abuses instead, and ending with a threat. “You’ll have to come out eventually—and when you do—” He stroked the blade of the knife almost lovingly. “—I’ll be waiting.”
He was right, damn him. Besides being cold, the waters of the canal weren’t the cleanest or the healthiest place for a swim. Devos had only to outwait me, and when I finally emerged, waterlogged and shivering, the best speed I could manage would be no match for his—and even if I somehow succeeded in eluding him, he had only to follow my dripping trail. Unless, of course, I could swim across the canal to the opposite bank—but no, a low bridge arched across the canal less than a hundred feet ahead; Devos could run across to the other side in less time than it would take me, hampered by wet skirts, to swim there. I could, perhaps, swim underwater long enough to lose him in the dark, and then cross at some less easily accessible point, but my light-colored skirts shone beneath the water like some phosphorescent sea creature. The best I could do was play for time until my aunt realized I was missing and sent out a search party—but if all went well between Maggie and Paul, that might not be until morning, by which time it would be too late.
And then, just when my last hope was fading, rescue arrived, just like the cavalry coming over the horizon. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’d been conscious of a gondolier singing in the distance, but I hadn’t noticed the sound growing louder until the vessel emerged from around the corner like a great black swan, the light from its prow lamp bobbing across the water with each stroke of the gondolier’s oar.
I didn’t hesitate. I swam toward the middle of the canal, reaching it just as the gondola drew abreast. With the last bit of strength I possessed, I grabbed onto the side of the craft and hauled myself up, no doubt looking like the Creature from the Black Lagoon.
“Help me,” I croaked, and collapsed, hanging half in and half out over the side of the boat, at the stunned gondolier’s feet.
* * *
“I hold myself entirely responsible,” Maggie fretted, not for the first time. The last hour or two had passed in a blur, but I now stood with my aunt on the deck of the Oceanus where, having washed and changed into clean and dry clothes and given a statement of the night’s events to the proper authorities, I leaned against the rail, letting the breeze off the lagoon dry my freshly shampooed hair. “If I hadn’t run off with Paul and left you alone—”
“It isn’t your fault,” I insisted, also not for the first time. “Anyway, did he propose?”
“He did, and I accepted,” she said with a smug smile. “But don’t change the subject! If I’d had the least idea that I was putting you in danger—”
“I know you didn’t, and I didn’t think I would be alone, at least not the whole time. I’d thought to catch up with the Hollises, but I couldn’t find them anywhere, and—and then when I thought I had found them, all of sudden he was there,” I recalled, shuddering.
“I can’t believe I ate dinner every night with that man, and never suspected a thing! Robin, why didn’t you tell me?”
My gaze slid away from hers. “I—well, it’s hard to explain.” A movement beyond her shoulder caught my eye, and I saw Markos approaching. I had a vague memory of seeing him in uniform, his face almost as white as his starched shirt, when I had been brought back onboard the ship earlier that evening filthy, dripping, and exhausted, but now he was dressed in street clothes and looked more self-possessed than anyone had a right to look.
Maggie followed the direction of my gaze, and arched one eyebrow. “And unless I’m very much mistaken, here comes the explanation now. Don’t mind me, Markos. I was just going to pack Robin’s bags.”
“I’ll do that—” I began, but “No, you won’t,” Maggie and Markos said in unison. Yielding to the inevitable (in fact, I was too tired to do anything else), I ack
nowledged my aunt’s departure with a little wave, and braced myself for the scold I knew would be forthcoming.
“Devos has been taken in for questioning by the port authorities,” Markos said, taking the wind out of my sails. “The last I heard, he was singing like a canary, as your American gangster movies would say.”
“He killed Sylvia,” I said. “He told me so, when—” I broke off, not wanting to relive that harrowing moment when Devos had stepped out of the shadows and plunged me into nightmare. “She was supposed to steal my camera, and when she didn’t, he killed her. ‘A liability,’ he called her. Markos, she was his wife!”
“Yes, I know.”
“It’s true, then? But Mr. Grimes said she’d been married to a hero of the Resistance!” And so he had. But I’d assumed by her surname that he was talking about the French Resistance. Until I’d met Markos, I hadn’t realized that the Greeks had had a resistance movement of their own. “Tell me,” I said thoughtfully, “was Sylvia actually Greek, by any chance?”
Markos nodded. “Now you’re catching on. Devos married Sylvia during the war—she had ambitions even then, and both of them fully expected that he would be able to parlay his wartime heroics into a position of influence within the new Greek Communist government. But the Communists lost, and instead of being lavishly rewarded, Devos was lucky to avoid execution. Still, he came up with a way to bleed his country for what he thought was rightfully his, by stealing her treasures and selling them to the highest bidder. He later extended his activities into Italy, since he considered, perhaps with some justification, that they owed him something as well.”
“And Mr. Grimes?”
“As far as I can tell, he was perfectly innocent. But it takes money to set up an operation such as the one Devos had. The right people have to be bribed, besides the unlawful digging itself.”
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