by A W Hartoin
Stella ran through the warren of streets and back alleys, hoping she wasn’t getting turned around. The boy was behind her. She could hear his gasping and the occasional screams he caused. She found a wider street and ran down it toward a bridge she knew. She bumped into the wall, gasping so hard she could barely get enough air. A boat’s prow pulled up under the bridge. Maybe she could get on it, but she remembered there wasn’t a dock. That was okay. She jumped before. She could do it again. She ran for the bridge, turning to the right of it with every intention of leaping on that boat. She didn’t care where it was going as long as it was going away from that boy.
Almost there. Ten feet. Five. A head emerged over the top of the stone walkway. Peiper looked right at her, a smile in his eyes. Stella skidded to a halt so fast she fell backward to the ground. Scrambling to her feet, she turned to run back to another alley, but the boy was on her. He rammed her into a wall. She shoved his chest, but he had her by the collar with the pistol in her face. They rolled along the wall, fighting for control, until they were almost at the alley.
“Where is it?” the boy hissed at her through bloody teeth.
“I don’t have it!”
Peiper screamed at them and they both looked. He was trying to climb onto the walkway but couldn’t get a grip on the damp stone. A window flung open above them and a woman looked out. She screamed and more windows opened. The Italians were yelling. Stella didn’t know what they were saying, but she had no doubt they would be coming to get the hated German boat thief.
“Where is it?”
“I don’t have it!”
“Sie hat es!” yelled Peiper.
The boy stuck the pistol’s muzzle under her chin, jamming it into her throat. His other hand searched around her body, paying particular attention to her breasts. They were eye to eye and she saw his expression change. She didn’t have it and his disappointment was immense.
“Where is it?” he hissed.
“I don’t have it. It’s gone. Hidden. You’ll never find it.”
“You must have it.”
Stella pushed her head forward, burying the barrel painfully in her throat, so that the tip of her nose touched his. “You were at our hotel. You must’ve searched it. You know we don’t have it.”
“Haben Sie es?” yelled Peiper.
“Nein!”
“Töte sie!”
The boy’s eyes went wide and Stella looked at Peiper’s malicious face that was now over the edge. He was smiling. “Kill her!”
“No,” whispered Stella. “I don’t have it. I don’t.”
“I have to get it.”
“I can’t give it to you. It’s not in my power.”
He wasn’t going to do it. Shooting at her from a distance was one thing. Up close and in her face was different. She eased her free hand up. If she could just reach her hatpin.
“Shoot her now, Gerhard!”
“I…”
“The man has the diary. Her death will break him!”
Stella stared into his eyes and slid her hand up to her face. A few more inches. “He doesn’t have it. I promise you he doesn’t.”
He believed her and relaxed his grip. Stella went for her pin. Peiper must’ve seen it.
“She killed Gabriele!” yelled Peiper. “Shoot her!”
The boy’s face changed to something savage. “My mother,” he hissed and pulled the trigger.
The pistol clicked. Nothing. Stella opened her eyes to see Gerhard’s astonishment and a hand coming around the corner. Before she could react, a pistol butt cracked the boy on the temple and he went down without uttering a single syllable. Peiper screamed and the man with the bloody face grabbed Stella, dragging her around the corner and kicking the boy’s pistol into the alley. He pushed her against the wall with a hand over her mouth and leaned over to fire at Peiper.
Peiper fired back but his shots were wild, up high, pinging off the third stories of the surrounding buildings or shattering against the stone walk. One lady bravely leaned out her window and winged a frying pan in Peiper’s direction. Others followed suit and Stella was sure she saw a couple of bricks and a jam jar go by. From the sound of Peiper’s yelling, something connected.
Several men ran down the alley armed with oars and some fish pikes. The man with the bloody face spoke in fluent Italian to them. She caught enough to know he was telling them that the German who stole the boat was shooting up their beloved city again and something about her, which they accepted readily. As he spoke, his Italian was perfect, but Stella instinctively knew he wasn’t Italian. Something was just slightly off in his inflection.
The Italians discussed something quickly and the man kept his hand firmly over her mouth no matter how much she struggled and clawed at it. Then he leaned over and whispered, “Shut up and I’ll let go.”
Stella nodded and he released her before firing around the corner as the Italian men ran into the alley. Stella could only assume they were insane, but she didn’t stick around to see what happened. The moment he released her face, she snaked down out of his grasp, scooped up the boy’s pistol, and ran for it.
She only made it a short two blocks before he caught up with her, but instead of grabbing her and throwing her against a wall again, he took her hand and ran ahead, dragging her along behind him. He was fast, a real runner, and she could barely keep her feet. She kept trying to whack him with the pistol but couldn’t make contact.
“Stop!” she yelled. “Let go.”
After a few blocks, she managed to twist her arm out of his grasp and darted away down a side street. That time she didn’t make it a whole block before he had her. She raised the pistol, but he easily pinned it to her side. “Mrs. Myna, please.”
He towered over her, his nose at an unnatural angle with blood still slick on his chin, and his brown eyes met hers.
So familiar. The eyes. The hat. The wide expressive mouth filled with straight teeth. The man on the bridge. The one who’d watched her shove the boy, Gerhard, into the canal.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
He glanced around and tipped his hat, revealing a full crop of dark blond hair. “Don’t you recognize me?” he asked in a British accent. “Not at all?”
“You were on the bridge the other night.”
“Very good.”
“But who are you?”
He smiled, crinkling his eyes, and a thrill of recognition went through her. But it couldn’t be.
His accent changed, still British but different. “Mr. Leonard Bast, lately of London, at your service.”
“But…how…” She couldn’t understand what she was seeing. He was Mr. Bast the portly writer, but he’d lost fifty pounds and a mustache. Plus, he’d grown hair and gotten a set of lovely teeth.
“I’ll explain later, but right now I need you to stop fighting me. We need to get you out of Venice immediately.”
“We? Who are—”
“Lord Bickford sent me.”
The name sparked a memory in Stella, but she couldn’t place it. “But what about my husband? Douglas. He’s Nicolas Lawrence.”
“I know who you both are and I have every reason to think that he’ll be at the station.”
Should she trust this man? He wasn’t anyone she knew. Even his name was a mystery. But what else could she do? She couldn’t get away. She couldn’t even raise her arm.
“What’s your name?”
“Mrs. Lawrence, you disappoint me. Do you really expect me to tell you the truth?”
“I guess not.”
“Then come on. Peiper may get past those men so we haven’t much time to put some distance between us.”
She went with him, thinking at the very least she’d make it to Santa Lucia. If she could just get there, she could think of something then. She shoved the small pistol in her pocket as they ran through a multitude of streets before reaching the Rialto bridge. But then he inexplicably stopped at a restaurant near the bridge and walked in, trailing Stella behind h
im. He spoke Italian and the owner rushed out to give them the most comfy chairs. His wife exclaimed over Mr. Bast’s crooked nose, gave him a hot towel and ran off to make them tiny cups of espresso.
“What did you say to them?” whispered Stella.
“Hold on a moment.” He opened the steaming towel, put it over his nose, and wrenched it straight with a grinding crack.
“Oh, my God.”
Mr. Bast soaked up the blood streaming out of his nose. “That’s better. Now tell me what you heard.”
“Oh, my God,” she said. “Your nose…oh, my God.”
“I assure you that no one said that.” He grinned at her with bloody teeth.
“I don’t know.”
He waited.
“Maybe that I’m your wife and a man did something. You mentioned a gun.”
Mr. Bast smiled. “Very good. I said that the mad German had attacked us and asked for help. You are Italian by the way and so am I.”
“Okay. Let’s go. I have to get to the station.”
He pointed at his still bloody face. “Do you want to attract attention?”
“No.”
“Then give me a moment to blend back in.” He wiped his face with the towel. Once his nose stopped bleeding and the crust of blood was gone, a slit below his lip started oozing again. The owner’s wife rushed out, took the towel and gave him a new one. There was a short conversation about his scarf and coat. Then the lady took both into the back.
Bast smiled at Stella. ““They’re very sympathetic.”
“Nobody’s crazy about Peiper.”
Mr. Bast’s face darkened and he pressed the fresh towel to the slit a second before the blood dripped off his chin. “I only wish I’d hit him.”
“Maybe you did.”
“No.” He sounded certain, but Stella still had hope. Hope was essential in such situations.
“Let me see your shoulder,” he said.
“Huh?” Stella looked over and saw a hole in her coat sleeve, but no blood. Once she looked, it hurt, and she wished she hadn’t. “Oh, right. It’s fine.”
“He hit you, didn’t he?” asked Bast.
Stella slid her hand under her coat to her shoulder. It was bloody, but nothing like his chin. “I think it’s just a scratch.”
He reached over and shifted her to the side. “Well, you’ve got too extra holes in that lovely new coat. Would you like me to take a look?”
“That will take extra time.”
“Indeed.”
“So no.”
“Drink your espresso.” He checked his watch. “We have time, but with the SS you learn to expect the unexpected.”
“Tell me about it,” said Stella. “How do you know what time I have to be there?”
“Most secrets aren’t really secrets, if you know which keyhole to listen at.”
“You eavesdropped on us?” This offended Stella, but she couldn’t really say why. She’d done worse and imagined she would continue in that vein.
“Not this time, not that I’m above it.” He leaned forward, grinning ear to ear. “There’s not much that I’m above.” He tilted his head to the side and became a bit perplexed. “I can’t think of anything actually.”
“Who are you?”
“We’ve been down this road.”
Stella groaned and looked at her watch. “You are frustrating.”
“You aren’t the first to say so.” He checked his bloody towel and then sipped his espresso, swishing it around to wash away the blood.
“Okay. Who’s Lord Bickford? I know that name.”
“I should say so. The Earl of Bickford is Albert Moore’s father.”
Her mouth dropped. “He sent you?”
“Not officially, but yes. The former ambassador knows what he’s about.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“You will,” he said.
“So he’s not an ambassador anymore? What happened?”
Bast took a slow sip, considered something, and said, “His son and heir turned up nearly beaten to death by Nazi thugs. That has a way of shifting one’s priorities.”
“Albert made it back to England?” asked Stella.
“Yes. He did.”
“Is he all right?”
“He’s not dead. That’s as much as I know.”
Stella checked his eyes and decided that she couldn’t tell if he really knew or not. In the end, it didn’t matter. That was something she could not change. She downed her espresso in one gulp. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”
“Be patient.”
She must’ve looked as antsy as she felt because he shook a finger at her. “Don’t make a break for it. You need me.”
Stella wrinkled her nose at him. She wasn’t some incompetent boob. She could do things. She had done things. “Oh, you think so?”
Bast smiled and checked the towel again. The bleeding had slowed but not quite stopped. “As good as you are, I’m better.”
“Good at what?”
He only smiled in response.
“Fine. Can we go?” she asked.
“Enough complaining, seeing as this is your fault.”
She stiffened and got ready to bolt. “My fault? What do you know about it?”
“More than you imagine. I assure you. But I’m not talking about why you’re here in Venice, I’m talking about my face.”
Bast was the man that grabbed her by the hotel in a failed attempt to take her back inside. A member of Spanish royalty happened to be staying on the fifth floor and his plan was to have her seek refuge with him. Bast seemed to think that was something he could pull off and, from his expression, Stella believed him.
“But you fought me off. For someone so small, you are an effective fighter,” he said.
“I wouldn’t have stayed there. I have to get to Nicky.”
He pondered her quietly for a moment. “Yes, I see that now.”
“See what?” she asked.
The owner’s wife came out with a wet cloth in a bowl, dry towels, and a little tin box. She pulled up a chair and they spoke in Italian. Then she checked his wound before cleaning it with the smelly solution in the bowl, dried it, and bandaged his face with a surprisingly discreet amount of cotton and tape.
When she was done, Bast’s injury was obvious but not eye-catching. The owner came out with Bast’s coat and scarf. Both were blood-free and only slightly damp. Bast thanked them profusely and paid them more than they thought he should, but he insisted. There were many cheek kisses and Bast took her hand to escort her out of the restaurant.
Once they were outside, he leaned over, “Take note. That is how it’s done.”
“I don’t know what you mean. Please. I have to go.”
“This is Italy. The trains are always late.” He checked his watch. “You have thirty-five minutes as it is.”
“You don’t know Peiper,” she said. “That might not be enough.”
Chapter Twenty-two
STELLA AND BAST walked swiftly through the streets toward the Rialto bridge, but then he led her to the right, instead of over.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“We’ll take a taxi. You made yourself quite an enemy, so you’re right. We shouldn’t chance it.”
Bast quickly hired a taxi, using Italian, but with a different accent. Somehow he became someone else yet again. A jovial man with a ready smile, full of jokes that made their captain slap his leg. Stella went down into the small cabin, out of the wind, but she tried to listen. The new Italian accent was harder to understand, but she did gather that many of his jokes were about wives. She had the urge to kick him from behind and the captain looked back in time to see her expression. Then he laughed even more.
Stella told herself it was a good thing. It showed she heard and understood, making her more Italian, but she still wanted to kick Bast.
Another good thing was that particular captain. He excelled at getting around the heavy traffic in the Grand Canal, but
then he turned off onto a side canal before the station. Bast must’ve sensed her unease because he gave her a thumbs-up behind the captain’s back. Despite that, Stella’s stomach tied itself into multiple knots and she couldn’t stop looking at her watch. They were moving quickly, but the minutes were ticking away. She started praying for Nicky to be there, uninjured and unperturbed.
Then they turned into another smaller canal and slowed down. Stella couldn’t hold herself back. She came out of the cabin. Bast said something to her in Italian, but she didn’t try to understand. She could only think of the time and below that fear was sadness. She’d failed and people got hurt. As they slid over the placid water, she felt her whole body was nothing but a pillar of regrets. She couldn’t remember what it was like to feel anything else. She would have to tell Nicky about Daniel. She would have to give him that pain. The thought was unbearable.
The captain said something and she looked up. Up ahead was the Santa Lucia station with not one but two trains chugging up. One of them could be the two o’clock, early for once, but instead of relief, all she felt was dread and increasing sadness.
Bast spoke to the captain and he drove to where the canal turned before turning around to drive them back to a small dock next to a park. They pulled up and Stella climbed out without waiting for a hand up. Bast chatted a little more with the captain and then paid him. He was in no hurry and Stella felt as if she was covered with the red ants Uncle Josiah had encountered in Texas.
He stepped onto the dock, took her hand, and waved as the boat pulled away.
“For heaven’s sake, what are you doing? We have to go,” she hissed.
“We have to be seen as Italian, Southern Italian in this case.”
She dragged him toward the station. “I don’t care how he sees us.”
Bast yanked her back to his side, putting an arm around her waist. “Everything matters, Mrs. Lawrence. Absolutely everything.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about and I don’t care.” She tried to pull away, but he held her, tight as a mother losing a child.