The Good Thief's Guide to Venice (25 page)

Yup, that’s right, the reason my spine was tingling and my throat had gone dry was that it looked very much like the case Graziella had handed me.

‘What about the spare seat?’ I heard Victoria ask.

‘Oh that,’ said the second of the two Americans, a bloated Caucasian of about twice his companion’s age. ‘That’s what everyone’s talking about. Guy didn’t even show. A Duke or some crazy shit like that. Guess five-hundred-thou don’t mean jack to him, right?’

I nodded vaguely, then turned to face Victoria. I tried to signal with my eyes that something incredible had happened – that I had vital information to share with her. In truth, my discovery about the briefcase seemed so momentous that if I’d been writing the scene myself, I would have ended it at the precise moment I’d made the connection. Of course, that didn’t account for Victoria’s input, and the way she always strives to push my writing that little bit further. For her, you see, one revelation just wasn’t enough.

Wrapping an arm around my shoulders, she pulled my ear towards her mouth. ‘Charlie,’ she whispered, ‘there’s something I need to tell you. See the man with the white hair at the blackjack table?’

I nodded.

‘Well, he’s my dad.’

I realised the moment Victoria went to speak those words to me that there was something familiar about the chap – a visual echo that jibed with something filed away in my memory banks. I’d only seen his face once before, in a black and white mugshot that had been clipped to a cardboard security file, but I could recall the image quite clearly. He’d shed some weight since the photograph – maybe a little too many pounds, as it happens. His face had taken on a gaunt cast, the cheeks hollowed out above the line of his white beard, and I could have slid a finger down between the wrinkled chicken-skin of his neck and his shirt collar. He reminded me of a turtle sticking its head out of its shell – withered and aged, leaning forward over his betting chips as if he was preparing to crawl slowly across the table-felt. The snowy hair on top of his head was longer than I recalled, as if to compensate for the weight loss, or perhaps he simply hadn’t found the time to visit a barber.

I watched his movements for any indication that he’d heard his daughter speak. There was nothing at all. He appeared entirely consumed by the game in front of him, his left hand spread on the green felt, index finger arched and poised to signal the dealer if he required another card. In his right hand he manipulated a stack of casino chips, flipping the top marker up with his thumb and shuffling it down to the bottom in a well-practised gesture. If the move bothered the Italian woman to his left or the young Asian player to his right, they didn’t show it. And even if they complained, I doubted he could stop himself. It looked to be a habitual quirk, as natural to him as breathing. This was what he did. This was who he was. Alfred Newbury, professional casino man – card counter, chip switcher, and, if the rumours were to be believed, the brains behind some of the most audacious gambling cons ever devised.

I can’t say I’d ever devoted too much thought to the prospect of meeting Victoria’s parents. I knew she’d told them about me, because she’d said as much, but I’d hardly expected to be invited round for a Sunday roast. For one thing, we weren’t an item, and for another, they spent most of their time travelling – often to new casinos where the security was comparatively lax. Still, if I
had
given it some consideration, I’m sure I would have felt nervous. Yes, I was a writer, but I was also a crook – a lousy house creeper, no less. True, I didn’t kill people (at least not intentionally), and more often than not, the folks I stole from were the types who could afford it, but even so, it was hardly the greatest character reference. I wasn’t ashamed, exactly, but I could see how it might look to an outsider. And one thing I would have hated was for Victoria’s family to think badly of me.

Now, though, standing in the middle of one of the oldest casinos in Europe, looking towards the blackjack table, the situation had been turned on its head. I wasn’t concerned by what Alfred might think of me – I was worried by how I felt about him. My moral compass might have been bent out of shape during my teenage years, but most of the goods I’d stolen in my time were small fry compared to what he appeared to be involved in. If he was cheating the tournament, he stood to win half a million euros – a prize fund that consisted, at least in part, of the entry fees paid by many of the people in the room. Victoria had assured me that he was good at what he did – and I’d heard the same thing from other sources – but was he talented enough to cheat in front of this many people and not get caught?

I didn’t rate his odds, no matter the level of his skills. Generally speaking, casino scammers operate in teams, and much of their success relies on the non-playing members distracting casino staff when the key moves are pulled. That goes for switching casino chips in particular – a method that involves a player using sleight of hand to increase his bet
after
a winning card has been played – but it’s true of other techniques too. Some of the systems are beyond me. Others Victoria had explained in great detail. But very few could be carried off by a lone operator.

I scanned the crowd. Plenty of the onlookers were older than sixty – at least half the gathering, in fact – but I couldn’t spot anyone who looked the least bit suspicious. And anyway, I had no idea what help they might provide. There was just one table, being watched by a large number of people. And this was tournament blackjack, so there was no scope to pull off a single risky move and flee the table with your winnings. It was all about the long play, the strategic accumulation of chips over a number of hours, and that didn’t fit the kind of scams I’d heard about.

Except one.

Card counting isn’t strictly illegal. You can’t be arrested on suspicion of indulging in it. But, at least from a casino’s perspective, it goes against the spirit of the game, and it’s certainly frowned upon.

In a standard blackjack game, a skilled counter can keep a tally of the high and low cards that emerge from a shoe. Once the count becomes high enough, the player’s odds of winning are significantly increased, and he’d be well advised to bet heavy. Of course, the problem with the technique is that betting a big stake all of a sudden can draw attention to what the player is up to. And if they’re too obvious about it, they’ll be asked to leave – sometimes politely, other times not.

Now, all of that is fine and, dare I say it, dandy too. And I had no doubt that many of the upstanding citizens who’d taken part in the competition had abided by the strict letter of the law. How did I know? Well, it was simple really. They weren’t sitting at the final table. Because hell, fair play and noble behaviour was all very commendable, but if you wanted to win a blackjack tournament, you simply
had
to card count.

Now admittedly, the Italian mama sitting on the far left seemed content to play fair, and that explained why she left the competition after going all-in with eighteen, only to find the dealer hit twenty. But I was certain that the remaining contestants were all indulging in the same dark art, something that was confirmed by the way their betting had a curious habit of increasing and decreasing at exactly the same moment. And while that suggested that nobody was likely to cry foul any time soon, I couldn’t help but worry that Victoria’s father might do something crass and give himself away.

The Americans were still talking beside me. I leaned towards them and interrupted with another question. ‘Any idea how long is this likely to go on for?’ I asked.

The chubby one pointed to an ornate clock on the wall behind me. ‘Tournament ends at midnight.’

‘Midnight? That’s a bit dramatic, isn’t it?’

Apparently, they weren’t all that interested in the theatrics of the situation, and they weren’t altogether keen to talk to me, either. Before I could ask them anything more, they excused themselves and squeezed off through the crowds to the other side of the table. I gripped Victoria by the arm and dragged her to the bar, exchanging our drinks for two glasses of
prosecco
. Never hurts to blend in, right?

‘So,’ I said, ‘did you know your dad was in Venice?’

‘Of course not,’ she snapped. ‘I’m every bit as surprised as you are.’

I gave her the long stare. God knows why. It wasn’t subtle and it didn’t get us very far.

‘Have you got something in your eye?’ she asked.

‘This is my interrogation glare.’

‘Well, I recommend you get a new one, because it looks as if you’re in pain. And once you have it mastered, I’d recommend you don’t use it on me, particularly not when I’m telling you the truth.’ She took a swig of her wine and folded her other arm across her chest. ‘I’m pretty miffed, if you must know. I told Mum that I was visiting you, and she definitely would have told
him
. It’s a damn sight easier for us to meet here than for me to travel to the other side of the world. But oh no, telling me his movements would be too much to ask. I’m expected to just bump into him.’

‘Being fair,’ I said, ‘I don’t think he expected you to do that. It sounds like he was trying to avoid you altogether.’

Somehow, I didn’t end up wearing
eau de prosecco
. It was a close-run thing. I was beginning to think I should be a little more sensitive.

‘Perhaps he was aiming to look you up after the tournament,’ I suggested.

‘Oh, so you’re saying that I should be grateful for the consideration he’s shown me?’

‘No, I, er …’ I shrugged. ‘Well, actually, I don’t know what I was trying to say. Mostly I was just aiming to make you feel better.’

‘Well congratulations.’ She gave me a spirited thumbs up. ‘You did a swell job.’

‘Aw, Vic. Remember what they say about sarcasm, yeah?’

‘Uh huh, vaguely.’ She formed her right hand into a fist and considered her knuckles. ‘Something along the lines of it being preferable to getting punched in the head?’

‘Now, now,’ I said, backing off a step.

She contemplated her champagne flute. ‘Or being glassed, maybe.’

‘Easy.’ I raised my hands to protect my face, almost as if I was dealing with a caged tiger. Actually, now that I thought of it, a dust-up with a safari cat might have been preferable. ‘How about,’ I said, ‘we discuss something else for a moment? I have an observation that I think you’ll be interested to hear.’

‘An observation? Oh, goody. That sounds fascinating, Charlie. Why don’t you go right ahead and share your
observation
with me?’

‘Um, okay.’ I hesitated. ‘Just so we’re clear, do you really mean that, or would you rather I shut up?’

‘Speak. Make it quick. I may extend you some mercy.’

Oh boy.

‘The briefcase,’ I began. ‘The one that’s suspended from the ceiling in the glass box? Well, I could swear it’s identical to the one Graziella gave me. You know, the one with the
explosives
in it.’

Victoria scowled at me. ‘You could swear it’s identical, or it is identical?’

‘Is. I think.’

She nodded. ‘Continue.’

‘Well, it’s curious, don’t you think? The Count was meant to be here, playing for the big prize. Meanwhile, the briefcase I delivered to his palazzo is the spitting image of the one containing all the cash.’

‘And what do you suppose that means?’

‘I don’t exactly know. Thought you might have some suggestions.’

Oh, Victoria had some suggestions all right. Fortunately for me, she left them unsaid, and necked her wine instead.

‘I need one of your cigarettes,’ she told me. ‘Come on, follow me.’

I did follow her, tracking her past the slots and through the roulette lounge and down the stairs to the first-floor landing. It was deserted. Victoria lifted the padlock that secured the two glass doors leading to the closed-off gaming area. She rattled the chain.

‘Open this, will you?’

‘You’re kidding me.’

‘Do I look like I’m making merry right now?’

No, to be perfectly frank, she didn’t. She looked about as pissed off as it’s possible to get. Face tight, jaw tense, lips colourless and pressed hard together.

‘But the cameras,’ I protested.

‘Oh for God’s sake, Charlie. Take a risk. You’re a burglar. It’s what you
do
.’

Actually, as a general principle, risks were the one thing I tried to avoid wherever possible. But on this occasion,
not
tackling the padlock seemed like the most perilous option.

Reaching inside my jacket, I removed my spectacles case. I didn’t bother with gloves – it wasn’t as if we planned on stealing anything (at least so far as I knew) and by angling my back towards the camera at the head of the stairs, I was able to conceal what I was up to. The padlock was very basic and I degraded myself just a touch by using a beginner’s technique and shimming it – slipping two thin sheets of metal between the shackles and the body of the lock, and rotating them until the latch was released and the lock popped open. I had it unfastened and the chains freed from the door handles before Victoria even had time to stamp her foot. If we were spotted, we could simply say that we’d found it like that. With the padlock intact, there was nothing to prove otherwise.

I was all for easing the door open and sneaking a look, but Victoria snatched the handle from me and paced brazenly inside.

‘Torch,’ she barked.

I clicked on my penlight and poked it around. The darkened room was in a hell of a state. Three squat gaming tables were covered in dust sheets, with paint pots, brushes and rollers scattered across them. Bare wires were hanging down from the ceiling space, tangled around paint-spattered stepladders. The floor was covered in a tapestry of thick plastic sheeting that had been roughly taped together. It crinkled as I stepped on it.

‘Over here.’ Victoria slalomed her way through the decorating equipment to one of the picture windows at the far end of the room. She perched on an old cast-iron radiator and snapped her fingers. ‘Cigarette.’

I offered her my packet, then my Zippo, afterwards firing up a cigarette of my own. Victoria sighed a lungful of fumes towards the single-pane window. Outside, the tar-like waters of the Grand Canal glittered in the light from the lanterns on the casino jetty. Our stolen vessel rocked in the tides at the very end, where it was unlikely to attract much attention.