The Good Thief's Guide to Venice (26 page)

I clicked off my flashlight and turned to check the doors behind us. I could see only shadows amid the shanty town of stepladders and scaffolding.

‘Tell me about this briefcase then,’ Victoria said, with a heavy sigh.

‘I already did.’ I inhaled for a moment. ‘It would be nice to get a closer look, but I’m pretty sure it’s the same. Metal casing. Egg-box interior. Brass combination locks. Rubber handle.’

‘Well, did it occur to you that the Count may have won one of these tournaments in the past?’ Victoria drew hurriedly on her cigarette, then blew a plume of smoke from the corner of her mouth. ‘He must be good, because he’d made it to the final table. If the prize was another case full of money, it would make sense that he kept it in his vault.’

‘I suppose that’s possible,’ I said, casually upping my nicotine intake. ‘It’s motivation enough for Graziella to steal the case, though it doesn’t explain the bomb.’

‘Perfect getaway. If he’s dead, he can’t come after the cash, or Graziella.’

‘Hmm,’ I said, and contemplated the lit end of my cigarette. I wasn’t sure exactly what my ‘hmm’ was meant to signify. I doubt Victoria was either, but she didn’t seem eager to pursue the point. ‘You spotted our overweight friend at second base, I take it.’

‘The one who followed us?’ Yes, and watched us kiss, I thought, then felt myself cringe. Awkward subject. I was pretty sure Victoria was trying hard not to think about it too.

‘He’s definitely tied into this thing,’ she said. ‘It’s too much of a coincidence otherwise.’

‘Undoubtedly.’

She crushed her cigarette on the windowsill. The thing was half-smoked, at best.

‘Fancy heading back upstairs to watch your dad win all that money?’ I asked.

‘To be honest, I’d prefer to wait here for a while, if that’s okay.’

‘’Course it is,’ I told her. ‘I had a word with the owner. We can stay for as long as you need.’

We returned to the tournament room at a quarter to twelve. It was busier than before. The last of the stragglers in the roulette lounge had abandoned their games to watch the conclusion, and everyone had pressed up around the competition table. It took us some time to get to a point where we could see the action, a distant view from off to one side, and even then my line of sight kept being interrupted by the shifting heads in front of us.

There were still four players involved, but the Asian youth with the sunglasses was close to running on empty. I guessed he’d made a big play while we’d been downstairs, and it hadn’t worked out. Now his only hope was that his opponents would go all-in to try and secure the win, and that every one of them would crash out. It was highly unlikely, but it was something to cling to, and he appeared to be doing just that.

Chip-leader was Victoria’s father, but it was almost too close to call. The Cartier-toting lady with the neat bob and our shaggy, double-width pal were within striking distance, and to the casual observer, it must have seemed really quite exciting.

To me, however, it was more than that. Because while the competitors hadn’t altered, a new dealer had been introduced for the final phase. She had a businesslike demeanour and fast, dextrous hands that fluttered around the table-felt like bird wings. Her brown hair was cut short and slicked back behind her ears, but despite the boyish styling and the unflattering tuxedo she was required to wear, it was impossible to ignore her beauty. Her lips were full and lush, her eyes alert and sparkling, and her neck looked entirely suited to being nuzzled. Oh, and in her spare time I happened to know that she had a talent for breaking into people’s homes.

Brilliant
.

‘Er, Vic?’ I said, tapping her on the shoulder.

‘What is it?’

‘I think your dad may have a problem.’

I pressed my mouth to her ear and explained the situation. It didn’t take long to give her the headline points. Her reaction was even faster.

‘That’s the bitch who has your book?’ Victoria pointed at Graziella, shaping as if she was about to march through the crowds and start a fight.

‘Easy.’ I snatched her hand down and fixed a smile to my face. ‘Keep it cool.’

‘Cool? She’s right there, Charlie.’

‘I get that. I can even see her real hair for a change. But she hasn’t seen
us
yet and I’d like to keep it that way.’

‘Well, I’d like to knock her block off.’

I tightened my grip on Victoria’s wrist. ‘Now’s really not the time. Or the place.’

‘Why not?’ She curled her lip. ‘Don’t tell me you’re scared of her. Charlie, she’s nothing to be afraid of.’

‘Perhaps not. But what about the people she’s connected to?’

‘Eh?’

‘The bomb, Vic.
Someone
gave it to her.’

As I finished speaking, a smattering of applause rippled through the crowd. Things had changed on the tournament table. Our sizeable friend had enjoyed an equally sizeable win. A huge bet had paid off for him and he’d vaulted way ahead. He knew it, too. Stroking his ragged beard, a look of smug satisfaction on his face, he nodded at his own good fortune, like a gypsy king acknowledging that the fates had finally bent to his will. People slapped him on his wide back, where the fabric of his suit was stretched and shiny.

‘Your dad looks kind of bemused,’ I said.

‘He looks plain angry.’

‘Yeah, well, he just lost the lead.’ I checked the time on the tournament clock behind us. ‘Only ten minutes left.’

‘No, it’s more than that.’ Victoria shook her head. ‘See the way he’s looking at her?’

The
her
was Graziella. And Vic was right. Alfred was clearly livid. Jaw rotating, as if he was chewing over all manner of indecent thoughts, eyes bulging out of his wrinkled face.

By contrast, our overweight snooper was basking in glee. Reclined comfortably in his chair, he folded his stubby hands across his swollen belly and beamed with delight as Graziella slid a cascade of markers across the table-felt towards him. He reminded me of a glutton who’d just polished off two giant desserts and was being offered a complimentary third. He seemed completely relaxed, as if things were working entirely to plan.

‘You reckon it was luck?’ I asked Victoria.

‘From the way Dad’s boiling over, I’d say no.’ She went up on her toes for a clearer view. ‘A bum card is something he can deal with. This looks much more serious.’

‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

‘I suspect I’m already there. But why don’t you go ahead and fill me in?’

And so I did just that. I explained how I thought there was a good chance that Graziella and the new tournament leader were in cahoots. It struck me that if Graziella was moderately skilled and sufficiently motivated (by a share of half a million euros, say), she had the potential to fix the game any way she pleased. Card counting was all well and good, and I could understand why Vic’s dad had placed his faith in the technique, but it was useless if she manipulated the odds. It wouldn’t take much, just one or two duds palmed to Alfred, or a sweet card offered to her scruffy partner, and the entire sequence would be out of whack. Not easy, granted, but possible. I’d already seen how talented she was at burglary. What was to say she hadn’t mastered another skill?

And there was more. She’d wanted Borelli dead. It seemed obvious now that her motivation had been keeping him away from the tournament table. Just another way of rigging the contest, or something even more sinister? I didn’t know, and neither did Victoria. But for once, she didn’t take issue with the plot I’d outlined.

‘I think Dad’s about to blow a gasket,’ she told me.

He was about to blow something. As we watched, he pushed all his chips into the betting circle in front of him. A murmur passed through the room. It became chatter. Everyone knew this was a key moment, especially his competitors. The young Asian man pushed his sunglasses up on his nose, then clapped Alfred on the shoulder, clinching him for good measure. He went all-in too. The elegant lady smiled meekly and waved her hand at Graziella, sitting out the round. Our man with the weight issue considered the move with an appreciative nod of his head, then casually pushed roughly a quarter of his markers into play. He sniffed, wiped his nose with the sleeve of his tuxedo, and ran a hand through his long, greasy locks.

I heard the flip and flutter of fresh cards. It was impossible to see what Alfred had scored, and even more difficult to read his reaction. The Asian kid was clearer. He slapped his forehead with his free hand and gestured for a hit. The card was a bust. He threw his arms into the air and smiled glumly as he turned in his chair and acknowledged the sympathetic applause.

Alfred was next. He called on a card. Then another. He opted to stick. The crowd seemed uncertain. Alfred did too.

The bearded lump was content with what he had. He motioned for Graziella to reveal what she was holding with a leisurely twirl of his finger, almost as if he was so sure of winning that the prospect of completing the hand was a tiresome chore.

If Graziella felt emotion, she didn’t show it. She simply arranged her cards face up on the felt, then reached for the shoe. One card. Another. One more.

The audience gasped, then groaned, as if the impossible had just happened.

From Alfred’s perspective, it had. Lips pursed, he watched stoically as Graziella bent forwards and gathered his chips into her lean arms. Tapping a finger on the felt, he raised his eyebrows in mild surprise, then levered himself up from the table and offered his hand to each of his fellow players. He shook with Beardy last of all, and his hand seemed to be swallowed by the man’s bear-like paw. Their eyes locked for just a fraction of a second, long enough for Alfred to try to inject some venom and for the big man to absorb it with a bovine gaze and a drowsy grin, and then Alfred walked stiffly out of the room.

We caught up to him on the stairs sweeping down from the roulette lounge.

‘Dad?’

He turned at the sound of Victoria’s voice, glancing casually up the stairwell towards us.

‘Ah, there you are, darling.’ He opened his palms. ‘I was wondering when you might come and say hello.’

‘You knew we were here?’

‘I’ve trained myself to notice most things, darling, you know that.’ He grinned up at me, revealing a set of yellowing dentures amid his snowy beard. ‘Charlie Howard, I presume.’

‘Yes, Sir.’ I moved down the steps and offered him my hand. ‘Commiserations on the game.’

‘Yes, well. No matter.’ His palm was dry and crinkled like tissue paper, but his grip was surprisingly firm. ‘I rather got the impression I wasn’t destined to win.’

‘You mean they rigged it. That last croupier and her cuddly beau.’

‘My, my.’ He straightened his cuffs, then patted my arm. ‘I see my beautiful daughter has taught you a thing or two.’

He glanced at Victoria. She was hovering on the stairs above us, keeping her distance. Her father’s flattery wasn’t doing a great deal to improve her mood. Her face was stony and her knuckles had whitened where she gripped the brass banister rail. The glamorous green frock she had on was entirely out of keeping with her attitude.

‘Dad, why didn’t you tell me you’d be in Venice?’ she said, her voice tight.

‘I intended to, darling. Tomorrow, in fact.’

‘She’s a touch miffed,’ I explained. I’m nothing if not helpful.

‘Darling, come here.’ Alfred spread his arms and beckoned to Victoria. She tried her best to stay mad, but her resistance was crumbling. ‘Don’t make a disappointing night any worse, hmm, Sugar Plum?’

Sugar Plum
. My, that was going to come in handy.

Victoria shot a look at me, as if she could read my thoughts, then released the banister with a defeated sigh and stomped down the stairs to peck her father on the cheek.

‘There now,’ he said, and patted her head. ‘Friends again?’

‘Almost,’ she muttered.

‘Then where shall I take you? We could all do with a drink, I’d say. My hotel is quite close.’

‘Er, actually.’ I pulled back my shirt sleeve and drew Victoria’s attention to my watch face. ‘Time’s moving on, Vic. And there was that
thing
we wanted to check back at my apartment.’

‘Oh, crumbs. I’d forgotten about that.’ She hesitated for a moment, looking between us. ‘Listen, Dad, why don’t you come along? Charlie has a boat outside. We can chat at his place and drop you back to your hotel later.’

‘Splendid,’ he said, and grinned famously.

Except it wasn’t splendid. Not even close.

There’s a school of thought that says Venice is best experienced from the water. Charting a course away from the casino jetty and puttering along the Grand Canal in the moist, hazy darkness, I couldn’t have agreed more. From my position beside the clamorous engine, it was impossible to join in with Alfred and Victoria’s conversation, but I was perfectly content all the same. Fog-laced waters, tumbledown buildings, the eerie calm of a drowned city at sleep – it was all so magical that I was almost tempted to turn into one of the crooked side canals and explore for an hour or two. Of course, that would have required me to ignore the small matter of the kidnap victim back at my apartment, which was something I couldn’t quite bring myself to do.

Borelli would be awake by now. Alone. Gagged and bound. Dazed by the after-effects of the sedative. Fearing for his life. Sweating into the bare mattress …

Hmm. Thinking of the Count like that did detract just a smidgen from my enjoyment of the moment.

Still, it was nothing compared to the ice-cold horror I experienced as I steered into the mouth of the canal I lived on. Flashing blue lights. Shadowy, uniformed figures moving about in the dewy air. The ghostly form of a motor launch with a dark-blue hull. Another vessel in luminous yellow and orange, branded with the words
Venezia Emergenza
.

Powerful fog lights mounted on the boats were pointing towards my apartment building, bleaching the colour from the ramshackle exterior. A blur of police officers and medics had gathered outside the front door, the strobing blue lights giving their movements a jerky, mechanical effect, as if I was watching the scene on the pages of a giant flick-book – a giant
scary
flick-book.