The Good Thief's Guide to Venice (6 page)

This particular feline arched its back and hissed, and I decided that aiming my torch into its face wasn’t perhaps the best way to make friends. Instead, I wiped my coat sleeve across my nostrils to ward off any sniffling and sneezing, then turned my torch back to the stairs and climbed on, hoping that before long my heart rate might drop out of the zone where a cardiac arrest seemed imminent.

As soon as I reached the first floor, I could see that the door to apartment 2 was slightly ajar. Switching the torch to my left hand, I felt inside my coat and armed myself with one of my screwdrivers, holding it up by my shoulder.

The door appeared innocuous enough, and when I put my face as close to it as I dared, I couldn’t hear a sound from the other side. I checked my grip on the screwdriver, gritted my teeth, and eased the door open with my toe.

No resistance. No noise.

Now for the tricky part. Did I lead with my hand, my foot, or my face? Difficult to tell. I switched the torch for the screwdriver, then switched them back again. Flattening myself against the wall, I drew a breath and starting counting to ten. I quit at seven and gave the door a solid shove. Before the handle had struck the wall, I moved round and paced swiftly into the apartment.

The place was unlit and very cold, with a strong smell of mould and decay. Instinct took me to my right, where the cone of light from my torch revealed two modest rooms, both empty. I turned and retraced my steps as far as a bathroom with a white porcelain sink, squat toilet and grimy cubicle shower. Next to the bathroom was a cramped kitchen with a stand-alone cooker, an unplugged fridge and bare cupboards. No signs of habitation whatsoever. I tried the light switch – nothing.

That left one room at the front of the apartment, which was almost as big as the rest of the place put together. The floor was linoleum, laid in a geometric pattern and covered in a fine layer of dirt and grit. A low, empty bookcase had been fitted along one wall and a time-worn sofa abutted it. There was nobody on the sofa or anywhere else for that matter. Across from me, a pair of full-length doors had been flung wide open. Discoloured net curtains billowed inwards in the faint night breeze.

The open doors explained the wintry temperature in the apartment, but they didn’t explain much else. I cut the light from my torch and waited in the darkness for a short while, watching the curtains gust and sway, feeling the chill breeze against my face. It was possible this was just another sign of an abandoned apartment, but somehow I didn’t think so. Lifting the screwdriver up by my ear, I moved slowly forward, then parted the curtains and stepped onto a cramped stone balcony ringed by iron railings.

The balcony looked down over a stagnant canal and a small humped bridge away to the right, beyond a cat’s cradle of plastic washing lines. Across the canal, one floor above me on the opposite building, was another balcony. And standing upon it, glancing up from her watch and venting a relieved sigh, was the agile blonde who’d lately burgled my home.

She wasn’t blonde any more. Gone were the flowing platinum locks, replaced with a severe black bob-cut. The hairstyle gave her a harsher, more steely appearance. Still striking, undoubtedly, and without question the same woman, but quite different all the same. Her features looked sharper, especially the cheek bones, though I guess that could have had something to do with the cold.

Her balcony was far grander than my own, adorned with carved stone heads that had the appearance of Greek gods. She was leaning her elbows on a discoloured stone plinth, her chin balanced on her clenched fists, dark hair grazing her knuckles.

‘
Ciao
, Charlie. You are late again,’ she said, with an elaborate wink.

I didn’t answer. I was too busy closing the French doors so that I couldn’t be sneaked up on from behind. She might have wanted me to believe that she was working alone, but I had to balance the risks.

I leaned out over the edge of my balcony and considered the drop. It was perhaps fifteen feet to the inky waters below, and there was no pavement or walkway where a muscle-bound accomplice could lurk – the scummy liquid pressed right up against the walls of the buildings.

I looked again at the property my late-night caller had chosen to access for our rendezvous. On closer inspection, I could see that it was little more than a construction site. Large sheets of thick plastic had been draped inside the unglazed windows on the upper floors, and scaffolding filled the alleyway to the side, just beyond the bridge. The scaffolding would have made it easy for her to climb up and get in through one of the unsecured windows, and part of me was a little disappointed by that. The other part was disappointed by the fact that her blonde locks were no more.

‘What happened to your hair?’ I asked.

She raised a hand to her head, as if surprised and delighted by my question. ‘Last night, I wear a wig.’

‘And tonight?’

She lowered her face and peered up at me from beneath long, curling lashes. ‘You like?’

‘It’s very becoming.’

She laughed quickly and covered her mouth with her hand. Then she shook her head and released a faltering breath. ‘This is fun, don’t you think?’ She chewed on her lip and rocked to and fro like a child with an abundance of energy. There was a strange glint in her eyes and a nervous twitch at the corner of her mouth – as if she couldn’t quite believe she was winning a private wager she’d made with herself.

I tried my best to hold her eyes, but her body was making itself known to me. It would have been kinder if she’d dressed in baggy clothes and a heavy overcoat but she’d opted for a tight black, roll-neck jumper over black leggings and knee-length leather boots. A grey fabric satchel rested on her hip, suspended from a strap that ran crossways from her shoulder, bisecting her ample chest.

‘You have a strange definition of fun,’ I told her. ‘It’s freezing out here. Why don’t you come over and we can talk inside? Better still, we can find somewhere with heating.’

She frowned. ‘But it is safe like this. You cannot reach me, yes? The gap, it is too big.’

She was right about that. We were close enough to talk, but even on my best day, with a good run up and a pair of industrial springs for shoes, there was no way I could leap across the canal that separated us. I glanced at the spiderweb of washing lines, telephone wires and electricity cables stretching between the two buildings, but none of them were capable of bearing my weight.

‘Aren’t you afraid we’ll be heard?’ I asked. ‘I’m assuming this isn’t your apartment. What if the neighbours become suspicious?’

‘
Oohh
, you are right.’ Her eyes widened, as though she was thrilled by the idea. ‘Perhaps we should whisper? Like spies.’

‘Or we could SHOUT,’ I said, surprising us both by doing just that.

My voice hurled itself along the canyon formed by the high buildings backing onto the canal, echoing off the water, like some panicked creature bolting through a tunnel.

‘Quiet!’ Her fingers tightened on the hard stone plinth. When nobody stuck their head out of a window to yell at us, she shook her head ruefully and fixed me with a flinty glare. ‘There will be no shouting,’ she said, in a low, controlled voice.

‘Oh?’ I lifted my shoulders. ‘Why ever not?’

‘Because you do not want to be arrested, yes?’

‘Maybe I’m reckless. I must be to have come here.’

‘Perhaps,’ she said, straightening her back and puffing out her chest, ‘but there is also your book.’ And with that, she unzipped her satchel, and a moment later I caught sight of a familiar yellow dust jacket clutched in her hand. Any relief I felt at seeing my copy of
The Maltese Falcon
was dashed as soon as I noticed that she’d dispensed with the airtight picture frame. I was painfully aware of the three tiny tears on the spine that were in danger of becoming worse if the book was handled carelessly. And she wasn’t wearing gloves, which made me dread how the grease from her fingertips might affect the jet-black falcon illustration. I was no expert, but I knew that one small crease could wipe several thousand pounds from its value.

Before I could begin to point out the terrible risks she was taking, she thrust her hand out over the balcony and held my book over the murky waters below. ‘Now will you shout?’ she taunted me.

‘You wouldn’t dare.’

‘Oops.’ She released her fingers, then closed them again before the book had dropped entirely. She licked her lips, knitting her brow in mock concentration. ‘Ooh, it is heavy. Almost
too
heavy. It could fall
so
easily.’

‘All right,’ I snapped. ‘You’ve made your point. That’s enough.’

She waved the book in the air. ‘Then you will listen to me?’

‘I’ll listen.’

‘And you will not shout?’

‘If that’s what you want.’

‘Buono.’
She hoisted her nose in the air and cradled the book close to her chest, swaying from side to side, as if it was a baby she planned to soothe with a lullaby. I tried not to think how badly she might be crushing the dust jacket. ‘So, you are a thief, yes?’

I shifted uncomfortably. ‘Used to be, perhaps. Now I’m just a writer.’

She pouted. ‘But I watched you at the bookshop. You did not have a key, I am thinking. And you ran from the police, also.’

‘Because you set me up,’ I said. ‘You made it seem like my book was there.’

‘But I do not think the police will believe this. I know your name, Charlie Howard, and your address. Do you think the
polizia
would recognise you? Did they get a good look at you?’

I couldn’t see much sense in answering her. She’d made her point.

‘Oh,’ she added, patting the cover of Hammett’s book, ‘and I have this.’

‘It’s quite a collection,’ I managed.

‘And you do not know me at all.’ She plucked absently at her bottom lip. ‘Poor Charlie.’

‘Yeah, you’re a real criminal mastermind.’

She batted her eyelids and pretended to blush. ‘But do not worry. I am no friend of the police. And the owner of the shop.
Pff
.’ She waved a hand. ‘A rude man. So, you are safe. And I will give you my name, if you wish.’

‘Your real name?’

‘So suspicious.’ She wagged a finger, then stabbed her nail down onto my book. Hell, why didn’t she just chew on it too? ‘My name is Graziella. And you will have your book back.’ She paused, smoothing the jacket with her fingers. ‘If you do
exactly
as I say.’

Funny thing – years ago, when I’d been starting out as a writer and struggling to get published, I’d penned the odd short story for erotic magazines that had tended to begin in a not too dissimilar fashion. Alas, despite the plentiful curves and playful demeanour of my crooked Juliet on the opposite balcony, I didn’t think she was about to demand that I strip to my underpants and nibble her thigh. For one thing, she’d already had the misfortune to see me in a state of undress, and for another, I just wasn’t that lucky.

‘What is it you want me to do?’ I asked.

She watched me for a moment, eyes narrowing, pupils flickering, as if debating something with herself. ‘At your feet, there is a case.’ I looked down to the area in question. Tucked into a shadowed corner of the balcony, I could see a metal attaché briefcase. It was of the type featured in blockbuster movies, usually handcuffed to the wrist of a wealthy crook in a double-breasted suit, with two oversized bodyguards for company. ‘You will take it to the Palazzo Borelli on the Grand Canal. The security, it is not so difficult.’ She raised a finger. ‘But you must be careful. Very careful. You cannot be seen – this is the most important thing. There is a strongroom on the
piano nobile –
the main floor of the palace.’

‘Whoa,’ I said, waving my hands. ‘You’re getting ahead of yourself. I told you – I
used
to be a burglar. I don’t know where you got your information, but I don’t steal things any more.’

‘But this is perfect,’ she told me, eyes bright and glistening.

‘I fail to see how.’

‘Because I do not want you to steal anything. All I want is for you to return this case.’

Great, more semantics. First I’d broken into the bookshop to
reclaim
my book. Now I was expected to break into a grand Venetian home to
return
a briefcase.

‘Are you telling me it belongs to the owner of this palazzo?’

‘Count Frederico Borelli.’ She shuddered. ‘The palazzo belongs to him. The case too.’

‘
Okay,’
I said, thinking how this had to be one of the craziest assignments I’d ever had the misfortune to hear. ‘But why not return it to him yourself?’

She flinched at the suggestion. ‘Because he does not know that it is missing. That I took it.’

‘
You
took it?’

Glaring at me, she thumped her fist onto the stone plinth. ‘You have too many questions. Please. It is simple. You return the case for me, and I will return your stupid book.’

‘Hey! That novel is important. It means something. And not just to me.’

She shrugged, not the least bit impressed.

‘Let me think a moment.’ I rested my chin on my knuckles, as though consumed by a number of terribly complicated matters. ‘Now, here’s the thing. You’re a burglar, and I’m aware that you have some ability – the way you got into and out of my apartment was beyond anything I can do. Plus, you have local knowledge. So why have me return the case? There must be something you’re not telling me. Something dangerous. A risk you’re not willing to take.’

‘It is not so.’ She shook her head resolutely. Implored me with her eyes. ‘It is simply this. The Count knows me. We are friends, yes? He knows what I can do.’

‘You mean your cat-burglar routine?’

‘Exactly so.’

‘And?’

‘And I do not want him to suspect that I took this case. So I will be with him when you return it.’

‘With him?’

‘In the Casinò di Venezia. I watch him play.’

Oh good grief. Why did she have to go and mention the blasted ‘c’ word? As if her proposal didn’t sound perilous enough already, now she’d managed to make it even less enticing. A recent escapade in Las Vegas had contributed to my decision to swear off burglary, so I was hardly ecstatic to think that there might be a gambling connection.