The Thief Lord (15 page)

29 Another Visit

Barbarossa's shop was empty when Prosper pushed open its door the next morning. The bells above the door jangled madly and Bo, fascinated, stopped in the doorway to stare at them. Hornet pulled him into the shop. It had grown very cold overnight.

"Signor Barbarossa?" Hornet called, looking closely at the painting above the counter. She also knew all about the red-beard's peephole.

"Si, si, pazienza!
Patience!" they heard him call in a bad-tempered voice.

Barbarossa poked his head through the curtain in front of his office door. His eyes were bloodshot and he was blowing his nose into a huge handkerchief. "Oh, you brought the little one. Take care he doesn't break anything. What have you done to his angel hair?"

With an impatient gesture he waved the children into his office.

"Winter! What the heck is winter doing here already? Has the whole world gone crazy?" he muttered as he dragged himself back to his desk. "This city's already hard to bear in the summer, but the winter can bring even the healthiest man to the verge of his grave. But I forget who I'm talking to. You wouldn't understand. Children don't feel the chill. They skip around in the puddles and don't even get a cold." Barbarossa slumped into his chair with the sigh of a mortally ill man. "Sore throat, headache, a constantly runny nose!" he moaned. "I feel like a human faucet." He wrapped his scarf even tighter around his fat neck and peered at his visitors over his handkerchief. "No bag, no backpack? Is the Thief Lord's loot today small enough for your pockets?"

Bo reached out his hand and touched a small tin drummer on Barbarossa's desk.

"Get your sticky hands off, that's valuable," the redbeard barked, tossing a cough drop at Bo.

"We're not here to sell anything," Hornet said. "The Conte said he would leave a letter for us with you." Bo had unwrapped the cough drop and was sniffing it suspiciously.

"Ah yes, the Conte's letter." Barbarossa blew his nose once more, then stuffed his handkerchief back into his vest pocket. The vest was embroidered with tiny golden gondolas. "His sister, the Contessa, left it here yesterday. He himself only comes to town very rarely." The redbeard popped another lozenge into his mouth and with another sigh he opened the top drawer of his desk. "There you are!" Keeping a very straight face, he held out the envelope to Hornet. The envelope was blank -- no address and no sender. When Hornet reached for it, Barbarossa snatched it back.

"We're all friends here," he purred in a low conspiratorial voice. "Tell me what you had to steal for the Conte. The Thief Lord obviously completed his task in a satisfactory manner, am I right?"

"Perhaps," Prosper answered vaguely, before pulling the envelope from Barbarossa's fingers.

"Hey!" The redbeard slammed his fists on the desk and pushed himself up. "Aren't you a cocky one. Did nobody ever teach you to treat adults with respect?" A violent sneezing fit threw him back into his chair.

Prosper didn't answer. He silently put the envelope into the inside pocket of his jacket. Bo spat the cough drop into his hand and banged it onto Barbarossa's desk. "Here, you can have it back, because you shouted at my brother," he said.

Incredulous, Barbarossa stared at the sticky lozenge.

Hornet bent over the desk with her friendliest smile. "How about you, Signor Barbarossa? Did nobody ever teach you how to behave in front of children?"

The redbeard had to cough so violently that his face actually turned redder than his nose. "All right! By the lion of San Marco, you kids are very touchy!" he spat into his handkerchief. "Well, why don't we try a little quiz? I'll start." He leaned over his desk. "Is what the Conte wants so badly made of gold?"

"No!" Bo answered, shaking his head with a broad grin.

"Really?" Barbarossa frowned. "Silver?"

"Wrong! Wrong!" Bo skipped from one foot to the other. "Guess again!"

But before the redbeard could venture another guess Prosper had already pushed his brother through the curtain. Hornet followed them.

"Copper?" Barbarossa called after them. "No, wait! It's a painting! A sculpture!"

Prosper opened the shop door. "Out you go, Bo," he said, but Bo stopped once more. "All wrong!" he shouted into the shop. "It's made of huuuuge diamonds. And pearls!"

"You don't say!" Barbarossa was through the curtain like a shot. "Describe it, boy."

Hornet hauled Bo through the door. Outside, she suddenly stopped.

Snowflakes whirled through the alley. They fell so densely from the off-white sky that Bo squeezed his eyes shut. Suddenly everything was gray and white -- as if someone had erased all the colors of the city while they were in the shop.

"It's a chain. Or a ring?" Barbarossa excitedly poked his head through the shop door. "Why don't I take you all for a nice snack over there in the cake shop, hmm? What do you say?"

But the children just wandered off without paying him anymore attention. They only had eyes for the snow. The cold flakes settled on their faces and their hair. Bo gleefully licked one off his lip. He stretched his arms wide as if he wanted to catch them all. Hornet just looked up at the sky, blinking. It hadn't snowed in Venice for years. The people they passed looked just as enchanted as the children. Even the shop assistants stepped into the street to look up at the sky.

Prosper, Hornet, and Bo stopped on one of the bridges and bent over the stone parapet to watch how the gray water swallowed the snowflakes. The snow gently covered the surrounding buildings, the red roofs, the black trellises on the balconies as well as the leaves of the autumn flowers in their pots.

Prosper could feel the snow in his hair, wet and cold. He remembered a faraway time, and an almost forgotten place. He remembered a hand gently wiping snow from his hair. He stood there, between Hornet and his little brother, and lost himself in this memory for a few precious moments. He realized to his amazement that remembering didn't hurt so much anymore. Perhaps it was Bo and Hornet standing by his side, warm and familiar.

"Prop?" Hornet put her arm around his shoulder. "Everything all right?"

Prosper shook the snow from his hair and nodded.

"Let's open the envelope," Hornet said. "I want to know when we'll finally get to see the Conte."

"How do you know he'll come himself?" Prosper pulled the envelope from his jacket. It was sealed, just like the one in the confessional. But this seal looked strange. As if someone had dabbed it with red paint.

Hornet took it from Prosper's hand. "Someone has already opened it!" She looked at Prosper. "Barbarossa!"

"Doesn't matter," replied Prosper. "That's why the Conte already told us the meeting place in the confessional. He knew the redbeard would open the message. He seems to know him quite well."

Hornet carefully cut open the envelope with her penknife. The Conte's message was just a few words.

At the arranged place on the water look out for a red lantern on Tuesday night, 1 A.M.

"Tomorrow!" Prosper shook his head. "One o'clock. That's late." He put the message back in his pocket and ruffled Bo's hair. "That was quite good, about those diamonds and pearls. Did you see Barbarossa's eyes?"

Bo giggled and licked another snowflake off his hand.

But Hornet glanced over the parapet, looking worried. "On the water?" she asked. "What does he mean? Are we doing the swap on the water?"

"No problem," Prosper answered. "Mosca's boat is big enough for us all."

"OK," said Hornet, "but I still don't like it. I can't swim very well and Riccio gets sick from just looking at a boat."

"Don't you like boats?" Prosper teased, pulling Hornet's braid. "But you were born here. I thought all Venetians love boats."

"Well, you thought wrong," Hornet answered curtly. She turned her back to the water. "Let's go, the others are waiting for us."

The snow seemed to make the city quieter than usual. Hornet and Prosper walked silently next to each other. Bo skipped ahead, humming gently to himself.

"I don't want Bo to come along to the handing-over," he whispered to Hornet.

"I can understand that," she whispered back, "but how are you going to tell him without him bursting our eardrums?"

"I don't know," Prosper muttered.

"I've got an idea." Hornet said. "One that will get me out of the boat trip too. I just won't get to see the Conte."

30 Hopeless Lies

Victor was late. He'd been sick for two whole days and had only just managed to drag himself out of bed, reluctantly, for his dreaded meeting with the Hartliebs. It was already three o'clock when he finally stepped into the noble lobby of the Hotel Gabrielli Sandwirth. He'd last been there just a month before. He had been following someone, wearing a full black beard and a rather horrendous pair of glasses. He had hardly recognized himself in the mirror. Today he wore his own face, which always gave him the strange sensation of being smaller.

"Buonasera,"
he said as he approached the reception. A head appeared from behind a massive flower arrangement.
"Buonasera,"
the receptionist said, "what can I do for you?"

"My name is Victor Getz. I have an appointment with the Hartliebs," Victor gave an apologetic smile, "for which I am rather late. Could you please check if they are still in their room?"

"Of course." The lady tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear. "What do you think of the snow?" she asked.

She let the word
snow
melt on her tongue like a delicious, creamy chocolate. Victor smiled as he noticed how her eyes kept straying toward the large windows and the snowflakes, which drifted past slowly.

"Hello, Signora Hartlieb," she said into the telephone, "there's a Signor Getz here to see you."

The Hartliebs had no time for the snow. Outside their window, San Giorgio Maggiore seemed to be floating on the lagoon as if it had just surfaced there. The view was so beautiful that Victor felt his heart ache. Esther and her husband, however, stood side by side with their backs to the window and only had eyes for him. Uneasily, Victor folded his hands behind his back.

Why hadn't he at least put on a mustache? That would have made lying so much easier. But the children had stolen all his wonderful beards.

"I'm glad you received my message. After trying to reach you for so many days, I had my doubts as to your being in Venice at all."

"I hardly ever leave the city," Victor answered. "I miss it too much as soon as I try to leave."

"Really!" Esther's eyebrows moved up and down as rapidly as a bouncing ball.

Amazing, Victor thought -- I could never do that.

"So, please, Signor Getz," Mr. Hartlieb was still as big as a house and nearly as white as the snowflakes drifting past outside, "could you tell us about your investigations?"

"My investigations, yes." Victor nervously bobbed up and down. "My findings are sadly quite clear. The little boy is no longer in the city, nor is his brother."

The Hartliebs exchanged a quick glance.

"Your rather unpleasant secretary already hinted at something like that," Max Hartlieb said, "but --"

"My secretary?" Victor interrupted him, but then he remembered just in time that Hornet, Prosper, and Riccio had been in his office to feed his tortoise. "My secretary, of course!" He shrugged apologetically. "You must know, I was already hot on their heels. The photo I sent you proves that. At that time, sadly, I was unable to catch the two of them. Too many people around, you must understand. I did find out, however, that your nephews had joined a gang of young thieves. And one of them, I'm afraid, recognized me. I caught him stealing a handbag some time ago. Well, that rascal probably convinced your nephews that Venice was no longer safe for them. Much to my regret, I have learned..." He cleared his throat. Why did lying always give him such a lump in his throat? "Hmhm, I have learned that the boys sneaked onto one of the large ferries that stop here regularly. From your window you have a good view of the moorings."

Confused, the Hartliebs turned around and looked down at the quay, where a large flock of tourists was crowding onto an excursion boat. "But," Esther Hartlieb looked so disappointed that Victor almost felt sorry for her, "where, for heaven's sake, was the boat going?"

"Corfu," Victor answered. How calmly he said that, despite that lump in his throat.

"Corfu!" Esther Hartlieb looked at her husband hopelessly as if he had to save her from drowning.

"Well, I can't be completely certain," Victor continued. "After all, when you're sneaking onto a ship you don't appear on the passenger list. I did, however, show the boys' picture to some of the crew, and they definitely recognized them. They just couldn't agree on which day exactly they were on board."

Max Hartlieb hugged his wife reassuringly. She let it happen, but stayed as stiff as a mannequin. She was still looking at Victor. For a second, he had the feeling that his lies were painted bright red on his forehead.

"It's not possible!" Esther Hartlieb said, detaching herself from her husband. "I told you it was no coincidence that Prosper came to Venice. The city reminds him of his mother. I can't believe he'd just leave."

"He probably got on that boat because he realized this place wasn't as wonderful as it sounded in his mother's stories," her husband ventured.

"And that, even if Venice does look like heaven, she wasn't here to greet him," Victor said thoughtfully, looking out of the window,

"No! No! No!" Esther Hartlieb shook her head violently. "Nonsense! I have a feeling he's still here. And if Prosper is still here, then so is Bo."

"I've had copies made of the photograph you sent us," she continued. "It arrived shortly after we spoke to your secretary and I had posters made from it. We're offering quite a substantial reward. I know you have already tried to dissuade us from using these means to search for the boys, and I do admit that a reward draws out the riffraff. But I will have those posters put up by every canal, every bar, every cafe, and every museum. I will find Bo, before he dies of pneumonia or consumption in this infernal city. He has to be protected from his selfish brother."

Victor just shook his head wearily. "Has it still not occurred to you?" he asked impatiently. "The two of them only ran away because you wanted to separate Bo from his brother."

"How dare you use that tone with me?" Esther Hartlieb shouted.

"The two of them are very close!" Victor shouted back. "Can't you understand that?"

"We'll get Bo a dog," Max Hartlieb answered calmly. "And then you'll see how quickly he forgets his big brother."

Victor stared at Mr. Hartlieb as if he had just unbuttoned his shirt and shown him an empty heart. "Please answer me one question," Victor said. "Do you actually like children?"

Max Hartlieb frowned. "Children in general? No, not really. They're so fidgety and loud, and often quite dirty."

Victor stared down at his shoes again.

"And," Max Hartlieb continued, "they have no idea of what's really important."

Victor nodded. "Well," he said slowly, "it must be a miracle, then, that such useless creatures grow up into something as great and reasonable as you, don't you think?"

With that he turned and walked out of the room and down the long hotel corridor. In the elevator, Victor's heart pounded wildly though he had no idea why. The lady at the reception smiled at him as he walked through the lobby. Then she looked outside again, where the snow was still falling as darkness fell.

The jetty in front of the hotel was empty. Only two warmly dressed figures were waiting for the next
vaporetto.
At first Victor went to buy a ticket as well, but then he decided to walk. He needed time to think, and a walk would calm his restless heart. At least he hoped it would. He trudged through the wind. He walked past the Doge's Palace, which was already illuminated by its pink lamps, and then stomped through the twilight across the deserted St. Mark's Square.

I have to warn the boys, Victor thought, while the wind threw icy needles at his face. I have to tell them what's happening. Should I go now? I don't even have a hat, and it's quite far to the movie theater. I'll go tomorrow morning. Bad news never sounds quite so bad in the light of day. Wearily, he made his way home. When he reached his front door, he remembered that he was supposed to be following someone for a new client that night. Sighing, he walked up the stairs. There was still time for a cup of coffee.