The Venetian Affair (47 page)

“Yes,” Holland said most definitely. “We wait. We can make no move against Ca’ Longhi until Marco’s men are ready. Surprise—that’s our strongest weapon, Bill. Calm down, calm down. We’ll get Kalganov. He’s in Venice. A general alert has been sent out.” He glanced over at Rosie, who was finishing his long call. “This is the first time we’ve ever been ahead of Kalganov. We’ll get him.”

“So you have all decided to call him Kalganov,” Fenner said grimly. That might sharpen their morale, but it only plunged him into deeper depression. Kalganov. And Claire... What chance did she have with him?

“It’s his name. We are sure of that now.”

Fenner raised his eyes from his watch. “How?”

“Through Neill Carlson. He finished a report on Robert Wahl shortly before he left Paris—a study of time and place in Wahl’s travels abroad, coinciding with outbreaks of violence and terror. That report was compared yesterday with our files on Kalganov’s known activities. The times and places matched.”

“That won’t be enough evidence for a trial.”

“No. And so he will be arrested and tried as Robert Wahl, conspirator in an assassination attempt. But in our minds, it will be Kalganov who is sentenced. That’s one file we can close at last.”

“
If
Wahl is executed,” Fenner said savagely. There was going to be a lot of sympathy stirred up for a poor unsuspecting film producer who had been used by crooked politicians.

“You’d be more sure of closing that file if you could have him tried as Kalganov.” The man who stated, fifteen years ago,
that he had killed over two thousand men...

“We may manage that,” Holland said very quietly.

“But no one can identify him as Kalganov except Jan Aarvan.” And he wouldn’t talk. Nor would Lenoir.

“Or perhaps Sandra Fane?”

Fenner’s lips tightened. Ironical, he thought, that Sandra was, at this moment, more important to Rosie and his friends than Claire. He looked at his watch again. “Time to go.”

“Still a minute left.” Holland had picked up the letter as Rosie left the telephone. “What do you plan to do with this little document?”

Rosie came out of his own thoughts. “Burn it.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Holland said. “May I?” He had his lighter ready.

“It’s addressed to you, isn’t it?”

Holland watched the flaming paper curl. “I’m sorry to disappoint Jules. He wanted it. But it’s too good—a masterly job, one I wouldn’t even trust to most-secret, triple-locked files.” His foot stamped on the black gleaming ashes, pounding them into a smear of charcoal dust on the floor. “Arnaldi will give me hell,” he said, smiling.

“Come on,” Fenner told him from the door. He looked at a strangely silent Rosie. “Did you get any report about the gondola? Was the canal blocked in time?”

Rosie shook his head. “Two gondolas reached Ca’ Longhi just before Marco’s orders got through. One brought a visitor—”

“Who?” asked Holland quickly.

“Couldn’t be recognised in the darkness. He was expected: he didn’t have to wait at the door. Just slipped in—”

“And Claire?” Fenner asked. “She was in the other gondola?”

“Yes. At least, two men carried something—”

“Come on!” Fenner said savagely, and left.

“Keep with him,” Rosie told Holland. “He’s in an ugly mood.” He paused and added angrily, “Why the hell wasn’t I told that he and Claire—?”

“They weren’t. It must be one of those first-take, fast developers. That does happen.”

“But why
now
, of all times?”

“Something always goes wrong,” Holland said philosophically. “You ought to know that, old boy. Coming!” he called to Fenner, who had shouted back to him. “And I thought I had got him all quietened down,” he told Rosie as he left. “See you at the café on the square; just before eleven-thirty?” And then the balloon goes up, he thought, as he hurried through the storeroom. Fenner was waiting, grim-faced and silent. But he did listen to Holland’s quick instructions on how they’d leave separately, and where they’d meet.

Something always goes wrong, Rosie thought as he folded up the map of Venice, gathered together the sheets of paper on the table and began tearing them to shreds. Because people were people, not to be arranged like schedules. Such as this one he held in his hand. He studied it for the last time: nothing forgotten, nothing omitted. He tore it up and burned it with the rest of the scraps of paper.

Arnaldi had come back into the room. “They have both gone,” he told Rosie. He was still upset. He didn’t even notice the black ashes. “The young lady—I thought she left under orders. I am sorry. It was my fault.”

“The fault is mine. I didn’t give her orders to stay with you. Don’t worry, Vincente, we’ll find her. She’ll return. Keep her purse until she comes. Right?”

We’ll find her, he repeated to himself as he stepped out into the alley. Will we? Good God, why did this have to happen? Her mission was accomplished with the delivery of the letter. By this time, Claire and Fenner ought to have been back at the Hotel Vittoria, enjoying a nightcap in the bar. That’s the way it should have been. The Hotel Vittoria... Ballard!

I mustn’t forget him, Rosie reminded himself. He is safe enough in Fenner’s room with the door locked; a damned sight safer and happier than Fenner will be this twisted night. If we have a minute to spare before the fireworks start, I’ll get Marco to call the tourist police, tell them to pick up Ballard and take him to their station, keep him there until I can turn up. By that time, all going well, he will be free of Fernand—but for good.

The end of the alley was in sight. Luigi had seen him. He gave no warning signal. All was well—so far. He passed Luigi silently, gave the boy a broad wink to make him feel better, and set out on his detour to the little piazza behind Ca’ Longhi. It wasn’t far away. Marco would already be there. Jules, too, perhaps. And Chris, with Fenner, should now be taking the water route.

Cautiously does it, Rosie told himself, entering a long narrow street of closed shops, quiet and peaceful. Abandoning all worries, all thoughts, his mind only responded to each second, commanded only his ears and eyes.

They had left Arnaldi’s shop separately, Holland walking ahead, Fenner following at a little distance. Holland was leading him away from the direction of Ca’ Longhi, Fenner realised, but there was nothing he could do about it except hope that there was safety in this madness. They were almost back at the Piazza San Marco before Holland cut down toward the Grand Canal and reached a considerable cluster of gondolas. To Fenner’s further doubts and dismay, Holland stepped into the first gondola he reached. Once Fenner joined him, they were quickly away. Even so, it was a leisurely method to travel up the broad curve of water. Fenner looked at the
vaporetti
still bustling up and down the Grand Canal, cutting through its dark ripples with a steady, soft-sounding swish. He said nothing, just set his mouth more grimly. Holland was the expert, but damn his eyes all the same.

Holland guessed his thought. “
Festina lente
,” he said quietly.
“We can talk here without being noticed.” He looked at one of the water-buses, all lit up like a Christmas tree, passengers clearly visible inside its glass windows. “I thought you ought, first of all, to look at Ca’ Longhi from its canal side. Here is the setup briefly.” He began a clear, concise description of its immediate surroundings and entrances. And then he gave an exact account of its interior.

“How did you get a man inside?” Fenner asked quickly. If one man had got in, he could.

“We didn’t. The place is a citadel. Marco got the information.”

“But how?” Fenner insisted.

“Through the servants who were discharged. Lenoir brought his own.” Holland was scanning the right bank of the canal, studying the façades of the houses which formed a continuous row with occasionally a walled garden, a small indented piazza, the mouth of a
rio
, or a landing stage to break the line of buildings. The sparkling edge of hotels had been left behind. The houses were more sombrely lit, some almost in darkness except for the steady glow of lanterns at their water-washed front steps.

“They are all so different, and yet so—” Not alike, certainly. A mixture of centuries, Holland thought. Perhaps it was their variety of detail that made it so easy to pass over one that was less distinguished, to travel beyond it. Suddenly, he nodded. “There it is!” He signalled to their gondolier to draw toward the left bank of the canal, opposite Ca’ Longhi.

“Which?” Fenner asked. Over there, he could see a narrow waterway joining the Grand Canal, with large houses rising on both corners. Gothic, or Renaissance with nineteenth-century restoration? His eyes, accustomed to the dark half-lights of the
canal, picked out the house that seemed more closed than the others. Not a light from any window, no lamp on its solid wall. “That one,” he said softly. “Three floors above the water line, four attic windows jutting up from its roof. No front entrance.”

Holland nodded. So he did listen to me, he thought in relief. He called back to the gondolier, “Slowly, slowly! We want to admire the architecture.”

“Venice is the place for architects,” the man shouted back. “They have not lived until they see Venice.”

“How true. Perhaps we could stop for two minutes? Let us see the view?”

The gondolier swung them expertly out of the way of traffic, brought them close to the left bank and rested in the dark shadow of a large palace-museum.

“Keep looking at the whole sweep of the canal,” Holland advised Fenner, “not just at one house. That’s the idea. And let’s go over the interior of Ca’ Longhi again. First the cellar—” He paused, waiting.

“Partially submerged, not in use any more. Above that, the first floor, with three entrances: one, at the side, on that small canal over there; one at the back, on a narrow street; one a service entrance, near a small piazza linked to the canal by the narrow street. The hall is circular, with pillars...” His voice went on with the quiet recitation, floor by floor, particular by particular, and ended with “—Then the attic. Four small rooms, once occupied by servants, now used as storerooms.”

Yes, he had listened, thought Holland. He is ready and fit to go along with us: his mind is working, his emotions are in control.

“How many men have they got?” Fenner asked. He was studying the façade of Ca’ Longhi, its second-floor balconies,
its upper-floor decorations. If I could get in—by one of those windows—

“Two men servants—one is now a colonel in Intelligence,” and, remembered Holland, well trained by the old MVD. But he didn’t mention that. “Kalganov slipped him in.”

“He doesn’t even trust Lenoir?”

“He trusts nobody. Then there is the cook—a woman, but she could be counted as a man—a Kalganov agent, just to keep an eye on the colonel, no doubt. And there are the two men who abducted Claire. And there is Lenoir’s visitor, unless he has left. And Lenoir himself. That makes possibly seven, certainly six, inside the house. Outside, they have two on patrol—one near the side canal, one on the small square. We’ve spotted them. We’ll deal with them before we make our first move. Seen enough?”

“Almost.” Fenner’s eyes were studying the roof of the adjacent house. “The next house—its back overlooks the little piazza? And do some of the houses on that square run up to it? The roofs are continuous?”

“Yes”—Holland was watching him curiously—“with some ups and downs, of course.”

“But no gaps? That house, adjoining Ca’ Longhi, really forms one side of the little square?”

“Bill,” Holland said worriedly, “this isn’t in our plans. Better stick to—”

“It could be done,” Fenner said softly. From some house top on that small piazza, he could reach Ca’ Longhi’s neighbour. It could be done. The roofs had varied pitches, but all of them were sloped gently. The tiles would be fluted. There were wide chimneys, decorated gutters to help block any fall. “There is
some kind of a balcony in front of the attic windows, isn’t there?”

“Only a ledge—”

“But with a fairly high balustrade. It’s safe enough, Chris.”

“Not so easy. It looks simpler from here—”

“The moon’s just right.” A quarter-moon, its light not too strong, but sufficient. Clouds were small, dimming the moon only briefly. Above the vagrant clouds, the sky was dark and clear with bright stars.

“Have you a head for heights?”

“I’ll manage. I’ve done some rock-climbing.”

Damn, thought Holland, and searched for another reason to dissuade Fenner. “We can’t really have anyone clambering around the front of that roof, being seen from the Grand Canal. Can we? And we certainly are not going to have anyone skittering over the roof, raising any alarms in that house to give them warning of trouble to come. The only alarm is the big one. Throw them completely off balance. Without that—”

“Calm down. I won’t raise any alarm. I’ll get up there and wait. Until half-past eleven. That’s the zero hour, isn’t it? Then I’ll go in. Okay?”

“You’ll have to clear it with Marco. He’s in charge of this operation.” Holland was both annoyed and sympathetic. And in a way, he even liked the idea. If it didn’t raise any bloody alarm, he thought. He tried again. “Why aim for the attic? There are plenty of closed rooms in that house. The ones on the ground floor—” He caught himself in time. If Lenoir had time to eliminate evidence, a body could be dropped very simply into the dark waters of the canal, only six feet below those ground-floor windows. “They may be holding Claire down there. It’s logical.”

“If they expected attack, which they don’t,” Fenner said. His eyes were still studying the roofs, as if he were already choosing his route across them.

Holland called softly to the gondolier, who had been back-oaring gently to keep the gondola close to the museum’s wall without scraping against it, “Take us across to the other side. No, not that
rio
opposite! Take us to the one just above it.” And we can walk from there in one minute to that small piazza, Holland thought as he glanced at his watch. They were in good time: not too early, not late. To Fenner, he said gloomily, “You’ll end up in the canal, old boy. One glissade, and I’ll have to fish you out. Miss all the fun.”