The Venetian Venture (9 page)

The problem was that were he to report what he had recently seen he would doubtless be regarded as a key witness and have to endure the whole dreary rigmarole of police questioning; not the best way of spending his holiday. And were the murderer apprehended he would be required to give evidence with further wasted time and inconvenience. But
far
worse than either was the fact that sod’s law being what it was, it was he who might become a suspect. Did he want any of that? No bloody fear! Thus when in doubt say nothing, he had counselled himself.

Those had been his thoughts
then
– when he had been emerging from his hangover and drinking endless cups of coffee on Lucia’s sofa in preparation for the next spate of indulgence. Now, however, with the indulgence over he had rather more intriguing matters to consider … much more intriguing, and also requiring silence.

The following morning found Edward in Florian’s. True, the place was fearfully expensive but worth it all the same. After all if one had weighty things on one’s mind one might as well reflect in style. Yesterday’s downpour had been drear though presumably, now it was autumn, only to be expected. But today things were back to normal and it seemed a pity not to take advantage of the few remaining days of sun. Thus he had chosen to sit outdoors watching the pigeons in the Piazza and sipping a cappuccino to the accompaniment of a medley from
South Pacific
as strummed by the resident quartet.

He brooded. Could he be sure? No of course he couldn’t, it might have been anybody! But, he argued, was that really so? At the time – tired, tight and bilious – he had registered nothing of the fellow: it could have been any chap from Adam to Ghengis Khan; or Father Christmas for that matter. Merely an indistinct shape blundering into the darkness. But
now
, sober and clear-headed, details had started to emerge. Edward dwelt on these, and wondered.
And the more he wondered the more certain he became. He beckoned the waiter to bring a cognac. Might as well as not; Bodger’s expenses had been generous enough.

He sipped the drink slowly, debating his next move, and glanced over to Quadri’s opposite: a venerable establishment but in his view without Florian’s suave panache. Its tables were filling up he noted – tourists eager to catch the last of the sun. As he gazed he recognised a couple from Harry’s Bar of the previous day, the two he hadn’t liked very much; the ones with the girlfriend after the Bodger book and whom Lucia had warned him against. Felix and Cedric their names had been. The Felix fellow had been like a superior rat: sharp, tart and inquisitive; and the older one guarded and watchful. Neither had seemed particularly impressed by his own presence, let alone by his subtle overtures re the whereabouts of the book. He scowled across the Piazza and watched as they stood up and shook hands with a couple of other types who had just arrived. God, weren’t they the two hairdressers from the place near the Frari? What were they all doing here? Out on a spree presumably. He watched as they moved off in the direction of the Riva degli Schiavoni and its landing stage.

It occurred to him that if this woman from the British Museum had a couple of minders in tow the prospect of his getting at the Horace might be more difficult than he had thought. His first line of enquiry was now inconveniently dead and the rival had supporters. Tricky. Still, in view of this recent thing the Bodger project might be rather small beer. He recalled his school days. What was it Hamlet or some such dreary chap had said? ‘I know a trick worth two of that.’ Yes that was it. Well Hamlet or another Shakespearean blighter wasn’t the only one: he too might
have a better trick stuck up his sleeve. Lucia had told him he should get another string to his bow and perhaps with luck this was just the one! He grinned and applied his mind to logistics, i.e. how best to exploit the new situation.

His mind returned to the fleeing figure in the alleyway, and once more he visualised the form and features. There was no doubt about it: it was him all right. But one couldn’t (or shouldn’t) draw automatic conclusions. Just because he had been leaving Pacelli’s shop in haste and in the dead of night did not necessarily make him the murderer. Perhaps they had had a row and he was waltzing off in high dudgeon. Perhaps he was being beckoned by an urgent appointment (unusual at that time of night admittedly), or maybe he had simply been desperate to answer a call of nature. (Edward’s memory of his own physical discomfort at that period had perhaps prompted the last possibility.) The ‘evidence’ of course was only circumstantial; and while the man’s movements might seem suspicious, looked at objectively his own might also seem so. ‘Seen loitering in the vicinity of the victim’s shop near the time of his death’ didn’t sound too good. Only marginally better in fact than ‘seen running away from …’ Yet Edward knew of his own innocence and so, conceivably, might the other know of his.

He stared up at the blue sky, tracking the movements of the pigeons. How valid were such conjectures? Was he playing God’s advocate? Yes of course he was, he thought impatiently. Why give him the benefit of the doubt? His being there was too much of a coincidence. He bet the chap was as guilty as hell! (Though
why
that should be he had no idea, and for the present purpose motive was immaterial.) And besides, even if the man wasn’t responsible would he want to be linked so closely with the crime? His presence
there at that hour had looked pretty fishy especially given the haste of his departure: it wasn’t as if he had been strolling away with hands in pockets. (Edward rubbed his arm still stiff from the knock it had received.) Yes, the chap was in a tricky position all right, more than a touch vulnerable one could say.

So how should he proceed – by hint and innuendo? A slyly worded note? Or would a direct confrontation be best, bold and stark? Still, he warned himself, it didn’t do to be hasty in such matters: ‘slowly, slowly catchee monkey’ was the name of the game. He would watch carefully and adapt his strategy to circumstance … His mind wandered back over the years. He had once handled a similar challenge, less serious of course, but not without profit. Admittedly the outcome had been tedious (God hadn’t the school cut up rough!) but the technique itself had worked a treat. And what had worked then could surely work now – always provided, of course, one took the utmost care. Slowly, slowly …

So absorbed was Edward by this new source of gain that the matter of the Murano vase with its attendant dreams took a back seat in his imagination. Once more he recalled his grandfather’s diktat. ‘Never succumb to fantasy; you’ll be a fool and miss all the best chances.’ Well here was a good chance all right and Edward Jones was no fool! He paid the bill, downed the last dregs of his cognac, winked at the girl at the next table and sauntered off humming, like Miss Witherington,
We’re in the money
…

Back from their gallivanting the two friends were half way along the passage to the staircase when Cedric said, ‘I think it would be kind if you went and relieved Hope-Landers of Caruso, he’s had the creature most of the day. We did say we would be back at six and it’s now seven.’

‘Oh lor,’ muttered Felix, ‘so we did. I’d forgotten all about it. He’ll be bellowing for his food by now though with luck Guy may have given him something – a passing sop to Cerberus you might say.’

‘Actually he’s been most obliging with that dog of yours and one wouldn’t like to think he felt put upon. It’s time we asked him up for a drink, especially after the lunch he organised at Harry’s Bar.’

Felix inwardly agreed but there was a small matter that needed to be established first. ‘The dog,’ he said slowly, ‘does not belong to me as you very well know. I am merely its temporary supervisor, a role which in no way confers possession.’

‘No but it confers commitment. And besides, I have
observed that the creature has grown quite fond of you – a curious fact admittedly – but one which requires certain obligations.’

There was scant light in the passage but Felix knew that his friend’s face wore a look of smug amusement. ‘Huh,’ he retorted, ‘so that lets you out then; it can’t stand your guts.’

‘It most certainly can!’ snapped Cedric indignantly. ‘Why only the other day it …’ He broke off as the door to Hope-Landers’ apartment opened and they were assailed by a blast of pipe smoke.

‘I say,’ he said cheerfully, ‘what a fearful racket. I thought Signora Bellini had come back early with her fancy man.’

‘Ah,’ cried Cedric, ‘
there
you are! We were just talking about you and that splendid lunch you gave. Might you be free tomorrow night for a little champagne with us? Come at about six and we can catch the last light on the veranda, it’s still warm enough.’

‘Nice idea but I’ve got Bill Hewson coming. We’ve a couple of things to discuss including one of his paintings. I’m trying to beat him down on price but I don’t hold out much hope. He’s a tough cookie when he wants to be.’ He chuckled.

‘Well once you’ve finished your business bring him up too, all the more the merrier. In fact you may find Miss Gilchrist with us. We’ve got a surprise for her – at least I think it will be. We’ve found something she’s been looking for.’

‘Really? You don’t mean that book she was after do you? I thought it no longer existed, or so Lucia said. She seemed very sure.’

‘It may not be the one but who knows … Anyway, can we expect you both tomorrow?’

‘By all means. Sounds good.’

Hope-Landers withdrew to his sanctum and Felix and Cedric continued up the winding staircase debating the dog’s dinner.

Meanwhile, deliberately putting all thoughts of Horace aside, Rosy had spent an indulgent time exploring and getting lost. She had no set itinerary – which might have been sensible – but was content at this stage just to absorb the general ambience of the city, delighting both in its quaintness and its grandeur. One day she would come back and do the job properly (were such an achievement possible in a lifetime) but at the present she was on general reconnaissance, roaming the bridges and alleyways and storing up future treasures.

Yet agreeable as such ramblings were they were shadowed by thoughts of the bookseller’s death and the nagging sense that perhaps after all she should be contacting the police. But she drew the same rationalised conclusions as before: she had nothing to offer. Then inevitably, as the morning wore on, thoughts of Pacelli brought her back to her ‘mission’. Gloom descended: still nothing to report to Stanley. But she would have to telephone him all the same if only out of courtesy. More gloom.

Returning to the
pensione
she was greeted by Miss Witherington bearing an envelope. ‘Such a nice man brought this for you,’ she chirped. ‘He said I should give it to you as soon as possible.’

‘Oh? What was he like?’

‘He was thin, hair
en brosse
and accompanied by a dog with exceptionally long ears.’ Felix.

After reading the note Rosy felt more cheerful,
hopeful even. It was an invitation to their palazzo the following evening, which in itself would be interesting, but even more interesting was the hint contained in the concluding lines:
We think we may have found exactly what you have been after. Fingers crossed. Come and see
. She sighed in amused exasperation. Could it really be the Horace? Why on earth did they have to be so gnomic? Yet surely that’s what it meant. If so how incredible! She wondered if this was the time to telephone her report to Dr Stanley but dismissed the idea: she was too tired from her wanderings (one needed stamina to engage with Stanley), and besides far better to wait and relay the good news when she had the damn thing – a bird in the hand etc. etc.

She gazed out over the smooth waters, seductively blue in the autumn sunshine and wished she could stay in Venice for weeks … But at least if the Horace search was over she would have a couple of days spare to explore in greater depth. She checked her guidebook to learn more of the Church of the Miracoli that Cedric had been raving about; and of course there was the incredible Doge’s Palace – though that would take at least half a day; and what about the Robert Browning casa, and Tintoretto’s little house in the Cannaregio? And surely she ought to do at least a couple of rooms in the Accademia … So much to see and so little time: she must make a select and disciplined list.

She took out her notebook and with pencil poised debated which should be first on the agenda. But she was nagged by the thought of Dr Stanley and his insistence that she telephone a report. Perhaps if she delayed any longer he might himself call and doubtless at a time of maximum
inconvenience. She closed the notebook and sighed. Best get it over with. She went downstairs and squeezed into the cramped telephone booth in the hallway.

It proved a laborious business and once a connection was eventually made the recipient was said to be engaged (shorthand for having a gin and tonic with a crony). Shoving more lire in the slot Rosy waited impatiently. At last she heard the rasp of his voice, and taking a breath commenced her report.

This of course didn’t amount to very much, which given the shortage of lire was just as well. Omitting all reference to Pacelli and his fate, Rosy concentrated on the contents of Felix’s note. ‘Of course one can’t be certain but it does sound promising,’ she assured him.

‘Excellent. But you are keeping your eyes skinned for the Bodleian bugger aren’t you? We don’t want him messing things up.’

‘The Bodleian bugger?’ she gasped. ‘I am sorry I don’t understand.’

‘But I told you: our rival. Sir Fenton let slip that Oxford is also interested and he had tipped them the wink. If you ask me he’s a bit of an old tart – flashes his favours in all directions. If the chap from the Bodleian gets the Bodger we’re sunk: the Museum loses Sir Fenton’s patronage and
we
forfeit the funds. So just watch it, Rosy!’

‘Actually,’ she said irritably, ‘you didn’t tell me.’

There was a pause and a cough. ‘Oh, didn’t I? Ah, no perhaps not. Come to think of it the sod only mentioned it after you had left. Anyway, the honour of the department is at stake so trust no one let alone smarmy academics. Which reminds me – I’ve had the most frightful bust-up
with Smithers. He’s had the cheek to query one of the footnotes in my recent publication, says the quotation I cite is of dubious authenticity. Disgraceful!’

‘Disgraceful,’ Rosy agreed. ‘But, er, this Bodleian man, I don’t quite see—’

‘Yes, at all costs keep the swine at bay … Now Rosy if you don’t mind I’ve got pressing stuff to attend to and—’ At that point the lire ran out and the line went obligingly dead.

Keeping a sharp lookout for librarians and smarmy academics, the next evening Rosy embarked on the Palazzo Reiss. Here she was greeted by Felix wearing what she could only conclude was his cocktail garb: a richly green velvet jacket with silk lapels and swirling motifs. At his neck was a pink cravat. Colourful though the combination was, his thin features and short spiky hair did little to enhance the Byronic mode. On the whole, Rosy thought, he looked like a quizzical parrot.

‘Welcome to our humble abode,’ he laughed. ‘Rather drear down here I’m afraid but I can assure you it gets all right in the end; quite nice really – though
getting
to the end takes some stamina. We lack the luxury of a lift.’

Rosy followed him along the ill-lit passage and up the winding stone steps. He was right, the ascent was both gloomy and taxing, and arriving slightly breathless on the empty, dusty landing she felt a squeeze of disappointment. If this was the
piano nobile
the noble element was hard to discern! But as with Felix and Cedric earlier, her impressions revived the moment she stepped inside the main salon. To quote Felix’s own words, the accommodation was indeed ‘quite nice’. Her eyes swept the flower-bedecked room
with its exquisitely ornate ceiling, Venetian wall brackets and elegant proportions. Yes definitely better. The longer of the two sofas contained Cedric and the basset hound – one at either end – and each rose at her entry to pay the customary attentions, the dog sniffing her ankles and Cedric (soberly suited) to compliment her on her dress and offer a drink.

‘We have our fellow resident and an American friend of his coming in later,’ he explained, ‘but first we wanted to show you this in the hope that it just might be what you are looking for.’ He went over to the desk, rooted around and then returned thrusting the book into her hands.

The volume was subjected to a ‘close forensic analysis’ – pages leafed through, signature examined, dedication discussed and laughed over and edition date checked. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘it looks to me as if it’s the one all right; seems to tally with what Dr Stanley described. But how extraordinary that you should find it here. I wonder how your cousin came by it.’

Felix shrugged. ‘No idea; and when I phoned her she seemed pretty vague about the whole thing. I think her mind was on other things – the jazz probably. Anyway not much interest shown so you may as well have it with our compliments. I very much doubt if she will be clamouring for its return the moment we have left. And if so I shall tell her it is safe in the British Museum being gloated over by one of London’s most distinguished scholars.’

‘Hmm, I suppose that’s one way of describing him,’ said Rosy dryly. But she felt in high spirits, pleased she could return triumphant and, for a short time at least, bask in Stanley’s respect and approbation. It wouldn’t last of course
but she would jolly well make the most of it while she could. She grinned and accepted another dose of champagne with which she toasted her two benefactors.

She quite liked Guy Hope-Landers – personable, as her mother would have put it. And the painter Bill Hewson was easy company and full of amusing tales about the Boston art scene. They showed polite interest in her recent acquisition and toasted her good luck. But both were cynical of the Farinelli Berenstein rumour. ‘Can’t say that I ever got wind of it,’ remarked Hope-Landers, ‘although now I come to think of it I did hear Lucia’s brother mentioning something like that the other day – something Lucia had heard on the radio, though she hasn’t mentioned it to me. But I don’t take much notice of what he says anyway, there never seems much substance. He talks for effect most of the time, silly ass.’ He gave a dismissive laugh.

‘Huh,’ muttered Hewson, ‘if you ask me he’s an insolent young puppy,’ and turning to Rosy added, ‘and that’s putting it nicely Miss Gilchrist. Not one of my favourite people.’ For an instant the bonhomie vanished but was quickly replaced by his next remark. ‘
On
the other hand, the sister’s all right – wouldn’t you say so Guy? Lucky chap, she’s crazy about you!’ And he gave a guffaw of laughter.

The lucky chap smiled politely, looked slightly uncomfortable and muttered something about exaggeration. Cedric steered the conversation to less personal matters, such as the state of the American presidency and Eisenhower’s war record, Mr Churchill’s likely successor and the Guggenheim art collection.

‘But what about this murder?’ Felix asked after a while, tired of such generalities and relishing a little gossip.

‘Which of the many?’ enquired Guy Hope-Landers.

‘The one here in Venice of course, that bookseller. Rather surprising I should have thought. One has always heard the city to be rather law-abiding; something to do with its location I suppose, restricts flight.’

‘Ah you mean Giuseppe Pacelli,’ Hope-Landers said. ‘Yes a bit peculiar really. Nothing has emerged so far. They say he had an awful battering but no cash taken. A private vendetta I should think; one gathers he had certain sidelines of a questionable kind. Probably double-crossed someone; one wouldn’t be surprised.’ He laughed and turned to Hewson. ‘Did you ever buy anything there?’

The other shook his head. ‘You bet I didn’t,’ he declared. ‘I wouldn’t throw a dime in his direction – a nasty little toad by all accounts! Probably deserved his end.’

‘But not quite like that,’ Rosy murmured.

‘What? Oh … no I guess not. No certainly not like that.’

They turned to other things and the time passed convivially. Indeed when the two guests took their leave, Hewson declared in a slightly slurred tone that they must all meet the following night at Florian’s or some other watering hole to re-celebrate Guy’s recent good fortune and Miss Gilchrist’s lucky find.

‘Huh,’ sniffed Felix after they had gone, ‘tomorrow night? I very much doubt that. Out for the count I should think for at least two days. I’ve never seen anyone put it away so smartly!’

Rosy giggled and Cedric wagged a finger. ‘Are we being just a
mite
prissy, dear boy? You must admit he was quite entertaining.’

‘Mildly, I would say,’ was the response. ‘And why he should think so well of that Lucia girl I cannot imagine.’ He turned to Rosy and in kindlier tones said, ‘Now Miss Gil—Rosy, what about a little cheese soufflé to round things off? The kitchen facilities here are really very good, and though I say it myself the chef is—’