The Venetian Venture Read online

  ‘And yet had obviously discussed it with her brother.’

  ‘Precisely. It’s as if she is now deliberately trying to sink the matter. And as for the brother: well one moment, entirely unsolicited, he emphatically tells you the book is not in Venice and at the next seems eager to know whether Rosy has found it. It all seems a bit contradictory to me and therefore odd.’

  ‘So that’s why you bashed my foot?’

  Cedric sniffed. ‘Personally he struck me as graceless not to say slippery, and I do not think we need divulge any information to types such as that pair. Probably pursuing the Horace to get that prize money – assuming Miss Gilchrist’s tale has any substance!’ He gave a sardonic laugh.

  ‘Well if that’s the case let’s give the wretched thing to Rosy Gilchrist, if it is the book, and then she can scuttle back to the British Museum while we get on with more pressing researches – the Lido perhaps or opera at the Fenice. They have rather a delightful programme I gather.’ Felix paused, and then added, ‘But I agree with you, a most unengaging pair; especially the girl, though he was quite handsome I suppose …’

  ‘But not as handsome as Paolo,’ Cedric said slyly. ‘Ah that reminds me! We can’t possibly take the book to Rosy Gilchrist tomorrow. Don’t you remember? The two Ps are treating us to a motoscafo tour of the lagoon and Torcello and then on to Burano for lunch at that splendid restaurant. First things first I fancy!’

  ‘Rather,’ exclaimed Felix. ‘Shall we take Caruso?’

  While the two visitors were thus engaged in contemplating future jollity the ‘unengaging pair’ were drifting home to Lucia’s flat.

  ‘Considering your disability this morning,’ Lucia laughed, ‘you managed to put up quite a good show, even made one of those ludicrous twins smile – though don’t ask me which one! You were hardly at your brightest earlier on and I thought I should have to go to Harry’s on my own.’

  ‘Would I be so ungallant?’

  ‘Easily. Anyway, where did you go last night – or did you just sit by the canal doing nothing?’

  ‘I did exactly as you told me: went for a walk towards the Arsenale to clear my head and then on to the Giardini Pubblici,’ Edward lied.

  The news that morning of Pacelli’s murder had been relayed to him by Lucia who had heard it from the woman in the bakery. Naturally he had been very shocked but had said nothing other than to remark ruefully that that was one line of enquiry now lost. Instinct had stalled additional comment for he immediately saw trouble looming: trouble perhaps merely tiresome, or trouble disastrous. Either way silence was best. One had to be careful with confidences. Luckily Lucia had been too busy fixing her hair in an elaborate coiffure for the lunch to discuss things further.

  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.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  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 a
s 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 …

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  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 th
at 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.’