The Venetian Venture (16 page)

Altogether, Rosy felt, it had been a congenial event; and despite her earlier reluctance she was glad to have gone. Admittedly there had been nothing on the mantelpiece remotely like a vase or goblet. Doubtless it had been discarded or put in another place. But it certainly hadn’t been her purpose to go snooping around in her host’s kitchen or bedroom. So a fruitless reconnaissance after all, but the visit itself had been pleasant.

However, the thing at the end had unsettled her. It had been so unexpected! She had been leaving at the same time as Daphne Blanchett and Dr Burgess, and as they opened the door into the street they almost collided with a man coming in. He had stood back, muttered apologies and then continued up the staircase.

‘Wasn’t that the man who came to hang the pictures?’ Daphne asked Burgess, ‘the one who made all that dust for you to clear up?’

‘Yes I think perhaps it was,’ Burgess agreed. ‘Not the most professional of workers – made an awful
mess and then left the frames crooked.’ He laughed. ‘If Hewson uses him with other clients there’s bound to be complaints.’

Rosy had said nothing, too surprised to comment. She had recognised the man instantly: it had been the same one who had approached the painter in the square after they had lunched together and who had given her that quizzical look. And as she had thought then – and on closer scrutiny now knew – it was also the same man who had been with Pacelli on the night she had gone to Florian’s. If Daphne Blanchett was right, it was somehow disquieting to think it was also he who had been hanging the pictures on the landing outside her room.

She started to walk back to the
pensione
puzzled by her own unease. Just because she found the man rather distasteful was no reason to feel bothered by his link with William Hewson. After all it was no concern of hers whom he chose to deal with or employ. And yet foolishly she did feel bothered and kept imagining the man alone on the landing busily measuring, hammering, leaving his dusty mess; and then with job done gathering his tools and walking back down the stairs again … But more insistently she was nagged by another scenario, i.e. with job done the man cautiously trying the handle of her bedroom door, and finding it unlocked slipping inside.

She paused, exploring the possibility. It wasn’t entirely out of the question. After all she had been out when the paintings arrived, and it was when she returned that she had discovered the Horace gone. Could he really have been the culprit? Was it so absurd? To steady her thoughts she stopped at a café and ordered a double espresso: perhaps
the caffeine would focus her mind. Not bothering with a table she stood at the counter as the locals did, sipping slowly and thinking.

Yet why him? Certainly he had had the opportunity but was it
likely
? Well he obviously knew about the Horace (unlike presumably the chambermaid) as it had been he who with Pacelli had brazenly told her to go home and not bother with ‘silly poems’. Motive? Obviously to match it with the Murano vase in the hope of getting Berenstein’s vaunted prize money … But what on earth made him think she had found the book, and how in any case would he know which was her room?

She turned from the mirrored bar and leant against the counter watching the street outside with its fading sun and strolling pedestrians. A man stopped, bent his head and lit a cigarette. The tip glowed as he took his first puff, and then he walked on. The commonplace action triggered something in Rosy’s memory and in a trice her mind had darted back to the night at the
pensione
when looking out from her window she had been so startled by that watching presence – the movement in the shadows, the flashing of a lighter and glint of a cigarette tip.

That was it! The watcher had been no Peeping Tom at all but someone who, like herself only an hour ago, had been set on a mission of reconnaissance … Yes it was obvious. She had been deliberately followed that night, and, as revealed by her own form at the lighted window, the position of her room duly noted. Rosy swallowed the last dregs of the espresso and shivered. It was horrible – the idea of him watching and waiting, and then later creeping into the empty bedroom and quietly ransacking the place. No wonder he had left the landing in such a
mess: couldn’t get down the stairs quick enough!

Leaving the café she continued her walk home, the twisting alleys seeming to mimic the twistings of her mind. There was of course the other question, a question crucial to the whole thing. What made the man think she had the book in the first place? Who else knew other than the donors Cedric and Felix, and Carlo who had spurned it?
And
, she recalled, Guy Hope-Landers and Bill Hewson. Yes of course! They had been having drinks at the palazzo when Cedric had presented her with the thing and had toasted the lucky find. She thought of Hewson and Cedric’s distrust of him and his suspicion that Edward Jones had been blackmailing the painter. Was there really something not quite straight about the man, something a bit skewed?

Again she thought of Lucia’s apparent assertion that he possessed the vase. If she was right – and it would seem so judging from Edward’s allusion in his note – then Hewson might also be seeking the Bodger Horace. And if that were the case perhaps it had been he who had directed the picture hanger to steal it, had even had the pictures delivered there for the express purpose!

She pondered. Could that really be so? Far-fetched surely. And yet just as she was about to dismiss the thought, with a sudden jolt she remembered Edward’s hostility in the restaurant and his snide confidential warning: ‘Don’t trust that one, my dear, he’d cut your throat given half a chance.’ A common enough cliché and typical of the young man’s taste for drama but the point had been clear enough: Hewson was dubious, dangerous even. She frowned trying to think what else the boy had said … ah that was it: ‘I’ve got your number,’ he had shouted. What number? What was it that Edward knew or thought he knew about Hewson? But
the taunt could have been meaningless, merely the product of drunken pique. Yet it had been hurled with such force; he must have meant something! And if so what? That Hewson was capable of organising petty larceny? … Or something more sinister?

‘If, if, if,’ she muttered to herself and recalled her Cambridge history tutor’s scathing comment on over-speculation: ‘Conjecture without facts is the death of truth,’ he had hammered home. But he had said something else as well: ‘In pursuing fact do not discount the value of theory; it has opened innumerable doors.’ Yes well, she had enough theory to open doors galore but whether they would reveal anything was another matter.

By this time Rosy had reached the
pensione
and despite her scepticism was both intrigued and unsettled. What she needed was reassurance, or at least to be able to decant her concern on to someone else. Who to confide in? Obviously Cedric and Felix. But were they ‘in residence’? And in any case having entertained her earlier in the day would they want a repeat dose of her company that evening? Ignoring such consideration she decided to telephone the palazzo and find out.

The line was frustratingly poor; full of squeaks and crackles. But she managed to make out from Felix that she would be welcome to go round there later but that it would be only himself as Cedric was otherwise engaged – with what she couldn’t hear. The line faltered and then she heard Felix say, ‘anyway, I have just bought some marvellous cheese and salami, so we might try a little of that. The only thing is that I am not exactly sure when I shall be back – Paolo is keen to show me some of the Jewish quarter and its
synagogues and I’m just about to go. But about half past eight
should
be all right. Tell you what though …’ The line faded but then grew loud again and she heard Felix say, ‘so the key is under the stone gryphon on the left.’ The sound broke up and then collapsed altogether.

Admittedly she would have preferred Cedric to be there as well; he had a sobriety not always discernible in his friend. However, better one than none at all; and even if Felix shed no light at least he would be a diversion and someone to talk to. She couldn’t recall a stone gryphon but presumably one was there standing sentinel and acting as guardian of the spare key should one be required.

The synagogues had been fascinating, Paolo’s company amusing, and had he the time Felix would have liked to see more of the area. But he didn’t have the time: there was the dog to feed and then of course Rosy Gilchrist was coming. He had no idea what she wanted but she had sounded agitated. He hoped it wasn’t anything too disquieting as he had rather hoped for an early night and to curl up with a good book … well not a good book exactly but to reread yet again that lovely article in the
Tatler
about himself supervising the Queen Mother’s flowers for her last cocktail party. It really had been most gratifying.

He arrived at the palazzo and let himself in. Rather to his surprise the door to Hope-Landers’ quarters was wide open and from within he heard the sound of a raised voice. Rather more than raised actually – bellowing would be a better term. Startled, Felix paused and lent an ear. Yes the tone was very loud indeed, most unpleasant in fact. He thought he could just catch
the murmuring of another voice but couldn’t be sure as the other was making such a racket. Maybe it was the radio. Was Hope-Landers having an unquiet fit? Perhaps he ought to venture in although it would be easier to scuttle past. He recalled his mother’s advice at such moments of crisis: ‘Quick dear, look the other way!’ It had, he reflected, been sound counsel except that on this occasion his curiosity was aroused. Perhaps just the smallest peek …

Other than a haze of cigarette smoke and the shambles of the lodger’s sitting room the peek revealed nothing. The shouting, however, continued. Felix hovered at the threshold and then edging in a little further saw a half-open door to his left revealing a passage. He took a few tentative steps along this and was faced with another door slightly ajar, presumably that of a bedroom or study. It was from here that the shouting came. The voice was unmistakable: an American accent at full throttle.

‘You thieving little bastard,’ Bill Hewson yelled, ‘I saw you take the fucking thing myself. You thought I wouldn’t notice, thought I was too taken up with that Gilchrist broad. Well I wasn’t, see. I saw everything. I can tell you old Bill Hewson doesn’t miss a fucking trick!’

Fearful yet fascinated Felix was drawn to the doorway and stared in. Hope-Landers was lounging on a bed, long legs stretched out, arms folded behind his head. Hewson was towering over him, shoulders hunched and fists clenched. He did look very angry, and it occurred to Felix that had it been himself being thus addressed he would have been under the bed and not on it.

‘Yes it was a bit rash,’ replied Hope-Landers ruefully, ‘but,’ he continued mildly, ‘I imagine you have been
missing fucking tricks most of your life. Wouldn’t you say?’

Hewson seemed to freeze and Felix drew in his breath and winced. Idiot! All very well affecting nonchalance but not in the face of such bitter fury: surely a tactical error. He was right for in the next instant Hewson had whipped something from his pocket, lunged at the other and started beating him about the head. Hope-Landers gasped, tried to sit up, was hit again violently and then heaved to the ground and kicked in the ribs.

It was then that Felix stepped forward. ‘You can’t do that,’ he announced with scant conviction.

The attacker swung round: ‘Why if it isn’t the little hairdresser,’ he jeered.

Hairdresser? Felix was enraged! However, he certainly wasn’t going to argue the point because he had suddenly seen what Hewson held in his hand: a heavy revolver. He swallowed hard. It must have been the butt that he had been using on Hope-Landers. But it was less the butt that bothered Felix than the fact that the gun’s muzzle was now being waved perilously close to his own nose. He took a step back. ‘I am sure that’s not called for is it?’ he said hastily. ‘Er, what is it that you are looking for exactly?’

‘You heard,’ Hewson snarled, ‘the vase that the bastard there took from my studio.’ (The bastard there was still on the ground looking distinctly under the weather: blood poured from his nose and he was doubled up as if winded.)

‘There it is,’ said Felix, nodding towards a chest of drawers. ‘Now I suggest you take it and then go away.’ He fixed the man with a hard look; the sort of look reserved
for the royal corgis when they became overly intrigued by his floral confections.

But not being a corgi, royal or otherwise, Hewson remained unquelled. He strode to the chest of drawers, grabbed the vase and thrust it into a canvas bag. And then turning towards the figure on the floor said softly, ‘But there’s something else isn’t there, Guy; something else that you have and which I need. That book Emilio took from the girl’s room was useless: he reckoned it was one of Lupino’s bits of buggery. But I think you’ve got the real one – you must have otherwise why so keen to get at my vase? Berenstein’s offer is withdrawn in three days’ time. You wouldn’t have bothered with it unless you already had the real frigging Horace. So I’d be obliged if you would tell me where it is.’

‘Go to hell,’ Hope-Landers grunted and appeared to pass out.

Hewson whirled on Felix. ‘Okay, Smarty Pants, so where do you think it is?’

Felix shrugged. ‘Somewhere on his shelves I imagine. He’s got a lot in there.’ He nodded towards the sitting room.

Hewson frowned and seemed to cogitate while Felix regarded him with some nervousness. He had once had an uncle whom his mother had described as always having a wild look in his eyes (a permanent affliction apparently). Looking at Hewson now he was reminded of his mother’s words. He couldn’t remember what had happened to the uncle: something nasty he suspected. Hewson’s eyes were definitely wild and he rather thought the man was off his chump. Whether anything nasty would happen to him Felix could not be sure but it would be nice to think so. Meanwhile, he told himself, the great thing was to
play for time: something which according to literature was considered a good ploy.

‘Er, can I offer you a cup of tea?’ he asked politely. ‘We have various types upstairs – Darjeeling, lapsang suchong, Ceylon something or other …’ His voice trailed off as judging from Hewson’s expression these did not meet with approval.

‘Just shut up you pathetic Limey lizard,’ the latter barked levelling the gun at him. ‘I’ve things to do and I’m not having you prancing about messing things up!’

Felix dutifully shut up and found himself pushed on to a chair. He wanted to say that while he may have messed up a few things in his life he had certainly never pranced – but on the whole felt it wiser to keep quiet. The next moment Hewson had snapped open a penknife and slashed the curtain cords. Felix winced as he saw the velvet folds tumble to the floor. But he winced even more when he felt his arms and ankles being tightly bound and lashed to the chair legs and back. And then, horror of horrors, with a light tap Hewson had tipped the chair, and it and the occupant fell to the ground with a crash. Without a backward glance the man rushed from the room and slammed the door leaving Felix bone-shaken and terrified. He heard the lock being turned.

From his upended position Felix contemplated the ceiling and then called out to Hope-Landers. There was no answer and he felt terribly alone. It wasn’t so much his physical discomfort that oppressed him but the deafening silence. By twisting his neck he could just make out the passage light shining under the door. Had the man gone back to the sitting room? What was he doing? Presumably hunting for
the book. And if he found it what then? Would he quietly sneak away – or come back in and do Christ knows what? He shivered and called out to Hope-Landers fearful that he might be dead.

There was a groan and a curse. There followed another groan and more silence. Then a faint voice said, ‘You look awful.’

‘So would you if you had your effing feet stuck in the air,’ Felix snapped. ‘Kindly come and untie me!’

‘All in good time old man. I’m feeling a bit groggy. If you don’t mind I am just going to lie quietly here for a bit.’

Felix sighed. ‘Oh take your time,’ he said acidly.

The next moment there was the sound of the key in the lock and Hewson reappeared looking triumphant and holding a book in his hand. He scanned the room and moved to the rug where he had dropped the canvas bag containing the vase. ‘Mustn’t forget this,’ he sneered, ‘it goes with its pal here.’ And he tapped the book and brandished it in Hope-Landers’ face. ‘My fortune, your loss,’ he taunted.

Hope-Landers shrugged wearily. ‘Ah the vicissitudes of life.’

‘Shut up you fool,’ the other snarled.

‘Actually,’ said Felix boldly, ‘I think it might be you who is being foolish. Don’t you realise
everyone
knows you killed Pacelli?’ (By ‘everyone’ he meant of course that he and Cedric had discussed it.) ‘There were witnesses, Dilly and Duffy.’

‘Huh! Those old hags! What do they know about anything?’

‘Well I can assure you they’ve told the police,’ Felix lied.
‘Big deal,’ Hewson snorted. ‘You don’t really think the police will listen to their bilge, do you? They have enough work always being called out to chase the sodding cat!’

He glared at the man on the floor, and picking up the remnants of rope used on Felix proceeded to bind his wrists to a leg of the bed. He grinned: ‘I wasn’t in the navy for nothing; darn good knots these!’ Snatching the swag he hurried from the room again and locked the door.