The Gondola Scam (26 page)

"Lovejoy." The poor old bloke
sounded knackered, standing in the waterfront gloom. "Do as you're
ordered. Work. Take the money. Do like the rest."

"I came to warn you, old man. Get
out. It's a matter of hours."

"What can one man do, especially a
stupid one like you?" He patted my arm, dabbed his rheumy eyes with a
hankie. "Go home. Sleep. Come to work. That's the way to live."

"Like you do? Look." I
snatched his hand and turned it palm up. "The best manuscript hand I've
ever seen. And you work for a nutter like Tonio? You let people get executed
and still do nothing?"

Gently he took his gnarled hand back.
"We can only do nothing. Not even run."

"But it's evil, absurd."

He actually chuckled. "It was evil
and absurd that a whoring alcoholic horse thief could rule Russia. But Rasputin
happened."

He walked away, stooping with the
grounded gaze of the elderly.

I called after him, "You've got
till ten o'clock, Luciano," but received no answer. To think, I had my
breakfast in a nosh bar. Day was up and boats were really on the move as I
reappeared about an hour later feeling quite good. Sad that Luciano hadn't
heeded my warning, but at least I'd tried.

The
Eveline
had been moored nearby the previous night. Gone now, but she hadn't been an
illusion, though I sensed she represented some sort of threat I hadn't yet
reasoned out. At 9:15 A.M. I was inquiring at the Magistrato alle Acque, local
ruler of the waves since 1501. Carlo was right about the high water, and so was
Mr. Pinder. Two such flood tides happened annually in the 1880s; there were
seven a year by 1930; sixteen frighteners by 1955; and now . thirty-two annual
dunkings. Long ago the
acqua alta
barely ' wet the pavement. Now it could waterlog your middle button however
tall you stood. I learned too of Venice's six round-the-clock water watchers,
and the emergency phone number for tide forecasts: 706-344. I would use it.

I thanked them, and went out memorizing
the number and feeling ill.

"Signora got the kettle on,
Placido?" I halted obediently because he had his vast mitt on my chest.
"She told me ten o'clock, Placido, so don't blame me if you get your
cards."

He hesitated at that, and I walked into
the palazzo and on up the stairs. It's odd how convictions alter things. I
don't just mean attitudes, or the way people respond. Once you're committed, a
curious order takes over as if all is suddenly well once a battle's begun. No
indecisions, doubts. Berserk conflict is tranquillity, utter peace of mind and
soul. And if the body suffers it's cheap at the price.

It was coffee time in the grand salon.
Signora Norman in startling orange, with silver jewelry and a brilliant
lipstick. She had me gaping. You have to hand it to these older women. Tonio
was unbelievable in clumsy-looking satin gear that was probably the height of
fashion. I had the odd idea they were waiting for guests.

"Have I spoiled things? I won't
take long."

Tonio moved his face, smiling his
opaque smile. "
Cara
. We simply
can't let this peasant continue—"

"The white yacht means Colonel
Norman or daughter Caterina's hit town, I suppose?" I went to the window
and looked down at the gondola ferry, already busy across the Grand Canal.

Tonio rose. His expression was exactly
that of those newspaper cartoons which have empty circles drawn for eyes. I
quickly went and sat by Signora Norman. I’d have to stick fairly close to the
truth to survive.

I said kindly, "There's something
wrong with your forgeries, chuckie."

"Isn't there always?" She was
being unexpectedly entertained, so was all smiles.

"He wants Luciano's job,"
Tonio interrupted. "A chiseler. On the make."

"Luciano said he's good," the
signora reprimanded. "Continue, Lovejoy."

I said to her, ignoring him, "Name
any forgery your factory's doing this minute, missus."

"Paintings."

"Right." I drew breath, ready
to judge the effect of all this on Tonio. "They're doing them wrong, love.
Wrong canvas, wrong paints. Wrong brushwork. Wrong colors. A kid could spot
they're duff."

"Are
you
so expert, Lovejoy?" Tonio was in his pigeon-toed stance
now. His expression became almost human with delighted anticipation.
"Better than all our fakers?"

"You know how long it took us to
recruit the teams?" The signora's smile was gone. She got her cigarette in
action, I edged away from her smoke and her fury as she surged on. "Two
whole years! And a fortune. The best artists, goldsmiths. The world's greatest
wood-carvers, manuscript fakers, stonemasons. From every country in Europe—"

'There's not one worth a groat, from
what I've seen," I interrupted. "Your seam's clever, love. But it's
cack-handed." I had to turn away from her blinding face. "Look. You
age a canvas before you paint it. With a high-intensity ultraviolet light and a
thermostatically controlled inspissator you can do wonders to a modern canvas.
Yet not one canvas out there has been aged. That Domenico has no idea of
brushwork. And he's using some acrylic paints, for God's sake." In outrage
I began ticking off the faults. "Nobody's even got a smoke gun for
age-coloring new varnish on your fake oils. The wood carving's done in American
pine, a clear giveaway—"

"You've not seen any pine
carvers," Placido put in.

"It stinks the frigging place
out," I said contemptuously. "And that San Trovaso altar bas-reliefs
supposed to be marble, not lightweight crap made up of latterite dust,
Polyfilla powder and polyurethane varnish. Fakers gave that trick up decades
ago. And why no watermarks on the paper? It takes a skilled antique paper faker
about ten minutes to knock up a class watermark." I nudged the signora
offensively. "You're so proud of inventing Italian traditions about
cocktails, signora. Watermarks really
are
a local tradition. Right from the thirteenth century, Italy was streets ahead.
The Arabs, Japanese, Chinese, none of them could do a class watermark till
modern times. And they gave me York stone, far too light, to fake the Ducal
Palace'' carved capitals. Want me to go on?"

"But we proved it, Tonio. Our
reproductions re faultless." She sounded puzzled. In a minute she'd move
to worse anger as my news sunk in. I rose apologetically, ready with my
explanation.

"I know we did,
cara
. That's why Lovejoy’s a
fraud." Tonio was practically quivering with eagerness. Placido carefully
put the door to and turned to face me. War.

"You mean that auction? Your
Carpaccio painting?" I smiled, but my knees were beginning to wobble, so I
rose and walked to the window. Tonio nearly fell about at that, thinking I was
sussing out an escape route by a Douglas Fairbanks leap. How wrong he was. Even
the thought of all that risk and energy made me palpitate.

"Why, yes."

"Didn't Tonio or Caterina tell
you? That the wooden stretchers weren't properly plugged?" I lied.
Actually, they'd been reasonable. "That the canvas was obviously
modem?" It had actually been well aged. "And the varnish could have
done with a little more nicotine discoloration, especially over the—"

"Lies!"

The doorbell rang, halting Tonio. It
rang, rang, rang. A furious knocking on the door accompanied it, non-stop. My
relief sweat broke out. I almost fell down. For a million panic-stricken
heartbeats I thought the
traghetto
men had simply taken my money and welshed. She could learn the horrible details
now.

"Is it lies about the murders,
Tonio?"

''What murders?" The signora's
cigarette smoke was vertical.

'Two antique dealers. They also spotted
the flaws. Malleson, Cramphom." In the din from the door I kept my eyes on
Tonio, but was speaking to the signora. By a lucky fluke I found myself
standing behind the settee. A born coward.

"He's making it all up,
Lavinia," Tonia said.

"Am I? Signora. Phone any East
Anglia newspaper."

She put a hand to her temple, trying to
concentrate. "That noise . . ."

"It's the fire, police, and canal
ambulance out there," I explained cheerfully. "I bribed the
gondoliers to phone and gjve this address."

"Get rid of them. Both of
you." The signora rose and crossed to the window. The palazzo's door into
the campo was not visible from inside the room. I'd checked. "Explain that
it was some stupid tourist's hoax."

Sadism reluctantly postponed, Tonio and
Placido left me with the signora. I let them get halfway downstairs before I
spoke.

"Actually it's only the
traghetto
blokes. I bribed them to make
a hullabaloo."

She had to smile despite the new
worries I'd given her. "You're a pest, Lovejoy. You know that?"

"Not without trying,
Lavinia."

"And all this about the two
murdered dealers and the fakes. Yet more annoying tales?"

"Come to my apartment at noon,
Lavinia. I'll tell you what's really happening to your scam. And who's out to
ruin you." I gave her Cosima's address.

Her eyes were shining. "I may not
trust you."

"Don't bring Tonio or Placido. Nor
anybody else. I don't trust you either."

The downstairs racket was lessening.
Time to go. I crossed the room, shutting her in behind me and turning away from
the landing which overlooked the noisy hallway. It had to be left turn, and
down past the dumbwaiter. That had given me the clue to where the kitchen was,
directly below somewhere, and inevitably the back staircase which accompanied
it. Which meant access to the low arches of the palazzo's canal exit I'd inspected
from the nicked gondola that other night.

Incredibly, a stout oldish bird was
amiably cutting stuff in the kitchen, as if the world was normal, when I
passed. She was caterwauling a song accompanying a radio. One more floor down,
and I was through a dampish doorway into the sleaziest, longest, and wettest
cellar you ever saw. Talk about damp. I looked through a grille which emitted a
feeble yellow.

He was sitting on a small camp stool
beside a bed, his face averted from the grille set in the door. It was bolted
on the corridor side. A patrician's dungeon, practically inaccessible and
frighteningly private.

"Luciano? It's me. Lovejoy."

He didn't even move. There was a small
table lamp. He didn't look as if he'd been knocked about, but I was peering in
at an abject picture of utter defeat.

"I'm undoing the bolts,
mate."

There was three. I tried the door and
it opened, but by then I was so frightened at the vague thuds transmitting
themselves through the palazzo's structure that I scarpered quickly along the
passage and unbolted the end door. It had an old tumble lock. No key, but
anybody with a wire in his turn-up can unlock it as fast as with the right key.

Beyond, that narrow set of steps and
broad daylight on the canal. The barred portcullis-type gateway between me and
freedom was still down, only inches from the surface of the water. It meant
swimming, ducking under the portcullis, and emerging into the open canal in
full sight of anybody on the nearby bridge.

I waded down the steps into the grotty
water until it was up to my middle. I drew a deep breath and plunged.

25

It was predictable. Within two hours I
was dry, free, and anonymous as ever. Looking at it now, my public re-emergence
from the canal's dark grot was a scream. Of course, anything's hilarious as
long as it isn't yourself slipping on that comical banana peel, but on this
occasion I needed to play the clown. I clambered out of the canal into an
assembly of a few tourists and the stray Venetian, talking nineteen to the
dozen. Two laughing Germans even took my photo. In the pandemonium I gave
different versions—fell in photographing the bridge, tumbled in after a few
drinks, et cetera. Rueful and grinning, I sloshed my way to the Giardinetti,
where I sat in the garden and watched folk queue for their loo tickets. Lots of
cats and bonny trees—and me, drying out. Odd, but once you're seated you tend
to vanish even if you're extraordinary. Stand up, and people are all attention.

At a different tailor's I bought a tee
shirt and had them bag my stuff for carrying. Because I now had no need to hide
from Cesare and the other water taxi men, I walked quite openly to the Zaccaria
and caught a waterbus.

The Australian butterfly painter,
dreamer Gerry, was on board in the standing-room-only middle bit.

"Wotcher. Still at it, eh?"
He looked rather heavily daubed and was carrying his gear, to everybody else's
discomfort.

"Lovejoy! Where did you get to?
Poor Cosima! We searched for you, you know."

"Oh, all over with now. Cosima's
great, off to convalescence," I reassured him, at which he showed much
relief. No questions after my health, mean sod.

''Keith's playing with one of those
dredger engines near Murano. He'll be sorry he missed you. Are you free for
supper?"