The Good Thief's Guide to Venice (28 page)

‘Not to begin with, perhaps.’ Alfred held up a finger. ‘But as the tournament went on, Eunice became convinced that there was something unsavoury about them. And on one occasion, she felt sure that somebody had been inside her and John’s hotel room. Nothing was missing, but some of their belongings had been disturbed.’

‘Where were they staying?’ I asked.

‘A hotel affiliated with the casino, so of course the security was excellent. Eunice reported the incident and the head of security promised to look into the matter. But she heard nothing further.’

‘I suppose it’s possible that she was imagining it,’ Victoria suggested. ‘She would have known that you had reservations about Monte Carlo, so perhaps she was being more sensitive than normal.’

‘Exactly what I told her,’ Alfred said. ‘But I also encouraged her to photograph the pair and send their pictures to me. I have a number of European contacts who I thought might recognise the couple, and I promised to pass the images along.’

‘And did you?’ Victoria asked.

‘Of course. By then, Eunice had found out that the man was a titled European of some description – a minor Count from Venice, or so she’d heard. My information confirmed as much. We even had his name.
Borelli
. But neither of us could identify his dazzling companion. The Count was said to be something of a playboy character, so we assumed that she wasn’t a permanent fixture.’

Victoria edged forward in her chair. ‘So what happened? Was it similar to your experience tonight? Was John tricked in some way?’

‘Not in any manner we might have expected.’ Alfred tossed back the last of his whisky, his straggly throat bulging and contracting like an intestine. He contemplated the empty glass, turning it in his hands. ‘In fact, John went on to win the tournament. The prize was no fortune – winning at Monte Carlo is about prestige as much as anything else – but I understand he was paid close to a quarter of a million euros.’

‘Wowzer. Good for John and Eunice.’

Alfred smiled glumly. ‘Not so good, I’m afraid. After the tournament, they hired a car to drive down to Cannes. They planned to celebrate, but somewhere along the coast road beyond Nice there was an incident.’ He drew a breath. ‘They were both killed.’

‘My God.’ Victoria snatched her hands up to cover her mouth. ‘That’s awful. I’m so sorry.’

‘An incident?’ I cut in. ‘What does that mean? Were they in a crash?’

‘No other vehicle involved.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘It was only a little Renault. From what I gather, the thing exploded – went up like it had hit a landmine. They never stood a chance.’

I looked across at Victoria. There were questions to be asked but she was a better judge of her father than me. I waited for her lead.

‘Dad,’ she began, ‘are you saying that you think Count Borelli was somehow responsible for what happened?’

‘One thing life has taught me, darling, is that there are very few coincidences. I always listened to Eunice’s instincts. We walked away from some big wins over the years because she sensed that something was amiss about a given situation. So if she believed there was something fishy about Borelli and his female cohort, then I’m inclined to believe it.’

‘That’s not exactly proof, Dad.’

Alfred reached across and squeezed Victoria’s knee. Offered her a feeble smile. ‘You’re right. And that’s why, when it seemed the police were doing nothing about the situation, your mother and I decided that I should come and see what I could find for myself. I didn’t get very far in France – the police and hotel security were next to useless – but then I heard about the blackjack tournament here in Venice and it seemed like the perfect opportunity to assess the Count on his own territory.’ He patted Victoria’s thigh, then seemed unsure what to do with his hand. He settled for closing it into a fist and propping it on the arm of his chair. ‘I hoped I might be able to monitor him and see if he slipped up in some way. Perhaps even gather enough evidence to go to the French police myself and embarrass them into arresting him, or failing that, confront the brute directly. And if not,’ he said, unfurling his fist as if releasing something he’d been holding on to, ‘I rather fancied the idea of taking the prize money from him. It struck me as a fitting penalty – at least to begin with. And if all that failed, I thought I might return with the rest of our gang and see what other justice we might be able to exact.’

‘But meanwhile,’ I said, ‘somebody tried to kill him with a bomb of their own.’

Alfred frowned, seemingly disappointed by my contribution, as if I’d hit a bum note in the middle of a three-piece instrumental we’d been performing. ‘Oh no, Charlie. I don’t believe so. I rather think that bomb may have been destined for me.’

I can’t say I’m all that familiar with the correct etiquette of how one should respond when a man tells you that he’s been the subject of a murder plot. Admittedly, I knew not to guffaw loudly, or to accuse him of being a conspiracy nut, but I was unsure what to say next.

Mind you, it must have been worse for Victoria. This wasn’t just a random fantasist – this was her father. And since I’m not completely insensitive, I realised it might be better for me to be the one driving the questioning. After all, nobody enjoys telling their parents that they’re talking horse manure.

‘You look surprised,’ Alfred told me.

‘Maybe a little,’ I admitted.

‘You think I’m mad?’

‘Hardly. But if you’ll forgive me for saying so, I’m not sure I quite follow your logic.’ I pressed my palms together and raised my hands, as if in prayer, so that my fingers were touching my nose and my thumbs were hooked beneath my chin. It was intended to be an educated pose, of the type I’d seen psychologists adopt on television dramas. I wanted Alfred to feel completely at ease. Maybe that way he’d share everything that was going on in his feeble old mind and realise for himself just how much of a loony he sounded. ‘Perhaps you could explain why you think the bomb that went off in Count Borelli’s palazzo was intended for you.’

He pursed his lips, looking as if he was sucking on something sour. ‘Not me, necessarily, though I do believe there was a very good chance of it finding its way to my door.’

‘I’m not sure I quite follow you.’

‘I might have thought it was pretty obvious to a crime novelist.’

Hmm, now that sounded a little passive-aggressive, didn’t it? Still, like any good head doctor, I was willing to weigh all the evidence before I delivered my diagnosis.

‘It’s not as obvious as it might be, I’m afraid.’

‘Well, you do understand that John and Eunice were killed by a bomb.’

‘I understand that you believe that to be the case.’

Alfred’s lips peeled back, revealing his upper incisors. I got the impression he wasn’t the most patient of characters. It was probably best to let him get on with it. I rolled my hand, signalling for him to do just that.

‘Well, I rather think the question becomes:
Why?
’ Alfred peered at Victoria to make sure she was keeping up. She nodded vaguely and took a sip from her whisky, avoiding his eyes. ‘Two reasons occur to me. One is pure spite – the reaction of a bad loser. Perhaps we can’t rule that out altogether, but I don’t like it a great deal. If someone kills from anger, they’re unlikely to use a bomb. A knife or a gun strikes me as much more common. That leaves reason two. The murder must have been designed to conceal something.’

‘
Okay
.’

‘Now, from what Victoria has told me, the briefcase you were asked to deliver to Count Borelli was very similar to the one the winner of tonight’s tournament would have been presented with.’

‘It did look that way,’ I allowed. ‘But the case was pretty high up. I’d need to study it much more closely before I could say for certain.’

Alfred propped his elbow on his knee and pinched his bottom lip between his finger and thumb. ‘The Count was meant to be at the final table tonight, agreed?’

I agreed.

‘That means he had a one in six chance of taking the main prize. But let’s assume he wanted to improve his odds.’

It was a reasonable enough proposition. The Count had certainly been eager to get to the casino, which made me think he’d hoped to win quite badly.

‘Well now, what better way to improve his prospects than to ensure that he’d take home the money no matter who won the contest?’ Alfred showed me his palm, like a magician aiming to prove that he wasn’t concealing anything. ‘Let’s say I’d won – which, by the way, I was certainly on course to do – I’d have been presented with my briefcase of cash, yes?’

‘One would certainly hope so.’

‘And meanwhile, the Count had an
identical
case.’

‘My God,’ Victoria said. ‘You think he planned to switch them?’

Alfred clicked his fingers. ‘Precisely. He walks away with the money, and I walk away with a case full of Semtex. Then, when I open the thing …
SPLAT!
’ Alfred slapped his hand against his bony thigh. ‘I’m a dead man. No chance of me pursuing my missing half-million.’

He reclined in his chair and studied me for a time, waiting to see the light hit my eyes. The light was a long time coming. I was having trouble with the theory.

‘But the Count didn’t have the case. It had already exploded by then.’

‘Ah, but only because you decided to open it. If your curiosity hadn’t got the better of you, he would have had a perfectly primed weapon.’

Hmm. I supposed the theory wasn’t completely without merit. But it was a long way from watertight.

‘There’s still plenty of holes in your explanation,’ I told him. ‘The girl who gave me the bomb did it because she wanted Borelli dead. So did the people she works for. I was told to go back and shoot him. That has to mean the explosion was originally intended to take him out.’

‘This girl,’ Alfred said. ‘Victoria tells me that you believe she was the dealer at my table tonight?’

I nodded. ‘Her name’s Graziella. And my understanding is that she rigged the cards in favour of the fellow with the high-calorie diet and the wayward beard.’

‘I confess, that did surprise me. I’m not sure how he fits into the picture quite yet.’

I didn’t risk looking at Victoria. I wasn’t about to explain our connection for fear of sidetracking Alfred. ‘He’s not someone you’d noticed before?’ I asked.

‘I was aware of him – been noting his progress during the tournament. French by the sounds of what little he said at the table tonight. Or possibly Belgian. Certainly lacking in manners, not to mention how shoddily he was dressed.’

It was probably best not to concern myself with Alfred’s opinion of my own outfit. ‘But doesn’t the way Graziella helped him to win suggest that Borelli’s chances of getting his hands on the case were practically zero?’

Alfred’s mouth became a squiggly line. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, then heaved himself up out of his chair and stepped across to a suitcase on a fold-out stand beside his wardrobe. He unzipped a compartment and removed a brown business envelope, offering it across to me.

‘What’s this?’ I asked.

‘Take a look.’

I parted the envelope and slipped my hand inside. The envelope contained a set of colour photographs. The images had been printed onto sheets of A4 paper, wrinkled by heavy ink. They looked as if they’d been pulled off a home computer. I shuffled through them, then passed them to Victoria.

‘That’s Borelli and Graziella,’ I said. ‘Her hair might be blonde in the photographs, but I happen to know she has a wig just like it.’

‘I recognised her myself,’ Alfred told me.

‘But what does this mean?’ Victoria asked, waving the photographs in the air. ‘What’s the significance of these pictures?’

Alfred rested a hand on her shoulder and bent down to kiss her on the crown of her head. ‘These are the photographs Eunice sent me from Monte Carlo. I think we could have assumed it was the same Count. But until I began playing in the tournament, I’d never spotted the girl before. She was dealing every night this week, and our friend Borelli always seemed to rally when she was at his table. I knew why, of course, but now I understand from Charlie that as well as being a card sharp, she also has a facility as a burglar. You’ll recall that Eunice believed her hotel room had been broken into. I’d say it’s highly likely that our girl here was responsible.’

‘You think she helped to switch the briefcases?’ I asked.

‘I checked with the casino,’ he told me. ‘John was paid in cash. The notes were packed inside an attaché case – provided
gratis
.’

‘An identical scenario.’

Alfred nodded. ‘It’s beginning to look as if I was fortunate not to win tonight, wouldn’t you say?’

I’d just about had my fill of talking. There we were, sitting in a hotel room, joining together the dots of what had happened and why, and meanwhile events were moving on without us. It was 1.15 a.m. The blackjack tournament would be over by now, and if things had played out as we suspected, Graziella and her bedraggled companion would be divvying up their winnings. More to the point, the police would have interviewed Count Borelli and there was a good chance they’d be looking for me in connection with his abduction. Now, Venice undoubtedly has its appeals, but one thing I couldn’t ignore was how cramped the place happened to be. Once my description and identity were made public, there was no way I could possibly linger. That gave me until morning to move around freely – say ten o’clock at the latest. It was beginning to look as if I wouldn’t be enjoying much sleep.

Snatching up the telephone on the side cabinet, I dialled an outside line and punched in Pierre’s number. I suppose I should have asked Alfred’s permission before hiking his hotel bill with an international call, but given the circumstances, I thought my behaviour might be excused. We had plenty of theories and a good deal of speculation, but what I needed were answers.

The phone buzzed and buzzed again. It repeated the pattern. I checked the time on my watch, then remembered that I already knew how late it was. The phone rang on, without urgency, like a soporific heartbeat.

‘Who are you calling?’ Victoria asked.