After the campanile bell had tolled midnight, the phone rang. She snatched at the buttons, cursing her own impatience.
“Yes?”
“You wouldn’t believe it,” said Biagio’s distant, scratched voice. “He’s almost on our doorstep.”
“And Forster?”
“With him. They’re both inside now. It’s near San Niccolò Mendicoli. Just off the campo. I can wait for you outside. It’s deserted around here.”
She tried to picture the location in her head. She knew the church. It was small, medieval, by a narrow rio south of Piazzale Roma. She could take a water taxi and be there in ten minutes.
“What do you want me to do?” Biagio asked.
Such a dainty way of saying it, she thought. They both understood the real question. Two men, both of some repute, had entered a building in a deserted, remote part of the city. She could not think of calling for assistance. There was nothing to report. Or, worse, there was, and the wrong people would hear.
“Wait for me,” she ordered. “In fifteen minutes you call them, say there’s something suspicious and they should check. That should give us a little time before they come.”
“OK,” Biagio said uncertainly. He was out of uniform, calling in sick, taking a big risk. She had to protect him if the walls began to fall around their heads. She knew that.
“Biagio,” she said. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell them I ordered everything. OK?”
“You’re the boss,” he replied.
“Right. And you make that call, whether I’ve arrived or not. I won’t be long.”
“And then?”
She heard the hesitation in his distant voice.
“Then we open a couple of coffins,” she answered. “And see what flies out with the dust.”
61
View from a window
Three times I pleaded with a gondolier to take me across that short black stretch of water. Three times they refused. A man without money ceases to exist. I had one item of value left in the world: the small Star of David that Rebecca had placed around my neck a lifetime ago. At the traghetto I offered it to the gondolier. He sneered at the precious piece of silver, then took it and nodded me into the boat. I had no choice. The alternative was to race through the back alleys of San Marco and make that long loop over the Rialto, then down to the Dorsoduro once more. I had not the time, yet without that small memento of another part of our lives, I now felt naked.
The September afternoon was waning when I found myself in the alley by the rio which leads to the rear entrance of Ca’ Dario. Swarms of flies ascended from the piles of rubbish awaiting disposal by the waterside. From the dark chasms which marked the entrance to the tawdry local inns, eyes glittered at me as I passed. The city stank. I could feel my time inside it running out, like sand falling through a glass. If ever I managed to release Rebecca from this devil’s grasp and take her to safety, I would, I vowed, go down on my knees to kiss terra firma and swear never to abandon land again.
There was much to be done before that happy state was reached and little with which to achieve it. I had no means and no weapon — I had left my only blade on the cobbles outside La Pietà. No plan, either, save to hope Jacopo would find some way to smuggle Rebecca to freedom. When I saw that familiar house, with its forest of curious chimneys, its secure position by the Grand Canal, and the high surrounding wall, I realised how fruitless this proposition was too. Delapole had chosen his abode well. It was, in its own way, a small fortress. There was but a single entrance to the landward side of Dorsoduro at the rear, and the same on the canal at the front. To the west side stood the rio, just big enough for a gondola, but with no access to the building. On the east was an even narrower line of water between Dario and the adjoining palace, from which entry was barred by a high wall. It seemed impregnable. There was nothing to do but wait. Which I did, sitting in the shadow of the neighbouring garden’s alcove entry, and all to no avail.
The maid and the cook left — for good, by the looks of it, since they murmured darkly about Delapole’s meanness as they passed me. I watched the windows and saw nothing. I had thought Ca’ Dario a small property until now. It was, by comparison with its neighbours, but not when it came to guessing where a handful of people might be behind its walls. The house stood on four storeys, each of a size which might encompass six or eight normal rooms. I had seen only the first floor, with its grand parlour opening onto the canal. It was impossible to imagine where in this miniature castle Delapole might be making final preparations for his flight. All I could count upon, I believed, was that he would be in a hurry. There, again, I was wrong.
Two red-faced men, whom I took to be creditors, came to the door and were sent away by Gobbo with a few coarse words and empty pockets. Nothing else occurred. After almost an hour of inactivity, my patience broke. If the watch were to take note of Marchese’s information — which, given his murder, seemed far from certain — they would surely do so soon. Even without this, Delapole must make his exit before long. Either way, we would be damned. I poked my head out into the light and considered the situation. Ca’ Dario seemed impregnable, but there was one small possibility for entry. The house possessed a modest walled garden at the rear which, in part, adjoined that of its neighbour where the rio either terminated or went underground. I could see foliage, jasmine or oleander, running over the corner of the wall where it met the street. A little way along stood the branches of a small orange tree, bearing tiny fruit, which sat in the neighbour’s garden but crossed, a little, into the Dario property.
Gingerly, I turned the handle on the wrought-iron gate behind me. To my good fortune, it was unlocked, so I hastily pushed it open and stepped into the green parterre that lay behind. There was no time for dawdling. The house beyond looked empty. I scrambled up the orange tree until I reached the level of the wall’s summit, then rolled over and fell hard onto the puny grass of a small lawn. My blood froze. There were voices, coarse, male ones, close by. I hid in a bush and tried to think. The noise was coming from the front of the mansion, by its private jetty on the canal. If Delapole was about to leave, this in all probability would be his exit route. It was more public than the rear, but less accessible. To fly the city, he needed water transport. It made sense that it would arrive at the most convenient location, then carry him and his cargo away, perhaps to land, perhaps to a passenger ship in the docks.
I considered my options. The ground-floor level of the house was hopeless; the side windows were barred. The first floor, with that grand room where I had betrayed Rebecca to the Englishman, was beyond my reach. If I were to enter the house, it must be at the front, through the same arched entrance they would use to load Delapole’s possessions and, last, their passengers.
There was nothing for it. I clung to the damp wall, edged my way along the narrow stone skirt that ran from the garden, by the rio, to the canal, and poked my head around the corner. Thank God for the common Venetian. There were three of them, lounging in their boat, with several packing cases around them. Coils of tobacco smoke rose from the prow, where, with their backs to me, the men lay, cursing idly about the whims of rich men who order a boat for five and still decline to board it at six. I felt relieved. Then one of them murmured, “Perhaps he’s fancying a bit of rough-and-tumble with that bit of skirt, lads. Can’t blame him, eh? She’s a pretty one. They were upstairs for a reason, if you ask me.”
My heart sank. While they gossiped, I edged along the dank white marble frontage until I reached the narrow jetty, then dashed silently into the gaping arched maw of the entrance. None saw me. I paused against a wall, marshalling my thoughts. There was a small sledgehammer at the foot of the grubby stone stairs that led up to the house proper. I did not want to walk into the presence of either Delapole or Gobbo unarmed. No other weapon was likely to present itself. I lifted the thing, felt its pendulous weight swing beneath my arm, and was then up the stairs, two at a time, into the corridor which ran along the main reception room. They had said Delapole and Rebecca were above. I had no idea where Gobbo might be. Then I heard something that made me grip that hammer tight in my hands and catch my breath. From above, distant but with that unmistakable, bold tone, came the sound of Rebecca’s violin, and behind it Delapole’s cold voice.