Bo interrupted his brother, “What detective?”
Prosper gave him a wretched look. They came to a bridge and Scipio coolly scrutinized the people pushing up the stairs behind them.
“You don’t need to look as if it’s the most stupid thing you’ve ever heard,” Riccio said. “Victor the snoop likes to dress up. Perhaps it really was him. And —”
“The pigeon man was called Victor,” Bo interrupted him. He leaned over the balustrade.
“What?” Prosper swung Bo toward him. “What did you just say, Bo?” A few gondolas swayed on the water. The gondoliers waited for customers at the foot of the bridge. Bo watched with fascination as they tried to entice the passersby.
“I said the pigeon man’s name was Victor,” Bo repeated without taking his eyes off the gondolieri. Then he tore away from Prosper and jumped down the steps to watch a gondolier push his boat off its mooring.
Prosper stayed on the bridge. He stood there as if rooted to the spot.
“Victor the snoop,” Riccio breathed. He stood on tiptoes and peered into the crowds moving toward the bridge. Prosper, meanwhile, turned around and ran after Bo. He pulled him away from the gondolas so violently that Bo nearly fell over. Then he vanished with him into the next alley.
“Hey, Prosper, wait!” Scipio called out before chasing after them. He caught up with them after a few yards.
“What are you doing, running off like that?” Scipio scolded him, holding on to his arm. Bo freed himself from Prosper’s grip and stood next to Scipio.
“Come with me!” Scipio said and without another word he pushed the two of them into the nearest souvenir shop. Riccio, Mosca, and Hornet squeezed in after them.
“Act as if you’re looking at something!” Scipio whispered. The shop assistant looked at them suspiciously. “If that guy in St. Mark’s Square really was that detective then it won’t do any good to just run away,” he said to Prosper under his breath. “With all those people around you’d never notice him following you!” He crouched in front of Bo and put his hands on his shoulders. “That Victor — did he ask you any questions?” he asked. “When you were feeding the pigeons back in the square?”
Bo crossed his arms behind his back. “He asked me my name …”
“Did you tell him?”
Hesitantly, Bo nodded.
“What else did you tell him, Bo?” Hornet whispered.
The shop assistant looked toward them more frequently now, but luckily a party of tourists came in and kept her busy for the time being.
“I don’t remember,” Bo mumbled and looked at Prosper. “Did Esther send the detective?” His lips began to tremble.
Scipio sighed and got up again. He looked at Prosper. “What does this detective look like?”
“But that’s just it!” The tourists turned around, and Prosper immediately lowered his voice. “This time he looked completely different! He had no beard and he wore glasses, and I could hardly see his eyes because he wore a cap. I only recognized him because he ran away. He moves his shoulders in a strange way when he walks. Like a bulldog.”
“Hmm.” Scipio felt for the Conte’s envelope. It was still tucked, unopened, inside his jacket. Then he looked thoughtfully through the shop window. “If that really was the detective,” he murmured, “and if he really is following us, then we’re leading him straight to the hideout. Unless we can get rid of him first.”
The others looked at one another uneasily. Mosca lifted the Conte’s basket and peered through the lid. The pigeon was growing restless in its prison. “It’s about time we let it out of there,” Mosca whispered. “It’s probably hungry. Does anybody know what pigeons eat?”
“Ask Bo, he’s just fed dozens of the creatures.” Again, Scipio felt for the envelope in his pocket. For a moment, Prosper thought he was going to open it, but to his surprise Scipio suddenly slipped out of his jacket, pulled the ribbon off his hair, and took the cap off Mosca’s head.
“Two can play at that game,” he said and pulled the cap over his own head. “It’s not that hard to change the way you look.” He threw his jacket at Prosper. “You stay here, Bo. If the snoop is really after you then he’s probably outside, waiting for you to come out. You just stand by the window so that he can see you through the glass. Mosca, you take the pigeon and the envelope back home.”
Mosca nodded and, with great care, placed the Conte’s envelope into his pants pocket.
“Riccio. Hornet.” Scipio waved the two of them to the door. “We’ll take a look outside. Maybe we’ll find him. What was he wearing?”
Prosper thought. “A red jacket, light pants, and a weird checkered sweater. He had a camera around his neck. And he had glasses and a baseball cap with something written on it. I love Venice, or something like that …”
“… and his watch.” Bo was nibbling his thumbnail. “It had a moon on it.”
Scipio frowned. “Fine. Got all that?”
Hornet, Riccio, and Mosca nodded.
“Then let’s go.”
One by one, they slipped outside. Prosper and Bo watched them through the window.
“But he was nice,” Bo mumbled.
“You never know right away whether someone is really nice,” Prosper replied. “And you can’t tell from the way someone looks. How often do I have to tell you that?”
15
Victor was standing just a few yards away. Trying to look inconspicuous, he had turned his back to the shop that the children had just gone into. But he was keeping an eye on the entrance by watching the reflection in the window of the shop opposite.
What are they up to in there? Victor wondered while he shifted impatiently from one foot to the other. Are they buying one of those plastic fans? Or does their leader want to buy another mask for his face? Then Victor saw the girl step out of the shop. Hornet, Bo had called her. She glanced around, acting very casual, checking out the gondolas by the bridge, and then started toward them. Hardly a minute later the black boy left the shop. He was carrying a large basket and walked off in exactly the opposite direction. By the devil and his pestilences, what was going on now? Why were they splitting up? Well it doesn’t matter, my two suspects are still in the shop, Victor comforted himself. He adjusted his sunglasses. Next came the hedgehog. He skipped off toward the cake shop, which, a few steps away, filled the alley with its wonderful baking smells. The boy pressed his nose against the window. Perhaps all the others had to go home now to do their homework or have lunch. Perhaps Bo’s story about all his friends living together in a movie theater had just been a fantasy after all, nothing more. It made it a lot easier for Victor, of course. The others would go home eventually, one by one, leaving Prosper and Bo behind.
“I live in a movie theater, with all my friends.” Pah! You had to hand it to the boy, he knew how to spin a good story. Amused, Victor looked at the reflection of his face in the window. Hold on, who was that coming out of the shop? Another one of those kids.
Which one was missing? The masked one. Of course. But hadn’t he looked different earlier? Victor frowned. The boy stood in front of the shop door for a moment, looked around with a face that gave nothing away, and then kneeled down to tie his shoelaces. He straightened himself again, blinked into the sun, and strolled, whistling, toward the gondolieri who were still out trying to net customers at the base of the bridge. “Gondola! Gondola!” they called out loudly. Victor would far rather have gone for a ride in one of those boats than stand around here. The cushions were so soft and the gentle rocking of the boat along the canals always made him so wonderfully sleepy. All one could hear was the water splashing, slurping, and gurgling against the sides. And then there was the gentle whisper of the city … Victor closed his eyes and sighed for a second before opening them wide with a jolt.
“Scusi!” a voice said beside him.
The boy who had been looking at the gondolas was now standing in front of him, grinning broadly. He had a very thin face and very dark, almost black, eyes. Victor took
off his sunglasses to take a closer look. Was this the boy in the mask who had strutted like a cockerel ahead of the others across St. Mark’s Square?
“Can you tell me the time, please?” the boy said, taking a very close look at Victor’s checkered sweater.
Victor frowned as he looked at his watch. “Four sixteen,” he grunted.
The boy nodded. “Thank you. That’s a nice watch. Does it also show the time on the moon?”
His dark eyes sparkled with laughter as he looked at Victor. What does he want from me? Victor wondered. He’s definitely up to something. He cast a quick glance toward the souvenir shop and saw with relief that Prosper and Bo were still standing by the window. They were gazing at the trash on display as seriously as if it were treasure from the Doge’s Palace.
“Are you English?”
“No. I’m an Eskimo, can’t you tell?” Victor growled. He stroked his fake, thin beard and sensed that it was beginning to develop a life of its own.
“An Eskimo? That’s interesting. They don’t stray into this city too often,” the boy said before turning around and strolling away. Victor just stood there, tugging on his beard.
“Darn it!” he muttered, and turned quickly to pluck the stupid thing from his lip. Then he saw that the girl was slipping back into the shop. And even the hedgehog was no longer glued to the window of the pasticceria, but the boy with the black eyes was nowhere to be seen. They can’t possibly have recognized me, Victor thought. Impossible. Then, to his bafflement, he saw the three of them come out of the souvenir shop in perfect formation with Prosper and Bo in the middle. Not one of them glanced at him, but they all giggled and whispered and Victor had the distinct feeling that they were laughing at him. In no hurry whatsoever, they all strolled away in the direction of the Rialto.
Keeping out of sight, Victor followed them at a safe distance. But he had no practice in child-surveillance and, as he soon discovered, it was a very difficult task. They were so small, so much easier to overlook, and so quick. The alley they were walking down was very long and twisting, so it was just as well that from time to time one of the children turned and looked toward him. Victor tried to stay alert. But suddenly two large ladies stepped out of a café, laughing and arguing. They blocked the alley so that Victor had to push past their large behinds. He squeezed his way free — and ran straight into the girl. The same girl who had been so engrossed in her book by the fountain. Bo had called her Hornet.
She stared at him with hostile gray eyes, and before Victor realized what she was doing she threw herself against him and lashed out at his checkered sweater, screaming at the top of her voice, “Let me go, you pig! No! I don’t want to come with you! No!”
Victor was horrified. For a moment he just stood and stared down at her. Then he tried to push her away, but she wouldn’t let go of his jacket and kept thrashing at his chest. The people around them turned and stared at him and the screaming girl.
“I haven’t done anything!” Victor cried, dumbfounded. “I’ve done nothing! Absolutely nothing!” To his horror a dog jumped at him too, barking loudly. And in the meantime the other children disappeared into a side alley.
“Stop!” Victor yelled. “Stop, you rotten little devils!” He tried again to free himself from the girl but then something hit the back of his head with such force that he began to stagger. Before he knew it, the two large ladies were all over him, swinging their massive handbags at his head. Outraged, Victor bellowed back at them, holding his arms above his head, but the girl kept screaming and the ladies kept thrashing and the dog kept growling, sinking its teeth into Victor’s jacket. The crowd around him grew ever more angry. They’re going to crush me, Victor thought. He couldn’t believe it. He felt someone tearing a button off his jacket. Just as he was about to drop to his knees a Carabiniere fought his way through and pulled him up again. All around him a hundred voices shouted, simultaneously trying to explain what had caused this mayhem, and Victor realized that the girl had gone. Vanished, just like her four friends.
16
“We showed him, all right!” Hornet said, once they were all safely back in the hideout. She had a deep scratch on her cheek and her cardigan was missing two buttons. But she was grinning from ear to ear. “And look what I got in all the commotion.” Proudly, she produced Victor’s wallet from underneath her jacket. She flung it over to Prosper. “Don’t get angry with me. Perhaps now you can find out more about this guy.”
Prosper murmured, “Thanks,” and without hesitation quickly went through the wallet’s various compartments. There were a few bills from some shop in San Paolo, a receipt from a supermarket, a ticket to the Doge’s Palace. He threw all this carelessly to the ground. Then he held Victor’s detective ID in his hands. He stared at it grimly.
Hornet looked over his shoulder. “So he really is a detective,” she said.
Prosper nodded. He looked so desperate that she didn’t know where to look. “Come on, just forget him!” she said quietly. She slowly stretched out her hand and stroked Prosper’s face. He didn’t even seem to notice. He only looked up when Scipio approached them.
“What are you looking so gloomy about?” the Thief Lord said, putting his arm around Prosper’s shoulder. “We gave him the slip. Don’t you want to see what’s in the Conte’s envelope?”
Prosper nodded and stuffed Victor’s wallet into his pocket.
Scipio opened the envelope with great ceremony; he slit it open with his penknife while the others, sitting on the folding seats in front of him, watched with rapt anticipation.
“By the way, where’s the pigeon, Mosca?” Scipio asked as he pulled a photograph and a folded sheet of paper from the envelope.
“Still sitting in the basket. I threw it some breadcrumbs,” Mosca answered. “And now let’s get on with it. What’s that piece of paper?”
Scipio smiled. He dropped the empty envelope on the ground and unfolded the large sheet of paper. “The house he wants me to pay a little visit to is on the Campo Santa Margherita,” he said, “and this is the floor plan. Anyone want to see it?”
“Oh, just give it to me!” Hornet said impatiently. Scipio handed her the plan. Hornet took a quick look at it and then passed it to Mosca. Scipio meanwhile studied the photograph that had also been in the envelope. He seemed confused, as if he couldn’t quite work out what he was looking at.
“What is it?” The suspense made Riccio jump up out of his seat. “Go on, Scipio.”
“Looks like a wing,” Scipio mumbled. “What do you think it is?”
The photograph went from one child to the other and all of them looked at it in just as much bewilderment as Scipio.
“Yes, it’s a wing,” Prosper agreed after having studied it from all possible angles. “And it seems to be made of wood, just as the Conte said.”
Scipio took the picture from his hands and stared at it.
“Five million lire for a broken wooden wing?” Mosca shook his head incredulously.
“How much?” The question came simultaneously from Hornet and Riccio.
“That’s quite a lot, isn’t it?” Bo asked.
Prosper nodded. “Take another look at the envelope,” he said. “Maybe there’s something else in there to explain all this.”
Scipio nodded and picked up the envelope. He peered inside and then took out a small card, closely written on both sides.
“The wing shown on the enclosed photograph,” Scipio read, “is the counterpart to the wing I am looking for. They look identical. Both are about seventy inches long and thirty inches wide. The wood was once painted white, but this will certainly have faded, and the gold on the edges of the feathers has probably also flaked off from the second wing. At the base of the wing there should be two long metal pins, each approximately two inches in diameter.”
Scipio lifted his head. His face showed disappointment. He had obviously not expected the item he was supposed to steal — which had made the old man’s voice quiver with longing — would be a p
iece of old wood!
“Perhaps the Conte has one of these beautiful carved angels,” Hornet ventured. “You know, like they have in big churches. An angel like that is probably quite valuable, but only if it has both its wings. And he has probably somehow lost one of them.”
“I don’t know.” Mosca shook his head. He went over to Scipio to have another look at the picture. “What’s that in the background?” he asked. “It’s very blurry, but it looks like a wooden horse.”
Scipio turned the card over and frowned. “Wait, there’s more. Listen: The living quarters of the Casa Spavento, as far as I have been informed, are mostly on the first floor. The wing is probably kept there somewhere. I have had no information about any alarm systems, but it is possible that there are dogs in the house. Hurry, my friend! I will await your report with great impatience. Feed the pigeon bread and let it fly a little. Sofia is a friendly and dependable creature.”
“Sofia. I like that name,” said Bo, peeking into the pigeon basket.
“Yes, but you must keep your cats away from her,” Mosca teased him. “They’ll eat her whether she’s got a nice name or not.”
Bo looked shocked.
“A wooden angel!” Riccio wrinkled his nose and pushed a finger into his mouth. He often had a toothache, but today it was particularly bad. “Not even a whole angel, just a wing. And that’s supposed to be worth five million lire?”
Hornet leaned against the starry curtain and shrugged. “I don’t like it,” she said. “All the secrecy — and the redbeard being part of it.”
“No, Barbarossa is just the middle man.” Scipio was staring at the photograph. “You should have heard the Conte! He’s completely crazy about this wing. It didn’t sound as if this was only about the money he could get for a valuable statue. No, there’s something else behind all this. Do you still have my jacket, Prop?”
Prosper threw the jacket over to him. Scipio slipped into the long sleeves and sighed. “Here, you’d better keep this safe. It’s probably best in our money box,” he said, handing Hornet the photograph, the card, and the floor plan. “I’ve got to go. I’ll be out of the city for three days. Until I return you will observe the house. We have to know everything: who comes and goes, the habits of the people living there, how many visitors, when the house is empty, the best way to get in, and whether there really are any dogs there. You know, the usual stuff. Check whether the doors are marked in the right places on the floor plan. The house is supposed to have a garden, which may be useful. Oh, and Prosper” — Scipio turned to him once more — “you and Bo had better not leave the hideout in the next few days. We’ve shaken off the detective for now, but you never know.” Scipio pulled the mask over his face.
The Thief Lord Page 8
