Quick on the Draw

by Susan Moody

  I finished eating, paid and left, looking for the address I’d been given by Dominic. Signora Moretti lived in one of those typical tall Venetian houses along a canal, crammed together with its neighbours, all peeling plaster and rose-painted walls. The house’s faded shutters were closed against the afternoon heat, giving it the blank air of a cemetery. I pressed the bell beside the name Moretti and waited. And waited some more. Pressed again. Some clanking noises took place above my head, so I stepped back and looked up. A face appeared, half obscured by a fascinating display of underwear of a kind I hadn’t seen in England for years. Fearsome salmon-pink corsets, vast knickers, suspender belts of pinky-grey, boned bras, vests of the sort people’s grandfathers used to wear on the beach at Blackpool and Scunthorpe under handkerchiefs knotted at the four corners. Time warp, I told myself.

  The head screeched a question of some kind down at me, and I screeched back my name. A string appeared with a key on the end of it, making its way down through the laundry, getting caught up on some tea towels on the washing line below and being jerked free, bypassing the three blouses below that and eventually landing in my hand. I released the key and watched the string snake its way up again. I assumed I was to use it to open the heavy door, which I did to the accompaniment of approving stridency from above.

  Inside the small square hallway were smells of damp and fungi. There were green stains round the lower part of the walls, and the clammy tiles were uneven, forced from their setting by creeping moisture. A narrow stone staircase led to the upper part of the building and, looking up through the coil of the banisters, I could see the screeching woman herself way up at the top, guiding me aloft with encouraging cries. When I reached her landing, she was standing beside her open door, smart in black top and trousers, with a scarf of brilliant emerald green around her neck. Now we were more or less face to face, the shriek was softened into a relatively civilized voice.

  ‘I am Carlotta. Come in, come in,’ she said, speaking pretty good English. I’d been afraid she would not only use Italian, but the Venetian version, which is practically a separate language. ‘We shall drink coffee together, and I shall tell you what I know.’

  It turned out that she had spent time in England in her younger days, first as an au pair girl with a family in Cheltenham and then working as a waitress in a café near Wallingford for six months, in order to perfect her grasp of English before becoming a language teacher.

  ‘Now,’ she said finally. She put down her coffee cup and leaned forward. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘I read a transcript of your statement to the Marchese Cesare, with regard to the abduction of his nephew, Sandro,’ I said. ‘I’d be grateful if you could go over it again for me.’

  ‘Ah, yes. You see, young Sandro is friendly with Alberto, my sister’s son, so I know him well,’ she explained. ‘There is no question of me mistaking him for someone else. I saw it all. Everything. I was sitting out there, on my balcone, enjoying the last of the sunset when I looked down and saw Sandro. He was walking in the direction of his uncle’s home, and I was just about to call down and invite him to join me in a glass of grappa when suddenly these men appeared from some doorway. Three of them. I thought it was a prank, a joke, when they grabbed him. One put a hand over the boy’s mouth. The other two lifted him and hurried along the calle. He was struggling. Striking at the men with his hands, but he couldn’t get free.’

  ‘Some prank.’

  ‘I know. I still didn’t realize it was a real abduction, though, or I would of course have called the police. I don’t know where they took him. Once they had turned the corner, obviously I couldn’t tell. But I am friends with Signora Elsa, who works as a secretary at the Marchese’s office, and when I bumped into her the next day – or was it two days later? – she had heard from one of the staff at his place that the boy had disappeared. At first I was laughing; I still thought it was a joke, you see. Or that he was with a girl. A boy who looks like that … dio mio!’ She waved a hand in front of her face like a fan, as though to cool down the flames of desire. ‘So it was a while before I realized that it was serious. That the poor boy really had been kidnapped. And that I had watched it all and done nothing to help him.’

  ‘Can you remember anything about the men who took him?’

  ‘Not really. One was tall, with a shaven head and an earring – I could see that because of the moonlight. The other two were smaller and more – what is the word? – stocky. Jeans … I know they were all three wearing jeans, but these days, what does that signify?’

  ‘Did they look like Italians?’

  ‘One of the two shorter ones had light-coloured hair. Not blond, but certainly much lighter than black, which is the colour of most Italian men’s hair.’

  ‘Though not all,’ I said. ‘Which, when you think of Venice’s history, is not so surprising. Could you tell what sort of age they were?’

  ‘Hard to say. Somewhere between twenty-five and late thirties, I would say. The tall one was definitely the leader.’

  ‘Did he look Italian?’

  She moved her mouth about a bit. ‘Now you mention it, I’m not sure. Come to think of it, and despite his lack of hair, no, he definitely didn’t.’

  ‘But the other two?’

  ‘Local, I would say.’

  ‘Do you think you would recognize them again? If you saw them on the street, for instance?’

  She shrugged. ‘If I saw all three of them together, I might. But otherwise …? I doubt it.’

  ‘Has your friend Elsa had anything more to tell you?’

  ‘Only that the Marchese’s household is very upset. Which is understandable. His poor uncle and aunt are distraught indeed.’

  I made about-to-leave motions. ‘Signora, I must ask you to tell no one that I have spoken to you,’ I said in a low voice. ‘Not even Signora Elsa. No one at all. It could seriously get in the way of finding Sandro if his kidnappers knew I was here.’

  She brought up her hands and pressed them against her mouth. She said, half-gasping, ‘Then you are …’

  I nodded significantly while she lay back in her chair, looking at me as though I was some creature who had emerged from the lagoon. A creature with power. I repeated, ‘If you mention my presence here in Venice to anyone, you could gravely endanger Sandro’s life.’

  She shrank slightly away from me. ‘I won’t say a word to anyone, I swear.’

  ‘That’s good, signora. And if anything else occurs to you, please let me know.’ I told her where I was staying. ‘Meanwhile …’ I made a zipping-up gesture across my mouth. She did the same.

  As I left the building, pulling the front door shut behind me, I didn’t look up. But I was prepared to swear that Signora Carlotta Moretti was watching me from above. What she had told me sounded perfectly sincere.

  I walked towards Campo San Polo along streets crowded with every sort of shop, selling all kinds of merchandise from tacky tourist souvenirs to top name brands like Gucci, Prada, Versace, Dior. Coming out of one of these was a Bichon Frise with a two-inch wide jewelled collar round its neck. It was straining at a lead held by one of those relentlessly pared-down women you come across in big cities. Long blonde hair streamed down her back, topped by a black fedora which hid most of her face. Tight black leather trousers descended into high-heeled black ankle boots decorated with buckles and bits of diamante. A vivid black-and-white checked coat swung above her narrow hips. Over her shoulder was a must-have leather bag which probably cost as much as my flat in Longbury. If not more. A gym-honed body couldn’t hide the loose skin of her throat.

  Like everyone else in the vicinity, I stared at her. Which I imagine was the intention. Call me shallow, but I hated her on sight. Forcing myself to look away, I went on to visit a couple of galleries specializing in modern art. It wasn’t stuff I particularly liked, but I picked up brochures and, where I could, explained that I had been commissioned to write some articles on the contemporary art scene in Venice. I added that
I would be delighted to mention their names in exchange for information and illumination. In return, I received a mass of usable stuff.

  I had set aside the following day for a visit to the white Palladian building which housed the Peggy Guggenheim Collection. I was also hoping to contrive a meeting with Cesare, which we would have to make look accidental in case there were any watchers around. Perfectly possible. After all, I was in the city, and we did know each other … what could be more natural than to shake hands, express exaggerated surprise at bumping into each other like this and at the same time exchange as swiftly as we could anything we felt the other should know.

  It was a beautiful evening. I strolled along beside small canals, crossed tiny bridges, squeezed down little alleyways. Birds swung in their cages from vine-covered altanes and geranium-stuffed balconies or loggias. Venetians love pets of every kind and their artists have always included them in their paintings of saints and Madonnas, bringing the divine down to the level of the ordinary lives of the city’s inhabitants. Dogs, doves, rabbits, lambs, pheasants … they’re all there, engaged in their domestic routines, while angels descend and holy babes are held in loving maternal arms. And of course there was the Lion of Saint Mark, representing the evangelist St Mark.

  I passed various shops selling beautiful leatherwork and paper goods. Sam Willoughby would have loved this, I thought. Maybe he should try to import some of the classy writing paper, notelets and matching envelopes lined with traditional Florentine designs. He could stock them in his bookshop. They’d go like a bomb in Longbury. But, I thought sourly, these days he probably preferred woollen goods produced from New Zealand sheep.

  I found a restaurant I’d been to before and sat down. A nice meal, in spite of the various sex pests who stopped at the sight of me. In Italy, it is a truth universally acknowledged (at least among the male population) that a reasonably presentable female on her own must be in want of a male. Difficult as it was, I managed to keep my knickers on as one after another they paused at my table to try their luck. Fortunately I have a fairly impressive Italian vocabulary of put-downs to use if I have to. I’ve often wondered what on earth they would do if I stood up and said, ‘Come on, big boy, let’s go, your place or mine?’ Run like the wind, probably.

  I kept an eye out for White Hat Man, but didn’t see him. Had I just been paranoid, imagining that he was following me? The truth was that if the faux-Forbes hadn’t mentioned a similar man, I wouldn’t have given him a second thought. I also watched for any tall, bald men with earrings to appear, but none did. Where would they have taken Sandro? And why would they have emerged just below Carlotta Moretti’s balcony, or close by? I walked back towards her house, scanning to left and right as I went. They must have been taking a hell of a risk, kidnapping poor Sandro in such a crowded quarter. Which would argue, would it not, that they weren’t taking him very far? So had they used a boat of some kind and motored across the lagoon to one of the outlying islands? Or up the Grand Canal to the mainland and bundled him into a car before driving him off to God knew where? Or had they simply stashed him in one of the houses close to Signora Moretti’s? It was easy to be secretive in a city like Venice, even though, as I had been repeatedly told, it was a place small enough for all the genuine Venetians to know, or at least recognize, each other.

  There were stars in the sky as I walked back to my little hotel. Accordion music drifted from somewhere. Evocative. Melancholy. From windows high above my head came the sound of conversations, laughter, arguments, singing, even weeping. I wondered whether Sandro was somewhere nearby, confined to a room, gagged and bound, and if so, what he could see and hear, if anything.

  Back in my room, I dialled Cesare on my anonymous cell phone for an update on developments, but he said there had been none. I told him that my movements during the day had corresponded exactly with what I purported to be. With what I was. That’s to say someone writing about art in Venice. Establishing my credentials. With any luck, I wouldn’t be an object of suspicion even if I did ‘happen’ to see Cesare in the city. Though in any case, I could see absolutely no reason why I should be.

  ‘So let us meet tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Some time before lunch. I have an appointment with my bankers and financial people, making arrangements for releasing the ransom money. We can meet as though by accident.’ We established an approximate time and place.

  I showered away the heat and exertion of the day and slept deeply.

  TEN

  ‘Madonna santa!’ A handsome man of some fifty summers or more halted in front of my table as I sat nursing a coffee. ‘It is Signorina Alessandra Quick, is it not?’

  ‘Marchese!’ Like him, I feigned astonishment, then stood up to greet him. ‘It is indeed! But fancy seeing you – though of course, I’d forgotten that you live here, so it’s not all that surprising, is it?’ I gave a peal of girlish laughter which, while it didn’t fool me, might possibly fool any suspicious kidnappers who were lurking nearby.

  ‘Such a pleasure to see you here in my beautiful city.’ Despite his words, Cesare’s face was drawn, as you would expect, given the circumstances. His eagle’s beak of a nose jutted out sharply between eyes that had sunk deep into their sockets, and his former haughtiness had dimmed.

  I gestured at the spare seat at my table. ‘Would you like a coffee? Or a glass of wine?’

  ‘No, thank you. I have to get home for lunch,’ he said. He shifted position so that he was now facing the canal, his back to any observers. ‘Anything new to report?’

  I laughed again, throwing back my head. ‘Signora Moretti described the kidnappers to me, but wasn’t sure she’d recognize them if she saw them on the street.’

  He raised his hand, as though pointing out the church across from us.

  I nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, I certainly won’t miss that.’

  At the same time, he said, ‘We’ve had a new communication from them. Soon we get instructions about where, when and how to hand over the ransom.’

  ‘Do you think this is only about the money?’

  He shook his head. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘I imagine it’s fairly straightforward to organize.’

  He hesitated. Then said, ‘Of course.’ Over-hearty and under-convincing.

  ‘I’ll call you tonight,’ I said. And, more loudly, ‘It’s been great to see you again.’

  ‘And you too, Alessandra.’ He shook my hand and bowed slightly. ‘On another occasion, I should have been delighted to show you my collection, but now is not the time.’ He raised his voice. ‘It’s a pleasure to see you here in Venice. Enjoy it, signorina,’ he said, and continued on his way.

  The whole conversation had lasted maybe three minutes and would have appeared as innocent as baby talk if anyone had been watching us. Seeing him go, shoulders slumped, posture defeated, I felt extremely depressed. Not only was it painful to see how far he was removed from the fearsome bird of prey he had resembled at his nephew’s gathering such a short time ago in London, but I was also all too aware that payment of a ransom was no guarantee that a kidnap victim would be safely released. I also knew it had been estimated that, worldwide, criminal gangs made up to five hundred million dollars a year simply by kidnap and subsequent extortion. The statistics were not good. On the other hand, ransom victims had been returned safely. Hold that thought, I told myself.

  I fiddled with my shoulder bag, watching Cesare cross the canal. The people at a nearby table were also watching, making comments of some kind then looking across at me. No doubt they had recognized him and were wondering who I was. I didn’t have them down as part of the kidnapping gang: they wouldn’t have been scrutinizing us quite so obviously if they were. Much more possible was the all-male foursome at another table, crouched uncouthly over bowls of pasta, shovelling the stuff into their mouths. Two of them were stocky young men with short hair cut close to their heads – so close, in fact, that the pink of their scalps shone through. All of them were not looking at me. Was that a studie
d avoidance, or because they couldn’t have been less interested?

  Back in the safety of my room, I unfolded the half-sheet of paper Cesare had managed to thrust into my hand when we first met at the restaurant.

  I am in despair. This came today, he’d written at the top of the sheet. My eyes scrolled further down.

  One word to the police or any other investigator and your nephew is dead. We will send proof of this. There will be no negotiating. You now have three days in which to get the ransom together.

  A couple of things struck me immediately about the kidnappers’ message. First of all, it was written in English. Secondly, the language was sophisticated: the use of a construction like ‘in which to’ spoke of someone reasonably well-educated. I began to wonder if the tall, bald man spotted by Signora Moretti could be English. Someone who knew of Sandro’s privileged background and decided to cash in on it? In that case, it wouldn’t be too fanciful to conjecture that by now Sandro might have been transported back to England. Perhaps by car. Perhaps driven by a third party. It had also earlier struck me as odd that Cesare seemed uneasy, as though he was having a little difficulty in laying his hands on twenty million euros. Given his status and resources, I couldn’t believe he’d have had any problems at all, especially given Dominic Grainger’s assets to throw into the mix. Not that twenty million wasn’t a mind-blowing amount.

  Was it possible that the wealthy front he projected was just that: a front? That the loaded Marchese was not rolling in it after all? And with that thought, another followed on its heels. Supposing he were not as affluent as was believed – could he himself have organized the kidnap? It wasn’t as crazy an idea as it sounded. Sandro’s incredibly well-off parents would be flinging money left, right and centre to get their boy back home. And the boy was unlikely to come to much harm if he was unknowingly in his uncle’s custody. It was certainly something to consider. On the other hand, who would the tall baldy and the two henchmen be? Co-conspirators? It didn’t seem likely he would be consorting with such lowlifes given the cold, stiff, arrogant persona the Marchese presented to the world. And in any case, wouldn’t he be laying himself wide open to blackmail? No, there had to be another explanation.