by David Hewson
The hammer lay between us on the floor. He shuffled towards it. I could not believe we must fight again.
“You are insane,” I said. “Perhaps they will lock you in the asylum, not send you to the block which you deserve.”
“Deserts. Deserts. Who gets ’em, eh? Not their rightful owners, I think.”
He fell towards the weapon. My foot shot out and pulled it back from his grasp. He squirmed on the floor and looked up at me, still grinning.
“You have a very narrow definition of triumph, Lorenzo,” he said. “As do all Italians.”
I refused to listen to more and gripped Rebecca about the waist. She seemed close to fainting from the pain.
“Lorenzo!” Delapole barked. “Ask who beds her best. Ask whose tongue is more agile and finds the most delicious morsels. Ask who turns above her sweetly and never allows release until she begs. Ask whose child she really bears. . . .”
She moaned and stared at me with open eyes that could not lie. I turned and gazed at the bloody wretch on the floor.
“Oh, fool,” he spat at me. “Do you think that fiddle carried no price? I placed it in her lap and followed there soon after. Though her breeding and her other talents remained, I must admit, a secret till you revealed them.”
I looked into her eyes, seeking some denial. She said nothing but retreated from my arms.
“Poor Lorenzo,” Delapole sneered. “And now ...”
Whatever else he said escaped me. The redness was rising in my head as never before. If this was what Delapole wished, then so be it.
“Now I put an end to this,” I answered, and picked up the hammer.
She watched me begin, then, for reasons I did not at first understand, joined me with the dagger. There, on the second floor of Ca’ Dario, we butchered the man we knew as Oliver Delapole, methodically, with the hammer and the knife, as carefully as he must have slaughtered those women who were unfortunate to cross him in the past. We battered and we stabbed, to a constant, beating rhythm that filled the air with blood and the stench of meat, until all the spirit of this fiend was gone from the face of the earth. I knew at that moment that I should never again close my eyes and see an empty blackness. In this place there would forever be this deep, red stain and the plashy sound of metal upon flesh.
He laughed at us between the blows. This was a transformation for us all, and he had wrought it. Towards the last, when the blood was welling in his throat so much he was close to losing the power of speech, he muttered something. It was only after, when we had swiftly changed our gore-stained clothes and planned to stumble out of that charnel house, that I believed I remembered the quotation, though by then my brain was so fevered that I might have imagined it instead. The words were from the English poet Milton, in Paradise Lost.
Who overcomes
By force, hath overcome but half his foe.
Only part of Oliver Delapole died in Ca’ Dario that evening. The rest now lay inside us, like an infection that had darted into our blood, inseminating it with his devilish seed. By making us his murderers, he became our conqueror. Rebecca joined me in his slaughter that we might share the shame.
This much became apparent in that room by the Grand Canal as the long Venetian day made way for night. Deranged, in despair, I fell towards the great window overlooking the water, as if some kind of redemption lay beyond the glass. There was the strangest sight of all. Not the Venice I knew and now hated, familiar, heartless, and cold as the grave. Another view greeted my eyes, so outlandish I knew myself to be mad. Gone were the gondolas with their lamps, like fireflies on the water. In their place was a multitude of vessels, huge craft that lumbered across the channel, carrying scores of curiously dressed individuals on their backs. Around them were middling boats, bigger than gondolas and twice as fast, all scurrying across the surface with not an oarsman in sight.
The skyline of the city stood out against an aura of queer light, burning yellow yet too bright to be even the fiercest of torches. Outlandish structures, like the skeletons of great beasts, loomed over the western end of San Marco as if about to devour the buildings beneath their giant jaws. This was another world beyond the leaded panes of Ca’ Dario, one that was both familiar and untouchable....
I felt the blood turn solid in my veins. Here was some glimpse of paradise, perhaps, or a vision of some coming hell. Paralysed, I stood transfixed by that window, wishing I could reach out through the glass and touch this apparition which lived and breathed somewhere in the universe, quite unaware of my presence. Or so I thought.
Then, beneath me, on the stern of one of those great iron vessels, a face stared back at mine. A young child, a girl in a white dress, looked up, and—like me, cursed with some third eye—peered full into my face across whatever vast chasm of existence separated us. This ghost of the future saw. And what she saw sent such screaming terror through her mind ... at the sight of me.
One lifetime is insufficient. Some of us have more to atone for than a single span can embrace. I watched the child’s dread gaze, stared at my bloody hands, and, like a beast, I roared.
62
The treasure trove
MASSITER TOLD THE WATER TAXI TO DROP THEM AT the western end of the Zattere waterfront. Here the ancient city met the fringe of modern blocks that ran from the port north towards Piazzale Roma. There was the smell of marine fuel on the air and, beyond that, car fumes from the vast parking arena which sat at the city’s landward limit. But there were old buildings, too, low, stately shapes lurking in the half-lit streets. They walked away from the Giudecca canal, then crossed a small bridge, dodged through a pitch-black alley, and came out in a cobbled campo by a featureless church.
Massiter came to a halt in the square, next to a column topped by a small, winged lion just visible in the puny yellow spotlights of the church. He looked around them, sniffing at the air.
“Do you see anyone?” he murmured. Daniel scanned the square and said he could not detect a living soul in the neighbourhood.
“I imagine you’re right,” Massiter agreed. “This is one of the oldest parts of the city, you know. If they dug a little hereabouts, I can’t imagine what they’d find. San Niccolò there is half-Byzantine, and only a little modernised by the vandals.”
“It’s late,” Daniel said. “Let’s finish our business, Hugo.”
The older man surveyed the empty campo once more. “Of course. You won’t let me down, will you?”
“Meaning what, precisely?”
“Oh, Daniel. Please. I’m doing you a great favour here. I’ve had this private storeroom a decade or more, and hardly a soul outside my circle has seen it. Some would love to know its location. Thieves.”
“I know no thieves, Hugo.”
“Really? The police, then.”
“I see no police.”
“No.”
Massiter set off at a brisk pace to the northern corner of the square. Daniel followed.
“I had a cousin in the movie business,” Massiter explained. “He worked on that Roeg film. They made it in that church, mostly. We got together now and then and ...”
They crossed a small bridge, moving into darkness. “The point is, a man needs a haven. Somewhere, in those days, where we could take a couple of women. Smoke something. Be private. And later ...”
“What happened to your cousin?”
“Dead,” Massiter declared without emotion. “An accident. He was a poor businessman. Tragic, really. I felt terribly let down.”
They turned a corner into a narrow alley and, after a few paces, stopped in front of a modern metal door, which Massiter swiftly opened. Daniel followed him inside. A series of fluorescent lights came on. He stared at row upon row of packing cases.
“A friend’s shipping business,” Massiter explained. “Nothing to do with me, you understand. But here...”
He walked along the left-hand wall, then halted in front of a battered green door closed with several heavy padlocks. Massiter took out a set of keys a
nd began to throw the bars back, cursing the stiffness of the mechanisms. Then he reached inside, flicked a light switch, and Daniel saw, leading down into the earth, a narrow brick-lined tunnel with a worn floor of stone steps.
“My fancy,” Massiter said, “is that it was a wine store at one time. Perhaps converted from some ancient crypt. Who knows? You did pull the outside door shut, didn’t you? Damned if I can be bothered with all these padlocks until we go out again.”
“Of course,” Daniel replied.
“Good,” Massiter said, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black handgun. “Here. Take this. If we’re interrupted, shoot the bastards.”
Daniel stared at the weapon. “Hugo, this isn’t my business.”
The older man’s eyes flared. “But it’s very much your business. What’s the problem? I can make a single phone call and have the evidence out of here in a flash. It won’t be the first time, you know.”
“I see.”
“Oh, dear!” Massiter said, smiling. “Daniel, you’re a fraud, an impostor. You could have been in jail by Monday if you’d gone ahead with this nonsensical notion of baring your breast to the public. Please. Don’t play the innocent with me now.”
Daniel held out the gun. “I won’t use this thing.”
“Just hold it for me, then,” Massiter answered, and set off down the stairs. Daniel followed slowly, leaving the door open as he had with the outer entrance. There was as yet no sound behind. Giulia Morelli had warned him her timing might be difficult. The gun sat cold in his hand.
After twenty steps, the low ceiling disappeared and a maw of darkness stood in front of them. Massiter threw another light switch on the wall. Daniel suppressed a gasp of astonishment. They stood on the threshold of a vast, curved crypt supported by a forest of columns, each surmounted by a gentle brick arch. The place was spotless, as if it had been recently swept. The worn cobblestones had a dull sheen. Arranged around the capacious floor was a collection of objects hidden under wraps: furniture, the rectangular outlines of paintings, and other shapes he could not recognise. In the far corner, out of place, sat a low, modern bed.
He followed Massiter across the room, towards the crumpled sheets on the low divan. Massiter sniffed. There was the unmistakable outline of bloodstains in the centre of the white cotton.
“Damn,” he said. “The trouble with these secret places is one must, from time to time, look after them oneself. I omitted to clear up after my discussion with your friend Rizzo. But then I didn’t realise I’d have a visitor.”
Daniel’s head whirled. “Rizzo?”
“Ah. You never knew his name? The thieving little bastard who sold you my Guarneri. Told me so himself eventually, though I had guessed already, naturally. Never trust a Venetian, Daniel. They always let you down in the end.”
Daniel said nothing. Massiter laughed and slapped him on the shoulder.
“No offence taken on my part. I was grateful for it. Finally convinced me I had a pupil on my hands.”
“I am not—”
“Of course not! Well, what shall it be?”
Massiter set off around the room, snatching the wraps off each treasure as he passed.
“We have a very full collection here. Some Russian gold, liberated by the Nazis? A Bosnian ikon, perhaps? A reliquary from Byzantium? Or some porcelain by way of Shanghai? No...”
He dashed across the room and removed the cover from a large painting. Daniel was unable to keep his eyes off the work. It was vast and set in a fine gilt frame. The artist’s hand was plainly Venetian and familiar. It depicted, with a fluid, savage grace, two naked men grappling to the death, one wielding a flashing silver knife over the other.
“Titian, or Tiziano, if you prefer,” Massiter noted. “Cain slaying Abel. Better than the one in Salute, I’m sure you’ll agree. That was the trial run for my darling here.”
“Where do you get these things, Hugo?”
Massiter glowered at him. “Please, Daniel. One must never ask a collector that.” He stared at the painting. “My sympathies tend to lie with Cain, I’m afraid. But I imagine that’s what you’d expect.”
Daniel stood between Massiter and the tunnel leading to the ground floor. There was, he felt sure, some faint sound above.
“Well!” Massiter urged. “Let’s find a gift for you. The Titian is out of the question, of course. It would produce no end of problems for us both in the public domain, and I don’t think you’re ready—quite—for your own little treasure house. But there are items here that have no difficult antecedents. This is for you, Daniel, isn’t it? Not for the auction? I sell myself, from time to time, but I’d be offended if I thought it was mere money that you sought.”
There was a distant noise. He hoped that Massiter had not heard it.
“Why do you keep these objects, Hugo?” he asked. “What use are they, hidden away here like this?”
Massiter blinked. “They are mine. What other use do they need?”
“And are people yours too?”
“If I desire them. And only if they’re willing, of course. I can’t tempt the saintly. I go only where I’m invited. You, of all people, must realise that.”
Daniel stared at the bed in the corner. Massiter followed the direction of his gaze.
“That’s just a bed.”
“For what?”
Massiter smiled. “Many uses. Mainly pleasurable. To me, at least.”
“Tell me, Hugo. The girl. From ten years ago. Her body was found near here. You took her to that bed?”
“Susanna Gianni? Of course.” He shrugged. “At least, I tried. She was beautiful. She owed me much, and would now be even greater in my debt had she lived.”
Daniel became more aware of the weapon in his grasp.
“Don’t misunderstand me,” Massiter insisted. “As I said, I enjoy a little fight. But she was still breathing when I was done. Had she taken my advice to wait awhile and recover her composure, I feel sure she would still be alive now. Whoever threw the poor girl into that canal, it was not me. I didn’t wish her dead, Daniel. Why should I, when she had such exquisite uses left? Besides...”
He placed a hand on his chin, searching for the correct words. “I wasn’t finished with that child, to be frank. I still feel cheated. There’s a mystery there that continues to puzzle me.” Massiter walked forward to stand in front of him, eyeing the gun. “You have to choose your gift. That’s why we came.”
Daniel gazed into his face, seeing no emotion, no humanity there. “I would like the Guarneri back, of course. And I should like the music I found, Hugo. All of it.”
“Ah!” Massiter declared. “Scacchi was clever. He saw your potential. Much sooner than I did. Have you thought of that?”
Some foreign flame of anger rose in Daniel Forster’s mind. “A fiddle and some music, Hugo. You killed Paul for such small things? And Scacchi too?”
Hugo Massiter bellowed with laughter. “Do me justice, Daniel. I killed them both outright. I had a little fellow I know sneak into that hospital on the Lido and smother Scacchi gently while the stupid nurses were dozing. They were a close pair, in any case. It would have been a sin to leave one alive. I could tell that night I visited. The American was no pushover once I made my intentions clear. He left me little choice.”
Daniel’s rage left him speechless. Massiter seemed amused by his reaction. “Don’t be too cross with me. I would have killed Scacchi myself, out of courtesy, had it been possible. A mite risky, though. It was not done with malice, you understand. I couldn’t have him waking up and telling all and sundry about how I called on them, could I?”
“But why did you visit them in the first place, Hugo? They were small men. They were dying. This is all beneath you, surely?”
Massiter seemed disappointed. “I’m amazed you have to ask. Because they had stolen something precious of mine and refused to return it. What greater crime can there be? I was robbed, Daniel, and cheated by that old man. It was all quite uncalled
-for.”
Daniel lifted the gun and pointed it at Massiter’s face. “I could kill you, Hugo. I don’t care about the consequences.”
“Of course!” Massiter shrugged. “But I can’t give you the Guarneri. Or the music. They didn’t have them. Said they’d spirited the lot somewhere else. At least they did after Scacchi started his wheezing and I’d stuck that American plenty of times to get him talking. The trouble was, by that time they made such a noise I had no choice but to be out of there. Footsteps on the stairs. I believed they were yours, and I’m not one to hang around when the numbers don’t add up. Besides, it was a ruse; I was sure of that. Those two wanted me out of the place. Yet the instrument really wasn’t there at all, was it? You see what I mean about the mystery?”
Massiter wore his most pleasant smile. Daniel felt the weight of the weapon in his fingers. The barrel was no more than a few inches from Massiter’s face.
“Well? We don’t have all evening. What is your price to be? Not the Guarneri, for sure. I don’t have it. Me instead?”
Daniel looked into the grey eyes and saw the amusement there. He knew he was being taunted. He lowered the gun and said, “After a fashion.”
“Oh?” The sense of pleasure in his expression never diminished.
There was the sound of feet moving on the stairs. Massiter turned theatrically towards the entrance. Giulia Morelli strode into the cellar, followed by a tall dark man in jeans and a white shirt who held, conspicuously, a long police revolver in front of him.
“Captain?” Massiter said pleasantly. “You surely haven’t been eavesdropping? Such a rude habit.”
Giulia Morelli walked briskly in front of them, then forced Massiter’s arms into the air, checking for a weapon. He held his hands above her, amused, holding open his jacket, exposing a fat leather wallet in the inside pocket. “How much? Take what you like.”
“What?” she snapped.
“My dear, I can bribe you. Or I can bribe your superior. Or his, come to that. There are so many fleas feeding on one another in this city. Your rank in the pecking order is of no interest to me. What crime is there here to interest you? A little smuggling—”
