“My investigations, yes.” Victor nervously bobbed up and down. “My findings are sadly quite clear. The little boy is no longer in the city, nor is his brother.”
The Hartliebs exchanged a quick glance.
“Your rather unpleasant secretary already hinted at something like that,” Max Hartlieb said, “but —”
“My secretary?” Victor interrupted him, but then he remembered just in time that Hornet, Prosper, and Riccio had been in his office to feed his tortoise. “My secretary, of course!” He shrugged apologetically. “You must know, I was already hot on their heels. The photo I sent you proves that. At that time, sadly, I was unable to catch the two of them. Too many people around, you must understand. I did find out, however, that your nephews had joined a gang of young thieves. And one of them, I’m afraid, recognized me. I caught him stealing a handbag some time ago. Well, that rascal probably convinced your nephews that Venice was no longer safe for them. Much to my regret, I have learned …” He cleared his throat. Why did lying always give him such a lump in his throat? “Hmhm, I have learned that the boys sneaked onto one of the large ferries that stop here regularly. From your window you have a good view of the moorings.”
Confused, the Hartliebs turned around and looked down at the quay, where a large flock of tourists was crowding onto an excursion boat. “But,” Esther Hartlieb looked so disappointed that Victor almost felt sorry for her, “where, for heaven’s sake, was the boat going?”
“Corfu,” Victor answered. How calmly he said that, despite that lump in his throat.
“Corfu!” Esther Hartlieb looked at her husband hopelessly as if he had to save her from drowning.
“Well, I can’t be completely certain,” Victor continued. “After all, when you’re sneaking onto a ship you don’t appear on the passenger list. I did, however, show the boys’ picture to some of the crew, and they definitely recognized them. They just couldn’t agree on which day exactly they were on board.”
Max Hartlieb hugged his wife reassuringly. She let it happen, but stayed as stiff as a mannequin. She was still looking at Victor. For a second, he had the feeling that his lies were painted bright red on his forehead.
“It’s not possible!” Esther Hartlieb said, detaching herself from her husband. “I told you it was no coincidence that Prosper came to Venice. The city reminds him of his mother. I can’t believe he’d just leave.”
“He probably got on that boat because he realized this place wasn’t as wonderful as it sounded in his mother’s stories,” her husband ventured.
“And that, even if Venice does look like heaven, she wasn’t here to greet him,” Victor said thoughtfully, looking out of the window.
“No! No! No!” Esther Hartlieb shook her head violently. “Nonsense! I have a feeling he’s still here. And if Prosper is still here, then so is Bo.”
“I’ve had copies made of the photograph you sent us,” she continued. “It arrived shortly after we spoke to your secretary and I had posters made from it. We’re offering quite a substantial reward. I know you have already tried to dissuade us from using these means to search for the boys, and I do admit that a reward draws out the riffraff. But I will have those posters put up by every canal, every bar, every café, and every museum. I will find Bo, before he dies of pneumonia or consumption in this infernal city. He has to be protected from his selfish brother.”
Victor just shook his head wearily. “Has it still not occurred to you?” he asked impatiently. “The two of them only ran away because you wanted to separate Bo from his brother.”
“How dare you use that tone with me?” Esther Hartlieb shouted.
“The two of them are very close!” Victor shouted back. “Can’t you understand that?”
“We’ll get Bo a dog,” Max Hartlieb answered calmly. “And then you’ll see how quickly he forgets his big brother.”
Victor stared at Mr. Hartlieb as if he had just unbuttoned his shirt and shown him an empty heart. “Please answer me one question,” Victor said. “Do you actually like children?”
Max Hartlieb frowned. “Children in general? No, not really. They’re so fidgety and loud, and often quite dirty.”
Victor stared down at his shoes again.
“And,” Max Hartlieb continued, “they have no idea of what’s really important.”
Victor nodded. “Well,” he said slowly, “it must be a miracle, then, that such useless creatures grow up into something as great and reasonable as you, don’t you think?”
With that he turned and walked out of the room and down the long hotel corridor. In the elevator, Victor’s heart pounded wildly though he had no idea why. The lady at the reception smiled at him as he walked through the lobby. Then she looked outside again, where the snow was still falling as darkness fell.
The jetty in front of the hotel was empty. Only two warmly dressed figures were waiting for the next vaporetto. At first Victor went to buy a ticket as well, but then he decided to walk. He needed time to think, and a walk would calm his restless heart. At least he hoped it would. He trudged through the wind. He walked past the Doge’s Palace, which was already illuminated by its pink lamps, and then stomped through the twilight across the deserted St. Mark’s Square.
I have to warn the boys, Victor thought, while the wind threw icy needles at his face. I have to tell them what’s happening. Should I go now? I don’t even have a hat, and it’s quite far to the movie theater. I’ll go tomorrow morning. Bad news never sounds quite so bad in the light of day. Wearily, he made his way home. When he reached his front door, he remembered that he was supposed to be following someone for a new client that night. Sighing, he walked up the stairs. There was still time for a cup of coffee.
31
The Sacca della Misericordia pokes into the maze of Venice’s alleys. It looks as if the sea has taken a bite out of the city and swallowed it.
It was quarter to one in the morning when Mosca moored his boat at the last bridge before the bay. Riccio jumped ashore and tied the boat to one of the wooden stakes sticking out of the water. Behind them lay a seemingly endless trip through canals Prosper had never seen before. He had only been to the northernmost part of the city once before. The houses here were just as old if not quite as magnificent as those in the center.
There were just the three of them in the boat: Mosca, Riccio, and Prosper.
Hornet had given Bo hot milk and honey after dinner and he had emptied two whole mugs without becoming suspicious. Then she had settled down with him on her mattress, her arm wrapped around him, and she had read from his favorite book, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. During the third chapter, Bo had already nestled his head against Hornet’s chest and begun snoring softly. On cue, Prosper had quietly crept away with Riccio and Mosca. Hornet had bravely tried not to look too worried as she waved good-bye.
“Can you hear anything?” Riccio peered into the night. Some of the windows were still lit and their glow reflected on the water’s surface. The snow looked strange in the moonlight, like icing sugar on a model city. Prosper gazed down the canal. Ida Spavento had wanted to come in her own boat, and she was supposed to be picking Scipio up on the way.
“I think I can hear something!” Riccio climbed deftly back into the boat. Mosca wedged an oar against the wooden pier to stop the boat from rocking.
“About time they turned up!” Prosper whispered, looking at his watch.
By now the sounds of an engine came quite clearly through the night and soon a boat drifted toward them. The boat was much wider and heavier than Mosca’s. It had a black finish, just like a gondola. Behind the wheel sat a giant of a man and behind him, hardly recognizable under the shawl wrapped around her head, was Ida Spavento. Scipio was sitting by her side.
“At last!” Mosca called out quietly as the boat came alongside his. “Riccio, cast off!”
Scowling in Scipio’s direction, Riccio jumped back aboard.
“Sorry, Giaco lost the way,” Ida said. “And the Thief Lor
d was also not very punctual.” She got up and carefully handed a heavy parcel to Prosper: the lion wing, wrapped in a blanket and tied up with a leather strap.
“My father had some of his business partners over,” Scipio defended himself. “It wasn’t easy to sneak out of the house.”
“Wouldn’t have been such a great loss if you’d missed it anyway,” replied Riccio.
Prosper sat down at the stern of the boat, holding on tightly to the wing.
“It’s probably best if you wait with your boat over there, where the canal flows into the bay,” Mosca instructed Ida. “If you drift out any further the Conte might see you and the whole deal could be off.”
Ida nodded. Her face was pale with excitement. “I had to leave my camera at home. The flash would have given us away. But these” — she pulled a pair of binoculars from her coat — “may come in handy. And if I may make a suggestion.” She eyed Mosca’s boat. “Then we should use my boat to follow the Conte — should he sail out into the lagoon after the transfer.”
“Into the lagoon?” Riccio’s mouth dropped wide open in horror.
“Of course!” Ida whispered. “He’d never keep the merry-go-round secret in this city. But there are lots of islands out there in the lagoon where nobody ever goes.”
Prosper and Riccio looked at each other. Out on the lagoon in the middle of the night … They didn’t like the sound of that.
But Mosca just shrugged. He felt at home in the water, especially in the dark when everything was still and silent. “Fine by me!” he said. “My boat’s OK for fishing, but it’s not up to a chase. And who knows what kind of boat the Conte’s got? As soon as we see him heading for the lagoon, we will row back to you as quickly as possible and then follow him in your motorboat.”
“That’s how we’ll do it.” Ida blew into her cold hands. “How wonderful! I haven’t done anything this crazy in a long time!” she sighed. “A real adventure! If only it wasn’t so cold.” She shivered and wrapped her coat around herself even tighter.
“What about him?” Riccio nodded toward Ida’s boatman. “Is he going to come with us?” He and Mosca had immediately recognized the man: It was the husband of Ida Spavento’s housekeeper. As usual, he looked bad-tempered and hadn’t yet said a word.
“Giaco?” Ida lifted her eyebrows. “He has to come. He’s much better with the boat than I am. And he’s very discreet.”
Giaco winked at Mosca and spat into the water.
“Enough talk!” Mosca picked up the oars. “We’ve got to go.”
“Scipio’s got to come in our boat,” Prosper interjected. “The Conte negotiated with him. He’ll be suspicious if he’s not with us.”
Riccio pursed his lips, but he said nothing as Scipio climbed on board. The bell of Santa Maria di Valverde was just chiming one o’clock as they rowed out into the Sacca della Misericordia. There were just a few lights glimmering on the surface of the water. Ida’s boat stayed behind like a shadow, hardly more than a black speck against the dark outline of the shore.
32
The Conte was already waiting.
His boat lay not far from the bay’s western shore. It was a sailing boat. The navigation lights shined brightly across the water and a red lantern had been placed, clearly visible, on the stern.
“A sailing boat!” Mosca whispered as they rowed toward it. “Ida was right. He came from one of the islands.”
“No doubt about it.” Scipio put on his mask. “But the wind’s in our favor. We’ll easily follow him with the motorboat.”
“Out into the lagoon?” Riccio moaned. “Oh lord! lord! lord!”
Prosper said nothing. He held on to the wing. The cold wind had died down and Mosca’s boat glided smoothly across the water. But Riccio clung miserably to the side, terrified that the boat might capsize if he only so much as looked at the black water beneath him.
The Conte was standing at the stern of his boat. He was wearing a large gray coat. He didn’t look as frail as Prosper had imagined him from their encounter in the confessional. His hair was white but he was very erect and he still appeared to be quite a strong man. There was someone standing behind the Conte, smaller than him, dressed in black from head to toe, their face hidden beneath a hood. When Mosca rowed alongside, the second figure cast a line with a hook toward Prosper to keep the boats from drifting apart.
“Salve!” the Conte called out toward them in a rough voice. “I presume you are just as cold as we are, so let us complete this transaction as quickly as possible.”
“Fine. Here’s the wing.” Prosper handed Scipio the parcel and he in turn carefully offered it to the Conte. The narrow boat rocked underneath Scipio’s feet and he nearly stumbled. The Conte quickly leaned forward as if he feared that what he had been searching for all this time could still be lost forever.
“That’s it!” Prosper heard him whisper. The old man reverently stroked the painted wood underneath the blanket. “Morosina, just look at it!” He impatiently waved at his companion, who had been hidden behind the mast all this time. The figure went up to him and pushed back the hood. To their surprise, the boys saw it was a woman. She was not much younger than the Conte and she wore her hair in a tight bun. “Yes, that’s it,” Prosper heard her say. “Let’s give them their reward.”
“You deal with it,” the Conte said, wrapping the blanket around the wing.
Silently, the woman handed Scipio an old bag. “Take this,” she said, “and use the money to find yourself another occupation. How old are you? Eleven? Twelve?”
“With this kind of money I can be as grown-up as I want to be,” Scipio answered. He took the bag and put it on the floor between him and Mosca.
“Did you hear that, Renzo?” The woman leaned against the deck rail and eyed Scipio with puzzled amusement. “He wants to be grown-up. How different dreams can be!”
“Nature will soon grant your wish,” the Conte replied. He was wrapping the wing in a tarpaulin. “We wish the opposite to be true. Do you want to count the money, Thief Lord?”
Scipio put the bag on Mosca’s lap and opened it.
“Wow!” Mosca whispered. He took a bundle of bills and began to count them with an expression of utter disbelief. Even Riccio forgot his fear of the water and got up. However, as the boat began to rock, he hurriedly sat down again. “Has anyone ever seen so much money?” he wondered.
Scipio held a note in front of his flashlight, counted the wad, and then he gave Mosca a satisfied nod.
“Seems to be all there,” he called up to the Conte and his companion.
The gray-haired lady bowed her head and said, “Buonritorno!”
The Conte stood next to her. Prosper threw him the rope and the Conte caught it. “Safe return — and the best of luck for the future,” he said. Then he pushed off.
Prosper and Mosca took the oars and pulled away from the Conte’s boat. The mouth of the canal where Ida was waiting for them seemed very far away. Prosper could see quite clearly that behind them the Conte had already pointed the bow of his boat toward where the Sacca della Misericordia opened into the lagoon.
But Scipio had been right. The wind was on their side. It barely rippled the water and when they reached Ida’s boat they could still make out the Conte’s sails.
“Go on, tell me: How did it go?” Ida asked impatiently as soon as the four of them had climbed aboard. “I could only see that he’s got a sailing boat, but you were too far out.”
“Everything’s sorted. We’ve got the money and he’s got the wing.” Scipio wedged the bag with the money between his legs. “There was a woman with him. And you were right: They’re sailing out to the lagoon.”
“I thought so!” Ida gave Giaco a sign, but he had already started the engine and soon they were heading out into the bay.
“He’s turned off the red lantern,” Mosca shouted above the din of the engine, “but I can still see the boat.”
Giaco grumbled something unintelligible. He held his course as if there w
ere nothing easier than to follow a strange boat in the moonlight.
“Have you counted the money?” Ida asked.
“Sort of,” Scipio answered. “There’s definitely a lot of it.”
“Can I have a look through your binoculars?” Mosca asked.
Ida handed them to him and wrapped her scarf tighter around her head.
“He’s making very slow progress, but he’ll be out of the bay soon,” said Mosca.
“Don’t get too close, Giaco!” Ida called forward.
“Don’t worry, Signora.”
They left the city behind. Soon there was nothing but water and darkness around them. Even though it felt as if they were the only people on the lagoon, they knew they couldn’t be. They kept seeing lights appear and disappear in the blackness — green and red navigation lights, just as on Ida’s boat.
But even if the Conte had seen their boat, why would he suspect that they were following him? After all, he had already paid them.
Prosper looked across the water nervously. He and Bo had never been out here, although the others had told them a lot about the lagoon and its islands. Little specks of land hemmed with reeds. Here were the ruins of long-abandoned villages and fortresses, and the fruit and vegetable fields that supplied the city. Some were home to the monasteries and hospitals where the city’s sick used to be brought.
The silent Giaco deftly steered the boat past the bricole — the wooden posts that poked out of the water everywhere. Their sides were painted white to mark the route around the shallows. But they were quite hard to see in the moonlight.
At one point, Mosca whispered, “That’s San Michele!”
They slowly cruised past the walls that surround the island where, for hundreds of years, the Venetians have buried their dead. As soon as he had passed this cemetery island, the Conte set a northeasterly course. They left Murano — the glassmakers’ island — behind them and cruised on, deeper into the maze of islands and grassy islets.
Prosper felt as if the boat were going to sail on forever. He just hoped that Bo would still be asleep when they got back. Bo would kick up a diabolical fuss if he found out that the others were meeting the Conte, and that Hornet had lulled him to sleep with hot milk and a book so they could sneak away.