The Four Horsemen Page 16

  “He must have forgotten to give me that,” I said.

  “Well, you’ll just have to come back another time after you’ve reminded him to give you it.” He folded his arms in a decisive, conversation-ending fashion.

  “Well, you could go and ask him to come down.”

  “I suppose I could, but I’m not going to. Goodbye, sior.”

  “Oh, I think I’ll hang around and wait for him.”

  “That’s up to you, sior. It could be a very long wait.”

  “Well, I’ll find a way of filling the time. Perhaps I’ll recite some poetry.”

  “You go ahead, sior. Whatever you feel like.”

  I stepped away from the door and strolled to the opposite side of the courtyard. I looked around. Apart from the lights in the casino, all the other windows had their shutters closed, as one might expect at this time of night. Presumably the good citizens of Corte Contarina were getting their well-deserved rest. I imagined there was occasional tension with the casino hosted in their midst, which kept rather different hours; presumably those running the casino did their best to keep the noise level down. Such establishments were actually illegal but were generally tolerated so long as no significant complaints were lodged.

  I leaned against the wall and coughed. Then I began to recite the same lines that I had aired the previous evening, but this time rather more loudly: “ ‘Achilles’ wrath, to Greece the direful spring / Of woes unnumber’d, heavenly goddess, sing!’”

  I gave the last word an unearthly shriek. As I embarked on the next couplet the man at the door said, “Here, cut it out,” and moved menacingly forward.

  I pulled the cudgel out and swung it nonchalantly as I recited in a bellow: “ ‘That wrath which hurl’d to Pluto’s gloomy reign / The souls of mighty chiefs untimely slain . . .’”

  He paused for a moment and then pushed his sleeves back purposefully and continued to walk towards me. “Look, sior, we don’t want any trouble. Just stop that noise.”

  I kept reciting, beating the cudgel in the air in time to the metre. He paused a few feet away and said, “You are asking for trouble, sior, and my job is to give it to you.”

  “Declare, O Muse! in what ill-fated hour

  Sprung the fierce strife, from what offended power

  Latona’s son a dire contagion spread,

  And heap’d the camp with mountains of the dead.”

  He lunged at me and I leaped back, waving the cudgel wildly as I gasped the last line. I certainly had no intention of striking him, but of course he wasn’t to know that.

  There was a sound of other voices and also the scraping noise of a shutter being pushed open.

  “What’s going on?” It was a sharp voice that I recognised and it came from the open doorway. I turned and saw Marco Boldrin. His wig was a shimmering white in the torchlight. For once he wasn’t smiling – or, at least, he wasn’t displaying his gleaming teeth.

  “Can’t stop him,” said the doorman. “I think he’s crazy.”

  I put my cudgel away. “No, not crazy,” I said, addressing Boldrin. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

  “Who – oh, it’s you. What do you want?”

  A voice from an open window called out, “Some people have to sleep, you know.”

  Boldrin’s teeth were immediately brought into service as he turned his face upwards with a conciliatory smile and made an apologetic fluttering gesture with his hands. “So sorry,” he said, in a rather absurd attempt at a loud whisper. “We’ll deal with this at once.”

  I said loudly, “Well, it’s really your master Sior Molin that I want to talk to.”

  “I don’t know that he wants to see you,” he snapped, still determinedly whispering.

  “I’ll just go on reciting Homer very loudly until he does,” I said calmly.

  Another shutter was opening above us, and he stared upwards in flustered irritation. Then he said, “Very well, come in.”

  “Sior, he’s got a cudgel,” said the doorman.

  “Hand it over,” said Boldrin.

  “You’ll have to make me,” I said, “and although you might be able to I will make a good deal of very loud noise while you try to do so. But don’t worry: I don’t intend to use it. I just want to show it to your master. He will be interested to see it.”

  His face twitched in annoyance, and then he said, “Follow me.”

  We went up the stairs together, the doorman standing aside with a very surly expression.

  We entered the main gambling room, where about fifteen people were clustered round two tables. Those at the tables were mainly men, but a few women in bright dresses were looking on from close by. They were all wearing masks, and the faces below the masks were shiny in the candlelight. Hardly anyone looked up from the cards as we entered; presumably they had not heard the altercation below. At the nearer table I could see a man in a nobleman’s cloak whose hunched figure betrayed intense anxiety; the parts of his face that were visible were shinier than anyone’s – shinier even than the impressive pile of coins that lay before the man sitting opposite him. There was very little noise; just the flipping of the cards and an occasional sigh or muttered exclamation. I could only presume that it was concentration on the game that had prevented them from hearing my Homeric performance.

  Boldrin gestured me towards a door behind the tables. A man in a servant’s livery standing beside the door looked questioningly at Boldrin, and at a sign from him knocked at the door. A sharp voice called out, and the servant lifted a hand, instructing us to wait.

  We all stood there, listening to the muted sounds of play behind us. There were some faint scuttling sounds beyond the door, and a feminine squeak. Half a minute later, while Boldrin grew increasingly agitated, there came the sharp bark of a summons, and the servant opened the door.

  Boldrin and I stepped into a smaller room. It was a good deal darker than the gaming room, with just a couple of candles in brackets on opposite walls. A large man with a bald head sat at a desk in front of us. There was no pretence that he had been working; the desk contained nothing but a large plate of biscuits, a flask of wine, a tumbler and a wig. The man just glared at us; I had the impression that he was buttoning his breeches behind the desk. I saw another door to my right, which was slightly ajar, and I imagined that someone, presumably the person with the feminine voice, had hastily passed through it.

  “Well?” His irritation was clear and, perhaps, understandable.

  “Sorry, sior, but this man insisted on seeing you,” said Boldrin, in a nervous, placatory voice.

  “Who is he? What does he want?” Sior Molin’s voice was quiet but peremptory. This was a man accustomed to being obeyed. He brought his hands up from below the desk and put one to his head; he suddenly realised its uncovered state, reached out for the wig and thrust it on.

  “My name is Alvise Marangon,” I said. “I think you’ve heard it.”

  “Yes,” he said. “You’re the cicerone who insulted me.” He gave no indication of surprise or indignation.

  “I said nothing about you at all,” I said. “And for no reason at all your hired bravi attacked me viciously, instigated by this man.” I jerked my head at Boldrin and made no attempt to conceal my contempt.

  “Why did you let him in?” Molin said, addressing Boldrin in a cold flat tone.

  “He was creating a disturbance below,” said Boldrin. “We can throw him out if you like.” He gave his automatic smile, but he sounded too eager to please.

  “I will create an even bigger disturbance if you try any such thing,” I said.

  Molin stared hard at me. “How many drunken idiots do you think I’ve had thrown out of here?”

  “A good many, I’m sure,” I said. “But I’m not drunk. And I’m not an idiot.” Well, the first of these was true at least. I was hoping I could now prove the second as well.

  “I can have you trussed and gagged and rowed to an island in the lagoon just like that,” he said, giving a flick of his fin
gers.

  “Not before I make an enormous row,” I said, pulling out the cudgel.

  “Do you think that will intimidate me?” he said, flicking his fingers again, this time in the direction of the door behind me. I heard it open and someone enter – presumably the servant. I did not turn round to look.

  “I’m not intending to use it,” I said. “Just to tell you where I got it.”

  “Where?”

  “Off your hired bravi this evening. They both attempted to attack me again.”

  “I know nothing about that,” he said in a bored tone. He raised his hand and beckoned, and I heard the servant coming up behind me. I still didn’t turn round, and I tapped the palm of my left hand with the cudgel. I braced myself for a sudden assault.

  “I brought this one with me,” I said, attempting to sound completely calm, “but I have put the other in a safe place.” This was the first lie, and I had to make it convincing. “Your men are not especially good at their job.”

  “Their job is simply to protect my interests.” He was gazing curiously at me now, and so the servant remained still, waiting for an order.

  “And that’s what they are not doing,” I said. “In particular when they attacked me a second time, after having been given specific orders not to do so by the Missier Grande himself.” I allowed a hint of the customary awe to affect my utterance of this name.

  His face showed just a flicker of irritation. “I don’t believe you.”

  “What don’t you believe? That the Missier Grande gave specific orders?”

  He waved his hand impatiently. “I don’t believe my men attacked you again tonight.”

  “I can prove it,” I said. “And I can prove it to the Missier Grande as well.”

  “You can prove it, can you?” He said it with a sneer, but there was obviously curiosity in his voice as well.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Sior,” said Boldrin, “this man is bluffing. We can deal with him for you.” He knew that he had made a mistake in disturbing Molin and was eager to make amends.

  Molin made an impatient dismissive gesture, just a flick of one hand as if driving away a fly. Boldrin fell silent.

  I went on, “I can prove it with this cudgel.”

  “Are you threatening me?” It was said with cold disdain, certainly not with a trace of fear.

  “Not in the way you think. I know cudgels like this,” I said. “You see, I’m an agent for the Missier Grande.”

  This clearly caught everyone’s attention. I had no doubt they believed it; few people were likely to boast of such a thing. Molin, however, did his best to disguise any reaction, merely raising his eyebrow a fraction.

  “And as an agent I’ve had occasion to investigate the spread of such weapons in the city.” This was true. “This is not a home-made object; it’s been made by a professional, someone who knows the right weight to give such a thing, who knows how to achieve the right balance between the business end and the handle, how to make the handle easy to grasp, and even puts a little personal finishing touch to it.” I pointed at the polished metal ring round the end of the handle, which had a small dolphin engraved in it. “This was made by Filippo Contin, in his workshop near San Leonardo. He also makes handy daggers and poignards. And curiously he has a sideline in picture-frames.”

  “And so?”

  “He keeps strict records of everyone he sells these things to. He has to. And he will be able to tell us who this cudgel belongs to. And of course the same goes for the other one. So when I report that I have been attacked again, and I show the Missier Grande the weapons that were used . . .” I paused and simply tapped the cudgel on the table. I hoped my argument sounded as convincing as the thwacking sound of wood on wood. I had completely invented the strict records kept by Filippo Contin. But I knew it was the kind of thing that people would believe.

  “Keep off my table.” Molin said nothing else for a moment or two. Then he spoke to Boldrin. “Leave us alone.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Get out.”

  Boldrin and the servant both got out. Molin stood up and stared at me for a moment. He wasn’t a tall man and had a large belly; however, he still bore himself with a natural sense of authority. I noticed that his breeches were properly buttoned.

  He walked to the side door and closed it firmly. Then he returned to his seat and sat down and stared at me again.

  “So where are you saying they attacked you?”

  “That’s an interesting point,” I said. “They were waiting outside a private house I had visited. It would be good to know how they knew they would find me there.”

  “I didn’t send them.” He said it very flatly.

  “No,” I said. “I didn’t think you did. But they were your men. I recognised their – well, let’s call it their style.”

  “They’re blundering idiots. Boldrin hired them.”

  “So are you saying Boldrin ordered them to attack me?”

  “No, of course not. He’d never dare. Certainly not after what happened last time.”

  “I presume he thought he was doing what would please you,” I said. I had no idea why I felt spurred to defend his hapless assistant. Perhaps because he was so hapless and hopeless, for all his gleaming teeth.

  “Yes, he makes a lot of mistakes like that. But after that first time he wouldn’t have done it again.”

  “So,” I said, “are you really telling me you don’t know who ordered this attack?”

  “No,” he said. “I have an idea.” And he took another biscuit and chewed it, still staring at me.

  “Are you going to tell me?” I said.

  He kept chewing and staring. I think he was trying to keep up the pretence that he was in command, but he was also thinking hard.

  “Well, if you don’t, then I will,” I said.

  “Go on then,” he said through his half-chewed biscuit.

  “Like so many casini of this sort, you have a partner who’s a nobleman.”

  He gave a half-shrug.

  “You need a nobleman to bring in the other noblemen. And to offer a certain amount of protection. Your partner is a young member of the Sanudo family.”

  He poured himself a glass of wine. And then, after a moment’s deliberation, he said, “Do you want some?”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  He reached towards a shelf behind him and took down another glass. He said, “Sit down.”

  So now we were drinking mates. I sat down, giving a glance towards the door to our right which he had just closed.

  He gave one of his characteristic dismissive waves. “She’ll wait,” he said, and handed me the glass he had just filled.

  “Sorry to have, em, disturbed you,” I said.

  He gave a shrug. “These things happen.” He sipped his wine. “So, young Sanudo . . .”

  “Yes, young Sanudo,” I said. “It seems he doesn’t like me.” I remembered the sudden extra animosity Sanudo had shown on discovering I was a cicerone; presumably he had recalled the story he must have been told about an arrogant cicerone who had turned down an offer to bring rich Englishmen to the casino in which he had a vested interest. It had given his spite an added financial motivation.

  “He can be hot-headed,” said Molin.

  “So I’ve been told,” I said. I sipped my wine. It was very good.

  “But there’s no reason for you to connect this in any way with this establishment.”

  “Those two men are in your employ, I believe,” I said.

  “Generally speaking, that is true. But on this occasion they were acting quite independently.”

  “But presumably paid for by your partner.”

  “But not on behalf of the business. I have no idea what’s between you and his Excellency . . .”

  “No, and I’m not going to tell you.”

  “I’m not asking. But whatever it is, it has nothing to do with our establishment. You know how young noblemen can be when they feel offended.�
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  “Yes,” I said. “But I want it to stop.”

  “Well, of course you do. Bit difficult for me, though, to give orders to a nobleman.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” I said. “But you can help me put a stop to it.”

  “Oh yes?” He sounded wary.

  “I just require clear proof of your good will in this matter.”

  He threw wide his arms, in a gesture of total affability. I was beginning to realise he was something of an actor. In front of Boldrin and his other servants he was a laconic bully; with me he had now become the genial and willing host.

  “Just say the word,” he said.

  “I’m in a similar situation with regard to Sanudo,” I said. “I certainly can’t challenge him openly. What I need is some information that I can hold against him if necessary.”

  He frowned. “Are you asking me to inform on my partner?”

  “No, not that exactly. But I do need to have some idea of what he might be planning.”

  “With regard to what?”

  “Well, that’s the point. I don’t know exactly. But I think he’s mixed up in some dangerous business. And if you know anything about it you won’t be helping him by keeping quiet about it.”

  He stared hard at me for a few seconds. All the affability had gone from his face. Then he took another sip of wine and forced a smile back to his lips. “I wish I could help, but I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “But I think you do,” I said quietly. “And remember, although Sanudo himself may be an impulsive fool . . .”

  He winced. Such direct talk about a nobleman was clearly going too far.

  “. . . his family are not. And his father will certainly not be pleased if it turns out that anyone knew what his son was up to and did nothing about it. Oh, and his father is currently an Inquisitor.”

  Another wince.

  “I don’t really know anything,” he said. “Just rumours. Things I’ve heard him talking about with his friends.”

  “Tron? The Bon brothers?”

  “Yes, I think so. One of them laughs a lot.”

  “So what have they been laughing about?”

  “I can’t really say for sure,” he said. “They don’t talk openly about it. But they use the private room next to this one.” He gestured to the right. “Don’t think they realise that there’s that grating up there.” He pointed to a grille high up in the wall by the ceiling. “I had it put in to keep an eye on things. And an ear. Well, I sometimes overhear some of their conversations – without meaning to, of course.”