The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries (7 page)

A simian waiter shuffled out from a doorway, bearing wine and three large glasses. He did not utter a word, but plainly Sanborn and Zuichini were familiar customers. Sanborn did not spare the
man’s retreating back a glance as he poured.

“You will taste nothing finer in Italy, I assure you. Liquid silk.”

Joly took a sip and savoured the bouquet. Sanborn was right about the wine, but what did he want? Everyone wanted something.

“You are here as a tourist?” the American asked. “Who knows, you might follow my example. I first came to this city for a week. That was nineteen years ago and now I could not
tear myself away if my life depended on it.”

Joly explained that he’d arrived in Venice a month earlier. He had no money, but he knew how to blag. For a few days he’d dressed himself up as Charlie Chaplin and become a living
statue, miming for tourists in the vicinity of San Zaccaria and earning enough from the coins they threw into his tin to keep himself fed and watered. But he’d hated standing still and after
a few hours even the narcissistic pleasure of posing for photographs began to pall. One afternoon, taking a break in a cheap pizzeria, he’d fallen into conversation with Lucia when she served
him with a capuccino. She was a stranger in the city as well; she’d left her native Taormina after the death of her parents and drifted around the country ever since. What they had in common
was that neither of them could settle to anything. That night she’d taken him to her room in Dorsoduro and he’d stayed with her ever since.

“Excellent!” Sanborn applauded as he refilled his new young friend’s glass. “What is your profession?”

Joly said he was still searching for something to which he would care to devote himself, body and soul. After uni, he’d drifted around. His degree was in English, but a career in teaching
or the civil service struck him as akin to living death. He liked to think of himself as a free spirit, but he enjoyed working with his hands and for six months he’d amused himself as a
puppeteer, performing for children’s parties and at municipal fun days. When that became wearisome, he’d drifted across the Channel. He’d spent three months in France, twice as
long in Spain, soon he planned to try his luck in Rome.

“I wondered about learning a trade as a boat-builder, I spent a day in the
squero
talking to a man who builds gondolas.” He risked a cheeky glance at Zuichini’s profile.
“I even thought about making masks . . .”

“An over-subscribed profession in this city,” Sanborn interrupted. “I understand why you didn’t pursue it.”

“Well, who knows? One of these days, I may come back here to try my luck.”

“You have family?”

“My parents are dead, my sister emigrated to Australia where she married some layabout who looked like a surf god. So I have no ties, I can please myself.”

“And your girlfriend?” Sanborn asked. “Any chance of wedding bells?”

Joly couldn’t help laughing. Not the effect of the wine, heady though it was, but the very idea that he and Lucia might have a future together. She was a pretty
prima donna
, only
good for one thing, and although he didn’t say it, the contemplative look in Sanborn’s pale grey eyes made it clear that he’d got the message.

“You and she must join us for dinner, be my guests, it would be a pleasure.”

“Oh, no, really, we couldn’t impose . . .”

Sanborn dismissed the protestations with a flick of his hand. He was old and deliberate and yet Joly recognized this was a man accustomed to getting his own way. “Please. I insist. I know
a little seafood restaurant, they serve food so wonderful you will never forget it. Am I right, Zuichini?”

The wizened man cackled and nodded. A wicked gleam lit his small eyes.

“Well, I’m not sure . . .”

But within a couple of minutes it was agreed and Joly stumbled out into the glare of the sun with the American’s good wishes ringing in his ears. Zuichini’s small, plague-mask head
merely nodded farewell; he’d uttered no more than two dozen words in the space of half an hour. Joly blinked, unaccustomed to wine that hit so hard; but the pleasure was worth the pain.

When he met up with Lucia, she made a fuss about the dinner. It was in her nature to complain; she regarded it as a duty not to agree to anything he suggested without making him struggle.

“With two old men? Why would we wish to do this? After tomorrow we will be apart, perhaps for ever. Are you tired with me already?”

Exaggeration was her stock-in-trade, but he supposed she was right and that they would not see each other again after he left the city. The plan was for him to travel to Rome and for her to join
him there in a fortnight’s time when she’d received her month’s pay from the restaurant. He’d arranged it like that so there was an opportunity for their relationship to die
a natural death. He hated break-up scenes. It would be so easy for them not to get together again in the Eternal City. If he wanted to return to Venice, he would rather do so free from
encumbrances; there were plenty more fish in the sea. As for their argument, in truth she found the prospect of a slap-up meal at a rich man’s expense as appealing as he did and after twenty
minutes she stopped grumbling and started to deliberate about what she might wear.

They went back to her place and made love and by the time she’d dressed up for the evening, he could tell she was relishing the prospect of meeting someone new. Even if the men were old,
she would love parading before them; admiration turned her on more than anything exotic he tried with her in bed. At first he’d found her delightful, he’d even managed to persuade
himself that she might have hidden depths. But in truth Lucia was as shallow as the meanest canal in the city.

Against his expectations, the dinner was a success, early awkwardness and stilted conversation soon smoothed by a rich, full-blooded and frighteningly expensive red wine. Sanborn, in a fresh
white suit, did most of the talking. Zuichini remained content to let his patron speak for him, occupying himself with a lascivious scrutiny of the ample stretches of flesh displayed by
Lucia’s little black dress. Her ankle tattoo, a small blue heart, had caught the American’s eye.

“In honour of young Joly?” he asked, with an ostentatious twinkle.

Lucia tossed her head. “I had it done in Sicily, the day of my sixteenth birthday. The first time I fell in love.”

“It is as elegant and charming as the lady whom it adorns.” Sanborn had a habit of giving a little bow whenever he paid a compliment. “Take a look, Zuichini, do you not
agree?”

The wizened man leaned over to study the tattoo. His beak twitched in approval; the gleam in his dark eyes was positively sly. Even Lucia blushed under his scrutiny.

Sanborn said smoothly, “I have long admired the tattooist’s art and your heart is a fine example.”

Lucia smiled prettily. “Thank you, Mr Sanborn.”

“Darius, please. I like to think we are friends.”

“Darius, of course.”

She basked in the glow of his genial scrutiny. Joly broke off a piece of bread and chewed hard. He was revising his opinion about their host’s sexual orientation. Perhaps the old goat
fancied trying his luck once Joly had left town. Fair enough, he was welcome to her.

“Do you know, Zuichini, I rather think that young Lucia’s heart is as elegant as Sophia’s dove. What do you say?”

The bookbinder paused in the act of picking something from his teeth and treated Lucia to a satyr’s grin. “Uh-huh, I guess.”

He didn’t speak much English and his accent was a weird pastiche American. Perhaps he’d picked it up from watching old movies. His idea of a matinee idol was probably Peter Lorre.
Why did Sanborn spend so much time with him, if they were not lovers, past or present? Joly asked if Sophia was Sanborn’s daughter.

“Good heavens, no. Alas, like you, I have no family. Sophia was a young lady whom Zuichini and I came to know – what? – two or three years ago. She worked behind a bar down the
Via Garibaldi. We were both very fond of her. And she had this rather lovely neck tattoo, in the shape of a flying dove with broad, outstretched wings. As with Lucia’s lovely heart, I have no
doubt that it was carved by a gifted artist.”

“You admire well-made creations?” Lucia asked, preening.

Sanborn patted her lightly on the hand. “Indeed I do, my dear. My tastes are not confined to fine books, although my collection is the most precious thing I possess.”

“Tell us more,” Joly said, as the food arrived.

Over the meal, Sanborn told them a little about his life. He’d inherited money – his grandfather had been president of an oil company – and he’d devoted years to
travelling the world and indulging his taste for curios. Although he had never visited Venice until he was fifty years old, as he sailed into the lagoon and drank in the sights from the Bacino di
San Marco, he resolved to make the city his home. By the sound of it, he lived in some grand
palazzo
overlooking the Canal Grande, and kept his income topped up with the rent from apartments
that he’d been wise enough to buy up as the years passed. For all the talk of flooding, you could make good money on property in the city. Demand would always exceed supply.

“I always had a love of books, though it was not until I met Zuichini here that I started to collect in earnest. Are you a reader, Lucia, my dear?”

She shook her head. “No, I am too young. I tell this to Joly. He is of an age where there should be no time to read. He should live a bit.”

“Well, books are not simply a delight for desiccated old rascals like me or Zuichini here You must not be hard on your young man. Seems to me he does pretty well for himself, living the
dolce vita
on a budget while indulging in old books whenever he finds a moment to spare.”

Joly caught Zuichini peering down the front of Lucia’s dress. Their eyes met briefly and the little man gave his toothless smile. Perhaps even he would find time to break off from binding
books if only he could spend a night with Lucia. It wouldn’t happen, though, unless Sanborn was in a mood to share. Joly savoured his swordfish. He didn’t care. The American was welcome
to her. If he showered her with money and presents, there was little doubt that Lucia would be content to do his bidding until she got bored. She’d confided in Joly that she’d worked in
a lap dancing club in Milan and finished up living with the man who owned the joint. He was something high up in the Mafia, but after a few weeks he’d tired of her complaining and she’d
managed to escape him without a scratch. Joly reckoned there wasn’t much she wasn’t willing to do, provided the price was right.

He felt his eyelids drooping before Sanborn snapped knobbly, arthritic fingers and asked the waiter to bring coffee. Before he knew what was happening, Lucia had accepted Sanborn’s offer
that they dine together again as his guests the following night. He didn’t object – it was a free meal, and who cared if Sanborn was a dirty old man with an ulterior motive? Already he
had spent enough time in the American’s company to know that he was both persuasive and determined. If he wanted to spend his money, if Lucia wanted to sell her favours, who was Joly to stand
in their way?

Sanborn insisted on paying a gondolier to take them back to a landing stage not far from Lucia’s apartment. On the way home, she prattled about how wonderful the American was. Joly knew it
was unwise to argue, but in the end he couldn’t resist pointing out that she was the one who had been unwilling to waste her evening in the company of two old men. Now she had committed them
to a repeat, on his very last night in the city, when he would have preferred them to be alone.

“And you would have been able to match Darius’s hospitality? I do not think so, Joly.”

The next day was even hotter. Lucia went out to work early on and was intent on shopping during the afternoon. After lunching on a ham sandwich – no point in spoiling his appetite for the
evening’s feast – Joly embarked on a last stroll around the gardens of Castello. Finding a seat beneath a leafy tree, he finished
Death in Venice
, then ambled back through the
alleyways, absorbing the smells of the fish-sellers’ stalls and the chocolate shops, wondering how long it would be before he returned to La Serenissima. He understood what had kept Sanborn
here. Once you became intoxicated with the beauties of Venice, the rest of the world must seem drab by comparison. But he was keen to sample Rome and after the previous night, he was more than ever
convinced that this was the right time to make a break with Lucia. Sanborn was welcome to her.

When he arrived back at the flat, Lucia was short-tempered in the way that he now associated with her rare attacks of nervousness. She was bent upon impressing Sanborn, and she’d bought a
slinky new red dress with a neckline so daring it bordered on indecent. It must have cost her a month’s wages. A carefully targeted investment – assuming she had footed the bill, that
was. Joly wondered if she’d met up with Sanborn during the day and managed to charm the cash out of him. He wouldn’t put it past either of them. So what? It was none of his business;
soon he would be out of here.

The American and his sidekick were waiting for them at the appointed time, sitting at a table inside a restaurant close to Rialto. Sanborn’s suit tonight was a shade of pale cream.
Zuichini was scruffy by comparison, his face more reminiscent of a scary carnival mask than ever.

“Lucia, you look dazzling!”

Sanborn kissed her on both cheeks and Zuichini did likewise. Joly had never seen the bookbinder show such animation. The little dark eyes seemed to be measuring Lucia’s tanned flesh, no
doubt wondering what she might look like when wearing no clothes. His attention pleased her. Perhaps she was hoping the two old men would fight over her. Even the waiter who took their order
allowed his gaze to linger on her half-exposed breasts for longer than was seemly. The restaurant specialized in finest beef steak and Sanborn ordered four bottles of Bollinger.

“Tonight we celebrate!” he announced. “Over the past twenty four hours, we have become firm friends. And although Joly is to move on tomorrow, with the lovely Lucia to follow,
it is my firm conviction that all four of us will be reunited before too long.”