The Thief Lord

"Of course." Scipio surreptitiously rubbed his aching knees. "I have never been caught. And I have seen nearly every noble house from the inside. And without ever being invited."

"Is that so?" Strong fingers covered with liver spots adjusted the glasses. "Sounds like we're in business. The house you shall visit for me is on the Campo Santa Margherita -- number eleven. It belongs to a Signora Ida Spavento. It is not a particularly magnificent house but it does have a small garden, which, as you well know, is a treasure in itself in this city. I will leave behind in this confessional an envelope containing all the information you need to carry out this job. You will find a floor plan of the Casa Spavento, and a few notes on the item you are supposed to steal, as well as a photograph of it."

"Very well." Scipio nodded. "That will save my assistants and me a lot of work. But let's talk about the payment."

And again Prosper could hear the old man laugh. "I can see that you are a businessman. Your reward will be five million lire, payable on delivery."

Mosca squeezed Prosper's arm so hard that it hurt. Scipio said nothing for a while and when he spoke again his voice sounded quite shaky. "Five million," he repeated slowly, "sounds like a fair price."

"I couldn't pay more even if I wanted to," the Conte answered. "You will see that what you are supposed to steal is of value only to me, since it is made of neither gold nor silver, but of wood. So, do we have a deal?"

Scipio inhaled sharply. "Yes," he said, "we have a deal. When should we deliver the item?"

"Oh, as quickly as your skills permit. I am an old man and I would like to achieve the goal of my lifelong quest. I have no wish left in this life, except to hold in my hands what you are to steal for me."

Longing rang through his voice. What could "the item" be? Prosper thought. What could be so wonderful as to cause such mad desire? It was still only an object. It wasn't alive. What could be worth such a fortune?

Scipio stared thoughtfully into the dark window. "How will I report to you that I have been successful?" he asked. "Barbarossa told us you're difficult to reach."

"That is true." Out of the darkness came quiet coughing. "But you will find everything you need in this confessional after I have left. Once I have closed this curtain, you will count to fifty, and then you may retrieve what I have left behind for you. I also like to keep my secrets and I do not have a mask to aid me. Send me news of your success and you will receive my answer the next day at Barbarossa's. I will then tell you when you can exchange "the item" for your reward. I'd better tell you now where we will carry out the bargain. Barbarossa is a little too fond of opening other people's letters and I would prefer to conduct this transaction without his interference. So remember this well: We will meet at the Sacca della Misericordia, a small bay to the north of the city. You can find the Sacca on any street map of Venice should it not be familiar to you. I wish you luck, Thief Lord. My heart has been longing so passionately for what you shall steal for me that it has grown quite weary."

The Conte quickly pulled the curtain shut. Scipio got up and listened. A party of tourists shuffled past the confessional while their guide described the mosaics above their heads in a muted voice.

"Forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty!" Mosca said as soon as the tourists had moved on and the voice of the guide had faded away.

Scipio glanced at him, amused. "Well, you're certainly quick at counting," he said and pushed the curtain aside. Carefully, one after another, they stepped into the open.

"You have a look, Prosper," Scipio whispered, while he and Mosca shielded the confessional from view.

Prosper carefully opened the door meant only for priests and slipped inside. On the small bench underneath the window he found a sealed envelope and a basket with a woven lid. When Prosper lifted the basket he heard rustling inside. He nearly dropped it again in surprise. Scipio and Mosca looked amazed when he emerged from the confessional with his find.

"A basket? What's inside?" Mosca whispered suspiciously.

"Whatever it is, it moves." Prosper carefully lifted the lid, but Mosca hurriedly pushed it back down. "Wait!" he hissed. "It moves? Maybe it's a snake!"

"A snake?" Scipio teased. "Why would the Conte give us a snake? You get these strange ideas from all those stories Hornet reads you." He put his ear to the basket. "Yes, there's something rustling. But I can also hear pecking sounds," he muttered. "Ever heard of a pecking snake?"

Scipio frowned and opened the lid just enough to peer inside. "Well!" he said, and quickly closed the lid again. "It's a pigeon."

13 Pumping for Information

What are they doing in the Basilica? Victor thought as he watched Prosper and Mosca vanish with Scipio through the side entrance. It seemed highly unlikely that the three boys just wanted to look at the mosaics. I hope they're not going to pick the tourists' pockets, he thought, or I'll have to hand Prosper over to the police. Not that Esther Hartlieb could care less. As far as she's concerned, it would just go to show that she'd always been right about her sister's eldest son. But if the little one was also caught thieving, that would probably be quite a blow to her.

The little one...Over his newspaper, Victor carefully peered toward the lion fountain. Prosper had left Bo with the girl and the little hedgehog. He probably trusted them or he wouldn't have left his precious little brother in their care. The girl was talking to Bo. She was obviously trying to make him laugh. The little one, however, looked pretty gloomy. As did the little hedgehog, who was staring into the water of the fountain as if he were about to drown himself in it.

What do I do now? Victor thought. He frowned and folded up his newspaper. I could grab the little one, but I would probably be lynched as a child snatcher before I had the chance to show my detective's badge. No, too many people around. Victor didn't like to admit it to himself, but there was another reason why he didn't want to take Bo. It was ridiculous, but he just couldn't do that to Prosper -- to have him find his brother missing when he came out of the Basilica.

Victor shook his head and sighed. I shouldn't have taken on this case, he thought to himself. What next? You can't feel pity during a game of hide-and-seek. And even less when you play tag. Stop worrying!

"Exactly!" Victor grumbled. "I will have to get some more information first. About that gang they're hanging out with, for starters." He pulled his baseball cap lower over his face and made sure that he hadn't finished the film in his camera. Then he strolled out into the open, just far enough for Bo to be able to see him from the lion fountain. Victor bought a bag of birdseed from one of the hawkers that stood around everywhere. He filled his pockets with seeds and scattered them with both his hands across the piazza.

"Putt, puttputtputt!" he cooed, putting on his most harmless smile. "Come here, you winged rats, and don't you dare poop on my sleeves."

And they came. A whole flock of pigeons rose, in a cloud of gray feathers and yellow beaks, fluttered toward Victor, and settled on his shoulders, arms, and even on his head, where they pecked inquisitively at his cap. This wasn't pleasant at all. Victor had to admit that he was afraid of anything that flapped with a sharp beak. But how else could he attract the attention of the little boy? So Victor smiled and cooed and puttputted -- and watched the children by the fountain.