The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries Page 6

  “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.”

  As their glasses clinked, Lucia’s eyes were glowing. While they ate, the conversation turned to Joly’s plans. He made it clear that t
hey remained fluid. It was his style, he said, to trust to luck. Sanborn challenged this, arguing that even a young man needed roots.

  “Learn from my mistake, Joly. Until I discovered the wonders of this marvellous city, my life lacked direction. You need something to anchor your existence. A place, firm friends, perhaps a trade.”

  Zuichini nodded with unaccustomed animation. “Right. That is right.”

  “Listen to this good man. He knows the joys of a craft, the unique pleasure that comes with creation. This is where you can steal a march on me, Joly. I am proud of my collection of books, undeniably, but I have never experienced the delight of creating a masterpiece of my own. I cannot paint, or compose, or write to any level of acceptable competence. I lack skills of a practical nature. But you, my young friend, are different. If you were to put your talents to good purpose . . .”

  “I have an idea!” Lucia clapped her hands. Champagne went to her head. After a single glass, already she was raising her voice and her skin was flushed. “Once you have seen Rome, you could come back here and train as Zuichini’s apprentice!”

  The plague doctor’s face split in a horrid smile, while Sanborn exclaimed with delight. “Perfect! There, Joly, you have your answer. How clever you are, Lucia. That way two birds could be killed with one stone. Joly would learn from a master at the height of his powers, and Zuichini would have a good man to whom he could pass on the tricks of his trade before it is too late.” Sanborn lowered his voice. “And there is something else that I have omitted to mention. Zuichini, may I? You see, Joly. This good fellow here, as you may have notice, is afflicted by a dreadful malady. Parkinson’s attacks the nervous system and he has been suffering stoically for some time. But it becomes increasingly difficult for him to work. An utter tragedy, sometimes I despair. Not only because Zuichini’s disability saddens me, but also from a selfish motive. For who will succeed him in business, who will practise his very special skills, so as to keep me supplied in fine books? In you, perhaps I have found the answer to my prayers.”

  “I don’t think so,” Joly said slowly.

  “Oh, but you must!” Lucia exclaimed. “Such an opportunity, to learn from a genius!”

  Sanborn must have primed her with this idea and asked her to offer support. They’d met during the day, not only so that Sanborn could pay for the new dress. The American was, Joly thought, like the most demanding parent. He wanted to have the young folk beholden to him, at his beck and call and used his control of the purse strings to make sure they did not escape.

  “I suppose I can mull it over, when I am in Rome.”

  He’d expected Sanborn to suggest that he abandoned his trip, but the old man surprised him, giving a broad smile and murmuring that he could not say fairer than that. Zuichini went so far as to give him a playful punch on the shoulder.

  “Good apprentice, yes?”

  While Joly tucked into the succulent beef, Sanborn talked about the art of binding books. He spoke of the pouch binding of Japanese books and the unique technique of nakatoji, of Jean Groller’s leather-bound tomes covered with intricate geometric paterns, inlaid with coloured enamels and books bound in the flayed skin of murderers and highwaymen. He told them about cheverell, a goatskin parchment transformed into a binding both supple and strong with a bold, grainy pattern, popular in Italy during the fourteenth century, he described methods of fatliquoring leather, he explained . . .

  “Joly, wake up!”

  He became aware of Lucia’s sharp elbow, digging into his side. Sanborn was beaming at him like a benevolent uncle, surveying a favourite nephew who has overdone the Christmas pudding. Zuichini was savouring his wine, still casting the occasional frank glance at Lucia’s ample cleavage.

  “Sorry, must have dropped off.”

  “Please do not apologize, I beg you,” Sanborn said. “Put your sleepiness down to a combination of the wine and the weather. Perhaps accompanied by a tinge of tristesse – am I right, young man? This is your last night in La Serenissima for a little while and who could fail to experience a frisson of regret at departing from here?” He refilled their glasses, taking no notice when Joly shook his head. “So let us drink to our good friend Joly, and express the sincere hope that soon he will be back here for good!”

  He reached out and patted Joly’s arm. Blearily, Joly tried to focus on how to interpret the old man’s behaviour. His hand did not linger. Had it been unfair to impute to him some sexual motive for such generosity? Perhaps in truth Sanborn’s generosity did not amount to anything out of the ordinary. For a rich man, the cost of a couple of meals and a few bottles of fine wine was small change. Was it possible that Sanborn was no more than he seemed, a lonely old millionaire, keen to share the company of the young and beautiful, as well as that of his ailing friend, and that he had no ulterior motive at all?

  Sanborn made some remark and Lucia laughed long and loud, a noise that reminded Joly of a workman drilling in the road. She had a good head for drink, Joly knew that from experience, but even she was beginning to lose control. He remembered her telling him about her last night with the Mafia boss. She’d plucked up the courage to put a small knife in her bag. If he’d attacked her, she’d steeled herself to fight for her life. Joly did not doubt the strength of her survival instinct. If she thought herself threatened, she would lash out without a moment’s hesitation. What would happen if Zuichini made her afraid with the clumsiness of his overtures?

  He yawned. His head was spinning and he couldn’t keep worrying about what might happen between consenting adults. Que sera, sera.

  Next thing he knew, someone was tapping him on the arm. Through the fog of a hangover, he heard Sanborn’s gentle voice.

  “Joly, my boy. Are you all right?”

  Even the act of opening his eyes made him want to cry out, it hurt so much. Christ, how much had he drunk? He had no head for champagne, but he’d never felt this bad before. He blinked hard and tried to take in his surroundings. He was lying on a hard bed in a small, musty room. The sun was shining in through a small high window but he had no idea where he might be. Sanborn was standing beside the bed, arms folded, studying him. Suddenly, he felt afraid.

  “Where am I?”

  “Listen, my friend, you have nothing to fear. You just had rather too much to drink, that’s all.”

  “The drinks were spiked.” Nothing else could explain how he had come to black out; this had never happened to him before.

  “No, no, no.” Sanborn had a first-class bedside manner, though Joly was sure he was lying. “You overdid it, simple as that. And you threw up all over Lucia, which frankly wasn’t such a good idea.”

  “Lucia?” He gazed at the peeling wallpaper, the unfamiliar cupboard and door. “Where have you brought me?”

  “Listen, it’s all right. Lucia was upset, that’s all. Zuichini took care of her, no need to worry. As she wouldn’t entertain you in her bed last night, I volunteered to bring you here. Now, you need to get up and dressed. I think you said you plan to take the one o’clock coach from Piazzale Roma?”

  A wave of panic engulfed him. Effectively, he was the old man’s prisoner.

  “You haven’t told me where you’ve brought me.”

  “There’s no secret, Joly, keep your hair on, my dear fellow. This is an apartment I bought six months ago. Hardly the lap of luxury, but it’s only a stone’s throw from the restaurant. It seemed like the best solution. We could hardly leave you to your own devices, the state you were in, and Lucia was in no mood to take you back with her.”

  Joly coughed. “Then – I’m free to go?”

  Sanborn’s parchment features conveyed benign bewilderment. “I don’t understand. Why should you not be? I was only striving to do you a good turn.”

  I’ve been a fool, Joly thought, this isn’t a man to fear. The question is – what happened between Lucia and Zuichini? Did he try it on, did she let him get away with it?

  “Sorry, Darius. I’m not myself.”

  “Not to w
orry, these things happen. There’s a bathroom next door. No gold taps, I’m afraid, but you’ll find the basic necessities. I’ll leave you to it, if I may. Your bag’s over by the door, incidentally. I went over to Lucia’s this morning to pick it up.”

  “Thanks,” Joly whispered.

  “Here’s the key to the front door. Would you be kind enough to lock up for me? I have a little business to attend to, but I’ll be there at the coach station to see you off. It’s the least I can do.”

  Joly stared at the old man’s genial expression. Hoarsely, he said, “Thanks.”

  “Think nothing of it. That’s what friends are for, don’t you agree?”

  Two hours later, Joly arrived at the Piazzale Roma, bag in hand. Within moments he caught sight of Sanborn by an advertisement hoarding and the American lifted his stick in greeting before limping to greet him. He had a black velvet bag slung over his shoulder.

  “You’re looking much better. Remarkable what wonders can be worked by a simple wash and brush up.”

  “I’m very grateful to you,” Joly said humbly, handing over the key to the apartment.

  “Think nothing of it.” Sanborn cleared his throat. “Actually, I talked to Lucia before I made my way over here. There isn’t an easy way to put this, Joly, but I don’t believe she has any intention of joining you in Rome. I’m sorry.”

  Joly took a breath. “Maybe things had run their course.”

  Sanborn bowed his head. “That was rather the impression that I had gained. Well, I don’t care for prolonged farewells. I hope you will reflect on our conversation last night and that soon we shall see you again in La Serenissima.”