The Good Thief's Guide to Venice Read Online Free

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    ‘I need coffee,’ I told Victoria, fighting to stifle a yawn.
    ‘Good idea. Where’s your nearest Starbucks?’
    ‘Philistine. Don’t let the locals hear you say that.’
    The locals, every last one of them, were crammed inside a warm and steamy bar just beyond Campo San Maurizio. Leaving Victoria by the door, I pushed my way to the counter and ordered two espressos, then slipped my map out of my pocket and snuck a look at it under cover of the people around me.
    My map had all but disintegrated from heavy use. The wax paper was torn and gaping where once it had been neatly folded, the corners were curled and badly frayed, and I was missing an entire quadrant of the Giudecca. Even so, I had a curious affection for the thing and I was reluctant to replace it. I’d learned to my cost during my first weeks in Venice how easy it was to become hopelessly lost among the mazelike alleys and waterways of the city, and it had come to my rescue more times than I could count.
    Happily enough, it worked the same trick again, and I plotted a route through a series of backstreets that I felt confident I could remember. Then I necked my coffee and delivered Victoria’s. Once she’d sipped it down, and wafted her hand in front of her mouth as if she’d just swallowed a shot of firewater, I led her on as far as the gloomy fissure of Calle Fiubera without a single wrong turn.
    The bookbinding business was double-fronted, with two large windows on either side of a recessed glass door. The left-hand window featured a display of leather-bound volumes embellished with contrasting leather patches in the shape of stars, moons, cats and witches’ hats. A small cardboard sign beside each book, in English only, noted which volume in the Harry Potter series was for sale as a bound and signed edition, along with a price in euros that was frankly insane. The right-hand window was devoted to quality pens, paper supplies and stationery. We entered the shop and discovered that the interior was laid out in the same fashion.
    The place smelled strongly of tobacco smoke. A ragged-looking chap with unruly grey hair and wire-rim glasses was sitting behind a leather-inlaid desk among the book shelves, a scratched and dented pipe resting in the corner of his mouth. He was peering through an illuminated, table-fixed magnifying glass at a supple piece of tan leather. On the corner of his desk was a stack of red flyers just like the one that had been left in my apartment.
    He glanced up when we entered, eyes rheumy and networked with fine red lines, then returned his attention to his stitching and smoking.
    I approached the shelved books and scanned the titles that had been hand-embroidered on their spines. They were arranged in alphabetical order and I crouched down until I was facing the shelf given over to authors with a surname beginning with the letter H . I read from left to right, then raised a mitten in the air and repeated myself to be sure I hadn’t missed anything. I hadn’t. There were no books by Dashiell Hammett.
    I straightened, knees cracking, and led Victoria towards the stationery supplies on the opposite side of the shop. I pretended to give some consideration to a notebook with a black leather cover that was affordable enough to have been manufactured in the Far East. Victoria smoothed her fingers over a sheet of wrapping paper with a marbled effect that had probably originated from the same factory.
    ‘Well?’ she whispered.
    ‘Nothing,’ I told her.
    She inclined her head towards the owner of the shop. ‘Are you going to say something?’
    I set the notebook down and reached for a gift set containing a strip of red wax and a letter seal. ‘I’m not sure it’s going to get us very far.’
    ‘Even so.’
    ‘Even so?’
    She nodded and freed the gift box from my grip. ‘No time like the present.’
    The shopkeeper appeared to disagree. I shuffled across and hovered before his desk, but it wasn’t until I’d