"Good," he said.
Craig led the way to the maze of alleys by St. Mark's and found the Cafe he was looking for. It was ten years since he had been there, but everything was just as it had always been. Even the cats looked the same. Everything in Venice is there for ever.
They sat outside together, their backs against a wall two feet thick, their nearest neighbors a group of market-men sitting over coffee and talking endlessly, effortlessly, about the price of tomatoes. Theseus asked for wine, and Craig ordered Orvieto, then looked at the Hydriote's enormous body.
"Bring the bottle," he said, and when it came, watched Theseus drink and ordered another.
"Busy night," said Theseus. Craig nodded. "Money. Too much money. There'll be thieves." He drank again.
"They won't have invitation cards," said Craig.
"They'll make their own," said Theseus. "They've done it before."
He drank gloomily.
"We'll have men watching," said Craig. "Sneak thieves I don't mind, but I want you to watch out for the hard boys. Have some of your sailors handy. If you see me signal, come running."
"You think there may be a fight?"
"It's possible."
"I'd like that," said the Hydriote. He poured more wine, and the empty bottle swung in his hand like a belaying pin. Suddenly his fingers clamped round the bottleneck, and he began to squeeze hard, harder, until the sweat rolled down his face, and his arms were wet with it. At last the bottle neck cracked, and opened, and he turned to the waiter who had brought the second bottle.
"Could you do that?" he asked.
"All right," said Craig. "You're strong. Just be there when I want you."
Theseus drank, poured another glass, then looked into Craig's mquiring eyes.
"No more till after the party," he said.
Craig nodded. "Me too."
"There'll be trouble tonight," said Theseus.
"What kind of trouble?"
"The women. Clothes trouble."
'Try speaking in sentences," Craig said.
"Mrs. Naxos has a costume, and Pia Busoni has the same costume."
"You're sure?"
Theseus's massive head, the head of a Hercules sunk in gloom, nodded once.
"Certain." He sighed. 'Trouble," he said. "For you. Pity. I like you."
He finished the bottle and took Craig back to the yacht. The guests were already dressed for the party, and Craig fought his way through a mob of harlequins, columbines, abbots, Napoleons, painters, poets, pirates, peasants, doges, courtesans, Othellos, Desdemonas, Crusaders, Byzantines, queens of Cyprus, and emperors of the Holy Roman Empire, who were milling around the buffet, drinking Scotch and smoking king-sized tipped cigarettes. In the big hotels on Lido, in rented palazzos, in Venice itself, several hundred more would be changing too: all in costumes that had a link with Venice as she once had been. The Serenissima, queen of the sea, the one point in the earth where East met West, lord of a quarter and a half quarter of the Roman Empire; a city of fantastic wealth, beauty, power, and cruelty. Craig squeezed past Titian's Young Man with a Glove, nodded at Swyven, a half-convincing Lord Byron, and went to his cabin.
He was a corsair—baggy trousers, soft leather boots, white shirt, black velvet waistcoat, and a scarlet handkerchief for his head. There was a red sash too, stuck with plastic imitations of daggers, cutlasses, yataghans, and pistols. Craig added his new Smith and Wesson and the German's knife to the collection. They looked at home there. Someone knocked on the door, and he pushed the pistol down into the sash. The door opened, and Andrews came in and handed Craig a radiogram.
"From your broker," he said.
Magna Electrics and Marine Foods had jumped, but Railton Plastics was sluggish. So far Craig had made £ 2,000. Beneath the stock-market quotations Andrews had written: Tavel—negative. Busoni—negative. Swyven believed to be business partner of Trottia. Important nothing happens to Naxos. Stay sober. Loomis.
"That's all?" said Craig.
Andrews said: "I dare say you'll get more news later." He turned to the door, then added: "Oh, by the way, sir, I'm going to this shindig tonight too."
Craig said carefully: "I shan't try to reach my broker tonight anyway."
"Cigarette, sir?" Andrews asked.
"No," said Craig. "You try one of these." He eased the Smith and Wesson up from the sash.
Andrews left, and Craig went to see Naxos.
He was dressed as a Turkish pasha, and he looked like a toad in a turban, a toad with the thrust of a jet. Beside him was the queen of the harem, an olive-skinned, black-haired beauty in filmy pantaloons, slave bangles on wrists and ankles, a velvet jacket, gold lam6 breast coverings, gold necklace, and a velvet cap, gold-trimmed. A muslin veil hid her face but not her body. Craig looked round for Philippa, and the olive-skinned houri laughed.
I'm still here," said Philippa, and took off her veil. "When one's husband feels like a Turk, the best thing to do is feel like a harem." She snapped her fingers, and lifted her arms above her head; her body began to writhe.
"Flip, for God's sake," said Harry. His voice was a blast from a foghorn.
Philippa let her arms drop, loosed her muslin veil.
I'm sorry, John," she said. "I feel lousy tonight."
"Give the party a miss then," Craig said.
"I can't. It's all arranged, you see. I've got to go."
"It'll do you good, honey," Naxos said. "What can we do for you, John?"
Craig looked at the woman, her hands pulling restlessly at her veil, a nerve in her cheek twitching so that her face was never still. She needed a fix. Desperately.
"I haven't got an invitation card," said Craig.
"Help yourself," said Naxos, and gestured to a pile of huge, stiff cards.
"Thanks," said Craig, and turned to Philippa. 'Tour necklace is coming loose," he said. "Shall I fix it for you?"
"I'll do it," said Naxos, and his great body came round his wife's like a wall.
Craig took two invitation cards.
I'll be off then," he said. "See you at the ball."
Grierson was waiting at the piazzetta. He was dressed in red velvet with a velvet mask, a quattrocento Venetian dandy with a rapier by his side. The two men walked along the molo to a point opposite the palazzo, watching the yacht's big tender running a ferry service of stewards and sailors from the ship to the house.
"I like your costume," said Craig.
"It's terribly me," said Grierson.
Craig handed him his invitation card. A small crowd' watched respectfully, a gaggle of gondoliers swooped to them like swallows.
'It cost the earth," Grierson said. "Every shop in Venice was besieged. Lucky I'm on an expense account."
He gestured, regally, and the selected gondolier darted forward. His day was made. Craig and Grierson sat, and the boat moved off to the Palazzo Molin, its polished marble and granite brilliant under arc lamps. "I suppose we should have arrived in the palace gondola," Grierson said, and adjusted his cloak that was black, slashed with crimson. "But I don't like ostentation."
They reached the palazzo landing stage, and sailors in white held the gondola with boathooks as Craig and Grierson stepped ashore. There was a soft "Aaah!" from the crowd on the molo. The first of the extras had arrived, the curtain would go up soon. Theseus appeared, took their invitation cards, and saluted. The crowd sighed again.
"One can't help feeling ostentatious," said Grierson.
They went inside, preceded by a sailor Theseus summoned to show them the way. The great hall on the ground floor was a blaze of chandeliers, a hot brilhant light that warmed the cool elegance of the blue walls, the blue and white stuccoed ceiling. At intervals on the walls Craig could see pictures, and Grierson stopped in front of one.
"That's the best copy of a Titian I've ever seen," he said. "I wonder who did it?"