"Titian," said Craig.
'Titian, Veronese, Tiepolo, Longhi, Carpaccio—there's about a quarter of a million quid's worth here," said Grierson. "It's fantastic." But it was more than money, it was power. And vulnerability, too. At one end of the room the band from Rome was tuning up, at the other, stewards were polishing glasses at a bar backed with flowers. Behind the bar a fountain played. It was champagne. Grierson called for a glass, sipped, and shuddered.
"It's Italian," he said.
"The French champagne's in the other fountain, sir," said the barman. "It won't be switched on until Mr. Naxos arrives."
They went up the great central staircase, massive, magnificent, galleon-like, and on to the second floor, a maze of rooms opening into each other, those looking out on to the Grand Canal shuttered, and all of them glowing like pearls in the light of candles that softened and made tremulous the richness of green brocade, the pink and yellow splendor of marble. They saw a room set up for a main, and fighting cocks clucking in basket cages, a room set for cards, where all the cards were of ivory, rooms for dancing, dueling, making love, and one long, narrow room, where the candles were islands of light on a black canal, and the wooden floor was sanded. Craig turned to Grierson. "A room for dueling?" Grierson asked.
"What else?" asked a voice.
Craig turned to the door. A fat man stood just inside its frame, a fat man with Titian hair and the face of a cupid by Tiepolo. He was dressed as a cardinal, and held a matching purple mask attached to an ivory shaft.
"You must be Trottia," said Craig, and walked toward
him.
"Designer in chief, regisseur, director, comptroller of the household," said the fat man. "Trottia." He bowed.
Craig continued toward him, his booted feet almost soundless on the sanded floor, the cutlass trailing behind him. Like a cat, Trottia thought. A deadly grace, an elegant cruelty. Precise and feline and terrible. When he kills he will move like a dancer. Yet the one he strikes will still be dead.
I'm Craig—in charge of security. This is Grierson. He's helping me."
"Splendid," said Trottia. "I'd better explain the entertainment."
As he talked, his self-confidence returned. Venice would see nothing like it, ever again. In the great hall the dancing, where ex-kings, film stars, noblemen, matadors, racing motorists, opera singers, detergent manufacturers, boxers, thousand-dollar call girls, ski champions, brewers, the members of seven governments, five armies, and nine oil companies would twist, shout, cha-cha, locomotive, and glide. And above, the happenings, the animated paintings with actors taking the part of Titian's figures, the scenes from Venetian life, the Galluppi toccatas with a concert harpsichord player improvising to order, the gambling, the flirtations, the duel.
"The what?" asked Grierson.
"The duel," said Trottia. 'Two Olympic swordsmen —it's all on the program. You have a program?"
"No," said Craig. "Naxos forgot to give me one." T find that strange," said Trottia. "So do I," said Craig. "So do I."
Grierson said: "People can wander about both floors?" "And the roof," said Trottia. "The roofr
"It's laid out as a garden. One can take supper there and hear the gondola serenade. It will be splendid."
The two men left him, and he thought again how splendid it would be, after Craig died. A hard man to kill. Trottia shivered, and went to wait for the actors.
The roof, too, was a maze—of trees in enormous tubs, of fairy lights, of chairs and tables, bars and buffets, and banks of flowers. Craig looked at it in despair. Below him the Grand Canal glowed like oil, the molo glittered with lights.
"We might as well get drunk," said Grierson. "If anybody wants to get your friend, we haven't a chance."
"We have," said Craig. "Just one. The steward."
He led the way down to the ballroom again, to the kitchens where stewards, chefs, and sous chefs worked like demons preparing a reception for the Hilton Hotel in hell. Theseus had told them who they were, and nobody bothered. They were too busy. They went back into the ballroom again and waited until the steward came in. Craig waited until he'd put down his load of glassware and spoke softly in Greek. "Walk to the end of the hall," he said, "or I'll kill you." The steward spun round, and Craig pulled the mask down from his face, a face devoid of any emotion, not cruel, not vengeful; pitiless. The steward went. From upstairs in the duehng room came the clash of steel and Trottia's squeals of pleasure. The actors had arrived. Craig led the way to a room off the hall, the room he'd been given as an office, then grabbed the steward and shoved him. The steward slammed into the wall, moaned but said nothing.
"Yell," said Craig. "That's what respectable people do. Yell for the police."
"You would kill me," the steward whispered.
"I might," said Craig.
The steward turned to Grierson, trying to reach beyond the mask for a sign of mercy, of pity.
"Please, sir," he gabbled. "I've done nothing, I know nothing—if the gentleman thinks I've wronged—"
The words faded in a babble of terror. Craig*s hand was thrust before his face. It held a bottle of suntan lotion. The band crashed into one last rehearsal of samba.
'You've got a touch of the sun," said Craig. "You're all red. Use some of this. Go on. Use it."
"I don't need it," said the steward.
"Use it anyway," said Craig. "Go on."
"But why should I?"
"It costs two thousand lire a bottle. I'll give you ten thousand if you'll use it. Twenty thousand. I'm kinky for blokes who use suntan oil."
The steward moaned and covered his face with his
hands.
Craig grabbed his hair and pulled his head up. "Watch," he said.
He unscrewed the cap with extreme care, and turned to Grierson.
"Hold him," he said. Grierson's arms came round him, and the steward was helpless.
"What's your name?" Craig asked. "Nikki."
"Don't you like suntan oil, Nikki?" "I have an allergy," the steward said. "To this kind? Everybody does," said Craig. "Who gave it to you?"
The steward was silent.
"1 saw what it did to a piece of wood," Craig said. "Went right through it. Who gave it to you?"
Nikki moaned aloud: "Suit yourself," said Craig, and tilted the bottle.
"No," Nikki screamed. "No. It was Mrs. Naxos."
The band finished, on three hard chords like right hooks to the body.
"You're lying," said Craig, and his hand moved closer.
Nikki opened his mouth to scream, and Craig's free hand flicked him like a cobra striking. The scream became a gasp.
"We haven't much time," said Grierson.
"Nikki's got no time at all," said Craig. "Look, I'll ask you once more. Who gave it to you?"
"Mrs. Naxos," said Nikki, his voice a wheezing gasp. "I swear it. She said it was a joke. It would make you turn blue, she said."
"Then why are you so scared?" Craig asked.
"I tried it on a piece of paper."
"Who got you your job, Nikki?" Craig asked. "Who do you work for?"
The hand holding the bottle was over his head now. The bottle was tilting, tilting.
"I don't know his name," Nikki said. "I swear I don't. An Englishman. Big. Bigger than Theseus."
"And what did he tell you to do?"
"I have to take my orders from Mrs. Naxos—do whatever she says. Mr. Naxos isn't to know."
"What orders?"
"I can get her the white stuff," said Nikki. "Heroin." "How many times?"
"Not yet," said Nikki. "But she knows I've got it if she wants it."
As he spoke the band blared again, and Craig's hand tilted, spilling suntan oil on Nikki's face. The steward screamed and fainted.