He started to walk along the gangplank. Her thin arm held him back with a surprising strength.
“It’s dangerous to be innocent, Daniel. Remember as much. Please.”
He shook himself free from her grip and marched on the boat, not looking back. Sure enough, Giulia Morelli did not follow him. The plans he had made, which now ran madly around his head, could still hold. He had time to visit La Pietà on the way. The invitation had yet to be delivered to Amy. He was also, though he was reluctant to admit as much, beginning to feel a small degree of proprietorial care towards the work which now, as far as most of the world knew, bore his name.
They had just finished rehearsing one of the slow passages from the opening of the second movement when he entered the church. All heads turned, and he was alarmed to hear a light ripple of applause come from the floor.
“Daniel! Daniel!” Fabozzi yelled from the rostrum. “A word! A word!”
The little man, still dressed all in black, this time with high Chelsea boots on his feet, dashed from the podium to greet him. He seemed elated.
“We’re getting the hang of it, dear chap!” Fabozzi cried. “We start to see your meaning!”
“Good,” Daniel replied with as much conviction as he could muster. “I listened a little from the door,” he lied. “It sounds wonderful.”
“You sound wonderful!” He had never seen the conductor look so pleased with himself and his players. For a moment Daniel regretted declining the opportunity to join the orchestra. From the look on their eager young faces, Fabozzi was good at his job. “Oh, please, Daniel. Spend some time with us.”
“I will. I will. But not until I’ve given you a complete score, Fabozzi. Which will, at the present rate, be by this weekend. Next week, I promise.”
“And we’ll hold you to it. Eh, Amy?”
She had walked out of the mass of musicians to join them. Amy Hartston wore a pale-blue silk shirt and jeans. Her blonde hair was tucked back behind her head for playing. Her face was bright and full of life.
“Of course we will. You do want to hear us, don’t you, Daniel? I sometimes think you’d like to run away from this masterpiece of yours.”
“I’ll sit here all day and watch you play,” he insisted. “Provided you don’t complain when you run out of notes.”
“Ah,” she laughed. “You have us there!”
Fabozzi looked uncomfortable, seeming to recognise something pass between them. “Excuse me,” he said. “I need to look at that passage more closely before we resume. Ciao!”
When the conductor was gone, Daniel found himself standing in front of Amy, awkwardly trying to raise the subject of the boat trip. “I was,” he said, “wondering…”
“Yes?”
“There is, um… an outing. Some friends of mine. On a boat. This Sunday. Out to one of the islands. Not a very interesting one, I think. You probably wouldn’t want to go.”
“OK.”
“They’re not like Massiter. The boat certainly isn’t like Massiter’s. Local people. I doubt you’d find it amusing.”
“I said OK.”
He felt sure he was blushing. “Um. Fine, then.”
“When? And where?”
“You mean you do want to go?”
She folded her arms and peered at him. “You are asking me out, aren’t you, Daniel?”
“Y-yes!”
“Then I’d love to come. Now, when? And where?”
His cheeks felt as if they were on fire. “I’ll find that out. I’ll come back tomorrow and tell you.”
“That would be useful. Here.” She pulled a notepad out of her back pocket, scribbled a number on a page, then tore it off and handed it to him. “Alternatively, you could always phone. These friends of yours. They do let you use a phone, I guess?”
“Of course!”
Amy Hartston smiled. “Well!” Her self-confidence in these situations was, Daniel thought, unshakable and clearly the result of greater experience. “Here’s to Sunday, then. Now, either sit down and listen or run along, Daniel. These notes of yours are on occasion such pigs to play I sometimes think you’re Paganini’s ghost. For both our sakes, I would like them to sound as convincing as possible.”
With that she turned and walked back to the orchestra, who were now busily tuning for the resumption of the rehearsal, flicking the pages of the scores, mumbling, staring intently at the pages. For a moment, Daniel Forster felt a sickening twinge of guilt. The admiration which these people felt for him was entirely undeserved. Yet, he told himself, without his diligent searching and his dealing with Massiter, they would never be a part of the marvel taking shape on the floor of La Pietà. They owed him a debt, even if it was not the one they assumed.
They were so swiftly engrossed in the music that no one saw him leave. Outside, Daniel walked east along the Riva degli Schiavoni. The Campari sign that marked the Lido vaporetto stop shimmered in the heat haze across the water. Somewhere beyond the jetty, on the opposite side of the narrow spit of land, hordes of holidaymakers would be lying on the beach, staring at the flat blue Adriatic. The lagoon seemed to contain an entire universe within its borders, most of it, from his point of view, unexplored.
By the time he had reached San Biagio, where his directions told him to leave the waterfront, the only other figures on the street were clearly locaclass="underline" women carrying shopping, men sitting on benches, watching the boats go by, smoking.
He turned left, along the Canale dell’ Arsenale. The alley lay after a small bridge. He walked down the cobbled lane and found himself staring at the vast, empty quarters of the Arsenale. The empty warehouse was down a narrow passage which stank of cats. He pushed open the half-shattered door and walked in. There was the smell of strong cigarette smoke and the aroma of aftershave.
Daniel stood patiently in the light of the doorway and, after a suitable interval, called, “Hello?”
A figure came out of the shadow, shared the sun with him, then offered a cigarette. They were about the same size, Daniel guessed, both tall and far from muscular, though the man was older. He had a sallow face, lightly pockmarked, and he wore plastic-framed sunglasses that seemed too big for him.
“No, thank you. I’m Daniel.”
The man snorted. “You’re giving me a name?”
Daniel ran a hand over his chin, thinking about what Scacchi had said, and about the policewoman too. There was no easy way to recognise a thief, let alone a murderer. “You have the item?”
“That’s what you asked for, isn’t it? You got the money?”
Daniel shrugged. “I’m just the intermediary. I have to see it’s what he wants.”
The man threw his dying cigarette into the corner of the warehouse. It spat and sizzled in a damp pool somewhere in the dark. “It’s what he wants. Here.”
A cheap nylon bag flew through the air. Daniel just managed to catch it. “If this is what you claim, my friend, you should treat it more carefully.”
He was back in the dark, lighting another cigarette. “Hey, kid. Don’t tell me what to do with my property. If you buy it, you treat it as you like. Till then, shut up.”
Daniel said nothing. He opened the nylon bag and took out an ancient fiddle case covered with queer-smelling dust. It was decidedly heavy. He knelt down in the doorway, placed the case on the floor, and opened it. Inside was the most extraordinary violin he had ever seen. It was massive in form, as Scacchi had told him to expect. The sap stains were there, too, running parallel with the fingerboard on both sides of the belly. He held the instrument in the shaft of light and peered through the left f-hole. Inside, black lettering against brown parchment, was the label “Joseph Guarnerius fecit Cremone, anno 1733,” then a small cross above the letters IHS.