Page 88 of Vengeance in Venice
“What is it?”
“The poison given to your wife.”
“By whom? Where did you get it?”
“You know,” Lampl said, and, of course, he did. “Take it. Give it to the British consul, and all will be well.”
Solomon raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Well for me? I doubt it. Because it is in my possession, I will be arrested for my wife’s attempted murder. And Savelli’s.”
For the first time, a gleam entered Lampl’s eye that might have been amusement, or even admiration. “You have a suspicious mind, Mr. Grey. I have tried to save you and your wife, but if you will not accept the help…”
With astonishing speed, Lampl flicked the little phial over the side of the bridge. Solomon was not gullible enough to follow it with his eyes, but he heard it splash into the waterbelow. Lampl’s coat swung open with the movement of his arm, revealing the other, larger inner pocket on the opposite side to the first.
Solomon caught only the tiniest glimpse—a distinctive shape, a glint of metal, a flash of color—but it was enough to know that their careful scheme had failed.
Constance was right. It was a stupid plan.
*
Hiding at thebottom of a boat on the other side of the canal at Lampl’s back door, Foscolo breathed a sigh of relief. Berndt, the big man, had followed his master out of the house by the back door and now climbed into the boat with Lampl. Of course, Berndt was there to do the rowing as well as the protecting.
Berndt seemed to be the one man that Lampl trusted, and normally one of them always remained in the house. Foscolo had recognized this as the weak part of his plan. Had Berndt stayed behind, most of the men would have been needed to subdue the brute, and that would have meant they were not searching the house.
And they wouldn’t have long before someone fetched the soldiers, when they would all be sunk. This was their one risk, and it seemed fortune favored them. Foscolo spared a sympathetic thought for Grey and his own man Guiseppe at the Rialto, who would now have to deal with Berndt instead. He thanked God he had thought to recruit Giusti to the cause.
But speed was still of the essence. As soon as they found the dagger, they would have to rush to the bridge to aid Grey. The longer the Englishman could keep Lampl there and quiet, the better, but they were all prepared for an instant attack. It was an appalling risk, but one Foscolo had felt obliged to take, for Lamplhadto be brought down. As quietly as possible.
Foscolo stretched one cramped leg. He waited until Lampl’s boat turned the first bend, then sat up. Instantly, so did his companion, who reached for the oars.
A massive thump on the back door caused it, eventually, to open a crack. It was a child’s dirty face that appeared there—another stroke of luck—and Foscolo leapt past him into the house.
A woman stood frozen by the kitchen table, gaping at them, her fist clenched as though she were about to pound the dough in front of her.
“Police,” Foscolo said. “Wait there and don’t move.”
His man stayed by the back door, pistol in hand, while Foscolo barged through the kitchen to the stark office beyond. As he had suspected, there was nothing there but a few sheets of blank paper, a pen, a letter knife, and a bottle of ink. A quick stamp around the room revealed no obviously loose floorboards.
He moved swiftly on to the front door of the house and yanked it open. His men swarmed silently inside, closed and locked the door, and threw the key to Foscolo, who was already partway up to the next floor. As previously instructed, his men spread out and the search began.
It was not a large house, and Lampl kept surprisingly few servants. Those who did stumble upon them were too sleepy and astonished to interfere. Foscolo and his men tore through the house with speed and thoroughness, breaking locks, going through drawers and cabinets and cupboards. It was not easy to miss a long-bladed dagger with a hilt encrusted with jewels.
Lampl’s bedroom had always been the likeliest place, for it was the most private. Foscolo searched it with gusto, muttering to himself, “Come on, come on, where do you keep it, you bastard? You would never throw anything so valuable away…”
There was always the possibility, of course, that Lampl had sold it, probably to buy Elena Savelli expensive gifts. But Foscolowould not think of that. Even a hoard of money would be something…
But it was not in any of the drawers. The only thing of interest he found, beneath Lampl’s cuff links, was a small lace handkerchief, embroideredE. Clearly stolen from Elena. Foscolo pocketed it with a brief return of elation and turned to the mattress.
Five minutes later, he dragged his hand through his hair and glared at his shuffling men. “Nothing,” he uttered through his teeth. “How can there be nothing? Itmustbe here!”
His men would think he was mad. Lampl would crucify him and go on unhindered, crushing and killing and doing exactly as he pleased to Venice, and then, no doubt, in other places, growing always in confidence and cruelty.
“I cannot allow it,” Foscolo fumed. “Why the hell is it not here?”
Because he was wrong, horribly, unforgivably wrong?
Or… “Oh dear God,” he whispered. “He took it with him!” He raised his voice, yelling, “He took it with him! To the Rialto!”
Unforgivable stupidity… Please, God, let us be in time to save Grey…
