The vaporetto bumped
twice against the Palazzo Pisani Moretta’s jetty before being hit by the wash of
bigger, smarter vessels all competing for a berth. The night air felt as damp and cold as Inspector Boscolo’s knickers.
Next time he’d stand throughout an open boat ride. He needed fresh underwear, a
cheroot, a grappa and a pee.
Another wave smacked against the port side,
knocking Boscolo into the arms of First Sergeant Fabbri. Catching the
inspector’s elbow, she helped him up the short gangplank. On the crowded jetty in
their ornate masquerade ball costumes, they looked as they felt: extras in an
extravagant production to distract people with golden lives. If he had their
money, Boscolo decided, he’d be at home with Tuscan tobacco, a full glass and
an empty bladder. And wearing men’s underwear.
“Everyone is here.” Fabbri said. “At least try
and look fabulous.” Spinning, her gold and black costume caught reflections off
the Grand Canal.
Clumsily, Boscolo began rotating, his own ornate
skirt almost scraping the wooden jetty boards. “How can you tell who’s famous? They’re
all masked.”
Titling her head towards the palazzo’s steps,
she indicated the paparazzi pack baying at new arrivals. The shouts gave an ultimatum
– lift your masks or we won’t shoot. The Clooneys obeyed. Pitt and partner
followed, masks tilted upwards. Paltrow too. They hadn’t flown 9,868 kms to be
passed over in a red carpet photo op.
Stepping forward, Boscolo found himself briefly minus a shoe. Porca vacca! One of his high heels had caught between the boards. It’d been Fabbri’s idea for them to frock up for the event. He’d complained about the indignity of a senior Carabinieri investigator being in drag. Fabbri pointed out, again, that their suspect like most Italian males would assume a woman wasn’t a threat unlike a costumed man in a codpiece and a cocked hat. The target? Venice’s most audacious jewel thief: Il Gatto Nero.
“And the photographers? What’ll they make of
an unmasked, middle-aged, stubble-cheeked man in a dress?”
“This is showbiz. There’re no surprises. But when
we pass them, keep your mask on, take my hand, stare into my eyes and pretend
you’re my girlfriend.”
For a moment, a very collegial thought crossed
Boscolo’s mind but this was neither the night nor possibly the decade to pursue
it.
Inside the 15th Century palace, with
the temperature struggling to rise one more degree, Il Ballo del Doge
was swinging coolly. Trays of drinks circulated, as did the bejewelled guests. The
event’s theme was Folly & Sin. There
were air kisses and knowing touches. A tall man in a silver, apparently
sprayed-on catsuit approached Boscolo and rested a hand on the inspector’s
shoulder. “Such fun,” said the stranger. “Aren’t you loving it?”
“It’s my first masquerade ball,” Boscolo
replied, failing to disguise his voice. “I’m determined not to enjoy it.”
In surprise, the man took a step back, then
one forward. “Now this just got interesting.
Reaching out, Fabbri tugged at Boscolo’s sleeve.
“Time to eat, bello.”
As the two police approached, platters of bigołi
in salsa and fegato ała venesiana were being ferried to long
communal dining tables. Boscolo was tempted, but nature was not so much calling
as shrieking.
Fabbri led the way into the female toilets,
suggesting he gather up his skirts and back into a cubicle. “I’ll make certain
you’re not disturbed.”
This is the apex for what passes as a career,
thought Boscolo as he felt blessed relief. A moment later, a small explosion
and all went black.
Screams, gunfire, more
explosions, more screams. In the dark, he clawed at the door lock. It was just
that. Locked. He felt for the toilet lid, slammed it shut and clambered towards
the old fashioned overhead cistern. With a push, he was up and over into the
next cubicle, landing with a thump on the woman inside. “This is as undignified
for you as for me,” he said, twisting the door lock open.
In the blacked-out ballroom,
the screaming continued. Pulling off his mask, he slapped his sides. Somewhere
inside the folds of his costume was his Beretta. “Light some candles, idioti!”
he ordered.
Around the room,
lighters flickered and a serene golden glow slowly lit up a less than serene
scene. He found his gun. More screams. “Armed police!” he shouted. Even to him,
it sounded unconvincing.
“My jewels!” wailed a
woman to his right. “Your jewels? What about mine?” cried another to his left.
Struggling to flash
his polizia ID and
instead exposing his upper thigh,
Boscolo blocked the path of a panicky security man. Details were sketchy. There’d
been a series of explosions knocking out the electricity supply. A gun had been
fired. Someone had moved swiftly through the ballroom, tearing necklaces and
earrings from their owners.
Il Gatto Nero. Boscolo knew it. And Fabbri? Where’d she gone? The exits were jammed with squealing
guests and staff. Boscolo pushed his way to the main stage and exited, left.
Immediately, he tripped, catching an edge of
curtain to break his fall. Fabbri was lying on her back across the passageway.
Her mask was torn off. Blood smeared her forehead. That way, she pointed, that
way.
Boscolo staggered upright. Kicking off his
shoes, he took two long strides before falling over the hem of his dress. This
time he crashed onto a giant papier-mâché stage prop – a pirate’s treasure box.
The lid and sides crumbled. Inside was a large black silk bag, its contents
slipping out: one set of night goggles, multiple diamond necklaces, a cluster
of pearl earrings … and then a metallic click.
Fabbri was standing above him, her gun pointed
at his head. “I’ll take those,” she said.
“Would you mind also taking this damn outfit?”
he asked. “It’s served its purpose.”
“You’ll have to admit, Commissario, it was all terribly clever. Who’d guess a mere woman –
and a copper – was the thief?”
“Will you be leaving a forwarding address?
It’d save me a lot of bother later.”
Reaching down, she began scooping up the
jewels. Stretching across, he grabbed her ankle and pulled hard. She came down
on top of him. Rolling, they crashed into the backstage bric-à-brac, her gun
disappearing beneath a stack of hat boxes.
From the stage wings, a smooth voice called
out. Boscolo twisted his head to see.
Silhouetted against the light, the man in the
silver catsuit was standing with his hands on both hips. “This is my kinda
party. Mind if I join in?’
Fabbri shook herself free. “Francamente, I’d rather surrender.”
# # #
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