The Alchemists pursuit aa-3 Read online

  Then he had heard some bumping-"Very fast worker, I thought."

  After that nothing until the second customer of the evening had plied the door knocker.

  Matteo had offered him a seat, planning to go up and tap on the bedroom door, but the friar was already coming down, silent on his bare feet. The friar had handed him the agreed fee of one lira and left. The second man had been directed to the door on the right, had gone up, and had run down again, screaming. By that time the friar had vanished into the dark and the fog.

  Caterina had been lying on the floor, fully dressed, with a purple groove around her neck where the rope had dug into the flesh.

  There had been no sex, no robbery, just death.

  No, Caterina had not had an alarm bell like Violetta's. She had sometimes banged on the floor, and then Matteo would go up and thump the john a few times before throwing him out. Evidently the friar had overpowered her before she could signal properly and all Matteo had heard had been her death throes.

  Violetta was Medea, eyes blazing green in the gloom, ready to go and inflict a few death throes herself the moment she knew the target.

  "That leaves one big question," I said. "I'm sure the sbirri asked you already, but I must. Did you hear the man's name?" Matteo would not have read the note.

  "No," the big man growled. "But I know the name he gave her. She laughed, see, and told me an old friend was coming to see her at sunset."

  "Did you see the note?" I asked eagerly. "Did you give it to the sbirri?"

  No, he mumbled. He'd looked but couldn't find it. The sbirri thought the friar must have found it and taken it.

  "But she did tell you the name of this surprise caller?"

  Matteo reached for the wine bottle, tilted it up, and drained it. If he had been drinking like this all week, it was amazing he hadn't killed himself yet.

  "She did. Sbirri wouldn't believe me. You won't."

  "Try me. Nostradamus has taught me to believe all kinds of unbelievable things."

  "Gattamelata." Matteo's eyes burned with a challenge to call him a liar.

  I would never be so stupid as to do that, but Gattamelata means "Honeycat." I looked at Violetta, whose mouth framed a perfect O of surprise.

  So now we had a name for the Strangler, except that Gattamelata had been dead for a hundred and fifty years.

  8

  Giorgio was waiting for us when the noon bells rang. As we were rowed swiftly along the Grand Canal, Violetta and I chewed over the Honeycat problem. That nom de guerre was made famous by Erasmo of Narni, one of the greatest of the condottieri who ravaged Italy in the intercity wars of the quattrocento. Toward the end of his career Erasmo led the armies of Venice with some success, although he is mostly remembered for being honest, a rarity in his profession. After his death in Padua, the Republic commissioned an incredible equestrian statue of him by Donatello to stand in that city. Bronze statues do not go around strangling women.

  "It must be a nickname," I declared profoundly.

  Minerva gave me a pitying look. "Did you work that out all by yourself, darling, or did Matteo drop you a hint? But not just an idle pet name, I think. Caterina knew it at once and called him an old friend. That sounds as if it was generally used. Other people might have known him by that name also."

  "You're jumping to conclusions," I protested. "The other victims may have had completely different names for him. You need to find someone else who knew him as Honeycat before you can make such assumptions."

  "Me," she said, frowning in annoyance. "I remember stories about a man called Honeycat. He was reputed to be very generous and quite dashing. It was a long time ago, though, when I was just starting out, and I don't know his real name."

  I was encouraged. "We can find out what it was, though! Lucia and Caterina were both, um, mature women. You have a long-ago memory. Now that could be a pattern!" And Battista had said that Giovanni Gradenigo had known Caterina Lotto "years ago."

  Minerva nodded impatiently, as if she had seen that ages ago. "I'll ask Alessa."

  Alessa is one of her business partners, part owner of Number 96. Alessa still supervises the brothel, but has retired from active male entertainment. She is a very shrewd woman, who had the sense to get out while she still had her health and money. I like her, and she would still be worth a serious cuddle.

  I swung opened the door of the apartment for Violetta and followed her in. To my pleased surprise, the Maestro was halfway along the salone, just about to enter the dining room. He was leaning on his two canes, but at least he was mobile again. He waited for us, leering a welcome.

  "Did you sign the contract, madonna?"

  "I did. Send Alfeo around to collect the expense money."

  "I will. Did you learn anything?" he asked me.

  "We have a name for the killer, the nickname Caterina knew him by."

  "Excellent, that will help. Now let's have dinner."

  He began to tap his way painfully forward. I exchanged surprised glances with Violetta, for only very rarely does he express any interest in food. I was even more surprised when I followed her in and saw the guest waiting there-Alessa, no less. I had never known her to visit Ca' Barbolano before.

  I suppose he really is a wizard.

  We all sat down and Mama Angeli came bustling in with loaded platters of her superb Tagliolini ai Calamaretti.

  "We found Matteo-" I began.

  "No talking business at table!" Nostradamus decreed.

  Either he was just being perverse, because he loves to talk business at table, or he did not want Alessa to know what we had been doing. Either way, I was quite happy to start eating. I got one mouthful of octopus down before he started in on me.

  "Alfeo, yesterday you began explaining to me how the Venetians elect their doge. I am still anxious to hear more about this fascinating procedure."

  Everyone in Venice knows this. Alessa and Violetta smiled politely to hide bewilderment. Talking and eating at the same time is a skill I have yet to master, but I get a lot of practice when the Maestro is in that sort of mood. I detest cold food, though.

  "The Grand Council chooses thirty members by lot," I said. "The thirty then reduce their number to nine, again by lot. The nine elect a committee of forty, and the forty are reduced to twelve. Twelve elect twenty-five, reduced to nine; the nine elect forty-five, reduced to eleven; the eleven elect forty-one. And the forty-one elect the doge." Quickly I scooped a loaded forkful into my mouth.

  "We were discussing things that make or do not make sense at the time, I recall. You can explain the sense of all that Byzantine tomfoolery?"

  "What I have always assumed," Alessa announced bravely-and in a slow, deliberate tone to give me time to chew-"is that the wise ancestral fathers of the Republic wished to avoid the dangers of faction. How terrible it would be if the Grand Council split into two or three contesting groups! That is what would happen, or might happen, if they merely relied on election. And likewise, if the choice were made solely by lot, then we might find ourselves with some incompetent idiot as head of state."

  We have done that a few times anyway, but it would be criminal sedition to say so.

  "It must go further than that," Violetta said in Aspasia's dry, calculating tones. "Not factions, I suspect, but a matter of the 'ins' and the 'outs.' The inner circle, the handful that like to think of themselves as 'the First Ones,' are certain to have matters arranged so that the next doge will always be chosen from among their own number. All this electing-then-reducing rigmarole allows them several chances to take hold of the process. Once they have a majority on any of the electing committees, they can make certain that only 'sound' people are chosen in the next round. From then on they have the election under their control."

  I nodded to show that her analysis made sense, but I noticed the Maestro smirking as if he had another explanation for what is certainly a bizarre procedure. I was sure he wouldn't tell me if I asked, and Alessa changed the subject.

  "The food is
admirable," she said, "and the ambience quite commendable. I shall marry Alfeo so I can come and live here."

  I choked on a throatful of octopus.

  The Maestro soon tired of the idle chat and began to fidget, because he really did want to talk business. It may be that the three of us dragged the meal out a little just to turn the tables on him, but eventually we finished our dolce. Mama brought in cups of the newfangled and expensive drink called khave, and we leaned back in our chairs.

  I was ordered to report, so I did.

  When I had finished, Alessa was visibly tense.

  "Madonna?" the Maestro inquired waspishly. "Did you know any of these wretched women?"

  Alessa's plump fingers kept playing with her pearls. "All of them slightly, none of them well."

  "All about your own age?"

  "One must never ask a woman her age, Doctor, especially a courtesan." Even she could not smile at her joke.

  "You have nothing more to say?"

  "No, Doctor." She shook her head vigorously. "Except the obvious one, that this is a very horrible affair."

  Nostradamus bristled. "Paraphrasis!"

  "What?"

  "Double-talk! I invited you to dine, madonna, because I knew from donna Vitale that the murdered woman Lucia da Bergamo had retired from her profession. Information from a man I questioned this morning suggested that Caterina Lotto may have had some undetermined interaction with a prominent patrician politician eight years ago, and I knew that she was living in San Samuele, an area favored by second- or even third-class prostitutes. In other words, I had reason to believe that two of the three victims that we know about were of roughly your generation. I ask you again, madonna, have you ever met, or heard of, a man known as Honeycat?"

  Stony-faced, Alessa shook her head.

  "Can you think of any man-a wealthy man, clearly-who patronized courtesans about eight years ago, who might have decided to start murdering them off? Or any reason why he should?"

  Again she shook her head. Violetta caught my eye, hinting that Alessa was lying.

  "If you know Honeycat, you are in very grave danger," the Maestro said.

  Alessa rose, towering and statuesque on platform soles. "I thank you for the splendid meal, Doctor. If you would be so kind as to ask your boatman…"

  I went and fetched Giorgio to take her home to the house next door. I steadied her arm as we descended the stairs.

  "Is it normal for clients to hide their identity behind nicknames?" I asked.

  "Clients?" Alessa shot me an amused glance. "Johns, you mean. Johns will try almost anything, Alfeo my dear, and can always find prostitutes willing to cooperate. Courtesans are different. Wealthy Venetian men provide little education for their daughters and keep their wives housebound-some don't get out more than two or three times a year. They have no friends, no recreations. Then the men wonder why their womenfolk are so dull! They patronize courtesans at least as much for entertainment as for sex, probably more. They pay enormous sums for the best of us, and wealth gives us power. We are not hungry or desperate. To answer your question, yes, I have had patrons who wished to remain anonymous. I almost always knew who they were before they asked, and if I didn't I made it my business to find out."

  "But no Honeycat?"

  "No Honeycat. Hercules, Don Juan, Squirrel, Jupiter, but no Honeycat."

  We had reached the watergate, and I held her hand as she embarked in the gondola.

  "Be careful, Alessa," I said.

  I ran back up the forty-eight steps, but found Violetta and the Maestro where I had left them.

  "Did you believe her?" he demanded.

  "No," I said. "She knows. She may be too frightened to tell us."

  "Leave her to me," Violetta said. "Meanwhile, the Maestro and I think we should see what we can discover about Ruosa da Corone. I have a friend in San Girolamo who'll know where she lives. Lived, I mean."

  I looked for permission to the Maestro, who nodded disagreeably. "It's all a waste of time. Go if you must, but the Ten will have your Honeycat safely locked up somewhere by now."

  I was inclined to agree, but I would not pass up the excuse to go adventuring with my lady. It seemed that the Maestro was not going to rise from his dining room chair until I had removed Violetta, so I did that. Smirking like an adolescent, I offered my arm and escorted her to the stairs.

  "My master makes me work so hard!"

  She was in a serious mood. "I don't see why you have to do all this asking of questions. The sbirri can do that. Why can't he just peer into his crystal ball?"

  "Looking for what? He needs something to hunt for." I did not mention that the Maestro might have to try foreseeing the next victim, but even for that he would still need some sort of a pattern to start from. "You didn't know Ruosa?"

  "Only slightly-we met at parties sometimes. She wrote some quite bearable poetry and was a wonderful dancer; in her middle twenties, I'd think."

  That meant she had been in her prime as a sex toy when Giovanni Gradenigo had met Caterina Lotto about eight years ago. Venice is unusually tolerant in such matters, but a political career can still be destroyed by a scandal if it is scandalous enough. Three women, all real people, all cruelly destroyed. What baffled me was the motive. Not a sexual crime, so far as I could see. Not robbery. One murder might be explicable, but three in as many weeks suggested a campaign-for what reason?

  San Girolamo parish is in the north of the city, in Cannaregio, and Violetta's friend, Franceschina, was yet another courtesan beauty, probably even younger and very nearly as divine. She had a magnificent home, two female servants, and had just finished what would be her first meal of the day. Indeed, she was not even properly dressed yet, just swathed in a misty silk robe that caused me to start running a high fever. She greeted Violetta with chirrups of joy and an embrace that would have been worth a hundred ducats to any man on the Rialto. She smiled politely at me, assuming I was the "doorman" protector, which was what I was beginning to feel like.

  "You sit there, love," Violetta said, waving me to the most distant chair in the room. "You don't happen to have a blindfold handy, do you, darling?"

  Franceschina tinkled laughter. "No but his eyeballs are going to explode any minute, and then it won't matter. He's very cute. Wherever did you find him, dear? Would you trade him for my current gorilla?"

  One of the maids brought in glasses of sickly sweet wine. The women settled together on a silken divan, holding hands and smiling at each other so skillfully that I couldn't tell if they were bosom friends or mortal foes. I sat cross-legged on the floor in front of them to adore. More of Medea showed in Violetta's eyes every time she glanced in my direction, but I was entranced. I had never seen two such beauties together before, and the way Franceschina's robe had slid apart to expose her leg was a once-in-a-lifetime experience-not to mention the glow of nipples through silk. Fascinating! She portrayed a silly, brainless child very well and I could put up with a lot of giggles in a good cause, but if she were as shallow as she was pretending, Violetta would never have described her as a friend.

  Violetta's explanation of why we had come was very terse, as if she were anxious to finish our business and leave. Even Franceschina could not maintain her bubbly twittering when talking about strangulation, so she switched to high drama. Three murders were terrible, unthinkable, nightmares from the pits of Hades. She was shrill, yet she made me want to sweep her into my arms and comfort her. It was a masterly performance and reminded me that I had never watched Violetta display her skills professionally, because I am her recreation. Franceschina was either just reacting to a man in her house from habit or stoking my fires to annoy Violetta; or both. It was so well done that I didn't care why it was being done. I was getting a free demonstration of a hundred-ducat performance.

  With many asides, endearments, and irrelevancies, she said that Ruosa da Corone had done very well for herself-she had retired from the trade, having acquired a husband, one of the rich and important Valier clan.
"Of course it was only a church marriage, not a legal one, because his name would be struck from the Golden Book if he officially married a courtesan, and I expect the brothers agreed ages ago which one of them will produce the legal heirs. That's how it's usually done, but it was a true love match, and at least her children… her son, I mean, will be citizen class. Valier set her up in the most gorgeous apartment, with two servants and a very generous allowance and a room in the same building for her mother! So generous! And now this! So tragic!"

  "But how did it happen?"

  "Well nobody knows, darling! It was exactly a week ago, the Feast of the Purification of the Virgin. She sent the boy off with his nurse and the maid so that he could watch the parade, you know?"

  Of course we knew, and I as a boy watched the great processions of Venice innumerable times. There are ten of them a year, and the one she referred to parades every February 2 from San Marco's to San Maria Formosa-which is not very far-to commemorate the valor of the men of that parish back in 943, when they rescued a company of brides kidnapped by a band of pirates. I don't go so often now, but I had watched that particular parade last week to see if I could cheer loud enough to catch Fulgentio's eye as he went by and make him blush. It is one of the full-blown "triumph" parades, and very grand, beginning with eight standard bearers, then six buglers blowing silver trumpets, fifty minor officials in ceremonial robes, then the city band and drummers in red, stunningly loud in the narrow streets. Right on their heels come the equerries in gowns of black velvet (Fulgentio looked very sweet), then some priests, more officials and secretaries in crimson velvet, the chancellors including the grand chancellor, who ranks second to the doge, and the doge himself in the ermine that only he may wear, followed by his umbrella holder, the papal legate, ambassadors, the ducal counselors, the procurators of San Marco, the three chiefs of the Quarantia, the three chiefs of the Council of Ten, the two censors, the Senate in their red robes, and I have left out some of the minor participants.