The following morning found Edward in Florian’s. True, the place was fearfully expensive but worth it all the same. After all if one had weighty things on one’s mind one might as well reflect in style. Yesterday’s downpour had been drear though presumably, now it was autumn, only to be expected. But today things were back to normal and it seemed a pity not to take advantage of the few remaining days of sun. Thus he had chosen to sit outdoors watching the pigeons in the Piazza and sipping a cappuccino to the accompaniment of a medley from South Pacific as strummed by the resident quartet.
He brooded. Could he be sure? No of course he couldn’t, it might have been anybody! But, he argued, was that really so? At the time – tired, tight and bilious – he had registered nothing of the fellow: it could have been any chap from Adam to Ghengis Khan; or Father Christmas for that matter. Merely an indistinct shape blundering into the darkness. But now, sober and clear-headed, details had started to emerge. Edward dwelt on these, and wondered. And the more he wondered the more certain he became. He beckoned the waiter to bring a cognac. Might as well as not; Bodger’s expenses had been generous enough.
He sipped the drink slowly, debating his next move, and glanced over to Quadri’s opposite: a venerable establishment but in his view without Florian’s suave panache. Its tables were filling up he noted – tourists eager to catch the last of the sun. As he gazed he recognised a couple from Harry’s Bar of the previous day, the two he hadn’t liked very much; the ones with the girlfriend after the Bodger book and whom Lucia had warned him against. Felix and Cedric their names had been. The Felix fellow had been like a superior rat: sharp, tart and inquisitive; and the older one guarded and watchful. Neither had seemed particularly impressed by his own presence, let alone by his subtle overtures re the whereabouts of the book. He scowled across the Piazza and watched as they stood up and shook hands with a couple of other types who had just arrived. God, weren’t they the two hairdressers from the place near the Frari? What were they all doing here? Out on a spree presumably. He watched as they moved off in the direction of the Riva degli Schiavoni and its landing stage.
It occurred to him that if this woman from the British Museum had a couple of minders in tow the prospect of his getting at the Horace might be more difficult than he had thought. His first line of enquiry was now inconveniently dead and the rival had supporters. Tricky. Still, in view of this recent thing the Bodger project might be rather small beer. He recalled his school days. What was it Hamlet or some such dreary chap had said? ‘I know a trick worth two of that.’ Yes that was it. Well Hamlet or another Shakespearean blighter wasn’t the only one: he too might have a better trick stuck up his sleeve. Lucia had told him he should get another string to his bow and perhaps with luck this was just the one! He grinned and applied his mind to logistics, i.e. how best to exploit the new situation.
His mind returned to the fleeing figure in the alleyway, and once more he visualised the form and features. There was no doubt about it: it was him all right. But one couldn’t (or shouldn’t) draw automatic conclusions. Just because he had been leaving Pacelli’s shop in haste and in the dead of night did not necessarily make him the murderer. Perhaps they had had a row and he was waltzing off in high dudgeon. Perhaps he was being beckoned by an urgent appointment (unusual at that time of night admittedly), or maybe he had simply been desperate to answer a call of nature. (Edward’s memory of his own physical discomfort at that period had perhaps prompted the last possibility.) The ‘evidence’ of course was only circumstantial; and while the man’s movements might seem suspicious, looked at objectively his own might also seem so. ‘Seen loitering in the vicinity of the victim’s shop near the time of his death’ didn’t sound too good. Only marginally better in fact than ‘seen running away from …’ Yet Edward knew of his own innocence and so, conceivably, might the other know of his.
He stared up at the blue sky, tracking the movements of the pigeons. How valid were such conjectures? Was he playing God’s advocate? Yes of course he was, he thought impatiently. Why give him the benefit of the doubt? His being there was too much of a coincidence. He bet the chap was as guilty as hell! (Though why that should be he had no idea, and for the present purpose motive was immaterial.) And besides, even if the man wasn’t responsible would he want to be linked so closely with the crime? His presence there at that hour had looked pretty fishy especially given the haste of his departure: it wasn’t as if he had been strolling away with hands in pockets. (Edward rubbed his arm still stiff from the knock it had received.) Yes, the chap was in a tricky position all right, more than a touch vulnerable one could say.
So how should he proceed – by hint and innuendo? A slyly worded note? Or would a direct confrontation be best, bold and stark? Still, he warned himself, it didn’t do to be hasty in such matters: ‘slowly, slowly catchee monkey’ was the name of the game. He would watch carefully and adapt his strategy to circumstance … His mind wandered back over the years. He had once handled a similar challenge, less serious of course, but not without profit. Admittedly the outcome had been tedious (God hadn’t the school cut up rough!) but the technique itself had worked a treat. And what had worked then could surely work now – always provided, of course, one took the utmost care. Slowly, slowly …
So absorbed was Edward by this new source of gain that the matter of the Murano vase with its attendant dreams took a back seat in his imagination. Once more he recalled his grandfather’s diktat. ‘Never succumb to fantasy; you’ll be a fool and miss all the best chances.’ Well here was a good chance all right and Edward Jones was no fool! He paid the bill, downed the last dregs of his cognac, winked at the girl at the next table and sauntered off humming, like Miss Witherington, We’re in the money …