Joseph Kanon - Alibi

“To Maestre.”

“One boat, yes,” she said, her eyes bright, watching my reaction. “Where they expect to follow. Another where they don’t expect-back to Venice.”

“A reverse. Like a football play.”

“Yes? I don’t know.”

“And then what?”

“And then we get off the water. We have to expect by this time the alarm is made, all the boats are out. Police boats are fast, they can outrun almost anything. So they chase to Maestre, they chase somewhere else, looking, but there’s nothing to see. The fox has gone into his hole.”

“At Ca’ Venti.”

She spread her hands. “ Ecco.”

“With the boat parked out front?”

“No, of course not. We don’t even tie up. We don’t need long, just enough time to drop him off. The boat keeps going; he stays in the hole. Then, later, another boat comes, one the police have never seen.”

“And if they do catch the first?”

“What do they catch? Only the driver.”

“And meanwhile they’ve lost the scent and the new boat takes the fox-”

“Somewhere else.”

“That I won’t know.”

“Nobody knows. Just your piece. The first boat doesn’t know the second boat. No one can betray anyone. Not this time.”

“You don’t need Ca’ Venti to make the switch. You could do it anywhere in Venice.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Not so many of us have our own canal entrance. I told you, no one suspects you. If we use one of our own people, maybe the police have a list. They’ll look. But nobody looks for you. Besides, the house is convenient, close to the channel.”

“You’ve already been there.”

“Rio di Fornace, yes,” she said, precise. “Two ends. One the Grand Canal, the other Giudecca channel. Two exits, not a trap.”

“Not busy, either. Not at that hour. A boat might be noticed.” I thought of us looking at the bedroom light across the canal, afraid to make a splash.

“Yes, I know. Just leave the water gate unlocked. It takes a minute. There’s nothing to make people look. And you’ll be out.”

“Where?”

“A restaurant, anywhere people will see you. You don’t know anything about it. You weren’t there. You didn’t think to lock the gate, that’s all. You don’t know.”

“Do you think they’d believe that?”

“No,” she said, smiling faintly. “But nothing will go wrong. They’re not expecting this. And if we think the police are right behind us, we don’t stop. I give you my word.”

“And what about Angelina?”

“Who?”

“The maid. She lives there.”

“ Che bella. The problems of the rich. Give her the night off.”

I started to smile, in spite of myself, then stopped. Out for the evening. No risk. The plan already in motion, whether I helped or not.

“Do you want to save his life?”

“Yes,” I said, nodding, suddenly believing it would happen, Moretti safe, Claudia and I happy again, maybe on the train he never took.

“Then just leave the gate unlocked. Come on, she’s finished with the flowers.”

She got up, crossing herself again, and turned to the door before the woman could see her. Outside, she pulled her sweater tighter, an automatic reflex even in the warm spring air.

“What’s going to happen to him?” I said.

“We’ll hide him until it’s safe. Who knows, maybe they’ll find the one who did it.”

“Maybe,” I said, glancing away. “And if not?”

“Then he becomes someone else. Anyway, he’s alive.” She stopped at the foot of the steps and looked across the channel. “You can see it from here, the house. It’s a good plan, yes?”

“I hope so. It’s your neck.”

She brushed this away. “It’s an old neck. He’s just a boy. And to carry this burden now, blaming himself. How I wish I’d never talked to him.”

“But we were right. If that means anything to you. Gianni was working with the Germans.”

“Yes?” she said, not really interested. Yesterday’s files.

“His brother kept papers, it turns out. Giulia has them. Gianni was friendly long before he turned up at Villa Raspelli. Business partners.”

“Business partners,” she said, dismissing this.

“And then more, after Paolo was killed. When he found out Moretti had been one of you-” I stopped, backing away from her husband, what must have happened next, but her mind had gone elsewhere, still Herr Kroger with files.

“These papers, you can get them?”

“No. Anyway, he’s dead. They’re no use to us now, except to know.”

“But there must be others. People he mentions, Italians. We need-”

“She’d burn them first. It’s her family. I thought you didn’t care anymore about Gianni.”

“Him, no. But the others? Not care? Do you know what’s happening in Italy? No, an American, all you see is this.” She spread her arm to the view. “Not what’s really here. You think the Fascists have gone away? No, back again, the same people. Back where they were, head of the table. Magliones. The Church. My god, the Church.” She waved her hand, the same fingers that had just dipped in holy water, made a quick cross at the pew. “The Germans’ friends. ‘We did nothing. Patrioti.’ And soon everyone will believe it again. All patrioti. Trials? That’s all in the past. And then it’s too late. I don’t have time for a dead man, but the living? To get just one more?” She lowered her voice. “She told you about them. She’ll let you read them?”

“Yes.”

She nodded. “Good. Just get the names. I’ll do the rest.” She glanced up, sensing my reluctance. “You asked me once to look at files for you.”

“Another obligation.”

“To me? No. You know what these people are. You saw it in Germany.”

“That was different.”

“Yes? Imagine if it were your country-what would you do?”

I stared at her for a minute, a bulky figure in a sweater, still in combat, then looked away.

“I’d get the names,” I said.

“So. You married an Italian. You’re not a tourist anymore.”

“A patriota.”

She smiled. “A real one.” She nodded her head toward the vaporetto approaching the landing. “You go first. I have some business here.”

“On the Giudecca?”

She wagged her finger. “Just your piece. Unlock the gate.” Then, before I could turn toward the dock, she put a hand on my shoulder, soft as the air, a thank-you. “And the names.”

We could have spent the evening anywhere-Harry’s, Montin’s-but I got the idea of asking for Gianni’s seats at La Fenice because it gave me an excuse to go to Ca’ Maglione and look at Paolo’s journals. I had planned to spend the afternoon, but I arrived to find Cavallini there having tea, a surprise visit, and Giulia edgy, handing me the tickets with an expression that said the library was now out of the question. Another day.

“One minute and I will walk with you,” Cavallini said, holding up a finger.

Giulia gave me a wry “Your turn” look. Then there was a fuss in the hall about his hat and more good-byes, so it was five minutes before we were finally out on the street, walking to Santo Stefano.

“What is on tonight?” he said.

“ La Boheme.”

“Ah, romantic. For the newlyweds.”

“You like opera?” I said, marking time, eager to be away.

“My wife enjoys it. Perhaps you’ll see her tonight.”

“But not you?”

“No, not tonight. Work.”

“So late?”

“A special assignment.”

I waited, but he said nothing. We crossed a bridge into a narrow calle smelling of garbage and mold.

“Sometimes, you know, I think it’s time to leave the police. Business maybe, a position.”

“I thought you enjoyed it.”