The Thief Lord
"Let me go, I can walk by myself!" Hornet spat at him. She jumped down the last step and pushed past Scipio with her head down. "Bo is with his aunt!" she whispered.
"Hey, what's the hurry?" the policeman barked, grabbing her by the scruff of her collar.
"Buonanotte, Dottor Massimo!" the Carabinieri called out as they left. Hornet didn't turn around again.
Scipio slowly walked up the stairs. He heard the entrance door slam shut.
His father looked at him in silence.
Who had given away the secret of the Star-Palace? What about Prosper, Riccio, and Mosca? Why was Bo with his aunt? Scipio's mind was racing.
"So, where did you really go?" His father scrutinized him from head to toe. Scipio was afraid his father could read his mind. He was probably asking himself yet again what he had done to deserve this strange creature he called his son. He wasn't as big as him, as interesting, as disciplined, controlled, dependable, or reasonable. He wasn't like him at all.
"I told you," Scipio answered. "I just wanted to look at the snow. And I ran after a cat. Mine is luckily feeling better; she's eating again."
"Just as well I didn't call the vet." Dottor Massimo frowned. "Of course, all this running around in the middle of the night will have consequences. The maid is going to lock your door in the future. At least, as long as that silly snow is causing you to behave even more childishly than usual. Is that understood?"
Scipio didn't reply.
"God, how I hate that stubborn face! If you only knew how stupid you look." Scipio's father turned abruptly. "I have to do something about that movie theater," he said, walking away. "Abandoned children, probably all little thieves. At least the police seem to think so. Why didn't that journalist tell me anything about it? Getz was his name, or something."
"My word, children sometimes say the oddest things. So it's empty. Do you think that's reason enough to let all the tramps in the city squat there?"
"But what's going to happen to them now?" Scipio felt himself getting hot. Then cold. Terribly cold. "You saw the girl. Can't you take pity on her?"
"No." His father looked surprised. "What's that girl to you? You usually only show that much concern for cats. Are you sure you don't know her?"
"No." Scipio heard his voice getting louder. He couldn't help himself. "For god's sake, no!" he shouted. "Do I have to know her to feel sorry for her? Can't you just help her? I thought you were such an important man in this city."
"Go to bed, Scipio," his father answered, yawning behind his hand. "My lord, what a completely ruined evening."
"P-please!" Scipio stammered. Tears welled up in his eyes, no matter how hard he tried to wipe them away. "Please, Father, don't you know somebody who would take in a girl like that? She hasn't done anything wrong. She's just all alone."
"Go to bed, Scipio," his father cut him off. "I think you looked at the moon too much out there. Soon you're going to start living by your horoscope, just like your mother."
"It's got nothing to do with the moon!" Scipio was shouting now. "You have no idea!"
And so Scipio stood there and cried.
A terrible night lay behind Victor. The man he'd been following had gone from one bar to another until two o'clock in the morning. When he vanished into a house Victor had to stand around outside until dawn, the snow falling on him relentlessly. Victor felt as if he were made of ice from the knees downward, nothing but solid ice.
"I'll have a bath first," he mumbled as he crossed the bridge close to his house. "With water hot enough to boil an egg."
Yawning, he searched his coat pocket for his keys. Perhaps he should find another job. The waiters in the cafes in St. Mark's Square had to run around just as much, but at least they were home by midnight at the latest. And what about museum guides -- why couldn't he be a museum guide? They went home even earlier. He was so sleepy that it was only as they were about to leap at him that he noticed the three small figures crouching by the entrance to his flat. They looked scared, but then one of them poked a gun in his face. It was his own gun.
"Hey, what are you doing?" he tried a soothing voice, while the three of them dragged him over to the door.
"Open up, Victor!" Prosper hissed without moving the gun. But Victor just pushed the barrel out of his face and then fished the keys out of his pocket.
"Would you be so kind as to explain to me what this fuss is all about?" he grumbled as he unlocked the door. "If this is some new game then I have to tell you that I'm a bit too old to find it amusing."
"Bo and Hornet have disappeared," Mosca said breathlessly. "And Prosper thinks that you told the police about our hideout. Riccio thinks so too."
"Either the police, or my aunt," Prosper added. His face was deathly pale, but his eyes seemed to plead with Victor to tell him that it wasn't true.
"Have you forgotten? I gave you my word!" Victor quickly wrangled the gun from Prosper's icy hand. "Can't you trust anyone anymore? Now come inside, before we become a tourist attraction."
They all trundled after him up the stairs.
"Prosper can't think clearly at the moment," Victor completed the sentence. "That's quite understandable if his brother really has disappeared. But tell me: How could that happen? Were they on their own?"
They sat down in the tiny kitchen. Victor brewed some coffee and gave the boys some olives while they told him what had happened since he had freed himself from their bathroom prison.
Once they had finished telling him their story, Victor said, "You're lucky I already know you. Otherwise I wouldn't have believed a single word you've just told me. You break into someone's house and then make a deal with the owner. With her approval you sell the loot and then you go for a cruise on the lagoon to find a mysterious merry-go-round. I'd love to have a word with that crazy Signora Spavento. To take a bunch of kids to the Isola Segreta. I mean, really!"
"How could we have known that the Conte lived on that island of all places?" Mosca murmured meekly.
"Doesn't matter!" Victor frowned and rubbed his tired eyes. "What's in that bag? Your reward?"
Mosca nodded.
"Show him the money," Prosper said to him. "He won't steal it."
Mosca hesitated, but then he put the bag on Victor's kitchen table. When he opened it, Victor whistled quietly through his teeth. "And you've just run halfway across the city with that?" he muttered. He took one of the wads. "You've got some nerve!"
He pulled out a bill, inspected it closely, and then held it in front of the kitchen light. "Hold on!" he said. "Someone's taken you for a ride. This money's not real."