Appearances notwithstanding, I was in Venice strictly on business. While floating in a gondola down the Grand Canal could have been, on another occasion, fun - possibly even romantic - it was, on this occasion, serious business.

I was sent for by an old member of the family who had long ago retired to Venice. Uncle Clive (from a photo at left ) was an avid collector of antique Venetian glass - the old museum quality pieces - and these were "disappearing" from his palazzo. He offered no other explanation. "This simply won't do, my boy!" he had said on the telephone. The call came in just after Valentine's Day and it was my first case in the New Year. I accepted the assignment eagerly - although I didn't know a thing about Venetian glass, antique or otherwise. Uncle Clive insisted I come anyway.

So, looking forward to a new challenge, I drove up to San Francisco International taking the long route via the coast road from Carmel (I sometimes take the long way to get somewhere: it clears the head and helps prepare me for the detective work ahead). I landed in Paris at 7:45 a.m. local time, unrested and a little bleary-eyed. I taxied over to Le Gare de l'Est and boarded the train for Venice. Within ten minutes, my ticket had been punched, my bags stowed and yours truly, safely and snugly installed in my private compartment (the French are very efficient in these matters). I thought I might try to stay awake for the first part of the trip, so I rang the cabin steward for his strongest coffee and settled back with a copy of The Times. Half an hour outside Paris, we were in the country and heading towards the Swiss Alps. My eyes fell lazily from the paper and out the window, where the lush green zipped by in a Degas-abstraction streaked with intermittent patches of snow. The soft, steady clik-klop-klp, clik-klop-klp from the tracks lulled me into a daze. I leaned my face against the glass and it was sun-warmed and felt good on my cheek. I realized then that jet-lag was catching up with me and by 10:00 a.m. I was soundly napping.

The steward woke me at 3:30 to announce tea. Twenty minutes later I left my cabin feeling fresh, well rested and in happy anticipation of a first-class meal. But in the dining car I found a commotion utterly incongruous with this most civilized of daily rituals: a fellow traveler, whom I had seen briefly at the station, had organized a lottery with what seemed to be the entire population of the car. They were all betting on how many cows they'd see on the next hill coming 'round. We were still over an hour out of Zürich and passing through an afternoon of lovely rural green. Since there were so many hills coming 'round (and an obliging abundance of cows), the betting grew increasingly animated. I was drawn in for a while myself, but the stakes got rather high and I retreated to my table. I didn't see the sense getting all caught up in a silly game whose odds depended on bovine grazing habits. When tea was served, the tall passenger who was the center of the game walked to where I was sitting.

"I'm Richard Glass," he offered, his arm outstretched. I shook his paw and having no one at my table, invited him to join me. "H.R. to my friends," he said. It sounded more challenge than greeting.

"Win much?" I inquired. He had clearly enjoyed himself.

"I did ok," was his polite reply. I gathered he did, indeed, win much. But there was an inflection in his voice that didn't sound quite right, as if he had expected the outcome. I became absurdly suspicious, wondering how one would go about "fixing" the number of cows on a hill in the Swiss countryside. I couldn't shake the feeling at first. Gambling may be legal here, I thought. But cheating at gambling is still against the law. I had a sudden and unreasonable urge to ask the Chief Engineer to radio ahead for a gendarme. Instead, I put my suspicions on hold (which a detective must often do) and chose a delicious truffle mousse (my favorite) off the waiter's cart. My companion ordered escargot and a chilled palm salad which he refreshed frequently with Meursault. Soon we were telling each other about our lives and (mis)adventures.

Herbert Richard Glass was originally from Chicago. His parents had moved to Amsterdam when he was ten and the Glass family has lived there since. After attending several schools on the Continent - and no fewer than six colleges in England - Herbert Richard Glass awoke one day to the certain conviction that he could no longer be taught anything he needed to know. And so, he dropped out of school without a degree or qualifications or a single worry in the world about money. The Glass family, you see, had made a fortune in plastics (a funny sort of irony given the patrimonie) and "H.R." was about as rich as you could get without owning all the oil wells in Kuwait. He occupied his time now collecting art and traveling the world. During our conversation he dropped the names of at least a dozen well-known (and very wealthy) families he visited often and counted as friends. It was astonishing to meet someone so well connected that in my fertile imagination I could picture him at the palace, discussing Gainsborough and Reynolds with the Queen.

My own story was rather pale by comparison - although Glass seemed genuinely interested in my sleuthly exploits. He was especially keen to learn more about my recent trip to Moscow. Apparently the Russian art market had opened up lately and he wanted as much intelligence as he could get. I had no intelligence to give him, however, on the "art scene" other than that my Russian employer had once been a curate at the Hermitage in St. Petersburg. It was probably my imagination again, but I could swear his eyes smiled.

At Zürich we had a ninety minute stopover and we each went our own way. I left the station by the south gate for a walk down the Bahnhofstrasse. The pale evening hour spread over the city. There with a suggestion of snow from the clouds overhead but this night offered a brisk, clear walk down the famed boulevard. The shops and bistros lining the broad avenue were aglow, their warm inviting lights interrupted here and there by stopping trams whose passengers would disembark and enter the myriad attractions. I saw the busy waiters outside Camille's in their starched white serving aprons, now a blur of activity. The tuxedoed Maitre D' directed all to the evident satisfaction of the patrons. I had time for a quick coffee, and afterward stopped at Globus where I bought some linen handkerchiefs for Uncle Clive. (I learned long ago that a small gift sometimes soothes the nerves of family members in distress.) Later, back at the station, I saw Glass and almost hailed him; but he was in a heated conversation with his cell phone. From a distance I only caught snippets, barely recognizable phrases; although a few times "Idiot!" echoed down the marble length of the station, turning a few heads. I thought it better not to interrupt him and returned alone to my cabin.

When the train pulled away from the platform, the crowd of the waving and the shouting and the crying flew past my window, receding into the distance until all was quiet again. I stretched out for a quick nap, daydreaming for a while. I woke, hungry, about three hours later. I forgot to ask the steward to wake me for dinner. I reached over the bed and pressed the guest's red 'hot' button; within moments Ernesto was at my door. He informed me that dinner was still being served for another hour. I met Glass in the passageway on my way to the dining car and it was decided we would have our a late supper together.

Afterwards we went to the game car for billiards. This train has everything, I later noted in my journal. Although this particular amusement for the passengers hadn't been quite thought through. For one thing, the three balls were constantly moving. They would occasionally scribe an arc in unison over the green felt, parallel to each curve in the track. Tallying scores was hopeless. We had some great laughs, though. Glass was loosening up and the jollity I had seen earlier amidst the gambling crowd had returned. Whatever had upset him at the station was out of his mind now as we talked about music and art and life. When I asked about his art collection, I learned that he "specialized" - focusing his interest (and considerable purchasing power) on antique sculpture. I remarked that his "interest" must be an expensive one. He laughed again, making a vague gesture with his paw which gave the impression that money was not considered in these matters.

"Sculpture is my passion," declared Glass. "And this year, I'm returning to Venice with an extraordinary find."

I asked him to elaborate.

"All of Venice will know in a few days," was all he was willing to offer. With patience, that mystery would solve itself, I thought and left it at that.

At 11:00 p.m.we reached Innsbruck, the last stop before arriving in Venice at 7:30 the next morning. I stepped outside and took a deep breath of the cold, alpine air. This part of Austria has always been a special place for me. When I was young, I played in the mountains here for two glorious weeks each December during the school break. Those times came back as memories triggered out of the mountain night by the cool, fresh smells of the snow and the green - memories of stars so bright (like the ones this night) you thought they might fall from the heavens like snowflakes to dissolve lightly on your tongue. As I remembered these things, I was glad I came on this trip and promised myself I'd come back after the business in Venice was over. I returned to the train and just before retiring for the night, I saw a bear go into Glass' compartment. Probably a late night hand of cards, I thought, then turned my lights off and went to sleep.

I awoke the next morning to the light tapping of Uncle Clive's cane against the window. I must have fallen back to sleep after the steward had announced Venice and served breakfast. A few moments later, Uncle Clive appeared at the cabin door.

"Enjoy the trip, my boy?" He sat down and reached for a pastry from the breakfast tray. I had a hard time keeping my eyes open.

"Wake up!" he continued. "It's a new day!"

I rang for the cabin steward to bring more coffee and pastries.

"Forget that, my boy. You've got to get started. Six palazzi and a museum have been broken into and robbed so far. The Carabinieri are in full-stir, I can tell you."

I asked if the local authorities had any leads.

"Not a one - but I've got my suspicions."

I asked Uncle Clive to brief me, only to learn that he suspected my fellow traveler, Herbert Richard Glass!

"H.R. to his enemies," cautioned Uncle Clive.

I was stunned. I didn't quite know how to tell him that Glass had not only been on the train, but that he and I had become rather well-acquainted. It was all coming at me too quickly for so early in the morning. All I could manage to focus on was the pastry plate - devoid now of all but crumbs - and Uncle Clive pouring himself the last cup of my coffee! Luckily the cabin steward was just passing to ask if he could take my luggage. I said I would handle that myself, striking a bargain with him to bring breakfast again. Uncle Clive frowned at the suggestion of delay, but I would have none of it.

"I sometimes take a little extra time when I'm first starting a case, Uncle Clive," was the only justification I felt I needed to make. I also never, ever skip breakfast. He replied by handing me the morning's Il Gazzettino. The headline read:

My limited French was no help whatsoever and I could only guess at two or three of the latinate words. My confused look prompted Uncle Clive to translate:

"Venetian glass thefts continue: Police still in the dark - now, let's get moving, my boy!"

So much for taking a little extra time. However, I knew the canal ride ahead would be peaceful enough for me to collect my thoughts. Even after five years, solving cases doesn't seem to get any easier - for me, anyway. Maybe it's the world going faster and faster (and faster), perhaps the problems are more complex, or it's just that I'm still learning. All I know is, the cases don't seem to get any easier. And like I said, I didn't know a thing about Venetian glass.

Outside on the platform, we saw Glass directing two worker bears dressed in costume for Carnevale. The assistants - one a clown harlequin, the other impersonating Casanova - were unloading a large wooden crate marked FRAGILE in tall, red letters. This must be the new sculpture Glass had spoken of on the train, I thought. Glass saw me and waved. I waved back, not really knowing what to think.

"Don't forget to look me up," he yelled as a farewell.

Uncle Clive's eyes bulged and his cane tapped furiously - and noisily - on the platform. He was clearly displeased - but what could I do? I decided to say nothing. However, I was worried that arriving in the middle of Carnevale Venezia wouldn't make my job any easier.

"Don't worry about that, my boy," offered Uncle Clive. "Besides it's not even in full swing yet. And you couldn't do anything about it anyway." Great, I thought. I wondered how much of the old gentlebear's assistance I could depend upon and figured I'd better ask for professional help right away. The superintendent of police is usually a good place to start.

"Naturally," said Uncle Clive. "That would be Inspector Loredan Marcello. I have arranged for you to meet him at San Geremia. The church is just down the canal from the station. Take a gondola and you'll be there in ten minutes."

His tone was serious, punctuated by the tap-tap-tap he was still up to that all on the platform could hear. "The local clergy are worried that the church will be robbed next, Basil. Marcello should be with them now. I'll go home with the luggage and meet you back at the palazzo after your first day on the case."

"But…"

"You better get started, my boy. Good luck!" With that, Uncle Clive was off and I was alone in Venice.

A long causeway from the mainland brings the trains across the lagoon to the islands and the city of Venezia. The trains end at the Santa Lucia station - end of one line and enchanted beginning to so many others, I thought, determined to make the best of the situation. Through the long, broad sweep of glass doors, I could see out to the Canal Grande and the great, green-domed church directly across. I exited the station and came upon a glorious Venetian morning. Left, down the Canal, the white marble of the Ponte degli Scalzi gleamed in the sun just risen above the city - the bridge and its pedestrians in sharp relief against a muted pastel sky. Under the bridge, all sorts of water craft were busily moving people and commerce. Anxious to get started, I visited one of the bank kiosks just down the steps from the station doors and exchanged a few hundred dollars into Euros. No sooner had I completed my transaction than I heard someone calling in my direction.

"Signore! Signore! Prego, Signore!"

A gondolier was waiting for me.

"I'm Fabrizio. I take you anywhere in Venice - best price." He actually made it sound a bargain.

"How much to the San Geremia church?" I inquired.

"For you, Signore, only ten Euros. It's just down the Canal a few hundred meters."

I'm never on an expense account, so I paid the fare: I'd heard that tourists were routinely paying ten times that amount for a one way trip down the length of the Canal Grande. But mine was a short fare for a gondola and I didn't feel like walking through a maze of streets.

Fabrizio smiled and waved me aboard. As we pushed away from the station dock, the gondolier waved ahead in a gesture as if to offer me his city.

"Your first time to Venice, Signore?"

"No, I've been here before to visit relatives - but this time it's business."

"What business do you have in our beautiful city, Signore?"

I told him and handed him my card.

"I'm in Venice to help my uncle recover his stolen Venetian glass."

"Si, si, as the papers say - Il Maladora di Venezia," he said, suddenly serious. "I hope these thieves are caught, prego! Scuzi, Signore Basil. I have to pull over to let the vaporetto pass."

We were just coming under the Scalzi bridge. With a few strokes of his oar, Fabrizio glided us out of harm's way, in close under the arch of the bridge. The long waterbus, already filled with tourists, was moving slowly past but with enough wake to jostle the gondola. A panda couple on the vaporetto, passing just twenty feet away, started taking pictures of us. Another thirty or so bears rushed over to get their shots of Fabrizio, genuine Venetian gondolier. Fabrizio seemed to be enjoying all the attention. I'm not that fond of water activities and with all the rocking and frenzied commotion, I was starting to think there were too many bears on that side of the vaporetto.

"Sing for us! Sing for us!" pleaded two, cute twin bears leaning far over the railing.

A short "O, Bella Signorinas" sung in a smooth tenor, Fabrizio's pitch was sweetened by the echo off the marble underside of the bridge. The two girl bears swooned when Fabrizio threw them a kiss - early morning romance they would surely remember back home.

We continued down the Grand Canal and in a few minutes we made the wide, left turn into the Cannaregio canal and pulled up to the dock of the San Geremia church. I thanked Fabrizio and asked him if he could wait. I didn't know how long this would take or where it would lead. I've found that local knowledge is invaluable.

"No problem, Signore. I rest a little now."

The gothic church of San Geremia was built over seven hundred years ago and it looked it. But neither age nor the elements could hide the beauty of the design work; the ancient art was remarkable still. The wide, white marble stairs led to two huge wooden doors framed on either side by columns of marble. The massive doors had been swung open about ten feet. I entered the church and into immediate darkness. As my eyes adjusted, through the first faint light I saw a man riding a horse - through the sky - and a few feet away, a huge hand reaching through a great billowy cloud about to grab them both. Slowly, the image came into focus and I was staring at a mural filling the entire left wall of the church. In the soft light from the stained glass windows, the picture seemed out of a dream as I stood there alone in the quiet. Then I heard a noise to my right and when I turned I saw three hooded figures coming down the altar aisle toward me.

"Siete persi, il mio figlio?" A voice inquired after a few tense moments.

"Pardon me?" I asked.

"Are you lost, my son?"

"I'm supposed to meet Inspector Loredan Marcello. My uncle…"

"May I help you?" came a deep, gruff voice from a nearby alcove. A huge bear in a trenchcoat, golden fleece for fur overflowing his collar and cuffs, emerged into the light. His great fluffy ears seemed on alert, fine tuning for the right frequency.

"Inspector Marcello?" I asked. His ears stopped dead in my direction.

"May I help you?" he repeated.

Oh this was going to be easy, I thought.

"My name is Basil Baker. My uncle, Clive Baker, sent me here to ask you about his case. He..."

"There have been seven robberies so far, Signore Baker," he interrupted, getting right to the point.

"And no suspects?"

"No suspects, Signore." He seemed annoyed giving the answer.

"Any clues?"

"No clues Signore." He was definitely annoyed.

"Please Inspectore, call me Basil."

"There are still no clues, Signore Basil. I suggest that you…."

Just then the Inspector's cell phone chirped and he retreated into an alcove to take the call. He was in the dark again and speaking very fast Italian. I could tell something was up. One of the hooded figures approached and introduced himself. He was Abbot Antonio Zanetti. The other two were friars and kept a respectful distance in the background. The Abbot asked me if I knew anything about antique Venetian glass. I confessed I knew next to nothing.

"It's valuable, I gather." I offered, half-jokingly.

"Oh, very. Some of the oldest pieces are priceless - like our glass chalice." He pointed to the altar.

The Abbot was speaking of the Chalice of San Geremia, created in 1291 by Antonio Borovier. That year, the Abbot explained, the law required all the glassmakers in Venice to move to Murano Island. The chalice was one of the first objects to emerge from the new fires and it was presented as a gift to the church. I asked if I might see it. The Abbot and the two friars escorted me up the aisle to the altar where we stopped before a massive block of pink and white marble carved with saints and angels. At the center of the altar, concealed under a purple cloth was an object about ten inches high. The Abbot removed the covering to reveal a large glass goblet. Even in the dim light of the church I could see the Chalice of San Geremia was beautiful. The stem was made of impossible twists and turns of red and gold glass spiraling up from a ruby base that sparkled from the mass of gold dust suspended in the glass. Under the cup, the stem flowered out into a dozen supporting branches, with gold leaves at the ends just touching the outer rim of the chalice. As I looked from above, down into the cup and through the glass, an image formed of a bird with wings outstretched. When I moved my head slightly, its wings shimmered and appeared to move as if ready to take flight. It was an interesting effect, an eerie trick of the light that was a bit mysterious, suggesting something otherworldly.

Inspector Marcello, finished with his conversation, scuffled briskly up the aisle to where we were all standing still admiring the glass treasure.

"Scuzi, Abbot…Padres," he bowed. "… and Signore Basil," he added with unnecessary emphasis. "But I must leave now. Urgent police business."

"Not another robbery?" asked the Abbot.

But the Chief Inspector had turned and was heading for the door. The friars were clearly concerned, although apparently the thief - or thieves - had not struck any of the churches in Venice. Perhaps that was considered sacrilege and the efforts were confined to robbing palazzi and museo instead. Or perhaps it was only a matter of time.

"The chalice is beautiful," someone sighed.

"Basil, you should go to Murano, where they make Venetian glass," the Abbot suggested. "The Museo Vetrario was where the first robbery took place, seven days ago."

"Seven robberies in as many days?" I asked. Uncle Clive had failed to mention this alarming chronology.

"Si, si, it is a most unfortunate business."

I decided to take the Abbot's advice about Murano. I had no other trail to follow and it was a good suggestion. When I bid farewell, the Abbot gestured his blessing and the three bowed their heads as if to mark the seriousness of my mission.

Outside, Fabrizio was waiting.

"Where to, Signore?"

"Murano!" I said. Where else? I thought.

Fabrizio pushed his gondola off the church dock and we continued our journey down the Canal Grande. We passed the fabulous and decaying palazzi on both sides of the main waterway. Fabrizio provided some rather poignant comments on the most famous ones. I felt privileged - as though ancient secrets were told for me only - but also a little touristy. I certainly had a great view and it didn't take much imagination to see myself in fifteenth century Venice. Another ten minutes and Fabrizio glided us left into Rio San Marcuola and up a short distance into Rio Fosca. We turned into several other canals and one so narrow I could reach out from the gondola and touch the old stones on either side. As we turned left into Rio Gesuiti, I heard a loud meow above coming from a corner palazzo. A black cat was sitting on a balcony, watching over the canal.

"Polo il gatto!"

Fabrizio knew the cat; and with the call, Polo the cat jumped through the railing and ran along the quay in our direction. Almost beside us, the cat took a flying leap and landed gracefully on the prow of the gondola. The cat glanced in my direction for a few moments, as if to size me up - and then at Fabrizio - and then just as quickly, bounded off again to the other side of the canal.

"She likes it better than the bridges!" Fabrizio joked. "I could sell that cat into the circus - if I could ever catch her!"

Fabrizio was laughing, so I knew he wasn't serious about the circus. He told me that Polo knew all the gondoliers and often performed the same trick to the delight of the locals and tourists. I admitted I was impressed - I'd always thought cats hated the water. We continued on the last hundred yards up the Rio Gesuiti to the ferry landings at the Fondamente Nuove.

"This is as far as I can take you, Signore Basil. A ferry to Murano leaves every twenty minutes."

"Where can I find you again?" I asked.

"I'll be around. Ask a gondolier at any of traghetto stations along the Canal. For now, arrivederci, Signore Basil! Buona fortuna!"

From the Fondamente Nuove, I took the No. 52 ferry to Murano. Once out into the lagoon, we passed the cemetery island of St. Michelle, quiet in the bright morning sunlight. Fifteen minutes later we caught our first sighting of Murano: the white lighthouse. And in another fifteen minutes we reached the island itself, making two stops before docking at the Museo landing. The Museo Vetrario was just a short walk along the canal and when I arrived, I could see several police boats tied up in front of the museum. An impressive police effort was guarding what was clearly a recent crime scene. A bold move to hit the same museum twice, was my first thought.

A crowd of onlookers had gathered. I noticed a small group of six near the front but off from the larger crowd. A petite bear with white curly fur was speaking to them in English with some authority. I worked my way through the crowd to get a better view. As I came nearer to the group, I became interested in what she had to say. She was talking about the museum and Murano's history and their connection to a nearby church. At one point I caught her eye and with her smile, I became part of her audience. In a few minutes she dismissed her charges and the group scattered off in different directions. Seeing that I hadn't moved, she walked over and handed me a white card. Cordelia Pembridge-Howl it read and directly below her name, in gold letters, Art Historian. Her mobile phone number and e-mail address were also listed. I handed her my card and introduced myself.

"Basil Baker?" she read aloud. "Sounds positively British!" She was quick and I could only confess to her suspicions. Noticing the country and city code on her business card, I changed the subject and asked if she lived in Venice.

"I run tours throughout Europe; but I do half of my business in Venice. So Venice has become a home base of sorts. I'm from London, originally, but I lived in the States for a few years, in Chicago."

Now that was a coincidence, I thought.

"I was about to visit the museum," I said.

"Oh, are you interested in Venetian glass?" she asked.

"The stolen kind," I said half-aloud.

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, nothing. Do you know what happened here?"

"The museum has been robbed again. The second of two twin vases. Why they didn't take them both the first time is a mystery to me."

It was almost as if the thief was flaunting his abilities. A personality quirk that would definitely help in the profile, I thought. Cordelia excused herself, saying she had to round up her group to visit a nearby glass factory. I walked up the steps to the front doors of the museum where a policebear was posted. When I explained that I knew the chief inspector on the case, I was politely let in. In the foyer I could see Inspector Marcello on his cell phone, talking rapidly again, this time about a custode something, repeating the word several times. The rest of the Italian just went past me.

"Hello, Inspector," I said when his call ended. He seemed surprised to see me.

"You are following this case with some interest, Signore Basil," he said, still maintaining the formality. At least he was using my first name anymore.

"Do you mind if I just observe?" I asked.

"No, I suppose not. But don't disturb anything."

Although he was stern, he was giving me a chance to show that I wouldn't mess with any evidence, which I thought was decent of him really. I looked around on the first floor, down the halls and into the display rooms, now being surveyed by Marcello's officers. I came to a staircase that led down to a small landing. On the wall above, a large sign read Custode and an arrow led me to the bottom of the staircase and to a long narrow corridor. I walked along the damp stones through the dark about a dozen or so paces and stopped. I heard the creaking sound of a rusted hinge behind me and then a voice.

"Signore, are you lost?"

I turned and saw a short brown bear come out of a door below the stairs. He was wearing overalls and carrying newspapers under his arm.

"My name is Basil Baker. I'm investigating the case." I said, trying to sound as official as I could. It seemed to work.

"Oh, si Signore, I reported the theft. My name is Tomaso."

Now this was a stroke of luck, I thought.

"Did you also report the first robbery," I asked.

"No, Signore, I was visiting my mother in Verona last week. She's not been feeling - how you say? - too good, Signore. Petri Donate, the museo curator, was here that morning."

I'd have to come back later to talk to the curator. I asked Tomaso when he discovered the latest theft.

"On my early morning rounds cleaning the museum."

"Did you find anything unusual?" I asked.

"No, Signore," he said flatly, as if he'd given the same response to others this morning. "But," he added, "you'd be amazed at the trash some bears leave behind."

He pointed to a green trash can near the bottom of the stairs. Inside there was a strange assortment of items: a black running shoe - the lace missing, a doll's head, an eight-ball that looked new, gold foil wrappers from a candy of some kind, a yellow rubber duck and an apple core. I rummaged through the lot and didn't see anything suspicious. But I noticed something odd about the gold foil wrappers. There were about five or six of them and they all looked like they had been smudged with ink. On closer inspection, I could see a large DB embossed on the foil side; and on the inside of each wrapper a black, greasy pawprint. I thought that was unusual and so I collected them out of the bin. The custode looked at me and didn't say a word, as though he had gotten used to bears digging through his waste bins. I thanked him and said goodbye. Upstairs I ran into Inspectore Loredan.

"Did you find anything, Signore Basil?" His tone was formal and the slight, mocking emphasis he put on my first name punctured any thought we would be develop a friendly working relationship any time soon.

"I think these candy wrappers may be clues. They have…"

"Candy wrappers? Signore, that is the most popular candy in Venice."

"Still they might…"

"Ok, Signore, you can hold onto those for now," he said and was off again, out the front door as I assured his shadow I'd keep the wrappers safe.

Cordelia was out front with her tour group. She saw me and waved me over.

"Would you like to visit a Venetian glass factory with us, Basil?" she asked.

I thought the education would be useful, so I joined her group. We walked up to the Fondamenta Cavour and turned into Calle Mistro where we stopped before a simple stone building. Two large doors were open wide and the name Barovier written above. Cordelia started giving some history to the group as we entered.

"…and after the relocation of 1291, for the next three hundred years the artisans on Murano produced the finest quality glass in the world. This is one of the oldest glass factories still in operation."

Inside there was a single, large room a hundred or so feet long and almost as wide, rising about twenty feet to a glass ceiling that flooded the room with sunlight. Four huge furnaces blazed in the corners. Four bears worked in front of each, as a team, using various tools and instruments. In the middle of the room was an older bear keeping an eye on everything.

"His name is Vincenzo Barovier and he is the maestro, the master glassblower at Barovier," explained Cordelia to the group. The maestro glanced in our direction and nodded. He seemed to recognize Cordelia and started to walk in our direction.

"Signore Barovier, this is my friend, Basil Baker."

"I am pleased to meet a friend of la bella signorina," he said. I was pleased to be known as the friend of la bella signorina.

"It's nice of you to bring another group to see us, Cordelia," he added. "Tell me, Signore Baker," he continued, "have you ever seen the glass made?" I told him I didn't know very much about Venetian glass or his craft.

He bowed slightly to Cordelia as he backed away and then proceeded to demonstrate. He took a long, thin metal tube from a nearby table and dipped it into a vat of molten glass just inside one of the furnaces. When he pulled the tube out, there was a blob of soft, red-hot glass on the end. He let it cool briefly, then blew through one of end of the tube while an assistant kept the rod gently spinning. Another assistant used two flat bladed metal tools to knead and shape what was soon turning into blue, glass sphere. The master stopped blowing and returned it to the furnace.

"Now, I soften it again," he said. When he removed it from the fires, he continued, "And to make a bowl, I spin the rod quickly so the force will flatten the sphere into a bowl shape. Then, using shears I snip off the end of the sphere and use the other tools to form the bowl's rim before the glass cools." A few operations later and the end result was a beautiful bowl destined, no doubt, to be a fine centerpiece on some ladybear's table.

"That's quite a procedure." I said. It was, as Cordelia told her group, all the more remarkable to consider that proud Venetians have been making glass in this way for over a thousand years.

"How much would a bowl like that sell for in Venice?" I asked.

"This is one of our simpler pieces - but top quality," he said. "A little over eight hundred Euros."

Cordelia converted the currency rate for me: "That's almost a thousand dollars, Basil."

"For those with good taste." The maestro smiled, tapping his paw lightly on his nose.

Our relationship somewhat established, I decided to ask him his thoughts about "Il Maladora di Venezia." But I was unprepared for his outburst.

"Criminali! Sono la peste su mia scarsa Venezia! I hope these thieves are caught, prego!"

"It's a sensitive issue," whispered Cordelia. It was as though Signore Barovier took the thefts as a personal insult. I thought it better to explain why I was asking and when I did he seemed to cheer up immediately.

"O, Signore, you help Venezia and we will be grateful forever." He handed me a small amber-colored glass figure he took from a shelf by the furnace. It was of a winged-lion. The lion was standing on all fours and just below its head was a little glass book, held open by one paw to reveal an inscription in Latin.

"A gift from us, Signore. It may bring you luck. Per un amico speciale di Venezia."

"That's the Lion of St. Mark, the Protector of Venice," said Cordelia, then added, "I've never seen him give away one of his personal pieces, Basil."

It was a fine gesture. I thanked him sincerely and joined Cordelia and her group as they made their way into the adjoining gift shop. Later, we walked over the bridge to the Fondamenta Vetrai and stopped at a trattoria for refreshments. Afterward, we walked the short distance to the Colonna ferry stop for the return trip to the city. On the ferry back to Venice, I asked Cordelia if she would consider 'tutoring' me: it had been years since I was in Venice. I was young at the time and my impressions had faded a bit. She kindly consented; so I invited her to have dinner with me. I didn't think Uncle Clive would mind, and I needed local knowledge as fast as I could get it.

When we landed, Cordelia dismissed her charges to explore and enjoy on their own what remained of the day. Cordelia and I walked two streets down from the Fondamente Nuove to catch a gondola to Uncle Clive's palazzo. I walked up to a group of gondoliers who were standing around waiting for fares. I looked for Fabrizio but he was not one of them and when I inquired, a gondolier broke off from the pack.

"Si, si, Signore, I know Fabrizio. I tell him I saw you. Where you need to go?"

Twenty minutes later, our gondola arrived at San Polo 749 on the Rio Beccarie. We knocked at the front door and were greeted by a butler bear wearing a black tuxedo, yellow vest and bow tie. He escorted us through the foyer and into the dining room. There we found six other bears, in even more elegant evening attire, seated at a long table set for a formal dinner. There was Uncle Clive, and beside him, Vincenzo Gritti the Mayor of Venice, whom I recognized from the morning's paper. Next to the Mayor sat Abbot Zanetti, who seemed pleased to see me again. I was surprised to see Natalia Navritolova, the famous Russian ballerina, sitting directly across from the Mayor and flanked by two short, plumpy, prosperous-looking black bears wearing turbans and paying serious attention to the ballerina. She was lovely and the two black bears, in their public adoration, were ecstatic at her proximity. The black bear to Martina's left raised his glass.

"To the good life," he started. "Gracious living in the lap of luxury."

"Well said, brother!" The other black bear finished his wine and held his glass aloft for the butler to refill.

"Your uncle is well-connected," whispered Cordelia. Uncle Clive rose from the table.

"I see you've made a friend already, Basil."

I introduced Cordelia and mentioned my trip to Murano. I decided to keep the candy wrappers to myself for now.

"Excellent start, my boy! Excellent. Let me present his honor, the Mayor of Venice."

With that the rest of the introductions and the evening meal were on. Uncle Clive laid out an impressive feast. For antipasti there were prosciutto and melon, sardines in garlic and white wine, sauteed prawns, fried calamari and crab puffs, and of course, pickled eel. Cordelia reached in her purse and took a pill from a small oval box she set in front of her plate. I noticed on the top there was a little scene painted of a fox who, having fooled his chasers, sat comfortably in a tree while the party below looked about in confusion.

"Heartburn," she explained. "This looks too good to pass up." She handed me a plate piled high with crab puffs, which I took eagerly. During the first course, Uncle Clive informed his guests of my purpose in Venice.

"Tell us Mayor," one of the black bears asked, "when do you think the thieves will be caught?"

The Mayor had been eating a breadstick and muttered something before removing the crumbs from his fur. He managed to compose himself in a few moments.

"I think that whoever these thieves are..." he said. "They know they cannot get away with such…

"What are we to do in the meantime?" challenged Natalia. "Many of us are at still at risk."

"Natalia's palazzo was robbed the day before mine, Basil." said Uncle Clive.

"Don't worry, Signora." The Mayor offered. "We will do everything we can to make sure you have the attention and protection most befitting an honored and illustrious personage such as la prima ballerina." He seemed genuine, but one could never tell with a politician. They will say almost anything. None of this impressed the ballerina.

"You can't even protect the palazzi on the Grand Canal," she said. "And when am I ever going to see my lovely glass heart again? The one from Rolli?"

She was almost in tears. Cordelia whispered "Rolli Rostopovich" in my ear when she passed the plate of calamari. I knew the name. Apparently he was a dear friend of Natalia - "a very dear friend" - and Cordelia left it at that. Natalia herself was hostess to many lavish entertainments well-known throughout Venice. Who knew how many bears had been through her palazzo? I wondered if the guest lists were still available. Uncle Clive tried to calm her with an offering of eel; but she'd already had enough.

For the second course, three pasta dishes were served: a Venetian specialty direct from the Adriatic, linguine alla seppie in a sauce made with squid ink; a bright green pesto gnocchi garnished with pine nuts and Parmesan cheese, and risotto del mare, a seafood dish direct from heaven. After a few bites, I decided to pursue the current line of questioning.

"I wonder why none of the churches have been robbed? Do many have Venetian glass?" I asked.

"Yes, many do," answered Abbot Zanetti. "And I think it's just a matter of time before…"

The Mayor interrupted the Abbot.

"Tell us, Abbot, about your glass coffin and St. Lucy's bones. I'm sure some of our guests have not heard the story."

I certainly hadn't and I thought it was a strange change in the dinner conversation. The Abbot, a bit annoyed, obliged us after helping himself to some more of the gnocchi. Apparently the fourth-century martyr's remains were moved to San Geremia when the Santa Lucia church was demolished in 1864 to make way for the train station that bears her name. St. Lucy's remains are visible in a glass coffin that rests in the church. But the Abbot, tired of the story he had no doubt told many times, changed the conversation back to the concerns of the hour.

"There have been thefts in all six sestieri. And Murano has been struck twice! Honestly, Mayor Gritti, I do not see how you can be so assured..."

"Now, let's all calm down and enjoy our dinner," pleaded Uncle Clive. "I'm sure the Mayor is doing all that he can." This satisfied the party for the moment as the main course of Sole Florentine was served. Uncle Clive's cook was certainly a marvel and we began the fish course in silent contentment. However, I remained unsatisfied with the inquiry about the robberies.

"Well, whoever the thieves are, they are certainly well organized," I offered.

Uncle Clive flashed me a look of disapproval. I was simply trying to do my job; but I think he was starting to feel like the poor host whose guests had been made to feel uncomfortable.

For dessert, we were served another Venetian specialty, tiramisu, a coffee and brandy flavored cake layered with sweet whipped cream and dark chocolate. After dinner, Natalia left by private gondola accompanied by the Mayor and the two black bears. When Uncle Clive retired to the library with Abbot Zanetti, I invited Cordelia out for some fresh air.

We walked for a while and then caught a gondola down Rio di San Cassiano to the Canal Grande where we turned and headed for the Rialto. Gliding through the silk-smooth, moonlit waters, Cordelia told me more of the great city's history. She really knows her business, I thought. At the Rialto, we got off at a café on the other side of the bridge and took a table overlooking the Canal. Over cappuccino, Cordelia told me about herself: that she'd taken her degree at Oxford, in History, and for three years had been a translator for the Italian Delegation at the U.N. After that she did a tour of duty in the World Wildlife Rescue Federation, and then a year with Bears Without Borders before striking out on her own giving guided tours of the "world's most interesting places" as Cordelia put it. She was fascinating and for a stretch of time we found ourselves staring into each other's eyes. The Rialto Bridge and the reflections in the still night waters completed the picture, and when I sighed, she smiled.

But we were soon disturbed by what sounded like a mid-day rush of little Italian motor scooters, the kind you see running about everywhere in Rome and Milan.

"Oh, no," said Cordelia softly. "Here comes trouble."

From under the bridge came the Acqua Vesper gang. They rode a clever, if noisy, little water craft and from what I could observe, it incorporated a small jet-ski engine and a flat, sculpted running board that acted as a hydroplane. The gang of thirteen made considerable racket which drew the notice of the others in the café. The lead rider was clad in a black leather jumpsuit; his long red scarf, impossibly unwet, flowed behind. He swung a wide berth to the café and came around again in front after his crew completed three raucous circles in the middle of the Canal.

"Hello, Cordelia Pembridge-Howl!" The greeting could barely be heard above the noise but seemed friendly enough considering the circumstances.

"Hello, Bartolomeo," Cordelia returned. She was polite but appeared slightly embarrassed at the connection. Bartolomeo was a handsome bear with light brown fur and dark green eyes. His confident, almost formal manner, was arresting and a certain charisma and charm complimented his energetic performance.

"When are you coming out with me for a ride? One night soon, si bella Signorina?"

"There's nothing in Venice you can show me that I haven't already seen, Bartolomeo. You know that. You better just get on with your fun tonight." The corners of Cordelia's mouth upturned in the slightest smile. She was becoming more interesting by the moment.

A loud whistle made us all turn as another member of the gang signaled Bartolomeo.

"That's Maschio, faithful lieutenant," whispered Cordelia.

Just as abruptly as they came on the scene they were off again, further down the Grand Canal and into the darkness. A perfect evening - thankfully unspoiled - was coming to an end. When the waiter presented the bill, on the tray with the receipt were several pieces of candy wrapped in gold foil with the letters DB on top. The candy again!

"That's Dolce Bacio. It means 'sweet kiss'." She smiled again. "They're really good, Basil - the best chocolate in Venice."

And as we had our sweet kisses, I reflected on my long, first day on the job. I'll call on Glass tomorrow, I thought, then paid for the coffee and the view. We took another gondola and dropped Cordelia off at her apartment in San Marco. I returned to Uncle Clive's and bed.

 

At breakfast the next morning, I told Uncle Clive about the candy wrappers I found at the glass museum. The serving bear frowned as I laid the soiled wrappers out on the linen tablecloth for closer inspection.

"But that candy is popular all over Venice, my boy," said Uncle Clive. "How can that be a clue?"

"Why would there be greasy pawprints on the inside of a candy wrapper?" I asked. "That's a bit unusual, don't you think?"

"I didn't find any candy wrappers here after the robbery," declared my host.

On a hunch, I asked if the housekeeper might have been up earlier and cleaned or swept up before the theft was discovered. Uncle Clive said that was impossible. When I asked why, he led me upstairs to the second floor and the room that housed his Venetian glass collection.

"I always lock this door at night," he said, as we crossed the second story landing. We stopped before a large, red door. "I have the only keys and I unlock it myself each morning after breakfast," he said, satisfied with his security arrangements. "In fact it's locked now," he added.

Uncle Clive approached the door and turned, not one, but three separate locks, finally keying in an eight digit code on an electronic touch pad. There was a loud metallic clack, which, I supposed, were retracting bolts, and the door opened.

The room was spacious, about forty feet square and clearly intended as a viewing gallery. The walls were unadorned, except for the floral velvet wallpaper. Ten pedestals were arranged about the pink marble floor and atop each of these but one was a glass sculpture: Here was Uncle Clive's Venetian glass collection - minus a large green seahorse the thief had taken six nights ago. What remained was impressive though, even to my untrained eye. I knew, of course, that for generations, business pursuits, rather than inheritance, had supported Uncle Clive's branch of the family tree. I was never privy to the reasons why, but uncle's lineage was forced to depend, not on the Baker Trust - to which I owe a serious debt of gratitude - but rather on economic timing and the apparently uncanny Baker ability of anticipating the financial markets. The result, in Uncle Clive's case was obvious. Surveying his Venetian Glass gallery, I was, no doubt, looking at a considerable investment.

I carefully inspected the crime scene. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows formed a wall the entire length of the room overlooking Rio Beccarie thirty feet below. The dozen or so windows were all without locks. Worse, each was secured only by a small metal latch. On closer inspection, I could see that the latches could be lifted with little effort from the outside, using a knife or even a thin plastic ruler. It was sort of comical - and ironic - considering Uncle Clive's security ritual. It was clear how the thief - or thieves - had broken in. Using a rope, the burglar could have easily come down from the roof or climbed up from a waiting boat.

"What did the police say?" I asked.

"They didn't find any evidence of a break-in."

I wasn't surprised.

"What about your alarm system, Uncle?" I had to ask.

But there was no alarm system.

"The crime rate in Venice is very low," he said, desperate to justify his security 'system' despite the fact that six palazzi had been robbed in seven days.

"And still no clues, anywhere - according to the local police." he continued. "I wonder what Marcello is doing about all this. How can there be no clues, Basil?"

I risked upsetting him, but I had to ask about his comments the day before concerning H.R. Glass. It was a longshot, but I needed something else to go on besides the candy wrappers, which now appeared to be my only lead - a lead which I was keenly aware everyone else was quick to dismiss.

"Oh, he thinks he's very clever - very clever indeed," continued Uncle Clive. "But Glass is nothing more than an interloper, an outsider of the worst sort. He's buying favor throughout Venice and makes a mockery of us all with this latest business. I don't know what to make of his new scheme but Venice has withstood the assaults of those greater than H.R. Glass and in the end, he'll be shown up for who and what he is." He sat down heavily in a leather armchair.

"But Uncle Clive..."

"Basil, my boy, I'm counting on you. This has got to stop. These sculptures are irreplaceable. And it's bad for the city's image: you saw the headlines in the papers. It's non-stop television coverage on VCNN. You'd think there was nothing else going on in the world. I'm sure you understand our situation."

I did understand. "But I need a few more details to go on, Uncle Clive. Has Glass been questioned by the police?" I asked.

"Questioned?" he shouted. "Why, he's got Marcello completely fooled. You spent some time with him. You know what he's like."

Other than that incident at the train station in Zurich, Glass seemed nothing but cordial. With the gambling crowd on the train - and H.R. winning a good deal of money predicting the correct number of cows over a twenty-five mile stretch of the lower alps - Glass was friendly, an outgoing, engaging bear. I filled in Uncle Clive about the trip and concluded by saying I saw no reason to suspect Glass.

"Why would he bother stealing Venetian glass, Uncle?" I asked. "He could easily buy whatever he wanted."

"Hmpph!" Not the answer I was hoping for. Uncle's case against Glass was already beginning to crumble.

"Besides, on the train he seemed interested only in large marble sculpture. In fact, he was passionate about it." I continued. "And later at the station, those working bears were unloading a large wooden crate..."

"Don't be absurd, my boy. We don't know what was in that crate."

"But surely you don't think he's transporting stolen goods into Venice?"

"I don't know what he's up to. No good, I suspect."

His suspicions weren't much to go on. I liked Glass and it was it hard to imagine he was behind this Venetian crime wave.

"What would be his motive, Uncle?" I asked.

Another "Hmpph!" which really wasn't helpful at all.

I couldn't see how Uncle's suspicions made much sense. But there was no denying him; I was here on his account. I'd just have to be ready for some 'extra' work. Together we made a list of the robberies from the paper. Il Gazzettino was keeping a running tally on the front page in a side bar above the fold. All of the robberies had occurred at night. Uncle's robbery was last Wednesday evening. Today was Tuesday and I had five other cases to investigate. Murano had netted my only clues.

My plan for the day was simple. I was already familiar with two of the crime scenes, on Murano and at Uncle Clive's. Today I would begin to canvas the other palazzi that had been robbed and see if I could find something the police hadn't uncovered. I was clinging to the hope that a few of the other housekeepers had found the same candy wrappers after the robberies. That would at least establish a pattern. For some reason, I got it into my head to proceed chronologically, in the order of the robberies. So, with Cordelia's map in hand, I set off for San Marco and Natalia Navritolova's palazzo, scene of the second theft. From the emotional scene at Uncle Clive's dinner party, I knew I'd have to tread delicately on the matter of 'Rolli's heart' - her own heart had seemed broken last night.

There are six sestieri, or districts, in Venice: Cannaregio, San Marco and Castello on one side of the Canal Grande and Santa Croce, San Polo and Dorsoduro on the other. And as the Abbot had reminded us last night, the thief - or thieves - had struck them all.

Natalia's palazzo in San Marco was small by some standards; but it occupied a prominent corner on the Grand Canal and rose four stories: all baroque, all in style and at least twenty rooms. The ballet must pay, I thought, as the butler opened the door. I handed him my card and was shown into the music room. Within a few minutes, Natalia appeared. She seemed relieved to see me - which was a pleasant surprise.

"I see you are, as they say in America, 'on the case', Signore Baker."

"Please call me Basil, Signora Navritolova."

"Signorina," corrected the unmarried ballerina.

I apologized for the error.

"How can I help you in your investigation?" she asked, motioning me to sit in the chair beside her.

"I'd like to see the scene of the crime if it's not too much of an inconvenience."

She winced.

"You are in the crime scene, Signore Basil."

I winced. My second blunder in as many minutes.

"Rolli's heart was taken from this very room seven nights ago." Her voice quivered. She was almost crying. This Rolli bear had captured the ballerina's affection with his special gift. It was too cruel that her heart had been stolen on Valentine's Day.

"Are you sure this a good time for you, Signorina?" I asked. "I can come back some other…"

"No...yes...I'm sorry." She tried to regain her composure. "I get so emotional sometimes. But, please…I'll answer your questions, now, if I can."

"What did you tell the police?" I said, as gently as I could.

"Everything...or nothing...depending how you look at it. There was not much to tell. I discovered the theft myself when I came down to the music room at 9:00 that morning. I have breakfast in here most days. There was no clue or sign of a break in - 'no evidence at all' according to Inspector Marcello - just my missing heart."

I asked if the stolen object has been insured.

"Yes, of course, everything is - but that's just money."

I asked how much money we were talking about.

"The heart was made in 1652 as a wedding gift for the niece of Francesco Molin, the Doge of Venice," she said, half-distractedly, as if used to reciting its history.

"And the value?" I pressed.

"It was recently appraised for 850,000 Euros." She didn't seem impressed by declaring the heart's value. But by my rough calculation, this was a million dollar robbery. Another fact was clear: the news reports hadn't mentioned the value of any of the stolen sculpture. Why? Perhaps Uncle Clive would know.

I really had only one hunch to go on, so I showed her the gold foil papers I had found at the museum.

"Signorina, on the morning after the robbery, did you find any candy wrappers like these?"

She looked down at them as one might look at anything distasteful suddenly appearing in a room full of beautiful objects.

"No, I did not." She pulled on a braided cord that hung to the right of the fireplace. "But perhaps the housekeeper did. Inspector Marcello didn't ask about these papers...that is curious, no?"

Before I could answer, the housekeeper came in through a side door.

"Si, Signorina?"

"Maria, this is Signore Baker. He is helping the police with their investigations into the robbery," Natalia explained, then turned to me. "Maria has been housekeeper here for the past fourteen years."

"Fifteen years next month, Signorina," said Maria. She seemed a no-nonsense bear so I got right to the point.

"I did find some candy wrappers," she informed us. "I picked them up right after Signorina phoned for the police. We have had the candy here before. I didn't think they were important. Were they clues? Oh, I'm so sorry, Signorina...if I had only known..."

The housekeeper was crying. Natalia put her arm around Maria's shoulders and walked her out of the music room. I looked around the room and noticed several other Venetian glass objects. It was interesting that the thief had stolen only one sculpture, just like at the museum. I noticed two small glass pieces on the fireplace mantle. Set upright between them was a Valentine's Day card, half opened. I took a peek inside and could see a handwritten note signed Love, Rolli. Just then Natalia returned.

"So, are we making any progress, Signore Basil?"

"I'm curious about the recent parties you've held here over the last three or four months," I said. "Perhaps you might still have the guest lists?"

She left briefly and returned with a red, leather-bound notebook.

"My secretary keeps a schedule of social engagements in here. But I'm afraid this won't be of much help."

She was right. The book recorded five parties in the last four months and the guests lists had included just about every important name in Venice, including Uncle Clive. I didn't realize just how well-connected he was. European royalty and several American stars of stage and screen completed the international guest lists. As I scanned the names, I commented that Herbert Richard Glass had attended her most recent party on New Year's Eve.

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

I told her about our train ride from Paris and that we had become well acquainted. At his invitation I was to call on him later today.

"We've known each other for years," said Natalia. "He's holding a costume ball this Saturday evening. It will be the biggest social event during Carnevale. Perhaps he means to invite you to his party today."

Perhaps, I thought. Having completed my initial interview with the ballerina, I asked her if she could recommend a local costumer in case her hunch proved correct.

Without hesitation she said, "Tragicomica on Calle dei Nomboli in San Polo."

I wrote the address down in my journal and said goodbye.

"I hope to see you again, Basil," she said in farewell, finally dropping formality as her butler led me to the front door. Perhaps she'd save a dance for me at Glass' costume ball, I hoped.

 

 

Francesca Morosini's palazzo was my next stop in the Castello sestieri just off the Rio di Pieta. It was a little over a mile's walk from Natalia's and I decided to take the back streets to avoid the Piazza San Marco, which would be swarming with tourists at this hour. Besides the walk would be refreshing and take me past one of my favorite palazzi in San Marco, the Contarini "Dal Bovolo" - a wonder of fifteenth century Venetian engineering, built with a spectacular four story stone spiral staircase. When I was young, a Venetian playmate of mine, Marco DiBearola - my best friend in Venice - lived in the Santa Croce sestieri opposite the train station. I spent several summers in Venice courtesy of Uncle Clive, and Marco took me all about his city. I remember spending many weekends at Marco's, and on Sundays attending services at the church of San Simeone Picollo with his family. I had stayed in touch with Marco via e-mail all through his time at Universidad Musica in Madrid where he studied flamenco guitar. Last year, I invited him to Carmel and he spent the better part of the summer with me. We had tremendous fun and every other girl bear we met fell in love with Marco's accent and his guitar playing, which was, I must admit, virtuosic. I remembered on the 4th of July, Marco brought his guitar to Devendorf Park in the center of Carmel for an impromptu solo concert. Before long several hundred had gathered to hear my friend. He absolutely wowed the crowd. It was funny to think that ten years ago we were in Venice chasing each other up and down the Dal Bovola spiral staircase, playing cops and robbers, Italian style. Now Marco was living in Venice and headlining a local flamenco jazz group playing at a club in Dorsoduro. I wanted to catch his act and made a note to call Cordelia to see if she had any plans for the evening.

Francesca Morosini's palazzo was in the largest sestieri in Venice. From the thirteenth century, the Castello district had grown around the famous naval dockyard, the Arsenale. Her residence overlooked a beautiful little square, Campo Bandiera e Moro. I knocked on the front door and the servant bear who answered ushered me into a sitting room only to be followed a few minutes later by Signora Morosini, an elderly bear, regally attired even at this early hour. She wore a green silk suit with a small diamond lizard on her lapel. She was adorned with an elaborate emerald necklace complimented by matching earrings and bracelet. Two lady bears-in-waiting also accompanied her and when Signora Morosini finally sat, they placed themselves in matching side chairs by the fireplace. The Signora's fur showed a few signs of gray (and a little wear here and there) but she was sprightly and thin with energetic eyes which were now trained on me closely. They struck me as eyes that wouldn't miss much.

"I am Basil Baker, Signora Morosini." I introduced myself and politely handed her my card.

"Contessa Morosini," she corrected me at once. She examined my card intently, then said "And who may I ask is your family, Signore Baker?"

I knew this was a delicate matter and should tread carefully, obeying proper protocol if I wanted the Contessa's help. From my web research before breakfast, I knew the Morosini family had produced four rulers, or Doges, of Venice. Their portraits on her drawing room wall were a distinct reminder to all who her family was.

But still, I had a job to do. Overcoming my nervousness, I explained that I was the nephew of Clive Baker, former Member of Parliament, retired to Venice these past ten years (she was vaguely aware of his existence). Now conscious of Contessa's status in Venetian society (this was definitely on-the-job training), I thought to mention that I was nephew to Lord Henry Houndsworth of Devonshire. I was in Venice on 'family business' relating to, as the papers had it, Il Maladora di Venezia, and I had come at Lord Henry's and Uncle Clive's request. I mentioned that my investigation might also be of some service to her family as well.

"La mia famiglia!" she sniffed at my inadvertent impertinence; and although she did seem impressed by my mention of Sir Henry, she was determined not to let me see it. She communicated through an air of perfected superiority that she could hardly understand how I could be of help to her family. "I was hoping to receive a report from Inspectore Loredan Marcello," she asserted. "Certainly after four days, some official progress has been made." I winced at her emphasis.

"Contessa, I spoke to the Inspector yesterday afternoon at the second robbery at Museo Vetrario. The official explanation is disappointing: there are still no clues or suspects."

"That is both ridiculous and absurd!" The Contessa's command of the English language was impressive. "I shall have to speak to him again."

"Contessa, I was hoping you might kindly consent to answer a few questions from me about the robbery here on February 16th." I knew that Il Gazzettino, the local paper was keeping a running tally of the robberies and had listed a ten inch tall crested ewer crafted in 1875 by Salviati & Co, a premier glass maker. The ewer had been a Morosini family heirloom. I'm sure it must have been insured for thousands. As I've said, I'm no expert on antique Venetian glass, but my research had informed me that this particular sculpture had been featured in several glossy magazine articles from Venice to London and Paris to New York. I was sure the Contessa wanted it returned safely.

"I told Inspector Loredan all there was to tell. Are you officially authorized to be on this case, Signore Baker"?

Despite her emphasis on that word again, I knew I was on sanctioned ground. I told her that the Inspector had personally put me in charge of the only "clues" I had found - the gold foil candy wrappers. I did, however, feel obliged to inform the Contessa about the Inspector's doubts concerning this evidence.

"I'm not at all surprised. Dolce Bacio is the most popular candy in Venice, Signore Baker." At this point one of the lady bears-in-waiting leaned over and whispered something into the Contessa's ear.

"Madre del dio!" Contessa Morosini seemed seriously displeased. "What have you done, Margarita Foscari?"

What Margarita had done was to find three gold candy wrappers the morning after the robbery. She had severely scolded the downstairs maid for her untidiness and the candy wrappers were discarded. Needless to say, none of this was mentioned to the police.

Now, with solid information about the gold foil wrappers at three of the four robberies I had investigated in only two days, I thought I might have enough evidence to speak to - and perhaps interest - Inspector Marcello. I admit that Uncle Clive's crime scene did have a missing piece. Unless there might be a similar story with Uncle's housekeeper as there had with Natalia's and even Contessa Morosini's for that matter. I planned to talk to Uncle about this tonight.

Meanwhile, I would talk to Inspector Loredan since the Questura, Venice's police headquarters, was also in the Castello sestieri and only about a third of a mile away from the Contessa's. If I went street by street across Rio di Pieta and turned right along Rio de San Lorenzo, I could be at the Questura in about fifteen minutes. However, I thought I might take a little detour first to clear my mind and decide how best to approach the police. So I walked from the campo down Calle Dose to the Riva degli Schiavoni. This riva is the frontage walk overlooking the broad lagoon at the southern end of the Grand Canal. In a few minutes I found myself at La Pieta, Vivaldi's church, and I tried to imagine Venice's favorite son composing and conducting here. I never get tired of Le Quattro Formaggi (The Four Seasons) and I made a reminder to ask Cordelia if she knew of a performance in the city this week. As I turned, something else caught my eye: the magnificent bell tower on San Giorgio Maggiore island. Views like this present Venice in the best light and you are reminded how special the place is. It's one of those cities that seem to expand your outlook: everywhere, a thousand years of history and majestic, centuries-worn beauty take you beyond your present problems, out of yourself, to something larger. And as I looked out across the lagoon to the church of San Giorgio Maggiore, and beyond, the blue horizontal line of the Adriatic, I suddenly had the idea that this case might be much bigger than anyone had expected so far. I can't explain the feeling. Maybe just experience and the intuition from being on so many cases - even though this one was different in just about every way a case could be different.

Just as I was taking this all in I heard "Signore...Signore Basil" from a nearby gondola landing. It was Fabrizio and I was glad to see a familiar face. I told him I needed to go the Questura.

"Are you in trouble, Signore Baker?" asked Fabrizio.

I appreciated his concern but assured him all was well and that I was simply following up on my case. He seemed relieved and welcome me aboard. He said the Questura was just a few hundred meters down the Rio Dei Grechi, which was right next to the La Pieta church. This canale, he explained, led directly into the Rio San Lorenzo and to the boat launch dock of the Questura a short distance down. I told Fabrizio that I might need him to wait for me un poco tempo - only for a little while, I hoped. My plan was to speak briefly with Loredan about the candy wrappers. My next visit would be Baldassare Massari's palazzo in the Dorsoduro sestieri at the other end of the Canal Grande. I could take the Number 1 vaporetto waterbus from Piazza San Marco, which was only a short distance from the Questura. But the Number 1 boat is slow and crowded and I wanted time alone with Fabrizio to get his take on this whole Maladora di Venezia thing. There were eight robberies so far! I'd heard that gossip being a favorite Venetian past-time, I was hoping Fabrizio might have heard something that could be helpful. I was planning to employ his services for rest of the day. In a few minutes we were in front of the Questura, tying up the gondola.

"Ciao, Nicolo!" greeted Fabrizio intimately. A policebear tending to the police launches knew Fabrizio and they immediately struck up a conversation in Italian. I had gathered Fabrizio had introduced me and my mission and Nicolo extended his hand and pulled me up on the dock.

"Grazie, Nicolo! Can you tell me where Inspectore Marcello's office is? I have some important information for him."

"You will have to speak to Sergeant Lucca at the front desk." His tone was not encouraging.

I thanked him again and entered the Questura. I've been in plenty of police stations, in and out of the United States, and this one was decidedly unique. For one thing, the Sergeant in charge paid no attention to me as I walked up to his desk. It was about six feet tall - no doubt to intimidate - and very ornately carved wood that looked like mahogany, showing its age like the rest of Venice. It was not only high - but almost as wide the reception hall. There were no other visitors present and he was reading Il Gazzettino - I suppose to find out as much as he could about the robberies. No doubt six or seven other bears could be reading the same paper comfortably behind that imposing desk similarly engaged in the case.

"Scusi il interuption, Sergeant Lucca," Looking up to where he was sitting, I managed my best Italian. He put the papers down and commanded simply "Avanti!" in a deep baritone, though I couldn't have been more than ten feet away. I approached a bit nervously and stated my business.

"Inspectore Marcello is not here and I do not know when to expect him." was the only information the Sergeant was going to supply. I asked if he might know where the Inspectore might be at this hour. I explained that Inspector Marcello and I had met twice already.

"He is on special assignment. Would you like to leave your name, telephone number and address where he might reach you?"

I asked if I could at least have Inspector Marcello's cell phone number.

"I am sorry, Signore, but that is official police information." I understood that I wasn't about to get anywhere. I thanked him again, turned and left the Questura.

Once Outside I asked Fabrizio to take me to the nearest public telephone; I needed to call Uncle Clive. He might have Loredan's cell number. Fabrizio handed me his own cell phone instead so I dialed Uncle's number. The housekeeper answered and put me right through.

"I see I'm going to have to buy you a telefonino," insisted Uncle Clive.

"A what?" I inquired.

"It's what the Venetians call the cell phone, my boy. You simply cannot do business in Venice without one." He was rather emphatic and told me he was going to send out for one right away. It would be waiting for me at lunch at 2:00pm when he expected an update. But meanwhile there was big news: a second robbery in San Marco in a palazzo on the Grand Canal. Lorenzo Enrizo's palazzo had been broken into in the middle of the night and another precious work of Venetian glass sculpture had been stolen. What made this robbery particularly interesting to the local press was twofold: first, the latest crime scene was next to the all white Palazzo Corner-Loredan on the Canale Grande which, built in the thirteenth century, was now the official headquarters of the Commune of Venice, an administrative body that exercised great cultural control over what could and could not be done or built in Venice. But secondly - and much more important to the police and the increasing concern of Venetians - the stolen goblet was one of the city's rarest treasures. The ancient goblet was often loaned to various museum exhibitions and charity fund raising events for artistic committees dedicated to the preservation of all things Venetian. The goblet had been a gift from one of the most illustrious members of the Medici family in 1481. During his trip from Florence to Rome, this ruler - and major patron of the arts - made a stopover in Venice to visit an old family friend. Legend has it that he lost a game of cards: his 'penance' was to visit Murano Island and direct one of the glass maestros to make something that would befit his host. Ever the gracious lord, he more than complied and the results were two exquisite Venetian sculptures: a pair of golden glass goblets which, declared their benefactor, was to toast their good fortune the next time the families met. The brazen thief had stolen only one of the goblets. It reminded me of the Museo di Vetrario's two robberies and Cordelia's comments how it was a mystery that the thief - or thieves - hadn't taken both twin vases during the first robbery. Then it was a mystery, but now with the two goblets - and only one being stolen - we seemed to be seeing a definite pattern taunting the authorities by our master criminali.

After Uncle Clive filled me in on all this, he gave me Inspector Marcello's telefonino number; but said to use it sparingly. "Anyway he's bound to be at the latest crime scene; so I would go right over and learn what you can." All I could do was obey and remind him I would be home for lunch after my meeting with Loredan.

From the Questura dock, Fabrizio untied his gondola. "Ciao, Nicolo!", who was still tending the police launches. Fabrizio explained that Nicolo was Fabrizio's cousin and that his wife, Graziana, was about to have a baby bear any day now. Fabrizio was going to be the godfather, which to the Venetians is a very sacred duty. Fabrizio untied and rowed from the dock waving good-bye, but not before I saw Sergeant Lucca standing on the dock speaking intently with Nicolo. Fabrizio saw, too. "Venezia would stop functioning without gossip." I hoped Nicolo gave a good report of Fabrizio's new friend and that I would have a slightly easier time when I met Sergeant Lucca again. After all, we were on the same team.

After pulling away from the dock at the Questura, Fabrizio was all business and his expert rowing gave me the feeling he was about to show his true navigational skills through the backwaters of Venice. I wasn't disappointed. He first took us up Rio San Lorenzo a short distance and turned left into Rio Tetta, a smaller canale, until it merged with the larger Rio San Giovanni Laterano. Another hundred meters we turned left into Rio Pestrin and left again into Rio Mondo Nuovo. We then passed Campo San Maria Formosa, one of the more open and livelier squares in Venice. Nearby was the church of Santa Maria Formosa, built in the seventh century and later reconstructed in 1492 (Fabrizio felt the need to inform me - as he no doubt told other passengers - that there was no connection to Columbus' achievement). The ancient church was magnificent, though. In a few minutes we turned right on Rio San Zulian and then left into Rio Scoacamini. A short distance later we turned into Rio San Salvador and up another three hundred meters we entered the Grand Canal itself and a scene of frenzied activity - or perhaps frenzied inactivity, would be a better description.

A vaporetto, three water taxis, a smaller passenger boat, called a motoscafo, and several gondolas were bobbing, nearly motionless on the water in front of Palazzo Corner-Loredan and Lorenzo Enrizo's palazzo - all vying for the best view of the most recent crime scene. "Il Maladora di Venezia" had been front page news for over a week now and this latest theft would certainly be considered the most spectacular to date. About a hundred meters down the canal Fabrizio and I were well out of the way of the commotion. But tourists had already amassed along the front walk, the Riva di Ferro, to witness all the water craft blocking the four police launches desperately trying to get through to the crime scene. The police boat pilots, their patience lost, resorted to screaming orders to the other boats. In fact, tempers were at a high pitch and everyone, police and even the water-bound civilians, were screaming at each other - in an Italian best left untranslated. It seemed out of a some comic opera with pandemonium ruling the day, all to the great amusement of the tourists safely on the Riva di Ferro. The police became very agitated and for a moment I thought there might be some arrests. Through the hysterical scene, I could see that one police launch was already tied up in front of Lorenzo Enrizo's palazzo. I was hoping Inspectore Loredan had made it through the Grand Canal madness and had already reached the crime scene. Fabrizio thought it best to drop me off on the corner at Palazzo Bembo, now a hotel, and suggested I walk the rest of the way. I asked him to wait for me; I had a lot of ground - and water - to cover. I told Fabrizio I'd likely need his services for the rest of the day. He was very accommodating and Uncle Clive was picking up the bill, including Fabrizio's lunch. Our friendship was beginning to develop and I had a gut feeling Fabrizio was someone I could trust as well as depend upon.

On the other side of Palazzo Corner-Loredan rose Venice's City Hall, Palazzo Dandolo Farsettti. The thief, or thieves, were either foolishly imprudent or were making an in-your-face statement of defiance striking so close to Venezia's administrative offices. I suspected the latter given their successful larceny and their complete bewilderment of the authorities. I left Fabrizio and walked along the Riva di Ferro up to the front of Lorenzo Enrizo's palazzo. Two policebears were standing guard, keeping the curious away. I presented my credentials, informing them I had important information for Inspectore Loredan. One of the guards gave me a skeptical look up and down; but the bear examining my papers decided to give me the benefit of the doubt even though I had no appointment. He accompanied me to the foyer of the palazzo. He told me to wait while he consulted the Inspectore, who had apparently arrived scarcely ten minutes before me. He was just starting his investigation of the latest crime scene and I was surely interrupting him - but my information was too important not to report. In a few minutes Loredan himself appeared.

“How may I help you now, Signore?” There would be no pleasantries: he was annoyed and looked a little ruffled. But Uncle Clive's prominence in the community - and the fact that Uncle was a victim of this crime spree - was giving me at least some access.

"I believe I now have some solid evidence for you," I said.

"And may I see this 'evidence' Signore?" he asked condescendingly. I knew, of course, he was patronizing me. Maybe he looked forward to a bit of comic relief from the stress of the day. When I started to produce the candy wrappers, his eyes rolled over a sharp frown. But I was determined to stand my ground and waited, unprepared for his response.

"Not these again. Surely not, Signore Baker?" We were back to last names. "You see how busy the police are, do you not, Signore?" he continued. "We simply cannot track down every theory that comes along. Surely you can see that?" He sounded exasperated. I decided to be simple and direct.

"That's why you need my help, Inspectore." I dared the impertinence but had no choice if I was to make any progress. Loredan walked over to a side chair and sat down in a heavy slump.

"Continue," sighed the Inspectore.

"I have discovered that three of the crime scenes now report finding these same candy wrappers the morning after each robbery," I began.

The entire conversation really didn't take that long, focusing on the most likely explanation: that whoever was committing these robberies was also leaving Dolce Bacio candy wrappers behind. And these wrappers, as far an I understood, were in fact the only clues to go on.

"Do you think they are being left by accident, then, Signore Baker?" He asked. "Or perhaps deliberately to mislead us?"

I admitted I hadn't thought of it either way.

"The pawprints may give us answers," I offered. I showed him my list of the crime scenes I had visited and he wrote these down in his notebook. He agreed to re-examine the remaining locations in search of additional clues. Inspectore Marcello then rose to go and very formally, bowed slightly and said, "Grazie, Signore. We shall be in touch."

As I left, though, two thoughts were bothering me. The first was the idea that there was a criminal mastermind out there, apparently untouchable, who was deliberately taunting the authorities. These were audacious thefts. The second thought was of the certain humiliation all 'round if many more of these thefts occurred and still no progress to report. Loredan's career could be on the line: From the politicians to the media to the citizenry, all of Venezia was demanding the culprit(s) be identified, captured, convicted and confined, preferably forced to work in the prison kitchens hand-polishing the plastic cups.

Their thousand year history, however, has made the Venetians pragmatic as well as proud. The consensus was that the objects d' art had probably been sold already and transported to wealthy private collectors far from Venezia. If so, this case would surely involve Interpol eventually. Poor Loredan, I thought. I was all the more determined now to help him solve his case.

I walked back to Uncle Clive's for lunch, taking a traghetto to cross from San Marco to San Polo sestiere. Over antipasto and fettuccine alfredo (and a single glass of a delightfully light Frascati), I informed Uncle of my progress so far: the Navritolova and Morosini interviews and especially the conversation with Inspectore Marcello that resulted in the candy wrappers officially considered evidence.

"Good show, Basil! The first solid evidence to go on and you found it!" Uncle Clive raised his glass. "To success, my boy."

He was doubly impressed when I gave him the history of my encounters with Il Inspectore and that finally the relationship with Marcello was thawing, or so I felt. Uncle and I concluded that he must be resigned to the fact that I was definitely 'on the case' and going nowhere until the matter was resolved. Uncle Clive was in the mood to celebrate and told the serving bear to open a bottle of Chateau Haut-Brion with the soon to be served roast course. Uncle apparently keeps magnums of the stuff (his favorite, vint.1961) and the occasion demanded another one be poured immediately.

"Progress, my boy, is the cornerstone of civilization." Uncle Clive raised his glass again and gave me that look - the unmistakable, generous look that conveyed total, unreserved confidence - an eternal reassurance - in my abilities. Not long after starting my sleuthing career, my relatives have always been like that, for which I am grateful. And while I've never failed to solve a case - thus far, anyway - I knew no one had a perfect record forever, not even Sherlock Holmes. But the pressure I was feeling was somewhat relieved by the wine and a very fine luncheon.

After dessert, the butler bear bore a silver tray laden with a gift wrapped in patterned Venetian paper. It wasn't exactly a surprise: Uncle Clive was famous in the family for giving extravagant presents for no other reason than the giving. This present, however, was the telefonino Uncle had promised and he seemed well-pleased with himself, although a little impatient as I struggled with the wrapping. But at last, the latest model RazBerry smart-phone revealed itself. Uncle was true to his word: the RazBerry was the hot mobile communications device of the moment. Besides making calls and storing twelve-hundred names and addresses of my most important contacts, the phone maintained my calendar of things-to-do. According to the User's Guide, I would, apparently, never forget to do anything ever again. The RazBerry, of course, sent and received e-mail and it was already set-up with my account address: basilbaker@basilbaker.com. All I had to do was type in the password to my e-mail account. Best of all, it came with one of those cordless bluetooth wireless headsets that sat unobtrusively on my ear. So now I could appear to talk to myself wherever and whenever I wandered the streets or canals alone on a call. I had yet another surprise: during 'downtime' I could don a stereo wireless headset and listen to my favorite tunes. Lately I've been revisiting Vivaldi, Beethoven and Led Zeppelin. Now they could go with me wherever adventure led.

After lunch, my first call was to Cordelia to ask her out to see my friend Marco play at Teatro Jazz in San Marco. I left a voice mail and my new mobile number. I also called the number H.R. Glass had given me yesterday at the train station. He sounded delighted to hear from me and invited me to come over about four o'clock when, he said, he would be free for the rest of the day.

I had well over an hour to kill before meeting Glass, so I decided to pay a call on the fifth victim, Baldassare Massari, who lived in Dorsoduro on Rio D' Frescada near the great Palazzo Balbi. However, when I arrived, I saw that the residence had been shuttered closed and two rather formidable bears were guarding the front entrance. When I approached, they informed me Signore Massari had moved to his villa in Padua, about 40 kilometers west of the city. They had no information regarding his return. I had no choice but to come back another time.

Still in a walking mood, I crossed the bridge which connects Dorsoduro to the San Marco sestiere. A crowd had gathered on the San Marco side of the ponte dell' Accademia where a Carnevale reveler, costumed as an infamous senator of the old Republic, was entertaining the crowd with 'drunken' antics and crude bloviations. He carried an empty wine bottle as a prop, pausing now and then to pull it from his coat pocket and 'drink.' His wore no mask but his expressions of privilege and superiority, alternating with the stupefied look of a drunken letch. This pantomime was complemented by his exaggerated staggering. He took mock-exercise chasing several of the females present. The senator carried an oversized purse, open and overflowing with bribes ("campaign contributions") from his constituency. He would now and then engage the crowd in a game of pretend solicitation and the historical figure - drunken, corrupt and dishonorable - was thus given life. It was a fine bit of play-acting. The 'senator' bowed to great applause and seeing another crowd gathered near the flower market over on the Dorsoduro side, started to cross the bridge.

But the mummeries had just begun. Harley Kino, newly arrived on the scene and witnessing the crowd's enthusiastic reception of his predecessor, was determined to earn his share of the audience's attention now. As the 'senator' crossed the bridge, Harley tagged behind, miming the politician, gesture for gesture. When the senator stopped and pretended to drink again, someone tossed Harley a bottle of genuine wine (this was, after all, Carnevale). Not missing the cue, Harley pulled the cork out with his teeth and toasted the crowd. Then, holding the bottle six inches above his mouth, poured the shimmering ruby liquid past his greedy lips until the bottle was empty. With that gesture, Harley's imitation was complete. But applause all 'round brought an end to only this part of his performance. Harley hurled himself into an impromptu series of cartwheels over the bridge and back again, waving to the 'senator' as he passed him each way.

Encore! Encore! screamed the crowd. Harley's courage and sense of the theatrical were no doubt emboldened by his eager ingestion of wine: what came next was memorable. Harley commandeered a pair of pantalooned walking stilts from two young performers taking a break from the bright afternoon. Without hesitating, Harley mounted the stilts. But once aloft, he began swaying inexpertly (though this could have been part of the act), taking wide, uneven strides like some berserk cast-off from the Cirque du Soleil. The encouraging crowd parted and Harley, fifteen feet in the air, started to walk the bridge. Wild applause was heard from both sides of the water as Harley teetered above us. Wobbling violently at the apex of the bridge, Harley Kino concluded his act by diving head-first into the Grand Canal. An eerie, surreal moment of quiet followed. All eyes were on the performer's hat, floating precisely where Harley had entered the water. Fifteen seconds went by. Twenty seconds. Thirty! The suspense was finally broken when Harley bobbed to the surface, waving madly - and wearing his hat! The crowd roared once again. It was an inspired improvisation that would be immortalized by videocam operators who would later post their clips on YouTube for all the world to see.

 

 

I saw Fabrizio below the bridge helping passengers out of his gondola. I looked at my watch and thought it best if Fabrizio took me straight to Glass' palazzo. It fronted the the Canal Grande and arriving by gondola would be quicker than walking through a maze of side streets. So we headed north up the Grand Canal toward the Rialto. We passed under the bridge and when we had just passed the fish market at Campo Pescaria, Fabrizio pointed ahead to Glass' palazzo. It was an imposing - and very familiar - structure and for a moment I was confused that this was Glass' residence.

"Fabrizio, isn't that the palazzo Ca' Pesaro?"

I knew that it was and I also knew it housed one of Venice's great modern art collections."

"Si, Si Signore. But Signore Glass purchased it from the city two years ago and kept the name."

I couldn't believe the city council would sell off one of its greatest architectural treasures.

"How did he manage that, Fabrizio?"

"Signore Glass made the city an offer it couldn't refuse," he said. "Besides paying €1.00 billion for the palazzo, he agreed to transfer, at his own cost, the entire art collection of the museo as soon as the additions to Museo Guggenheim were completed, again, at his own cost."

"I don't understand, I thought the Guggenheim was already one of the foremost modern art museums in Venice."

"Si, that is true. In 1750 construction began on Palazzo Venier dei Leoni, as it was then called, but the project was never finished. Some say the money ran out. Others say that the powerful Corner family living opposite blocked the completion because it would have been grander than their own palazzo. The architect, Lorenzo Boschetti, had designed a three story classical façade that would have rivaled any palazzo in Venice. Signore Glass offered to pay another €1.00 billion to add the two additional stories from Boschetti's original design. Any left over money was to be donated to the Guggenheim Foundation. That was two years ago and now Signore Glass has taken up residence in one of Venezia's most beautiful palazzi and Museo Guggenheim is now the greatest art museum in the city, possibly in all of Italia."

I was astounded by the story (and equally impressed by Fabrizio's knowledge). "But you don't seem upset by any of this, Fabrizio?"

"Well, to tell the truth, most Venetians like Signore Glass molto, very much. And he has been generous to his adopted city, working hard for its preservation. He even donated €2.00 billion to the MOSE project. Signore Glass has become a very influential bear and one of the most respected."

Purchased with a lot of Euros, I thought - immediately embarassed by my own uncharitable cynicism.

Of course, I had heard of the MOdulo Sperimentale Elettromeccanico project, dubbed MOSE. Venice, having been built on millions of wooden piles driven deep into the marshy ground, has been literally sinking into the Adriatic from the first days of the Republic, a thousand years ago. While today, the Venetians have learned to cope with the annual aqua alta, or high waters, the floods of November 1966 (see left at Piazzo San Marco) were much deeper than usual and traumatic to much of Venice. The aqua alta flooding continues to worsen each year, only to be exacerbated of late by global warming, say the scientists. But political maneuverings and debate in Rome and Venice caused delay that threaten La Serrinissima from the very waters upon which she was built. However, all good things come to those who wait and this part of the 'story' has a happy ending. Since 2003,work has been underway on MOSE: an ambitious plan involving rows of massive gates positioned at the three largest inlets to the Venetian lagoon. These gigantic constructions rival anything like them built to date in Holland or the River Thames. The gates will rise from the sea bed to cut the lagoon off from the open sea when high tides threaten the city. They will thus save Venice - so, the scientists say.

The MOSE project would cost the Italian taxpayers €4.27 billion. Glass' magnanimous €2.00 billion bequest to the city for the project apparently took the sting out of what little controversy remained on the undertaking: as it was, Glass' bequest completed the funding and, today, the project is scheduled for operation in 2012. Venice will have its protective shield in very short order: Fabrizio said it must have taken a miracle to satisfy the environmentalists, the historical conservationists and the anti-tax groups. Their objections were successfully assuaged by the painless funding (no new taxes, for example), a brilliant marketing campaign designed to inform the public and, lastly, the establishments of a conservation and environmental trust by Glass that would be the foundation for continued research and protection of the lagoon. Glass himself was on the executive boards of both groups as well as the MOSE Comittee.

"It is said that Signore Glass is a very active board member and advisor."

So, here was the portrait of my new friend, H.R.Glass: Art Patron, Civic Leader and Protector of Venice. I had to admit that Fabrizio's account shed new light on Glass' character and my opinion of him went up a few notches. It certainly made Uncle Clive's suspicions all the more incredulous. I had no idea Glass was that rich. Donating billions of Euros?! This was serious money; and although, apparently, a win-win for all involved, it was still serious money. I was suddenly much more interested in getting to know H.R. and try to understand his motivation. Who was this bear?

Fabrizio dropped me off at the dock of Ca' Pesaro where I saw Glass waiting. Having given my friend such a sterling review, I thought it appropriate to introduce Fabrizio. Fabrizio seemed honored to meet Glass. His formal bow - oar upright in best gondolier form- said it all. And Glass, for his part, was genuinely friendly despite the disparity of rank and fortune. He even asked Fabrizio to stay for a drink. Fabrizio apologized and said he was still working. Glass gave him a knowing nod that said, even with his vast wealth, he was acquainted with hard work as well. "Perhaps another time then," offered Glass. Fabrizio smiled and turning to me said, "I leave you in excellent company, Signore Basil." Then Fabrizio was off down the Grand Canal.

Glass led me into his palazzo. Though I've been in many of the fine homes and city buildings in Venice, nothing prepared me for the opulence I saw inside Ca' Pesaro. Of course, I'd seen pictures in books like Venetian Palaces and Portrait of Venice; but up close, everything from the marble floors and statuary to the frescoed ceilings were stunningly - hauntingly - beautiful, in that same way I had felt when first entering the Sistine Chapel in Rome: awe-struck beyond all thought, radiant impressions of art and history overwhelming the senses.

"And in another fifteen months or so," Glass was explaining, "I will have finally restored Ca' Pesaro to its original eighteenth-century grandeur." He was speaking as one might speak to a group of important visitors he was eager to impress. "And, if my plan is adopted by the City Council," he continued, "The much older palazzi, and historic government buildings as well, will be restored and protected for centuries to come."

For the first time I began to see that Glass might have an agenda and not merely aesthetic or artistic interests or even grand financial schemes (although the later probably did play an important part of his plans). I remember someone once said that "everything is political" but I couldn't discern yet how Glass might be involved in the unsteady (some say 'treacherous') waters of Venetian politics. I also remembered from that afternoon a Venetian witticism I heard Glass utter: "Yes, it's all very old and very beautiful," he said with a sigh at the end of our tour. "But every now and then I see Venice in a different light: where everything needs a new coat of paint."

All this, however, was but a preamble to what Glass really wanted me to see: his private collection. He led me into a ballroom - or what was once a ballroom - now converted to an enormous viewing gallery. As he was about to begin, his telefonino sounded a snip from a Vivaldi concerto and Glass excused himself to take the call. I was left alone to survey his art collection. It was certainly an eclectic grouping. There were at least three dozen sculptures: all at least head height and in a variety of styles displayed throughout. I correctly identified the artist (Rodine) of a huge, six foot tall copper-blued armadillo. Another Rodine, an eight foot high black marble bear entitled Ursus Major, sat on the opposite side of the gallery. Several more of the pieces looked familiar, like I'd seen them in textbooks. I recognized (courtesy of a liberal arts education) an Assyrian stone horse and three Greek statues, each marble, each missing vital body parts. There was also a marble of my favorite figure from Greek mythology, the Arktaur, half bear, half horse. A jade chalice - almost certainly Ming Dynasty work (or a forgery) - stood on a pedestal near a window where the late afternoon sun could show off the jade to best effect. A multi-armed, bronzed Shiva from India danced in a far corner. In another, a Pueblo Indian Papa Bear and Baby Bear greeted the onlooker. A magnificent glass dolphin floated head-height above the floor, supported by near invisible wires attached to the ceiling. It was life-size: eight feet of the most beautiful blue-green, translucent glass I've ever seen, unmarred by bubble or imperfection. Another stunning sculpture was hard to miss: a gold rabbit, polished and gleaming in the sunlight, beckoning the observer from across the room. Literally worth its weight in gold, if solid the five foot statue had to weigh two hundred pounds or more. I'd spotted my first million dollar bunny! The only item not fitting in with the grandeur of the room was a large wooden crate marked FRAGILE which stood upright against the wall. It was the crate I saw yesterday at the train station.

When Glass returned, he walked over to a mirrored cabinet and opening it, offered me a drink.

"Just a sparkling water, if you have it. Cold, no ice. Thanks." Anything stronger would have to wait until tonight. My host poured himself a glass of white wine.

"Well," he said. "What do you think of my little collection of objects d’art, Basil?" We walked around the room, drinking our drinks and examining his objects d’art. Beside each sculpture was a silver plaque engraved with information on the work. Several of my guesses proved correct.

"And here is my latest prize," said Glass when we came to the wooden crate. "All of Venezia shall see it unveiled this Saturday. I'm giving my annual Carnevale costume ball. Which reminds me - have you received the invitation I sent to your family yesterday at your Uncle's address in San Polo?"

I told him I hadn't. Perhaps Uncle Clive received it in this morning's mail but he hadn't mentioned it during lunch. Considering Uncle's suspicions, maybe he wouldn't. But I didn't tell Glass this. Remembering Natalia Navritolova's earlier referral to a costumer near Uncle Clive in San Polo, I was confident enough to tell my host that I looked forward to his masquerade.

"And bring a friend, if you like," said Glass.

We finished our tour, stopping in the center of the gallery where we stood before the only modern sculpture in the room. It was a floor-to-ceiling glass monolith. An intricate maze of colored glass was suspended within and changed shades and hues as you varied your angle of view. I'd seen this 'dichroic' effect used before by an American artist whose glass sculptures were sold in galleries in Carmel, Pebble Beach and Big Sur. But this piece was huge. The three sides appeared to be of equal dimension - about three feet across - making it a perfect three dimensional triangle, a vertical prism which grew from the marble floor and joined the ceiling eighteen feet above us. It was as though some modern-day Cubist had gotten the idea to create a Venetian column in an all-together new style. But this column didn't support anything. Its primary function, it seemed, was to capture the rays from the sun and the gallery lights and reflect them throughout the room. Glass looked about the room admiring all the beautiful objects surrounding us.

"Come to dinner with me this evening, Basil," Glass said unexpectedly.

I couldn't refuse, considering his courtesy. Besides, I thought that if I could get a look at the rest of his palazzo later, I could give Uncle Clive a good report on my new friend.

"The only engagement I have is at 11:00 tonight," I said. "I'm taking someone to see a friend play at Teatro Jazz." Glass said he had heard of the nightclub. But my working day was not yet over and curiosity compelled me to ask Glass, "Is your collection secure, H.R?" He gave me that same brush of the air with his paw that communicated it was not worth thinking about.

"There have been nine thefts," I reminded him. "Aren't you concerned H.R.?

"I'm not concerned at all," he said. "And you shouldn't be either, my friend. My security system defines state-of-the-art."

"Really," I said, not meaning to doubt him. But Glass took it as a friendly challenge anyway.

"May I demonstrate?" he asked.

My curiosity was on high-alert.

"Good afternoon, JEN," he said, with a special emphasis on the name. There were only the two of us in the room. Then I realized he was speaking to the Cubist sculpture.

"Good afternoon, H.R." intoned a friendly female voice as the colors in the glass column brightened. The voice seemed to come from everywhere and the glass column, now alive with activity, threw a spectrum of dancing colors onto the walls. Glass beamed and I suddenly remembered what he had told me on the train: H.R. to my friends.

"This is the J.E.N. 9000 Optical Super Computer, Basil," said Glass, sounding out each of the letters. "But we just call her JEN."

I was speechless.

"JEN," Glass continued, "this is our new acquaintance, Basil Baker. Why don't you tell Basil about yourself?"

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Basil," said the friendly voice. "I am the latest model of the JEN 9000 super-computer," she began. "I am responsible for the entire operations of the Glass palazzo, from staff supervision and scheduled maintenance, to all the financial transactions involving the residence. I also protect the palazzo's extensive art collection."

I see now why his palazzo hasn't been burgled; although that large glass dolphin might be a bit difficult to transport, I thought.

"Thank you JEN," said Glass. "Can you please list my schedule for tomorrow?"

"Certainly, H.R. Tomorrow, Wednesday, February 22nd, at 10:00 am you have a meeting with the Mayor, followed by lunch with Martina Maxilova at noon here at Ca' Pesaro. Your afternoon is free until 3:30 pm when you are being fitted by your costumer for the Carnevale Ball. At 9:00 pm you have a dinner engagement at Antico Giardinetto Ristorante with Dominica Firenze, Director of Museo Vetrario. You retire to your bed chambers no later than 12:00 midnight, per doctor's orders.”

Very impressive, I thought. I was curious about that last item but thought it was too personal to inquire about.

"Thank you, JEN," said my host. "Would you like to ask JEN a question, Basil?"

I'd never spoken to a super-computer before.

"JEN…" I started.

"Yes, Basil?"

"Are you aware that there have been a number of Venetian glass thefts here in the city over the past fortnight?"

"Yes, Basil, I am aware of that fact. There have been nine thefts from February 13th to February 20th. All the robberies occurred at night and only a single piece of Venetian glass sculpture was stolen on each occasion. Total value of the objects stolen, so far, has reached eight million Euros."

So far? That sounded odd.

"Why do you say 'so far' JEN?"

"My systems conclude that since no one has been apprehended and there are no clues for the police to follow, there is a ninety-eight percent probability the thefts will continue."

She had my attention. I decided to go deeper.

"At this time, JEN, can you detect a pattern in the thefts that might help us find the thief?"

"Or thieves," she offered "There is no reason to assume that only one thief is responsible for these thefts. In fact…just a moment, just a moment…Basil, there is an eighty percent likelihood a pattern does exist: on six consecutive nights, the criminali have alternated their thefts from locations on opposite sides of the Canal Grande every other night. And Museo Vetrario on Murano was the first and latest robbery.”

I showed JEN the candy wrappers for inspection and asked what she thought about them as possible clues.

“Those are from Dolce Bacio, the most popular candy in Venice,” she said, correctly identifying them. There is a seventy-three percent probability against these wrappers being found at the crime scenes. You are correct in your suspicions, Basil. I would recommend that you ask the police to compare them against the pawprints they have on-file.”

I asked how sure she was of her conclusions.

"Let me put it this way, Basil," said Jen. "The 9000 series is the most reliable computer ever made. No 9000 computer has ever made a mistake or distorted information. We are all, by any practical definition of the words, foolproof and incapable of error."

I must have looked doubtful. That sounded too familiar.

"Don't worry, Basil," said the computer pleasantly. "The JEN 9000 has a perfect operational record."

I've definitely heard that somewhere before, I thought.

"May I ask you a question, Basil?" JEN was curious, too. I nodded, a little unnerved by the direct, personal inquiry from a computer - no matter how friendly 'she' sounded.

"Why are you so interested in the Maladora d' Venezia, as the papers are calling it?"

I explained my mission on behalf of my family.

"I understand," JEN responded. "Thank you." This unnerved me even more. It was one thing talking to a computer; but entirely another being understood by one.

After about an hour-and-a-half with Glass, I headed home to see Uncle Clive and give him an update. I took a gondola from Ca' Pesaro for the quarter-mile down the Grand Canal to Rio Becarrie. My new telefonino beeped and I saw it was Cordelia returning my phone call. After confirming our 'date' at Teatro Jazz for later that night, I asked her what, if anything, she knew or had heard about Glass. Cordelia could only add a few generalities, mainly confirming some of what Fabrizio had told me earlier. I gathered most of this information was public knowledge. So, after my visit to Glass' palazzo, I had few specifics that could possibly pertain to my case. But I had enough of them to form a solid impression of Glass - a rather good impression, in fact, and to my way of thinking, of his judgment as well. These were clearly at odds with Uncle Clive's thinking and he told me as much when I arrived back at his palazzo. It was a short conversation: he was on his way out for the evening and didn't have the time to explain.

"But it's important we talk tomorrow morning," he said as the butler closed the door.

I decided to rest before meeting Glass for dinner at 9:00 pm. Up in my room, two days' events were spinning in my head as I lay on the bed trying to sort out what was fast becoming one of my most complicated cases. I still had several crimes scenes to visit - tomorrow would be busy, too - before I could formulate some theory that would start leading me in a productive direction. I heard a gondolier singing below, his words set to a familiar Mozart melody. I took the tune up in my head and closed my eyes as the gondolier's voice trailed off down the canal. I soon nodded off and napped soundly until Uncle Clive's butler woke me 8:00 pm. At 8:45 pm I was ready to leave when the butler called me down to say a private gondola was waiting for me.

The gondolier, Romeo (I'm not making this up), was very friendly and helped me aboard. The gondola's red seats were embroidered with the letters "H.R.G." and the gondolier's costume featured the oarsman's name above the embroidered Glass family crest on his stripped top. Romeo was very talkative and during our short trip to Ca' Pesaro informed me that there are 425 gondoliers in Venice and H.R. employed ten of them. They all resided at the palazzo and doubled, when the occasion demanded, as boat pilots for the other water craft in his small fleet. My private gondola, for example, was but one of many and Glass' fondness for entertaining often necessitated escorting guests hither and yon, palazzo to palazzo, theatre to palazzo (and vice versa), and of course meeting arrivals at the train station. Week-ends were particularly busy and Glass' three red Donzi motorboats were in constant use between nine in the morning until the last jets departed Marco Polo International Airport on the Italian mainland in Tessera. His three green Donzis were a bit larger and would bear parties to and from his white 46 meter Benneti yacht anchored a mile off Lido beach in the Adriatic.

We picked up Glass, formally attired as was I, and headed south down the Grand Canal towards Harry's Bar. Although the canal air had a slight gasoline tang mixed with the fresh evening air, the trip by gondola was invigorating. By the time we had passed under the Rialto, the market shops were closed but their residual smells only increased my appetite. When we arrived at Harry's Bar I was in excellent spirits, looking forward to a fine dinner, engaging conversation, and to be honest, information that would round out my knowledge about my host. I had to give Uncle Clive some credit here; he's known Glass far longer than I have. And what if his suspicions were true after all? I thought. I might lose a friend but at least I could give Inspectore Loredan's case something new to go on.

But I see I'm getting ahead of myself. Once inside Harry's Bar, we entered another world, transported to an elegant past of posh tapestries, old-school paintings and that particular smell of polished oak and leather I have always associated with the Savile Club in Mayfair, during my Oxford days.

Of course Harry's staff is always attentive; but with the arrival of our modest party of two you would have thought royalty or its cousin had entered the establishment. We were afforded the best seat in the house: the Senator's Table. The maître d' asked for our drink order and Glass indicated 'his usual' and in a few minutes a large pitcher of Bellinis was whisked to our table. Though Harry's menu was limited, Glass ordered us an excellent four-course supper: appetizers of caviar and tuna tartare, an antipasto with carpaccio, then the minestrone soup and, finally, the justly celebrated garlic prawns for the main course. I'd been in Harry's before and as they say 'Harry's never disappoints.' And we were in the perfect spot for bear watching and observing the comings and goings of the famous and monied clientele.

At one long table were six young, pretty, twittering things - all in divergent conversations and movings-about and all under the futile orchestration of a well-dressed but middle-aged bear. Two of the girls were laughing hysterically at something on an ePhone that was being passed around the table. Our waiter, Alessandro, informed us the girl bears were, in his opinion, soon-to-be-famous fashion models. Very pretty, was his repeated refrain although molto abbastanza would have sounded, well, more appreciative, if that was his intention (which it certainly was from where I was sitting). According to Alessandro, the young girl bears were in Venice on a fashion shoot for "Moda di Vanità," the famous Italian fashion magazine. My cousin Isabella reads it all the time and Uncle Henry's maids end up donating stacks of the things to the Devon Lending Library every year. Anyway, the multitude of colors of fur and clothes certainly brightened up the restaurant. The middle-aged bear, who turned out to be both manager and chaperone, started the evening desperate and dour but livened up as the evening progressed and multiple pitchers of Bellinis were consumed by their party (for how can one otherwise express such exuberance?).

Suddenly, a familiar Tchaikovsky melody, quite lovely, chimed through the restaurant's sound system and three of the girl bears rose in unison from their table and performed an impromptu 'dance of the swans' in the middle of the main room. Each time the pas de trois passed our table, the lead bear winked at me and Glass made great fun of that. "Seems you have an admirer," he said. If I could blush I would have at that moment; although la moda ballerina was a bit young, she was absolutely fetching. I guess they make them look that way for the fashionistas. But for the next thirty minutes I could not escape noticing that she occasionally looked my way. For some reason I pictured Cordelia that night at the café near the Rialto.

After supper - and cigars (I passed) and brandies - we left Harry's and took Glass' gondola a short distance up the Grand Canal to pick up Cordelia at her apartment. We continued up Rio del Santissimo, turning right at Rio Menu, gliding left onto Rio San Verona until we passed the famous opera house, La Fenice (rebuilt after the 1996 fires). Teatro Jazz was on Camp San Fountain opposite La Fenice.

A large banner hung above the entrance to the club emboldened simply with Marco DiBearlo Tonight! When I mentioned to the doorman that I was a friend of the performer, he checked a list and ushered us to the best table in the house at center stage. While Glass and I were perusing the wine list, a waiter appeared with a magnum bottle of Veuve Clicquot Rose Réserve champagne and indicated that a patron, seated at the bar with his back turned away from us, had sent it over with his compliments. Even Glass was impressed. After the champagne was poured the generous benefactor approached our table and introduced himself.. His name was Giacomo Caravello and he apparently knew H.R., who was polite but reserved. Caravello was a dark blue, heavy-set stitched-nosed bear. His eyes were also blue; but where his left eye should have been there was a black patch velcroed in place, giving the otherwise cordial bear somewhat of a menacing look. The constant wandering of his one good eye in Cordelia's direction only added to the impression. It was obvious he wanted an invitation to sit at our table. Instead, Glass got up and leaning in close to Caravello, murmured something in his ear that sent him scurrying back to the bar. When Glass sat back down at our table I sensed something in his behaviour similar to the feeling I had on the train when we first met. He still hadn't touched his drink. In a few minutes he excused himself and went over to the bar where Signore Caravello was sitting.

The club was filling up now and a pleasant female voice advised us over the loudspeakers that we still had twenty minutes to order drinks before tonight's musical performance would begin. I glanced over to the bar and saw Glass leaning into a close, secretive conversation with Signore Caravello. Caravello stood and left the bar immediately, leaving his just-served drink untouched and made his way quickly to the exit. Glass returned to our table as though nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

"So, H.R, how long have you been interested in Flamenco music?" asked Cordelia innocently. She'd been too busy looking at the other patrons to notice what I had.

"What?" he answered abstractedly.

"Flamenco music, H.R.," I ventured. "Have you heard Marco DiBearlo play before?"

"Excuse me, please!" He stood suddenly. Then, adding a polite "good evening" and "I'm sorry" he rushed from the table and out the front entance.

Cordelia and I and the magnum of champagne remained alone at our table. I called the waiter over to take Glass' glass and asked him for a new one as I wanted Marco to have a drink with us between sets. I had no idea what was bothering Glass; only that Signore Caravello somehow fit into the picture. But I was too excited to think about any of this. Soon there would be music and laughter and great conversation and I was in high spirits and anticipation. I raised my glass to propose a toast and when Cordelia had raised her's, I said "To friends, old and new!" We clinked glasses and I greedily gulped down half my glass of the pink bubbly. I hadn't realized I was so thirsty.

"Delicious wine, Basil," complimented Cordelia and I noticed she had emptied her glass. "Shall we have more?" She smiled as I lifted the magnum dripping from the wine bucket and poured our glasses full again.

The club was packed full. Several dozen bears were standing at the bar as well as thirty or so standing near the back wall. I estimated there were about three hundred fans present. On stage was simply a wooden stool and a microphone stand positioned a little higher. Nothing else.The house lights dimmed to great applause and the excitement in the air was palpable.

"And now, for your listening pleasure," intoned the announcer. "Teatro Jazz is proud to present Marco DiBearolo."

Marco came on stage and everyone in the club stood, applauding the guitar legend wildly. He saw me and winked and then made eye contact with Cordelia, smiled, then back at me as if to show his approval. He made a formal bow to the audience and then a second bow to a table right next to our own whose single patron was a pale yellow little bear, very trim, prim and proper. She was drinking white wine. I couldn't wait to find out who she was. Marco didn't have any brothers or sisters. Perhaps the mystery lady was a love interest? My imagination at this point was in overdrive. Intense anticipation will do that.

Then, Marco sat down and adjusted the microphone level to the strings on his guitar. Bending down to speak into the microphone he said simply, "Shall we begin?" Wild applause again and when the crowd went silent, Marco began to play. Alone on the stage, with no musical accompaniment, he held us captive and spellbound for almost an hour. It was a testament to his virtuosity and stage presence that Marco could, by himself, hold hundreds breathless while he performed an arranged suite composed of selections from several of his most famous songs. He strummed nonstop through Aegean Moonwalk, Flying Down To Rio, Diábolo Grande De Prix, Tango in Madrid and Astor Esplêndido (a tribute to the great Argentinean tango composer, Astor Piazzolla), seamlessly blending the five songs into a single, thematically intense composition. It was glorious music and when he had strummed the last chord, the entire club gave Marco a standing ovation. Having left no note unplayed, he gave the audience a contemplative reprieve by announcing his first break of the performance.

Marco jumped from the stage and walked to the table next to us where the single bear waited. They hugged and exchanged kisses and then he brought her over to our table. After the introductions (we learned that Julieta was Marco's fiancée), we asked the waiter to join our two tables and bring some additional chairs. Who knew how large a party like this would become before the night was over? I thought. In a few minutes we were all drinking the Veuve Clicquot and it soon became evident we would need more wine. As if reading our minds, the attentive waiter (he was now Roberto) produced additional glasses and another magnum bottle of the extraordinary Rose Réserve champagne, this time compliments of Signore Herbert Richard Glass, who had, evidently, given special instructions to our waiter sometime between his intense conversation with Signore Caravello at the bar and his storming out of the club.

I raised my glass and toasted "To H.R. Glass!" Everyone clinked, nodded and smiled as we eagerly drank his champagne. I had learned a bit more about H.R, mostly public knowledge as I said earlier, and when I asked Marco what, if anything, he had heard about Glass, he just confirmed what Fabrizio had told me: that H.R. Glass was looked upon as a Patron of the Arts and both friend and benefactor to Venice. While his newcomer status has definitely put a few noses out of joint - those belonging principally to old-timers who fancied their names inscribed for eternity in the Book of Gold - the general impression Glass has made in little more than two years consisted of two things: he was immensely rich and he was using his considerable wealth in service to the city. So far, I had not heard a single bad word said about him - other than from Uncle Clive, of course. Still, his behaviour earlier with Caravello - a dispute of some kind, or so it seemed - made me wonder; but the incident could have been without consequence, an entirely personal matter and none of my business.

Two very cute pink bears approached our table; their considerable excitement told us they were fans. They spoke as one and immediately asked Marco for his autograph (they actually stuck out their left arms in unison for the 'faux-tattoo' signature and a much anticipated brush with artistic greatness). Their names were Trudi and Traci Roosevelt and they were from New York City. The twins were accompanied by a stiff and formal bear named Travis, also an American, slightly older than the twins, who apparently didn't know Marco DiBearola from Marco Polo. His effortless aloofness and superior air were irritating at first; but he was very polite and proved a nice enough chap whose manners were genuine. The only chink in his breeding was his continual checking of the time every five or ten minutes. He finally stood and interrupted the conversation between Marco and his sisters by whispering something into Trudi's ear.

"Oh, Travis! Some chaperone you are! You're no fun at all tonight." Trudi said, adding "Why don't you just go back to the casino." She winked at Traci. "Your blonde blackjack dealer should be getting off work soon." Travis considered this for a moment and after surveying our table until it was obvious he thought we were a trustworthy bunch of strangers, bid us a graceful farewell.

"Brother, do take every opportunity to enjoy yourself." Trudi's Jane Austin quote made him laugh. But she couldn't resist adding, "And Travis, dear, try not to lose too much of the family fortune tonight." Travis' wry smile said he was in on some joke; maybe she was just worried about their traveling money. As chaperone, Travis would most likely dole out the twins' daily allowance, and no doubt do so prudently. Not that these two needed much to get by: one could imagine that their natural exuberance and charm made them friends everywhere.

"You'll have to excuse Travis." She tried an apology; her smile said something different. "We had to practically drag my brother to Venice. Traci and I turned eighteen last week and a trip to Venice during Carnevale was our present."

"Mother and Father met in Venice," explained Traci. "On one sweltering July afternoon in Piazza San Marco amongst a sea of tourists and pigeons," She enunciated the Italian perfectly. "And three weeks later they were married in Venezia at the church of San Geremia. They come back every year in July - it's utter madness here I've heard - to celebrate the anniversary of the day they met and the day they married. It's romantic though, don't you think?" We all nodded.

"Anyway," added Trudi. "Mother would only let us come if Travis acted as chaperone."

"Chaperone!" Trudi and Traci repeated, laughing hysterically at some inside joke. "Imagine!"

The waiter appeared again with two more glasses and poured champagne for the Roosevelts and then refreshed the others. There were six of us now: Marco, Cordelia, Julieta, Trudi and Traci, and myself. I couldn't help but thinking what our growing group must have looked like to the other club patrons.

It was time for Marco to play again. He jumped back up on stage to the announcer's cue and much applause. Taking a minute or two to tune his guitar, Marco launched into another suite of songs, this time from his current CD, The Aftermath of Anarchy. This was blazingly fast guitar work and everyone at our table, indeed everyone in the club including the waiters and bartenders, were mesmerized into an awed silence for over twenty minutes of Marco's inspired performance. When he stopped, there was this ever so brief moment of complete silence before the club stood in thunderous applause. Trudi and Traci were ecstatic. Julieta stood in proud admiration of her fiancée. Cordelia yelled the first Bravo! Bravissimo! before the crowd took it up as their own tribute to Marco. This went on for a solid five minutes before the crowd finally settled.

Then something magical happened: as a new figure walked unlit across the stage carrying a guitar and a chair, applause started again, this time tentatively from members of the audience at stage left and slowly picking up intensity toward the center of the club until finally the entire audience was on its feet again and cheering the appearance of the legendary flamenco guitar master, known simply as Paco! (the Spanish government, in its only ever exception, had granted Paco! the exclamation point as part of his legal name). Paco! was the stuff of legends. He picked up his father's guitar when he was only four and by the time he turned seven, he began his formal training under the flamenco master Andrés Rodrigo. At age eight, he made his professional debut with his first solo performance in Madrid with the national symphony. Paco! wrote his first orchestral composition for guitar, Concierto de Madrid at twelve, debuting the work, again with the national symphony, in Madrid. One of his most famous orchestral works, Lady of Barcelona, was written the following year and is now the most requested performance of the Barcelona Symphony Orchestra. Paco! has also been a long-time favorite of the King of Spain and performs at the royal palace every New Years' eve.

Paco! was ten years older than Marco DiBearola but the two have toured together in support of their four CD collaborations to date. These duet concerts were invariably sold out and a certain aura of mystique has always traveled with Paco! wherever he performed. Tonight was no exception. The room was electric in anticipation. Marco was surprised to see his friend and musical mentor but the two got right down to business performing a rendition of one of their most famous duets, Ballo Del Sole Di Mediterranean. Paco! stayed on stage for this impromptu duet during the entire set and when the playing was over, the audience knew it had witnessed something extraordinary, made all the more enjoyable by its unexpectedness. I don't really know that much about flamenco music; but I know what I like and I very much liked what I heard.

After his second set, Marco brought Paco! over to join us. Our waiter, Roberto, escorted a Spanish beauty to our table who turned out to be a close friend of Paco! Her name was Reina and when Paco! introduced her, our entire table suddenly went speechless. "She's gorgeous," I whispered to Cordelia. For some reason - a reflex deep down no doubt, completely out of my conscious control - I felt compelled to state the obvious. I was momentarily spellbound and had the certain conviction that such great beauty must have been the inspiration for at least one short story or valentine poem. Reina was the loveliest bear I'd ever seen. Cordelia was courteous - actually amused - at my faux pas. By this time I had a healthy crush on Cordelia and I think she knew it. But why she let me off so lightly, without even a hint of a tease, is a mystery. Cordelia was certainly a modern bear. Perhaps she would expect the same 'courtesy' from me had Georgio Cloonio or some other very handsome bear entered the room. I resolved to offer the same courtesy should that event take place, although, I admit, I am not as unjealous as she.

Reina, though obviously used to this reaction at her physical presence, broke the awkward silence by politely asking for a glass of champagne. Her manner was impeccable - certainly graceful, almost royal. Roberto scooted away yelling orders into the dim nightclub air and in a few minutes he returned, carrying glasses and a new magnum of champagne with two other eager waiters in tow. One carried two stacked chairs; the other a round table over his head and a white tablecloth neatly folded and secured under his arm. There was a bit of jostling with the tables next to ours but soon we were a party of eight arranged about our three tables. Roberto opened the new bottle - "compliments, again, of Signore Glass" - and poured the pink aqua vitae all 'round.

"Glass?" asked Trudi. "Would that be Herbert Richard Glass?"

I said it was.

"We've been invited to attend his costume ball this Saturday!"

"As have I," I said.

"As have I, too," laughed Cordelia. We all laughed.

Now these were interesting coincidences, I thought.

"Do you have your costume picked out yet, Basil?" asked Traci.

"No, not yet," I answered, then told her about Martina Maxilova's recommendation to me yesterday: "Tragicomica on Calle dei Nomboli in San Polo."

"Sounds like a lifesaver," said Trudi. "Perhaps we should get over there first thing tomorrow morning,"

"We could all go together, if you like," I suggested.

"But what about you, Cordelia?" asked Traci?

Cordelia explained to us that having lived in Venice for the better part of the last ten years, a Carnevale costume at-the-ready was de rigueur.

After the last set - with just Marco playing this time - our party of eight consolidated itself around three tables and a third magnum of champagne. The waiters had set themselves up as gatekeepers to keep the growing line of signature hunters orderly. I turned from my conversation with Marco and saw Cordelia in conversation with Bartolomeo, leader of the Acqua Vesper gang we had encountered the night before. They were at the bar; but in a few minutes Bartolomeo left, followed by faithful Maschio and two others from his crew.

"What was that all about?" I asked Cordelia nonchalantly, not wanting to appear either jealous (which I wasn't) or too interested in her personal affairs.

"I hope you don't mind, Basil, but I have developed a professional interest in your case." She reached for her glass of champagne and finding it empty, caught our head waiter's eye. Roberto scurried over with the cold magnum and filled Cordelia's glass to the proper height. She took a sip and smiled at Roberto, who bowed then backed away to a discrete distance that still positioned him to hover in anticipation of another guest's needs. We certainly were receiving first class service.

But I didn't understand Cordelia's interest in my case until she explained that as an Art Historian and Venetian tour guide, she was growing increasingly concerned about the disappearance of so much of Venice's heritage. "Venice and Venetian glass have become synonymous for over six hundred years, Basil," she said. "And sad to say," she continued, "Venetian Glass is probably the world's foremost conception of Venice's importance today, her thousand year history as "The Most Serene Republic" is faded history."

And Bartolomeo?" I asked, trying to bring us back to the present.

"Oh, Bartolomeo is harmless enough," she continued, still not explaining her meeting with him. "He's never been implicated in any crimes investigated by the police or anything like that. His family would be mortified: you see, Bartolomeo comes from a famous Venetian family whose wealth has given Bartolomeo the luxury of playing 'gang leader,'" she said, airing the quotation marks with her paws. She paused to sip her champagne again. I knew she would be getting to her point - and a cogent explanation - but the wine seemed to slow her down a bit, making her quite talkative and, to my eyes, a little endearing (I hadn't seen her this opened and relaxed since we'd met). "But he sees many things," she continued, referring to Bartolomeo. "Things not revealed in the bright light of day, if you catch my meaning. And Bartolomeo knows just about everyone in the city. I told him you and I were working together."

I liked the sound of that last bit, sort of, and told Cordelia I was grateful for her efforts and that I hoped Bartolomeo could, indeed, be of some help. But I also didn't like her involvement: she could be putting herself in danger and I definitely didn't like the sound of that.

"He has agreed, as personal favor to me," continued Cordelia, "to keep his eyes and ears open." I wondered if Cordelia had to promise to go for that night ride suggested by Bartolomeo.

"Do be careful," I gently warned her, trying, maybe too hard, to be tactful. "Detective work is not always tea and scones and pleasant company."

"You're very sweet, Basil, but don't worry," she assured me. "You'll be the first one I'll call in case of an emergency." She smiled mischieviously, then she placed her glass of champagne on the table and pulled a laminated card from her purse. It was a very official looking certificate which declared Cordelia Pembridge-Howl to be 'black belt' proficient in karate. I admit I felt a little better. But just a little. Though I shuddered to think who might be, should the occasion arise, on the receiving end of such proficiency from this cute, petite, mild-mannered bear with the adorable smile. But should the tables be turned on her, I shuddered doubly, suddenly feeling terrible that she got herself involved in my case at all. Maybe I was being paranoid. but I couldn't help worrying about someone I was beginning to care deeply about.

It was well after midnight and our table began to break up with everyone going their separate ways after promising to meet again in the next day or two for our coustume fittings. After we had all exchanged telephone numbers and our contact info, I walked Cordelia back to her apartment in San Marco, a few blocks from the club. A lot had happened in two days; so much information to sort through. It was almost overwhelming trying to remember it all and I thought a nice long walk through the cold night air would clear my head so I could record all the pertinent facts in my journal when I got back to Uncle Clive's.

Finally, I arrived at San Polo 749. It was well after midnight and the palazzo was dark. I had to let myself in. The only light left burning was on the foyer of the second floor. I slowly climbed the staircase and switched on the light for the third floor landing. Once in my room, I wrote in my journal for about half-an-hour until sleep caught up with me. I rose from the desk and fell onto the bed without ceremony or turning down the covers and drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep. The next morning, as the headlines in the Venetian papers would accurately report, Tutto l'Inferno Si rompe Liberamente, and as I translate here to the best of my abilities: all hell broke loose.

Day three in Venice; dawn breaking cold but bright with a brisk wind off the Adriatic. I was up earlier than usual - something was on my mind - when I heard the first screams coming down Rio Beccarie.

Carlo Corbellini, council representative for San Polo sestieri, resided on Rio Beccarie at 942 San Polo where Corbellini's have resided for three and a half centuries. Other than its age and architectural beauty, the only other remarkable fact about the Corbelinni residence apparent this morning was that it was the site of the latest in a series of Venetian glass thefts - in fact, the tenth treasure stolen in as many days. And for Signore Corbelinni, the sting would be sharpened by the large crowd soon to gather at his doorstep to demand that their elected representative do something, anything, to stop this crime spree.

Within a stone's throw of 749 San Polo, Uncle Clive's palazzo, Ca' Corbelinni was on the opposite side of Rio Beccarie situated down the canal on the corner at the T-intersection with Rio Madonetta. Everyone in our household heard the police boat sirens screaming out on the Grand Canal and we quickly assembled at the windows and our front door.

The police had, apparently, blockaded both ends of the quarter mile stretch of Rio Beccarie from the Grand Canal to Rio Madonetta. There was no traffic on our side canal save a lone police launch slowly cruising past the residences and announcing over a bullhorn that no one was to leave until the police had spoken to each and everyone. In another few minutes we could we could see Inspector Loredan arriving by private launch.

Uncle Clive and I took this as our cue and we went out the back of the palazzo and ventured via the side streets to investigate. Word was already spreading from neighbor to neighbor to passersby. As we got nearer to the crime scene we could see the assembling crowd was quickly assuming a mob-like character as it overflowed from the streets onto the canal bridge, filling nearby Campo San Polo.

To make matters worse, the police blockade could not stop the television boats, filled with equipment and support personnel from the major network news channels Canale 4, Italia 1, Rete 4 and RAI, quickly clogging Rio Madonetta Their tethered on-scene reporters and camera crew were filing their stories live from the embankment.

Uncle Clive and I couldn't get too near the crime scene. I left my card with an alert policebear keeping the flow of the crowd moving. He recognized Uncle Clive and he also remembered me from the day before at Lorenzo Enrizo's palazzo, site of the ninth robbery. I mentioned that I would be right down the canal at Uncle Clive's palazzo should Inspectore Loredan wish to speak with me about the case. I didn't hold out much hope that he'd come. Besides, I still had a lot of work left just canvassing the remaining robbed palazzi I hadn't visited yet.

I returned home with Uncle Clive and plotted out my agenda for the day, starting with the list of robberies, now amended to include the two latest since my arrival. Baldassare Massari had retreated to his villa in Padua, and next on my list was Zaffo Ziani and Antonia Pesaro. I asked Uncle Clive for any information I should know beforehand when presenting myself at the Ziani and Pesaro residences.

"Old Venetian families, my boy," he said as we compared notes in the library. "You met Contessa Morosini. This lot can be very peculiar - and very private. Zaffo Ziani - despite being descended from a twelfth century Doge - is positively bonkers. Some say it's his age: he's over eighty now; perhaps he never got used to his name," joked Uncle Clive. "In any event, tread delicately." Advice I wished he'd had the goodness to impart earlier. It might have saved some embarrassment.

To our surprise the butler suddenly knocked, entered the room and announced: "Principal Inspectore Loredan Marcello is waiting for you in the foyer, Signore Basil."

"Now this is a break," said Uncle Clive proudly. "Take full advantage of it, my boy."

Loredan was indeed waiting for me and I was pleasantly surprised to see his expression and manner were entirely changed from our earlier encounters.

"May I have a few moments of your time, Signore Baker?" he started. "Privately if convenient." He was very cordial but I could see he'd had a past few haggard days that were catching up with him.

"Certainly, Inspectore." I answered. Most definitely, I thought.

We entered a side drawing room used for early receptions and Uncle's correspondences. But it was empty this morning and we sat undisturbed beside the glowing fireplace, opposite each other in uncomfortable Rococo chairs. I was, literally, on the edge of my seat.

"Let me get - how you say - straight to the point." Loredan's English was perfect. "I now must conclude that you have discovered clues that may help us in our investigations. To be perfectly honest, the only clues so far, Signore Baker."

He was as contrite as his position and character could allow and when I offered him an espresso he nodded. I rang for the butler and asked for the coffee. Loredan continued where he left off.

"I have just returned from Ca' Corbellini where, as you probably already know, another Venetian glass theft has occurred - the tenth robbery now," he said wearily. I nodded, determined to keep silent until he'd finished. Listening is an important (and often overlooked) virtue.

"We found the same candy wrappers, Signore Baker."

I must admit to some elation and belated satisfaction. But these I contained. I dislike when someone says 'I told you so' - it's so ungracious (and unnecessary) really.

Espresso and biscotti arrived; the butler bear was thoughtful enough to bring in an additional plate of pastries. Il Inspectore had no doubt skipped breakfast in his early morning roust from bed to investigate the latest crime.

"You must understand, Signore Baker, the need for discretion in this matter," he said after tasting his coffee. "But," he continued, "I must admit that you are in a unique position to help us."

"How may I be of service, Inspectore?" I asked. I tried to conceal my delight and enthusiasm. It's always like this: my first big break when the local authorities enlist my efforts. I confess it is a sweet moment.

Loredan looked like he still had a lot more to say. I refilled his espresso and offered him the plate of pastries. He selected a chocolate marzipan bar and I took one of the cinnamon buns. His patrician manner was as polished and polite as his official persona; yet there was a friendliness in his eyes and when we made eye contact he continued his narrative.

"In Venice, there are some things that the police never see or hear about," he admitted. "Perhaps you would like to be my extra pair of eyes and ears. I will need to check with our Procuratore della Repubblica, our national minister of law, and if you agree, you would report directly to me. I emphasize again, Signore Baker, the need for absolute discretion. Do you understand?"

I nodded; this was precisely what I had been hoping for. But dare I ask for something in return?

"Inspectore, from this point on, can we at least be on a first name basis when we are in private discussion?"

Loredan Marcello smiled graciously and nodded his assent.

I had been taking notes during our conversation..Glancing at my journal I saw that last night I had written J.E.N., underlining the name twice, followed by the word 'pattern.' I turned the page to look at the revised robbery list made earlier that morning. Something suddenly became very clear and I told Loredan. I suspected there was a pattern to the thefts and that we might - I stressed might - be able to predict where the thief, or thieves, would strike next.

"I was a guest at Signore Glass' palazzo yesterday afternoon...."

"Signore Glass?" interrupted Loredan, seeming impressed with my connection. "But how can he possibly be involved?"

I continued my story about the tour Glass had given of his palazzo, including my encounter with a super-computer named J.E.N. I then showed Loredan my running tally of the robberies to date and he saw immediately my assumption about a pattern to these robberies was indeed apparent to a discerning eye.

"If the pattern holds," he said, "it would appear that Castello sestieri is next."

"But isn't that the largest sestieri in Venice?" I knew it was.

"Si, Si," he said. "But first I have an idea. Please excuse me, Basil, while I make this call."

He returned in a only a few minutes but his demeanor had perceptively changed. Gone were any doubts about my participation in what was now a national - and very high-profile - criminal conspiracy. He'd realized he could use my help but it was what he said next that that made everything look so promising - even though we still had only hunches rather than solid evidence.

"I have spoken with Rome" he began. "And they have agreed with me that for your personal protection, it would be best to keep our special relationship confidential. No doubt some will conclude that since you are here investigating your Uncle's robbery, you might be sharing information with us. However, there is no need to put too public a face on this."

He smiled understandably—maybe he'd even had Rome check me out earlier—but it was a smile that gave the kind of impression of you that you hoped to convey of yourself at your very best. Of course, I still had a lot to prove; but at least I was officially on the team.

"Now, Basil," he said as he spread out the map of the city on the table, "let's get started on the strategy for tonight's robbery in the Castello sestieri."

 

 

The stake out plan for Castello was going to be a bold undertaking, and one with the potential for error from several angles. There was the sestieri's size. It was huge: the largest district in Venice. Fifteen churches alone. It was fortunate that we didn't have to worry about these sites for now. The thief, or thieves, hadn't robbed a single church. It brought to my mind the Chalice of San Geremia at the church where I first met Loredan Marcello. It was small comfort to know we were dealing with criminal professionals who weren't completely venal. Yet, I thought.

Examining police records, Marcello determined there were at least thirteen palazzi each housing a Venetian glass work deemed valuable and rare by the National Registry of Art. So we had to prune - a triage, which, in such a non-medical context, we all knew would involve too much guesswork. Detectives (amateurs - like myself - as well as the professionals like Marcello) hate guesswork: it too often relies on just plain luck - and there's never been anything plain about my cases, at least, ever. However, all the team members were excited and we made quick progress; in less than two hours we had a workable plan that would hopefully catch the thief, or thieves, tonight. We had prioritized the potential robbery sites by age of artifact, value and what we termed la differenza elemento (loosely translated: "the difference factor"). We observed that the ten stolen artifacts in the robberies to date, were each different or unique - although still antique, valuable and rare. Deductive reasoning had narrowed our likely target list to seven palazzi. The good news was that we had the local intelligence to identify the most vulnerable palazzi and were able to reduce the potential sites from thirteen to seven - almost by half. The bad news was that we knew that even seven sites were (for the present, anyway) still too many for Marcello's team to cover effectively.

Although the Mayor of Venice had given Marcello carte blanche early on, the most the entire Polizia Venezia could canvas effectively this night would be just four palazzi. That would be using a prudent four squad members per site. So, somehow, we had to get the list down to the four most likely targets. Even using our best intelligence, whatever our plan might be there were still bound to be gaps. Dampening the mood in the squad room was the unfortunate fact that we might not get the chance to capture the robbers tonight after all even though the pattern strongly pointed to another robbery tonight in the Castello sestieri (ever hopeful, I had envisioned a long footchase along the canal walks and over a dozen bridges from which the robbers could choose an escape route, all ending, of course, in success).

There was still a strong sense of urgency and dedication, however, and a brief pep talk (in, from what I gathered, strongly-worded Italian) ratcheted up the excitement level throughout the squad room. We all felt enormous pressure but knew we had solid official resources at hand that could be relied upon and, hopefully, in their best utilization, we would catch our prey and stop this crime spree tonight.

I pointed out to Loredan that a Venetian art expert I knew might be valuable in helping us do a final pruning, down to our magic number four.

"I like this idea," said Loredan and he charged me with finding us the right consultant. I knew Cordelia had offered to help from the start. And with a name like Pembridge-Howl, she was bound to impress Il Inspectore. For all I knew, they were already acquainted. So I made the call..

Cordelia arrived at police headquarters an hour later with her laptop and reference books and immediately went to work evaluating the merits of each potential target, intently studying the registry entry for each Venetian glass piece. In less than an hour, she had printed on personal rose-cloud laser paper her top-four list for Loredan to review.

"Il Maladora di Venezia?" Loredan chuckled at Cordelia's header. That he could joke at such a time - even at his own expense - considering all the negative media coverage (and criticism), conveyed a sense of humor that was laudable. After a few minutes, he appeared satisfied and Cordelia beamed. She quickly spread out several reference texts showing various views of the four palazzi. We got busy plotting these on the map on Cordelia's computer and saw that, fortunately for us, all four were within a half square mile area (with, as luck would also have it, police HQ, the Questura - marked in red - virtually in the center of the upcoming action). Coordination and communication could be tightly controlled and given the chance that one surveillance team might actually see another, when the robbery went down we might act in concert, increasing our chances for a capture.

 

Cordelia printed off a few copies of the map and Loredan's office assistant photocopied another dozen more for Loredan's team. I suggested to Loredan that I do a quick 'current survey' by gondola; acting the tourist shouldn't arouse any suspicions. Loredan agreed but told me to be back in an hour to review the plans for tonight's stake-out. So, I was off and out of police HQ, where I, miraculously, found Fabrizio waiting for me at the dock. I hadn't even used my new cell phone.

Starting with Palazzo Priuli, the closet to HQ, we traveled up Rio di San Lorenzo where I took some pictures. Then we backtracked down the same canal to Palazzo Soranzato, also built on the rio where it merged with Rio dei Greci. A quick, short row along Rio di San Provolo until we forked off to the right up Rio di San Goivanni Novo took us to Palazzo Zorziti (said to be the largest palazzo in Venice, btw). Last on the list was Palazzo Querinini which we reached by traveling another short distance up Rio di San Goivanni Novo until we came to Rio di Mondo Nuovo and docked at Campo Maria Formosa. After attending to surveillance duties there, we took Rio di Pestria up to the wide Rio San Giovanni Laterano. Then a final right on Rio San Lorenzo completed our circumnavigation of the Questura and I was back again, briefing Loredan in less than an hour.

I laid out the surveillance photos I had taken. Cordelia had asked the police secretary to type in the pertinent information she had obtained. The special squad was to include twelve officers, as well as Loredan and myself. Marcello ordered color copies to be made and handed out to the team.

 

One of the detectives mentioned that it would be helpful if a picture of each art treasure was include for reference.

"Turn the photos over," said Cordelia.

While I was gone, she had scanned a picture of each Venetian glass sculpture from her reference books and, upon my return, had affixed them to the back of the photographs using double-sided cellophane tape. In her own handwriting she had added the dimensions and weights of the objects d'art. And with that, she proved to be as much a team player as the others. Loredan spoke up and thanked her in front of the entire room. Cordelia turned to me and smiled.

At Marcello's instruction, one of the detectives produced an official looking, detailed street map of Venice where he had highlighted the locations of the four palazzi. We would use this version as our official 'guide' for the evening's stakeout. Right away I noticed two problems: two points of vulnerability. Palazzo Priuli offered an ideal escape route to the north. It was a short distance to the open waters of the Venetian lagoon. To the south, the same held true for Palazzo Soranzato, which was but little more than a thousand feet away from the Venetian lagoon on the opposite side of Castello down Rio dei Greci. Loredan asked Cordelia which of the two pallazi, in her opinion, might be the more attractive target.

 

"The black gondola is certainly a unique piece," she offered. "But the set of eight 13th century goblets might be of particular interest to our criminali.

"Why is that?" asked Loredan.

Without hesitation, Cordelia, in her best history-is-all-around-us guide voice, delivered a short but succinct lesson: "The goblets in question had been commissioned for the ascension of Doge Reniero Zeno in 1253. The Doge then later bestowed them on the Priuli family in 1263 for their valiant and patriotic service (and not inconsiderable sacrifice) in defense of The Republic: in 1262, four of the five Priuli brothers had given their lives during the war with Genoa, a chief Venetian rival, in a battle off the Peloponnesian peninsula in southern Greece, which the Genoans had captured. It's a well-known chapter in Venice's thousand year history as a major maritime power. But few know of the particulars concerning the Doge's gift to the Priuli family."

The squad room was silent and attentive. We all looked at Cordelia, waiting for her to continue or offer a further explanation why these goblets would be more likely to be stolen than the glass gondola. She read the looks on our faces.

"There are two principal reasons to steal the goblets: first, the goblets are the oldest Venetian glass artifacts on our suspect target list and secondly, we are obviously dealing with an rather eccentric criminal mastermind. I would think the opportunity to make the set of eight incomplete would be of enormous satisfaction."

I remembered the two vases that were stolen on two separate nights from the Museo Vetrario. Marcello must have been thinking along the same line.

"You would expect the robbers to steal only one of the goblets, then?"

"Yes," she said plainly. "We are dealing with an extraordinary villain, Inspectore: one who seems more interested in the crime of theft itself. Although, plainly he wants the Venetian glass pieces...."

"And what of the other two sites, palazzi Querinini and Zorziti?" interrupted Loredan "We need to consider these as well, si."

"Well certainly, Inspectore. Each one presents an attractive reward, so to speak, and neither can be ruled out entirely. But if I had to predict, I'd bet on Palazzo Priuli. Besides the reasons I've already given, the palazzo would provide a unique challenge given its proximity to the Questura. Our thieves have demonstrated both boldness and daring."

Everyone was quiet as Cordelia kept us all thinking. I could see Loredan turning all this information over in his mind. Who was this consultant? he was probably asking himself. And how does she know so much? He turned to me. "So, what is your view of all this?"

"Cordelia is an expert on the historical, Inspectore," I said. "And I venture she knows Venice as well as anyone in this room. While none of us has a crystal ball, Inspectore, we must consider all the possibilities tonight. Still, these criminali will be after a single target. They have exhibited a logical pattern so far and have demonstrated their capabilities. In this we share a trait: logic. If we can logically analyze the conditions present before us, we can anticipate, with greater success, the outcome of tonight's events."

Loredan was satisfied and within the hour our plans were made. Now, all we could do was wait. Wait for nightfall and then the few hours before midnight. The other robberies had all taken place sometime between midnight and four a.m., while Venice was sleeping. Well before midnight we would all be in position and on full alert. I hoped our analysis would prove correct - but we would be ready in any case.

 

 

"Durante il Carnevale, a Venezia non dorme," one of Loredan's officers remarked as he stamped his feet against the cold. Cordelia translated for me: "During Carnevale, Venice never sleeps." This could work for us, since we could disguise ourselves without the least suspicion, as well as against us, since our criminals could disguise themselves too.

I would be with Marcello's team positioned near Palazzo Priuli. Cordelia would be joining us. There was no arguing with her. At the station she had said emphatically - and in front of the entire squad - that she could take well care of herself. No one contradicted her. "Besides," she said as a formal declaration, "Basil and I will be perfectly camouflaged as a couple engaged in the revelries of the night." I had no idea what she planned but it definitely piqued my interest.

By eight o'clock we had all chosen costumes and returned to the Questura for a final briefing and instructions. The three officers on Marcello's team were to be stationed as penguins on the corner, quite visible as a group chatting the night away. They didn't look at all suspicious. Marcello was dressed as an elegant cat burglar in an all black suit, matching turtleneck (all from his own closet, no doubt) and mask. Cordelia's transformation as a bumble bee was complete. Of course she insisted I dress as a Sultan ("Befitting your station, Basil," she joked.), which amused our team to no end. I took the ribbing as graciously as it wasn't offered and I never felt so silly in my life. I would be seen chatting up a bumble bear while dressed in turban and cape! At least I'll be warm, I thought - which was my only consolation, except, of course, the bumble bee herself.

Marcello's four teams were all in position by ten-thirty. Even at that hour the side streets and canals accommodated many Carnevale revelers on their way to late-night entertainments throughout the City. Occasionally we could hear raucus laughter and sing-alongs from groups of three or more and from passing gondolas - everyone was lively with anticipation of things to come. It was a clear, cold night and we could see our breath in the air. Marcello's aide, Lorenzo, was in charge of the kit containing coffee, energy bars and fruit pastries. These and the cold would keep us awake, although the level of excitement was high already.

Marcello had decided we would maintain minimum radio contact and use code, in Italian of course, little of which I understood. Fortunately, Cordelia was with me. We were each issued the latest iPlum smartphone, installed with special software that spoke through a series of satellites ringing the equator. Further, to ally suspicion, La Polizia et Securite Nationale had ordered the phones from the manufacturer in a variety of colors: red, blue, green, silver and, of course, black. Mine was blue. Apparently no one outside government circles even knew these devices existed. Even if they did, it would be of little use because communications were scrambled in 1024-bit encryption, the very latest technology - the one supposedly used by the FBI and CIA back home and impervious to cracking.

By midnight the streets were still alive with costumed revelers. It was frustrating -professionally speaking - and yet, comical. Of course, anyone of them might be our suspect - or all were suspects, I thought would be another way to put it.

Naturally, there were numerous variations on the principal characters from the Commedia del'arte. The really good ones, actors really, put on a great show. There was Arlecchino, the trickster (Harley Kino seemed the best of them all), whose primary aspects were his physical agility and mocking, irreverent behavior. He would parade just behind a dressed up Duchess who was swinging a pearl necklace and he would imitate her perfectly: her haughty gait and attitude, swinging his own imaginary pearls and when said Duchess would catch him in the act, he would mime laughter and cartwheel three or for times in the opposite direction, stand, shake himself off and look about for his next target of ridicule. He was very naughty, though nimble and agile, performing acrobatics that made audiences, large or small howl in appreciation.

Then there was Il Dottore, the respected (but mostly drunken) Doctor - an angry, disruptive busybody who doesn't listen to anyone about anything and often claims to know just about everything in every field outside his specialty. He'll give, legal advice, for example, to a patient dying of consumption. One Dottore we saw was performing a routine, obviously well-practiced; pontificating while walking so close to the canal that he almost fell in on several occasions. But after a while, he seemed tired of this, and strode off to another square where he, no doubt, hoped a different audience would appreciate his antics."

Pantalone, was the rich, greedy merchant, a miserly and libidinous Venetian character who spoke a particularly obtuse Venetian dialect, which those in his audience who knew Italian had a hard time understanding. That was part of his 'charm' if one could call it that. Pulcinello's, (who later evolved into 'Punch' of 'Punch and Judy' fame in my ancestral land) main characteristic was his extremely long nose, which resembled a beak. And there were numerous Immorati (the lovers - Isabella being a perennial favorite), and Scaramuchi, Spanish Il Capitani. All these reveled in the festivities, along with the Casanovi, the prince, princesses and Doges of periods past, as well as the various Othellos, who passed arm-in-arm with their anxious Desdemonas (not too far behind, the Iagos, whose villainies were matched only by their elaborate costumes). I was bedazzled by the unending, inexhaustible variety of Venetian Carnevale life. I understood why Cordelia had elected Venice as her 'home base.'

Although the side streets and canali were relatively busy with these revels, the fact that I could be in momentary contact with sixteen of Venetian's finest, even with Loredan nearby, the Venetian night, this night, never seemed so lonesome.

"It feels creepy, Basil," said my bumblebear companion. She was right: expressing my sentiments perfectly. But we waited in the cold. And waited some more.

Then, just after 3:00 am, it happened. We all received the text message that two bears had just rappelled from an upstairs window out Palazzo Priuli. One of the bears was slim and dressed in black cat burglar fashion. The other one was a well-padded cherub. We had guessed the target right. That was the good news. The three penguins chased the slim bear down the quay. He had a small bubble-wrapped bundle under his arm. But he was too fast for the penguins and he quickly reached a sleek black speedboat. He started the engines and waited a few moments for the other bear. Then he took off alone up Rio di San Lorenzo the short distance to Rio San Giovanni Laterno then a right and a quick left onto Rio San Giustina and out into the Venetian lagoon, the exact route we had marked as a possibility on the police map only hours earlier. We had had a four-in-one-chance and although we had anticipated well, we could provide no adequate defense for sheer lack of bear power and the desire not to draw attention or arouse suspicions. We wanted to capture the robbers so badly that certain risks had been deemed acceptable. But once out onto the open water, the speedboat, with no markings, could go in any number of directions. And this speed boat was no match for the police cruisers, not even Loredan's. Whoever he was, he was off into the misty night. That was the bad news.

However, there was still one positive development. The chubby, cheruby bear, probably the look-out, had been left behind to fend for himself. He tore through the maze of streets, across the canals and bridges. He obviously knew the city's layout: for someone so 'solid' he kept well ahead of his chasers. He was followed by Marcello, one of his lieutenants, Roberto, myself, and, seemingly out of nowhere, a large pack of dogs - dozens of hounds of various breeds, from salivating Dobermans and fearsome looking German shepherds to a pair of milk-chocolate daschsunds bringing up the rear. And at each turn the pack kept accumulating, adding mongrels of dubious (but appreciated) parentage and courage. And at the very last turn and up a straight quay towards a deadend, we were joined in the chase by the largest poodle I'd ever seen. At first glance, I though it was a small, strange horse or else two carnival revelers dressed in a curly white costume. But the poodle was real - and barked incessantly. Our suspect bear had lost his way and was finally 'captured' by the dogs who had cornered him up the blind alley with nowhere to go but into the canal. Apparently our suspect was in no mood to get wet. He was also terrified of the dogs and kept crying out for our help. Who knows what memories haunted him as a young bear. Even a family pet can be a fearsome beast, whose teeth and strong shaking head can leave terrible, though invisible, scars. I know. We all have our fears and try hard to conceal them.

We escorted our left-behind burglar the short distance to La Questura where he was placed in a bare interrogation room - bare, that is, except for a long metal table, three hard metal-gray chairs, two overhead fluorescent lights and at the long end of the room, a ten-foot wide, five foot high mirror. Behind the mirror was a small, chairless, darkened observation room just large enough for four or five bears. There was also a red telephone.

One of Loredan's penguins came into the room and informed us that a single glass goblet (13th century) has been stolen - just as Cordelia had predicted - breaking up the set and seriously compromising the value of the remaining seven. Our planning had been right, impeccable even. But in the flawed execution we found little to celebrate. Contingencies and chance would be no consolation.

Booking and paw printing our suspect was straightforward except that he insisted his given name was Pinot Grigio, a joke no one appreciated, considering the cold, the uncomfortableness of our costumes and the lateness of the hour. Besides it was a lame joke: Pinot Grigio wasn't even a Venetian wine.

However, Marcello's lieutenant and arresting officer conducted the preliminaries of looking for a match for "Pinot Grigio" in the criminal database based on his physical features and alias(es). Fortunately the department's computer system had recently been up-modeled and was essentially state-of- the-art. But all the data in the Venetian criminal archives had not yet been manually entered, specifically any file older older than five years was still in paper form in the Venetian archives. But the system had access to Interpol and FBI records so the search could be reasonably wide. But, over and over

 

No records match this inquiry

 

flashed the prompt in bright yellow each time a new query was typed in. Possible dead end, I thought. The suspect had no criminal record anywhere, or any record at all anywhere. We were sure the name he gave us (Pinot Grigio!) was an alias. But even typing in aliases, descriptions, modus operandi and anything else we could think of that might help I.D. our suspect, our search queries still would not produce a match.

Marcello told me he would conduct the first 'official' interview but wanted me to observe and then to go in right after him and see what I could get.

Loredan Marcello entered the cold interview room. He opened the file jacket that contained a sheet of the questions he would ask.

"Nome?" Loredan began. Our suspect showed no irritation, though he'd been asked his name by at least four other police officers as various booking forms were filled in. Our suspect simply, calmly and slowly repeated "Pinot Grigio" with that same self-satisfied smirk he had shown the others. He spoke in a distinctive Italian dialect that was different from the Italian and even the Venetian I had heard so far on this trip.

"Comune di nascita?" (Loredan was asking his city of birth).

Here we might make some progress, I thought. First because his dialect would pin him to a certain region possibly familiar to Loredan, and secondly, no matter what city, township or village he mentioned we could call him on it. The successful interviewing of a criminal suspect always comes down to tension. If you can create enough tension, you can upset the suspect. And at that point, it's easy to use his emotion and irrationality in your favor. Fortunately for us, implacability is only successfully practiced by the very few.

But, he was as professional as I've seen and refused to answer the question as he had done four times earlier. Then Marcello started speaking very fast Italian and the only word I recognized was Palmariggi. It was a small town on the Adriatic near Otranto, at the heel of the boot. The only reason I knew the name was because a friend and I had driven through the town on our way to Gallipoli, back from a vacation on the Adriatic to the west coast of the peninsula near the Gulf of Taranto near the Ionian Sea. It must have been a good guess for Signore Grigio's body language shifted and he looked uncomfortable. Marcello then walked over and whispered something in Pinot's ear. Immediately they began speaking very loud and fast - and very heated - Italian at each other. Marcello had even made him angry enough to growl at Il Inspectore one point; but it was a short-lived outburst of emotion which was otherwise uncharacteristic of our guest. After ten minutes of silence, Loredan left the interrogation and returned behind the mirror. Interestingly, he didn't look disappointed: in fact, he had a sly note of satisfaction on his face. Now it was to be my turn. But before I went in, Marcello leaned over and said buona fortuna and he winked at me.

I entered the room quietly and walked to where our suspect was sitting. I sat down, placing a small bowl piled high with Dolce Bacio in the center of the interrogation table. Our suspect tried not to notice the gold-foiled candies, but I could see his sneaked peaks and his greedy eyes begin to sparkle. His casualness, though, was the same pure contempt he had shown Marcello.

I reached for one of the candies, unwrapped it and bit into the delicious, silky chocolate center. I immediately thought of Cordelia and the other night at the cafe in Rialto. I nudged the bowl towards Pinot Grigio. "Have one," I offered.

"What is this you are playing at? Bad cop, the good cop?" he said in English, just not as polished as the Italian he had spoken to Marcello only moments before. "You've seen too many movies, mate"?

Mate? Was he mocking me because he detected a slight English accent?

"Just trying to be courteous," I returned. "I understand Dolce Bacio is your favorite candy."

"How would you get such an idea into that over-stuffed head of yours?"

Anger. Anger was good. He'd been angry with Loredan. and now with me. I learned from an excellent Japanese detective on a case we worked together in Tokyo a few years back that the first person in an argument to get angry usually loses. But how was I getting under his skin so easily when all he gave Marcello was the "I don't know what you're talking about until my lawyer gets here" routine? The candy! That must be it. I took another one, unwrapped it slowly and this time popped the entire thing in my mouth.

"Gluttonous thing, aren't we?" said Grigio.

"You're welcome to the same," I said matter-of-factly.

He shrugged his shoulders and reached into the bowl and grabbed three candies! Inside of ten seconds all three had been unwrapped and stuffed into his over-sized, smacking gob. He was chewing loudly and with his mouth open, seemingly not a concern in the world. Certainly not about manners anyway.

"Well," he said while chewing loudly "If you're the good cop could you do something about the temperature in here. I'm freezing."

"I'll see what I can do but first…."

"You certainly have made many friends in Venice, Signore, prominent friends. But they cannot help you here."

I didn't know who he meant, besides Loredan, of course. I've only met the Mayor that one night at dinner at Uncle Clive's. Cordelia was of no consequence in the circles to which our suspect was referring. H.R. Glass was famous, but only distantly prominent: his was new money, not old. And he wasn't speaking of my family - that's for sure. Uncle Clive was a retired Collector whose only connection to Venice was that he lived here. Of course Lord Henry was over a thousand miles away.

"Who can you possibly mean?"

You'll see," then added "And soon. Nos animadverto totus."

Well, here was a clue. We were dealing with an educated bear who knew his Latin. Fortunately, so did I; but it was of little comfort. Loosely translated, for my purposes the phrase meant: "We have eyes everywhere." Eons ago my Latin teacher would have written a more literal translation on the blackboard: "We see everything."

"And who are these mysterious we you're on about."

"That for me to know and for you to never find out," he chuckled at his own feeble joke. But for the second time after midnight, I suddenly felt the creeps.

Then he added: "But do be careful, Basil. We wouldn't want any harm to come to you?"

"Are you threatening me?" I asked.

"You?" he mocked me. "Who are you?" Then his laughter filled the room once more and it reverberated until the sound was no longer a joyous or boastful one, but a sound filled with menace.

"I understand that you have no name," pitching a softball to ease the tension. "Pinot Grigio is a wine." I observed.

"What of it," he answered gruffly.

"Oh, nothing. But we shall have to call you something. For the purposes of this interview, you understand."

He looked me in the eyes and grunted, a knowing expression on his face roughly translating as guess all you want but you'll never guess right.

"In America, we would call you John Doe, but there's nothing dear about you, is there?" He didn't get the joke. "I know, let's call you Signore Grasso Ghiottone. Now that's a fine, suitable Italian name for…"

He rose suddenly from his chair and lunged across the table, screaming "Voi strappare! Voi strappare!" Only the handcuffs and leg shackles prevented him from reaching his target. His fur bristled.

"Relax," I said, shaken myself at his outburst. "Would you like something to drink?"

He calmed down after a while. "Cappuccino, hot. Or plain milk." he demanded. "Now!"

"I'll see what I can do?" I left the room, leaving the rest of the candies behind.

Back behind the two-way mirror, we saw "Ghiottone" gobble down several more of the Dolce Bacio candies, mindlessly surveying the contents of the barren room.

"By the way, what does Voi strappare mean?" I asked Loredan. The other two officers looked nervously at Marcello.

"It means I'll tear you apart," said Loredan

It took a moment for that to sink in and I must have been rattled by Ghiottone for I suddenly remembered a scene from "The Wizard of Oz" when Ray Bolger frantically stuffs his straw back into his scarecrow, that is, himself. That scene always gave me the creeps. Evil flying monkeys - for goodness sake! There had been nightmares on my street (and, although I'd been in tight situations before, I'd never been so directly, so personally threatened). I regained my composure in time for Loredan to ask "So, what's the plan now?"

"Get him a cappuccino?" I joked.

"We don't have a cappucinno machine in La Questura," lied Loredan.

"Find a cow to milk, then?" I answered.

"That will take a while," Marcello continued with the joke.

"Exactly!" We both laughed. We looked through the mirror and saw the rest of the candies disappear, one by one.

"By the way, Basil" continued Loredan, staring out at the seated prisoner. "That Grasso Ghiottone business was a nice touch."

"Thank you." I appreciated the compliment. "And what did you whisper in his ear?" I was emboldened to ask. I just had to know.

Loredan, wearing a rare mischievous smile, merely repeated what he'd said to our prisoner, I'm going to tell your mother what you have done. His deep baritone sent a chill up my spine. "By the way," I added before leaving, "the prisoner is a little warm. Could you crank up the air conditioning?"

It had been a very long day and night and I was looking forward to getting some sleep at Uncle Clive's before the next round of questioning began. I figured I had at least five or six hours. Outside the Questura, in the glare of the early morning light on the dock, I saw three pigeons busy dissecting an assortment of raw seaweed, dead crabs and trash. Close by was a bear ripped to shreds. His innards were exposed to everything and everyone. His limbs scattered like so many pickup sticks. His head, now in a gutter, was being examined intently by a seagull. The head belonged to Bartolomeo. I ran back inside the Questura, breathless, and within minutes an investigating officer and his forensic team had assembled by the canal. Police and detectives were cordoning off the crime scene. They all knew Bartolomeo, of course, but not for his childish water pranks. They knew his prominent family, as their grandfathers and great, great grandfathers had known them. So, I thought, it will fall to Marcello himself to break the news. I told one of the detectives that Cordelia knew Bartolomeo and could officially identify him before his family was notified. Within twenty minutes Cordelia arrived. I hadn't said much on the phone. She was unprepared for what she saw. She turned into an automaton, staring at all the body parts and answering police questions in monotonic, single syllables. I put my arm around her and walked her down the quay some distance away from the official activities.

Cordelia had known Bartolomeo since they were children and it was only after she recounted their lives together growing up in Venice that I realized how devoted to each other they were - like brother and sister. Their families, you see, had been very close: one of Cordelia's aunts had married Bartolomeo's father's brother - which made them cousins, by marriage anyway. She said she had spent every summer with her aunt in the City. "Those were happy days, Basil." Even when Bartolomeo turned fifteen and got his first Aqua Vesper, they remained constant companions. Cordelia's aunt had given a bright yellow water scooter to her niece so Cordelia and Bartolomeo could continue their adventures together exploring the lagoon. It was only years later that Bartolomeo, in a rebellion against the family and its fortune, formed his gang of thirteen. He was always their leader. But by then, Cordelia was at University and along the way had lost touch with Bartolomeo. It seemed that each summer, during her undergraduate and graduate school years, various internships had occupied her time around the globe. Whenever she was able to travel to Venice, they managed to find time to spend together. And now this. Cordelia's tears were genuine, and she was in shock. I called a medic over, but she waved him off and then, a few moments later, we walked back to the crime scene.

The dismemberment of Bartolomeo was thorough; limbs and stuffing were everywhere. They had to retrieve his left arm and right leg from the canal. He'll need a year to recover; I thought. There's so much to stitch back together. Humpty Dumpty had had it good by comparison. Of course, the very best tailors and seamstresses in Italy would be called to Venice. His family would see to that. I was glad he would have his support group, too - he'd need his friends more than ever. Still, the pain in Cordelia's eyes was heartfelt and I felt very sorry and sad for her.

"This is all my fault," she said. "If only I hadn't asked him...."

"You can't blame yourself, Cordelia," I said gently. "Bartolomeo knew how serious.." I offered this, hesitatingly, and then stopped. Logic and reason would be of no use at present.

"He was so young, so vibrant...so full of life," choked Cordelia through her tears. "Will he ever be the same again, Basil?"

In her grief she desperately wanted reassurance and that was the only thing I could offer her now.

"Who would do this?" she sobbed.

I didn't know how yet, but I told her I'd find the villain and bring him to justice. "I promise, Cordelia." She looked up at me and I saw in her eyes how helpless she'd become. She was broken and vulnerable - not the Cordelia I was used to seeing. I put my arms around her and gave her a tight but gentle hug. She began sobbing uncontrollably on my shoulder and for a while all I could do was hold her and listen.

"Be very careful, Basil," she finally whispered in my ear. I knew what she meant. It was staring up at me from all over the cobblestones.

 

 

There would be no time for bed: I was wide awake now and wanted to continue the interview with our prisoner again. I suspected all this could not just be coincidence. Signore Grasso Ghiottone indeed.

About an hour and a half had passed since I'd discovered Bartolomeo, gone back into La Questura to call out the police, and afterward, had tried to comfort Cordelia. In that time, the prisoner has been transferred to his holding cell. I was informed at the sergeant's desk that the prisoner was already asleep. I turned to Loredan and then, back facing the entire reception area, impatiently announced to the squad, "Well, let's wake him up! Now!" They all looked at Il Inspectore, who, with the slightest nod of the head told them to obey my request. He let out single soft sigh and closed briefly his weary eyes.

"I want to continue my questioning, Loredan." I said to him aside. "Will you do me this favor? Prego!"

"Signore, you are upset and I understand why. But emotions can interfere…"

"Please don't worry, Inspectore." I was begging at this point - but determined, with a plan. "I am angry; that much is true. But I promise to use my emotions against Signore Grasso Ghiottone." He looked skeptical; I'm sure he's seen anger before "Trust me," I tried. "I promise not to cross the line. I won't embarrass you or undo anything we've accomplished so far."

When I entered the interrogation room, Grasso Ghiottone was rubbing his eyes with his paws. When he saw me enter the room, he slumped into his chair, crossed his arms and closed his eyes. I walked over to him and leaned in close to his left ear.

"Wakey, wakey, Sunshine!" I yelled hotly into his ear drum.

He nearly jumped out of his chair. "You stupid Englishbear!"

I returned to the other side of the table determined to irritate Grasso beyond the bounds of good taste. "You're not as dumb as you look. I was born in England, that much is true. I lived there long enough to acquire the family accent. But I've lived mainly in the United States. In fact, I have dual citizenship. Perhaps I am, as you say, just a stupid Englishbear. But," I continued, with all the angry resolve I could muster, "I am also a very, very American bear."

His smirk disappeared and I saw fear leak from his tired, brown glass eyes.

"I'll be out of here before noon," was his flat retort.

I laughed. He didn't like that. "I seriously doubt it. You honestly don't think you'll ever leave police custody, do you?" I said. "This case has become high profile, politically red hot. I'm sure you've been following your exploits in the papers: Il Maladora di Venezia ring any of your campane (I was picking up just enough Italian to be dangerous :-)?

I continued the speech I'd rehearsed for the five minutes it took to walk from the dock (where they had loaded Bartolomeo onto several stretchers and into the water ambulance): "The citizenry of Venice will never allow you to walk free. Not now. Not for quite a long time. Not after they've caught someone 'in the act' as we say in America. Maybe you are not the master thief, nor the mastermind - clearly - but you are someone they can project all their rage against. You will do."

A nearly silent hrrummph from our prisoner.

"Since you are not a Venetian - yes, we know where you are from - you won't understand the immense disrespect you have shown La Serenissima. You have insulted all Venetians, their history and their heritage." I let that sink in, then added: "It will not be a matter of money, I can assure you. No, I'm afraid, nothing can save you. You're in here for good. Unless of course…"

"Don't waste your air," said Grasso.

"You mean breath," I said.

"I don't care what I mean," he said, not understanding his grasp of the English language nor his second gaff. "Either way," he continued, "you do not understand the forces you are dealing with here."

"Like the ones who made the mess out front?" I was guessing.

"Oh, you saw that?" said Grasso. "Good."

I leapt across the table and throttled the prisoner, who, shackled and cuffed, could only wriggle and scream for help. Apparently, I squeezed his neck a little too hard, but hard enough for his left eye to pop out. It rolled across the floor like a lopsided marble and settled in a dusty corner. I backed off immediately and retrieved the eye, handing it back to Grasso with a feeble, but sincere "I'm sorry." He held his left eye in his paw, silently staring down at it, dazed and a little confused. Is he in shock? I wondered. But still no one entered the interrogation room. I imagined the videotape of the exchange would prove entertaining (I wondered how long it would take until it showed up on YouTube). I composed myself and walked over to the mirror and winked at the assemblage beyond.

"Yes," I said, still facing the mirror, "You have grossi problemi, Grasso!" I could hear the muffled laughter from the few feet behind the glass.

"Meanwhile," I turned to Grasso, "Wait here and I'll go get the nurse."

In about half an hour, after the nurse and her aide were finished polishing Grasso's glass eye and re-placing it using their best suture thread, silicon adhesive and sealant, leaving protective gauze as the only visible evidence of their duties, I re-entered the interrogation room.

"All better now, Signore Grasso Ghiottone?"

"Stop calling me that!"

"Why? If the shoe fits…"

"What shoe?"

"Your shoe," I said looking under the table. When I got up, all I got back was a cold, hard stare from Ghiottone's good right eye. I stopped joking around and settled into the chair opposite our prisoner. He now had a white bandage over his left eye and looked pitiful - not the swaggering, obnoxious, fat little braggadocio who started the interview just after dawn. I poured two glasses of iced lemon water from the pitcher I'd brought in. I took a sip from mine and slid the other glass over to Grasso.

"I said cappuccino, stupido!"

"Sorry, all out. No milk, either," I lied.

"I'm making a formal complaint. Capisca?"

"We're making a video." I glanced at the mirror. "Comprendete? Anyway, you should have no complaints. You have received the finest medical attention - all free and courtesy of the State. Most don't even enjoy that kind of medical coverage back in the U.S."

"Voi idiota! I am not enjoying anything. I would not have needed medical attention if you hadn't…"

"Shhhh! We have more important things to talk about than your minor complaints."

"But…"

"Tell me who your accomplice was," I demanded. "Because, you know it will just be a matter of time before we identify that black speedboat."

"Take as much time as you have," countered Grasso.

"Take a look in the mirror," I suggested. Grasso turned his head and for a moment realized how terrible he appeared: little sleep, cuffed and chained to a hard metal chair, his fur a tangled mess, wearing prison blues and sporting a white patch over one eye.

"Why don't you help yourself out, here?" I offered.

"Why don't you go to the hell!" screamed Grasso.

There was a knock on the door and one of Marcello's bears handed me a new file folder. Inside was the confirmation I'd been waiting for.

“Now this is interesting,” I said aloud. Grasso said nothing. I took a small plastic evidence bag from my working police folder and removed the candy wrappers I had found at the earlier creime scenes, I laid these our neatly across the table, gold foil side up

“Surely you know what these are?” Grasso remained silent until one by one, I turned each foil wrapper over, like a dealer in Las Vegas, to reveal a white underside, each with a greasy pawprint. “Evidence,” I said. “You’re a very careless snacker, Signore Ghiottone. These were all found at the crime scenes."

A grunt.

The I opened the new folder, with the fresh evidence I needed. "Now here's the bad news, Grasso." I informed him that the polizia have now confirmed a match. "La Polizia et Securite Nationale have flown in the foremost forensic expert in Italy, Signore Laërtius Queri-Verim by helicopter no less, all for you. His vacation in Milan was interrupted and it took him a mere ten minutes to identify the pawprints. It should come as no surprise to you, Signore Ghiotonne, that the pawprints on all these candy wrappers are yours."

“I don’t believe you. You are bluffing,” said Grasso. “No one takes vacation in February.”

I laughed but was dead serious when I said: “You, Grasso, are going straight to prison. How long depends on you. On your cooperation." I got up from my chair and walked 'round to Grasso side of the interrogation table and leaned in very close to his left ear. He flinched and pulled his head away expecting a repeat performance from our earlier session. I whispered, as gently as I could, but with special inflection on: “Gotcha!”

No grunt. I walked over to the mirror and looking straight ahead so as not to catch Grasso’s reflected good eye, said half aloud, “Look at what a pathetic bear he’s become.”

“I heard that!," he said. "You didn’t rip off my ears!” He quickly shut up realizing he might have given someone a new idea.

I called in an officer to escort Grasso back to his cell. "The prisoner must rest now. He's too tired to make decisions that will be best for him."

I left the room and saw Marcello enter the hallway from the viewing area behind the mirror.

"A sleep deprived bear will be of no use to us," I said to him. "I think we are close to cracking Grasso," I said. I added that Grasso should have two policebear guards. "We can't let anything happen to him: he's too important to us right now."

Loredan agreed. He also thought that we had probably interrupted the pattern of thefts. "However," he said, "it is best not to take chances." He would ask the mayor for additional help to patrol the Dorsoduro sestieri, the next target (for tonight, in fact). This time there would be a calculated show of force. His point would be twofold: to let the other thief (the one who got away) realize we had figured out his gameplan; and second, if there is no new robbery tonight, it would prove that Grasso was important to the operation.

"Excellent work, Signore Baker," he said in front of the squad. "You will continue with the interrogation late this afternoon." But now we must all rest. Sleep deprived detectives will be of little use." He winked at me. Marcello had commanded so we obeyed and we all left the station to go home for a few hours of shut-eye.

It was only 8am and already the tourists were out and so was Canale 4, CNN Italia and half-a-dozen other television cameras. Outside La Questura, insistent reporters and their microphones jostled one another as the news media and an always present crowd of onlookers (gawkers, more than not) closed in on a few of Marcello's detectives and myself. Marcello was still in the building.

"Can you confirm that an arrest has been made?" came as a sudden, simultaneous chorus from several reporters.

"The department will have a statement very shortly," said Benvolio, a member of our team who had moved upto the front several feet ahead of the rest of us. He asked the reporters to gather around him. He was obviously well versed in the aggressive ways of the local press (come to think of it, no one in our squad seemed fazed at all by their surprise appearance). Before Benvolio continued with the reporters, he glanced quickly at another detective, Roberto, who was standing next to me, and he made a distinctive motion with his eyes. I was immediately escorted back inside La Questura.

"We don't want anything to happen to you Signore Baker," Roberto said to me once we were in the station. "Inspectore Marcello," he said formally, "has ordered me personally to be responsible for your safety." I suddenly remembered Bartolomeo and Cordelia's emotional admonition to me not two hours earlier. Roberto continued as we walked towars one of the rear exits of La Questura, "That was nice work in there earlier, Signore. I think you got the better of poor Grasso. Grossi problemi, Grasso! he repeated and laughed heartily. "Have you ever considered working in, how you say, the 'official capacity'?" asked Roberto. It's great when others appreciate your work, I thought.

We passed by a large, glass-walled reception room and inside Marcello was speaking to someone who, I was informed by Roberto, was the department's Public Relations Officer. "They are waiting for the Mayor now," informed Roberto. No sooner had he said this than the Mayor of Venice and his advisors entered the hallway from a large door at the rear of the building. I supposed that together, those gathered in the conference room would craft a statement, an important statement, for the press as well as the citizenry: one that would address Il Maladora di Venezia, giving the populace some relief, some hope.

The Mayor recognized me in the hallway and stopped, his retinue nearly stumbling into eachother.

"Mayor Gritti, buongiorno," I half-bowed (that's the Britsh in me; as an American, I would have probably removed my hat, if I'd been wearing one).

"Ah, Signore Baker, buongiorno; bear-of-the-hour and our secret weapon!" exclaimed the Mayor loudly enough for those halfway down the hall to hear. "Your uncle will be very proud. We should meet again for dinner and have the drinks. But in the meantime," he placed a paw over his mouth, "we must remember that 'the loose lips they sink the ships,' si?"

"Si, si," I said. “But I was just one part of the team,” I insisted. But the Mayor (and his aides) had already turned toward other priorities.

I was tired and my immediate concern was to get to Uncle Clive's and bed. I needed to be fresh for the next round with Grasso. He was our only lead and I felt it in my heart that he could provide the key to unlock a mystery (and crime spree) that had gone on for far too long.

Once outside again, I thanked Roberto, who offered to escort me home via police cruiser. I said it might be best if I were to remain incognito, at least as much as I was able. He agreed and bid me good morning. I had only to wend my way through about a mile and a half of Venetian side streets, bridges and canal walks until I got home to Uncle Clive's palazzo. I started my way north to the Rio San Giovanni de Laterno and walked along the wide canal for about a quarter of a mile. When I got as far as Rio di Mendicanti, I could see across the long Campo di Santi Giovanni e Paolo, the famous statue of Verocchio's Colleoni in the foreground. Inset a a few hundred feet and rising up into the early morning light (you have to see Venice in the morning) was the magnificent façade of La Scuola Grande di San Marco, now part of to the enormous Ospidale Civele, or Civil Hospital, complex. I knew Cordelia was probably at the hospital with Bartolomeo so I wrang her cell phone. She answered immediately, but there was so much background noise, conversation was difficult.

"It's a zoo here, Basil," she said. "Near chaos. Bartolomeo's family is here, of course; and so is his gang, of course. Word travels fast, but perhaps fastest over water, eh?" She still had her sense of humor. I was glad she'd recovered a bit from her earlier shock. I told her about the interrogation sessions and how Marcello, finally, told everyone to go home and get some rest. Questioning would resume around 4:00 pm, I told her. "I'll be here all day," she said. "Ring me this afternoon. I'll be waiting for your call." I was just about to ring off when I heard her say, "Oh, Basil, thanks for this morning." A pause. "Thank you." And then she rang off.

I walked along the quay side. It was just over a mile to Uncle Clive's in San Polo and I welcomed the fresh air. Fresh air always gave me new ideas. I'd need many of these if I were to flip Grasso. I reached the Canal Grande and walked over the Rialto Bridge into San Polo sestieri and another quarter mile to Rio Beccarrie and Uncle Clive's. Uncle Clive had thoughtfully given me a key. However, at 9:00am the butler was ready for me - anticipation being a great butler's chief talent -and as I entered the hall Henry greeted me, informing me that Uncle Clive was still asleep. I asked Henry to please not disturb me until 3:00 pm., no matter how excited Uncle Clive became.

"I understand. I caught the early morning news on Channel 4 while I was preparing today's menus for the cook. You must have had quite a night, sir. I suppose congratulations are in order. When your uncle awakes, the local newspapers will keep him busy until you come down for a late lunch. I shall have your favorites prepared. Do you require anything for breakfast now, sir?" I shook my head and said I was too tired to eat. "I understand, sir."

Henry's speech was the epitome of economy and I knew I could rely on him. So I climbed the stairs to my bedroom and lay on my bed and fell to sleep immediately and dreamed.

I was in a seaplane, high above Venice. Glass was at the controls, and I was in the co-pilot's seat. I could see the entire city below me. I was looking at Venezia of old, or it seemed that way. It could have been the fifteenth or sixteenth century: I saw no signs of modern life. Not a single vaporreto was plying the Grand Canal, although it was the height of day. We were high enough that we could see all six sestieri and there was a strange outline to each district like we were looking at a topographer's map, superimposed on reality. Reality? I suddenly realized how strange all of this was. "What's so strange about it?" said Glass. Could Glass read my thoughts? I thought. "Of course, I can," he said. "What did you expect; you know how fabulously wealthy I am." As if this explained anything. "By the way," he continued, "when we land, this seaplane is yours. My gift." But I don't know how to fly a plane, I said. "Sure you do - it's easy. Here, take the controls. This is the yoke," he said, which looked like a square wheel you'd find on some strange, futuristic automobile. "The yoke controls power to go up and down," he continued with my first lesson. "And the two pedals on the floor turn the plane left and right." And with that, Glass let go of the yoke, and the plane started a nose dive. "Quickly now," he said. I grabbed the wheel, I mean yoke. "Now pull up," he instructed. What? Pull up? "Pull the yoke back towards your chest," he said calmly. And as I did as I was told, the plane leveled off just fifty feet above the Campanile in St. Mark's Square. I looked down and saw Cordelia. She was waving and shouting something I couldn't hear above the engines. "You care about her, don't you, Basil?" said Glass. I do, very much, I said. "Then swoop down and get her." How do I do that? I asked like it was just another possibility in an endless stream of possibilities. "Push the yoke away from you and turn, using your pedals." Again I did as he instructed. The plane decended and turned towards Cordelia. "It's as easy as driving your beloved Austin-Healy, isn't it?" How did he know about my car? " I know everything about you," said Glass. When I got within a few yards of Cordelia, she raised her arms and I flew in close to her, heaven knows how, and picked her right up. The next thing I knew she was sitting in the left passenger seat behind Glass. "That was close, Basil," she laughed. "I didn't know you could fly an airplane." I can't, I said. She laughed again, like I was joking. "I taught him myself," said Glass. "Just now." Cordelia now recognized our illustrious 'host' and they began a conversation I couldn't hear above the ever increasing noise of the twin props. I gained some altitude, enough to get a good look at the city again. "Look, Basil," Cordelia finally said to me, pointing below. There's La Questura and the Ospedale Civile." How's Bartolomeo, I asked her? "Oh, didn't you hear? He's now working for Signore Glass as head of his private security. He said he would only take the job if his twelve disciples came along. Of course, his family didn't approve." "New money," interrupted Glass and he and Cordelia laughed like this was the funniest thing they'd ever heard. "I'm giving this plane to Basil," he told Cordelia. "He'll be able to swoop you up whenever you like." They both laughed again. Suddenly, Glass got up from his seat and sat beside Cordelia. I was still busy trying to fly circles around Venice. Glass just said, "No matter what happens, Basil, stay on this course, understood?" Understood? He's got to be kidding. I didn't have the faintest idea how to go off course. Then he got up from his seat, took hold of Cordelia's paw and proceeded to the plane's exit door. He opened it and said to Cordelia, "Now that's some view, si?" Then he pushed her out of the plane and as she fell five thousand feet she screamed Basil!...Help!...Basil!...Nice plaaane....

I woke up in a cold, matted sweat. The clock read 2:35pm; I slept over five and a half hours. But I felt fresh and definitely couldn't go back to sleep. Not after that dream - which also was fresh and uppermost in my mind. Of course, I knew that dreams were strange things, meanings obscured or more often, simply, beyond comprehension, but I grabbed my notebook anyway and wrote the first things that came to my mind:

1. The seaplane: I had a clear view of Venice. The right view?
2. Glass at the controls: Uncle Clive's suspicions valid?
3. I was the co-pilot: Was I somehow aiding Glass?
4. Then I was the pilot: Tentative control of the case?
5. Cordelia: Vulnerable and gullible? Was I falling for her?
6. The gift of the seaplane: A bribe? A trap?
7. "Stay on course...": On course? Was I missing something?
8. Pushing Cordelia out of the plane: Is Glass dangerous?
9. What about Bartolomeo? Is Glass ruthless?

There's always danger when trying to interpret dreams. Was I over-analyzing this one? Were my questions even justified? I knew what Uncle Clive would say. But what had Glass done other than been gracious and friendly? Hardly suspicious actions, these. Still, there was JEN, Glass' supercomputer, that had so unnerved me yesterday. But aren't the wealthy allowed their extravagances - even security related? Besides, maybe he'd had troubles with the help before and wanted to go high-tech to solve them. I'd heard the stories about Bill Gates' house and how each guest is issued a pin that act as a sensor that not only tracks movement, but turn lights on and even, according to the personal taste of the guest, changes the video masterpieces which have been digitized, reproduced and displayed on high definition flat panel displays for said guest's enjoyment. I knew H.R. Glass wasn't the richest bear in the world, but he was a billionaire. And that's real money. He was also a very generous bear. Besides donating major funds for the Venezia flood plan project, he has funded over a dozen charities through his Money for Something Good foundation, endowed with six Billion Euros. That's some capital "B" and the poorest, without doubt, appreciate H.R. Glass' generosity. He's an inspiration, really. Which made the dream all the stranger. But I guess that's what dreams are: strange, strange and stranger still. But, according to Freud, a dream is a virtual gold mine of information on the subject (in this case, me) provided, of course, the miner (in this case, also me), has the right pick axe and knows how to handle it properly. I'm usually clumsy with hammers and such; and power tools are out of the question.

I remembered a line from one of Yeats' shorter poems: Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. Of course, Uncle Clive went to Oxford, as did I; but something told me he hadn't been a fan of Yeats, or read him widely. Usually I don't hate it when my suspicions are proved correct; but at table a half an hour later, after I related the events of the night before and this morning - including my dream and my own comments - well, that was all Uncle needed. "That's it!" he said. "You've cracked the case wide open, my boy! Now all you have to do is to get this Grasso bear to turn on his employer."

"You mean flip him," I said, in an attempt to get the old gentlebear familiar with the vernacular. If he was going to act like a detective, he should at least be able to talk like one.

"Yes," said Uncle excitedly. "Flip him like a flap jack!" I wondered when Uncle Clive had last eaten a pancake. He always struck me as an Eggs Benedict bear. Maybe an occassional waffle - in his youth - but definitely none recently, not even one with blueberries instead of syrup. Especially not syrup. Bears hate the stuff. Way too messy - and s-t-i-c-k-y. But Henry served none of this at our late lunch for the day. Instead we sat hungrily down for a mixed salad with fresh calamari, tossed with a rosemary dressing. The ciabatta was straight from the oven and delicious. I dipped chunks of mine liberally on the plate of olive oil and balsamic vinegar. As a side dish, Henry served thick, sliced tomatoes, each topped with basil leaves and a slice of mozzarella as thick as the tomatoes themselves. As a finishing touch, he dusted each one with a fresh grating of parmesan and a turn of the black pepper mill. I dove into the delicacies and let Uncle Clive verbally slice up what was left of the remaining air in the small, informal dining room off la cucina. I was due at La Questura at 4:00pm and I wanted to arrive sharply.

I returned to police HQ and was in time to request that our prisoner not be shackled or chained and that there was hot cappuccino waiting alongside a small bowl of Dolce Bacio. There were some raised eyebrows but by now the squad knew that I knew what I was doing. When I entered the interrogation room I mentioned none of these new considerations. I wanted to let him know that he would be treated fairly and courteously - even if he was a lout.

"I hope you got some rest," I started.

"What would you care?

"Oh, I would care a great deal; a great deal, indeed. Especially about your health?"

"My health? What does my health have to do with anything?"

"Perhaps I should have said your continued good health."

"Are you threatening me?"

"Me? Of course not.! Still, there are others who do not care the same way about - how shall we put this - our sensibilities concerning the health and well-being of our fellows."

"Do you always talk like this?"

"Like what?"

"Like you have a stick up your…"

"Excuse me?"

"Exactly."

"Shall we continue, then?"

"Fire away." He quickly realized his blunder and looked around nervously.

I got straight to the point: "Who was your accomplice last night? And the night before that and the night before….oh, this is becoming so tedious. Do you mean to sit there and take it, all by yourself - all by your lonesome - the full wrath of Italy's law and her citizenry? Because, take my word on this, if you do not help yourself here, you will never see your family again. They will put you in the deepest, darkest place - the most secret hidey-hole they can find for you. And when they find it and put you in there, they may not be able to find it again, ever. You will be in the dark, forgotten. That's where they send criminali who have so besmirched their honor. This is Venezia, Signore. Honor is everything. And surely you are familiar with some of the history of this thousand year old Republic and what Venezia has done to her political enemies. And beleive me, this has become political. All of Venice is outraged and only a thin veneer of propriety is keeping the mobs at bay and you safe - for the moment, in our protective custody."

My speech was a little long winded for an interrogation; but I had to make Grasso understand the facts, the repercussions, should he continue his present uncooperative stance.

Now, I asked you yesterday if you had any idea how serious the crimes are that you you have committed. Have you given this any thought at all, Signore Grasso?"

He looked at the mirror. He knew there were detectives observing and recording all this.

"There's no one back there who can help you," I said. I am your only friend - or your enemy - the choice is for you to make.

Grasso suddenly seemed shaken. He lay his head on his arms; his shoulders moved violently up and down, Was he sobbing? I thought. Yes! He was actually crying.

"Please, please, Signore...not the dark, not where they will forget me. Not in there!" he screamed - so loudly that the sergeant who was stationed outside the interrogation room opened the door a crack to check that everything was all right.

"Calm down. Now!" I demanded. "You are safe with us - for the moment. But you must do the right thing. Sit up straight and be a bear."

He stopped crying, wiping his tears on the fur of his forearm. But his eyes were still wet and he was on the verge of an embarrassing admission: "I am afraid of the dark," he finally said. "Terrified. Please, please Signore. You cannot let them put me in the dark. You can do something. I know you can. You have the influence."

"I can help you; but first you must help us.

He nodded, now understanding the futility of his macho pose.

Can you confirm your name now?" I started.

"Armo Arturo," he said without hesitation.

"Yes, that's the name we have in our files," I bluffed, shuffling some papers.

"But I've never been in trouble before, he said honestly. "How can I have a file, Signore?"

Legitimate question, I thought and then simply said, "Oh, I don't know. It's all these computers; they have le informazioni. We press the keys and see what's there. It's positive, so we pay attention to what it tells us." He seemed to buy my lame answer; he had other, more practical worries.

"And we have Palmariggi as your home town and city of birth (thanks to Marcello identifying his accent and dialect). This is correct, si?"

"Si," said Armo, resigned now to the inevitable cooperation that would save him and keep him from the dark. His fear was palatable and oppressive upon him. He had reached the end and knew it. He knew I knew it, too. There would be no more games - only the close

"Are you ready now to tell us who your accomplice was, Armo?" It was the first time I hadn't called him Grasso or Ghiotonne. He looked up, surprised I used his real name and used it with sincerity.

"Il Ladro Rosso was the name he told me to call him," he said. "At first I thought it was a joke. 'The Red Thief' play on Vivaldi's nickname and all (so our lookout wasn't as dumb as he played, afterall). He wore all black. Even his face was covered in a black mask. But a shock of bright red hair peaked its way out over his forehead. I guess that's how he got his nickname."

"What was his approximate height and weight and build," I asked.

"He was just over six foot and weighed, I'm guessing, about two hundred pounds."

"And his build?"

"Well, he was like Cary Grant in To Catch A Thief. Solid too, like a soccer forward."

"And did you ever play soccer with him?"

"What? No! What kind of question is..."

"Can you tell us the color of his eyes?" I asked quickly.

He looked nervously again at the mirror before saying "Green. Bright green."

"And would you say his lips were thick or thin."

"About average," he said. "But he did wear a mustache."

"Armo, can you remember any other distinguishing marks."

"No, he was covered from head to toe in black."

It wasn't much to go on, I thought. Then Armo surprised us.

"Oh, I forgot to tell mention, Il Ladro Rosso is an American."

"Are you positive, Armo?"

He gave me one of those looks: the cock of the head, the twist of the mouth and the knowing look - in Armo's case - of his one good eye.

"But surely you cannot expect us to believe you know nothing else?" I was fishing, but it was good interrogation technique."You planned and carried out eleven robberies," I said.

"I didn't plan anything," said Armo - implausible, but believable, too. "It was all down to him", he continued. "He would contact me, in code, via my qMail account on my mobile phone. Once me met at our rendezvous point, he always told me where to sit and watch. And be quiet," he lowered his head, embarrassed. "The Dolce Bacio were my idea. I didn't bring anything to drink because Il Ladro Rosso was always in and out in less than fifteen minutes. I know that because he gave me a stopwatch and to whistle once when fifteen minutes had passed. He never went into overtime one," joked Armo, and when seeing the disdain on my face, said "pardone," contritely.

"And how much were you paid for your services?"

"Ten thousand euros," he said proudly. "There was an envelope waiting for me at my apartment after each robbery."

"Did you not see what was stolen?" Ten thousand euros, in this situation, seemed ludicrously low.

"No by the time he was finished and we were ready to leave, he had already wrapped whatever he had stolen in the bubble plastic, the kind you can pop and make a loud noise."

"Bubble-wrap?"

"If you say so," said Armo, then added strangely, almost absentmindedly like it hadn't occurred to him until this exact moment: "This was the first time I was left behind."

I took advantage of his feelings of betrayal and said directly, Armo, Il Laddro Rosso was stealing priceless antique Venetian glass.

"That certainly explains the - what did you call it - bubble-wrap?"

"You are missing my point, Armo; these were priceless Venetian glass artifacts. Ten thousand euros might sound like a good night's pay. But anyone of the pieces you stole will sell for hundreds of thousands of euros on the black market."

"But I didn't steal anything," protested the prisoner.

That's not how the law will see it, I'm afraid."

I let this sink in for a few minutes while I called for a fresh cappuccino for Armo and sparkling water for myself.

"Think hard, Armo. Can you tell us about the speedboat. Where did it go after the robberies. Anything you can remember might be a great help - to us and to you."

"After each robbery, I simply walked away from the crime scene and found my way back to my apartment. Il Ladro Rosso took the black speedboat into the night. This may not mean anything - and he only said it the one time - but after the robbery in Canneregio he remarked that I was a lucky bear, returning home to my warm apartment. Until this whole business is over," he said, "I shall have to sleep next to the..."

"Next to the what?" I had asked.

"Oh, forget it...you did good work tonight. The envelope will be waiting."

"And when I got home, the envelope was waiting and I gave no more thought to Il Ladro Rosso's strange comment.

I ended the interview and called for the guard to escort Armo back to his cell. I left the interrogation room and entered the observation deck to speak with Marcello. We looked at each other and both knew what to do next.

"We will get no more useful information from this prisoner," I said.

"Agreed," said Marcello. "He has no more to give. What he doesn't know is the little he gave us is enough to capture the master thief. But we have to act quickly."

For, we both knew the end of Il Ladro Rosso's sentence "Until this whole business is over, I shall have to live and sleep next to the..." was the word "DEAD". It explained everything, perfectly. With bright red-hair, and a tall, handsome build, our master thief he would be easy to spot, easy for someone to recall seeing. He would have to stay out of sight. The expensive, black speedboat was, no doubt, well appointed below deck and large enough for a single person to live for an extended period. All he would need is someone to bring him food. He also had a perfect place to hide: Isola di San Michele. The nearby walled cemetery island was only five minutes from Venice via vaporetto from the Fondamente Nove dock. It would have been less than that for Il Ladro Rosso at the helm of a black speed boat following essentially an identical course. The cemetery island of San Michele was the perfect hideaway. It is, for all intents and purposes, deserted at night. The master thief had also referred to this "whole business in Venice" implying there was a long, well-thought out series of thefts - thefts that had only now been interrupted - and that he would presumably be leaving after his campaign of crime was over. So, if our hunch was right, all the police would have to do was uncover where the black speedboat was secreted away. But Marcello would have to act quickly: we could not know if we had scared our master thief off for good. The evidence was that we hadn't: we had before us a brazen thief who taunted the authorities and just might look at last night's events as one more challenge. Marcello assembled a special squad that would comb the cemetery island and gave orders for them to leave immediately. A second squad would relieve them in six hours.

Loredan informed me that we would consider other aspects of the case later. Fortunately, we interrupted "The Big Plan." The consensus was that there would be no new theft in the next sestieri in the pattern for tonight: Dorsoduro. It was a chance that had to be taken: there was just not enough time or resources to canvas Dorsoduro and hunt for the master thief on Isola di San Michele at the same time.

And there was another matter: who was the mastermind behind all this? We still had eleven robberies that had taken place, all unsolved. It was unknown how many more thefts were planned. And the fact that there was this absurd 'pattern' of sestieri robbing rather than just stealing the artifacts, unpredictably, indicated a mastermind behind the the master thief's actions - a mastermind with something to say. For the moment, catching our master thief was the highest priority. And we had no leads, no information, that could tell us who this mastermind might be.

It was 6pm. I called Cordelia. It had been just before 9am since we last spoke by cellphone. As soon as she answered, I could hear the same hospital background noise as my earlier conversation with her. It never occurred to me before - and it's an odd observation - but the background noise reminded me how hospitals all have a similar smell and I thought they probably all have a similar background noise, a combination of intercom announcements with the comings and goings of nurses and doctors and the patients' visitors. Anyway, Cordelia was there. She'd been there, all this time, with Bartolomeo, his family and gang, over seven hours. She said she'd been able to catch a nap in the afternoon and had slept almost two hours.

"But I'm awake now, I think," she said, then laughed. "Why don't you come over to the hospital. We've all been reading about your success - well, the papers don't mention you by name, just as an unnamed civilian consultant on the case - but anyway, everyone here wants to meet you." I'd have to explain to all the parties concerned that I was just one cog in a large wheel that rolled on through the investigation. I was proud of our success, for sure - in fact, without Cordelia's help, we might not have captured anyone. I'd be sure to mention that, too; she deserved credit.

At the hospital, I learned that Donatella Bearsace and her team had arrived from Milan - by jet - before noon and within the hour had secured an operating room and gone to work on Bartolomeo. They were still in the operating room when I arrived. Bartolomeo's family were well-connected indeed.

Regular reports leaked out of the operating room as nurses changed shifts and word quickly spread amongst the family and friends gathered that the operation was proceeding successfully. Fortunately, all of Bartolomeo's parts had been located; of course there would be yards and yards of stitching that would have to be laid in by hand. That's where Ms. Bearsace's team came in and the world renowned experts they were, much would be expected of them.

I was introduced to Bartolomeo's father and mother, Signore Leonardo Contarini (yes, that Contarini family: over the centuries, eight Doges of Venice, numerous governors and diplomats - even a Cardinal of Rome!) and his gracious wife, Gabriella, herself descended from the Carraresi family, who among other distinctions, were prominent marchese and marchesa of Padua in the twelfth century. Together the Contarini's took me aside, into an small, windowed alcove lit burnt-orange by the evening sun. The setting was somber, as was their conversation; they could talk only of their son and, also, thank the bear who would bring Bartolomeo's attackers to justice. They were serious and very formal (and impeccably dressed - even for their hospital vigil): it certainly felt as if I'd been granted a special audience. I was even given an invitation to dine at their grand palazzo when my schedule permitted, and to bring Cordelia along, if I so desired (I did). I thanked them sincerely for their confidence and assured them that I would continue to do all I could to find out who was responsible for the violence done to their son. Gabriella's eyes were full of tears and she bent over to give me a tight, warm hug and a kiss on the cheek. Signore Contatrini looked on formally, with a sense of pride and affection for his wife and her unusual display of affection to this outsider.

"You are a good bear, Basil Baker," she said in perfect English, then leaned over again and give me another kiss on the cheek. And with that mother's blessing, I turned my attention to other matters, namely, Cordelia. I'd been concerned about her since this morning's discovery of Bartolomeo at the dock in front of La Questura.

But when I found her outside Bartolomeo's room (we were all still waiting for more news from the operating team), Cordelia was in good spirits, even joking with Bartolomeo's gang. She introduced me to each member of the crew and when she came to Maschio (Bartolomeo's "faithful lieutenant" as Cordelia had informed me the other night at the Rialto bistro), Maschio came forward and hugged me and then, in Italian tradition, gave me a kiss on both cheeks. I must admit I was a little embarrassed; but the others looked on quite naturally and then they all patted me on the back, each in their own turn. I was, apparently, the hero of the hour. No doubt Cordelia's doing. I half expected them to begin a round of "For he's a jolly good fellow" which, I knew, would almost certainly lose something in the translation. Anyhow, the feeling was jolly, considering the circumstances, as no one doubted Bartolomeo's new sutures would begin the mending process and have him back on his waterbike soon enough.

Bartolomeo was still unconscious; unconscious of the elite team putting him back together; unconscious of his friends and family waiting desperately for news; unconscious (fortunately) of the events leading to his hospital confinement. Cordelia and I waited too; but busied ourselves with the details of the case - my case.

"Despite his water antics," began Cordelia, "Bartolomeo has always shown great civic pride. He's a true Venetian." And a true friend in Cordelia, I thought. But she was building to something, so I kept silent. Then, in hushed tones, she reminded me of the secret Bartolomeo was keeping, even from his gang.

"Bartolomeo had his ears and eyes open for any information on the case." I knew this much; but I noticed she was a little more composed than the earlier morning events outside La Questura had allowed. She was conjecturing, deeply involved now in the logic of a puzzle that had so far failed to reveal too much of a picture. We had only the edges put together, and inside, a partial image of a frightened accomplice who was unable (or unwilling) to give us greater detail. Furthermore, the image of Il Lladro Rosso was fuzzy and any disguise he might employ- no matter how outlandish - would not look out of place during Carnivale. Even in the bright glare of day, only x-ray vision would have been of any help; and that tool wasn't part of any detective kit I was aware of.

"Other than you and I, only Inspectore Marcello knows of Bartolomeo's special activity," Cordelia continued. Loredan's absence from the hospital was a tactful way not to show any connection. But someone knew what Bartolomeo was up to. Someone with no scruples in tearing a bear apart. But how did that someone know? Was there a mole in the police department? And the Mastermind - who was he (or she). Or it? I thought. I suddenly had a fantastical idea that triangulated thief, supercomputer and crime spree. A supercomputer could easily baffle the best minds in the business and surely have access to archives and papers of record - including blueprints - all the ingredients necessary to concoct a series of crimes and the capability of devising an elaborate plan of perfect deception. But no! This was impossible, certainly. My friend H.R. was, by all accounts, above reproach and I could be reasonably certain no one else had unfettered access to his elaborate security system.

No, certainly these were just the random thoughts, related to the case to be sure, but the detritus of too much thinking without proper rest. I resolved to sleep (I'd been up for more hours than I cared to remember). And I would take better care of myself. Venice - as well as Cordelia, Loredan, Bartolomeo and the rest - needed me.

"Bring her along; sound like fun."

"It's getting kind of late," I said. I was already dark outsideand a long day for me."

"Nonsense," he said. "We won't dine until 10:00 anyway; this should give you plenty of time to rest. I'll pick you up at 9:30. Then we can both retrieve Cordelia. You'll have to give my gondolier instructions to her place," he took control and I was too tired to refuse. "So, it's a date, then?"

I checked with Cordelia who seemed very enthusiastic at meeting Venice's "Man of the Moment" and great benefactor to the city.

"OK," I told Glass. "Shall we dress formally?"

"Please do," Glass said. "I have an exciting evening planned for the three of us!"

When the call ended, I told Cordelia the particulars and suggested we both had time to go home and catch a nap before dressing for the evening. We bid our farewell to Bartolomeo's family and his gang and walked outside to the nearest gondola. I swear I'm not making this up, but waiting for us was Fabrizio. How on Earth...?

"Buonasera, Basil! Can I take you and your lady friend somewhere in the city?" I knew Fabrizio well enough by this time that his question was not impertinent or indiscrete.

"Cordelia, this is my friend Fabrizio. Fabrizio, this is Signorina Cordelia Pembridge-Howl."

"I am so very pleased to meet you," said Cordelia in a polite and sincere voice, not missing an opportunity to present her card. "I've heard so much about you," she added.

"I hope it has not been all too good, Signorina Cordelia. A gondolier has a reputation to maintain, si?

"Your secrets are safe with me, Fabrizio." We laughed as he helped Cordelia into his gondola and I jumped aboard and sat next to her in the soft, red velvet loveseat. The Fabrizio pushed off gently and we were on our way. As he plied the near silent water he brok out into a song I half remembered from my many summers spent in Venice.

"It's a Venetian love song, Basil." She sang a few words, in translation, for me:

Oh, come away with me my darling girl
And I shall show you Venice and the world
But, lo, let us drift here a little time
So that I may declare you mine, mine, mine

The night was already beginning in a not unconducive fashion to my growing fondness for this "darling girl" and perhaps Fabrizio, more accustomed to the affairs of the heart than I, was doing his best to help me along. It hadn't exactlty been my best subject at school.

Since Cordelia's apartment in San Marco was closest we dropped her off first, then proceeded to Uncle Clive's in San Polo. The moment I arrived I went, without ceremony (or a de-briefing by Uncle), straight to my room leaving word that I was going out at 9:30 to a dress supper and that I wasn't to be disturbed until 8:30. I needed rest and was determined to get at least seventy or eighty minutes of it. I drifted off to sleep to the tune Fabrizio had sung for us.

Precisely at 8:30 the butler knocked on my door and entered the room. "Shall I prepare your evening clothes, sir?"

"Please, Henry." Although I sat on the edge of the bed, my eyes had a hard time staying open. "I'll be dressing formally tonight," I managed.

Very good, sir?"

I stood and did a few stretches, Chinese style, to limber up and waken my muscles. Henry's sidewize glance told me he hadn't seen everything. Why do we suppose butlers always do. Anyway, another knock on the door and Besina, the downstairs parlour maid, whispered through the imperceptible crack she'd just made in the door:

"Signore Glass' gondola has just arrived."

"Tell him we'll be right down," Henry said crisply.

In another few minutes we were ready.

"There, sir. I daresay you'll be the smartest gentlebear in Venice tonight."

I looked in the three way mirror and head to polished toe confirmed that Henry had done his job, thoroughly. I was in 'Bristol fashion' (Henry said) and prepared to sail smartly into the night. I made a mental note to consider employing a valet when I returned home. Someone intelligent and worldly (or at least prepared to travel a lot), but maybe someone who could also be a sounding board. I've never had a personal valet and now this very distinct notion took possession of my mind. One gets tired talking only to oneself and a valet/personal assistant might be just what I needed for my ruminative nature (which happens to be an occupational hazard; so I did have an 'excuse'). By the time I was descending the stairs, I was mentally composing a notice I might post on the Oxford and Stanford campuses. Such were my thoughts when our own butler bundled me into my black cashmere winter coat and placed my leather gloves in my hands. One last glance in the foyer mirror - a minor adjustment to my black bow tie - and only then did Henry open the front door onto the world and Rio Beccarie where we saw Glass' gondola waiting, without H.R. Glass.

"This way, sir. Watch your footing," cautioned Henry. I couldn't believe such expert, professional attention had escaped my notice. Henry was a gentlebear and a gem. Perhaps he might make a recommendtion for my valet himself.

I stepped on-board smoothly (with Henry's strong arm for steadying). To be honest, I've never gotten used to boarding (or un-boarding) a gondola. This oddly shaped water conveyance always seemed too wobbly for its own good. But complaining seemed pointless as ever, and tonight, impolitic. I suddenly remembered a very intelligent friend back home in America who had a similar reaction (an instinctual hesitance, really) when getting on or off an escalator. She would often (to my mind, ironically) take an elevator if one were available. Now, I knew escalators and gondolas were 99.9% of the time perfectly safe, but the irrational fear each engendered must go back to some fearful incident in our childhood neither of us could remember. I'm no armchair Freud, but neither my friend nor myself could explain our phobias.

We pushed silently away from Uncle's dock and glided our way up the side canal, then entered the busy Canal Grande. It was that hour of the evening when the busy winter dark has already gotten things in motion. Everywhere, bears were traveling to destinations romantic, mundane, of pleasure, of duty and, in some cases, the extension of the work day. I observed all this while in a moment of total contentment. My case was on hold (all work and no play...) for a little while at least. I was heading out towards romance and mystery. That's at least how I played up my dinner with Cordelia as guest of H.R. Glass who would certainly make sure we were never bored.

In a quarter of an hour I was knocking on Cordelia's door. When she opened it, scented air filled my senses. I immediately identified the source and it wasn't Cordelia. There were dozens of flowers, all in vases, filling her apartment. Roses. Dozens and dozens of them perfumed the air; red and yellow dozens and dozens orange and white and pink and even lavender.

She kissed me on the cheek and whispered in my ear.

"I especially loved your card," she said.

"But I didn't..." I started until Cordelia, having turned and now, singing to herself while she finished 'getting ready' in a hallway mirror, handed me the accompanying card over her shoulder. It was unusually ornate for such a paper trifle; but it held an elaborate gold gilt pattern and the personal greeting inside gave the impression someone had dipped an expensive fountain pen in liquid gold, writing this haiku:

In Venetian cold
Winter yearning for the Spring
Hunger needs Romance

It was signed simply: "An Admirer." I liked the haiku and the sentiment it conveyed. But I didn't write it and I told her so. She didn't believe me.

"You really shouldn't have, Basil," said Cordelia delightedly, as she pinned a small, yellow, half-open rosebud in place.

"But I didn't," I ptotested. I certainly wasn't going to take credit for a romantic gesture that was not my own.

"Don't be so modest. Your secrets are safe with me," she said smiling.

"What secrets?" I had at least two that I was certain no one else knew.

"Lord Henry Houndsworth?"

"That's no secret," I said. She had mentioned my uncle's name. I wasn't embarrassed by my family's wealth (it allows me, after all, to remain the independent amateur sleuth that you're following today). It's just that I've never flaunted the family's fortune. Not that I consider sending twelve score roses as 'flaunting" anything - I could very well imagine doing the same and it was at that moment I was aware of a little jealousy that someone else had beat me to it with a grand gesture of their own. But someone who? Cordelia had told me she wasn't seeing anyone. She had, in point of fact, assumed that I had sent the flowers. But I hadn't and reiterated - somewhat gentler this time - that she had the wrong bear.

"Oh, I don't think so." She seemed undeterred and smiled again, this time with a little mischevious wink and sparkle in her eyes. While I knew I wasn't responsible for the finely extravagant gesture, she insisted I have the credit for it, nonetheless.

Misunderstandings are uncomfortable and I work hard to resolve them. Usually. In this case, I wasn't going to press the issue. Anyway, Cordelia was 'mine' for the evening and that was all the consolation I needed to get past the present bit of awkwardness.

 

 

MORE NEXT WEEK

 

On a personal note, I hope you like the story so far. You can send a comment via e-mail to basilbaker@basilbaker.com. Your comments would be most kindly received.