For the next hour we discussed the possibility of building a grand hotel in Venice; I laid out my ideas, he explained all the difficulties. Of finding the right land, of getting the workforce, the managers, of raising the necessary capital at the appropriate price for such a venture – who, after all, wanted to come to Venice?

To each problem I proposed an answer. Build on the Lido, not in the centre of Venice. Bring in all the architects, engineers and surveyors from France and England, if necessary. Make use of my skills – I exaggerated a little here – and Cardano's contacts to form a company that could raise the money in London. I had thought it all through; my answers were considered and thorough.

'And why do you need me, then?' he asked with a smile.

'Because it couldn't be done without you,' I said, entirely truthfully. 'The money must flow into Venice, and payments must be made here. It would need established banking facilities. I have been here long enough to suspect that dealing with the authorities is a quagmire. Suitable land cannot be found without local knowledge and influence, and I have discovered that you are the most highly-regarded man of finance in the region.'

He acknowledged my discernment. He was genuinely interested; interested enough to start questioning what, precisely, there was of profit in this project for him. That, I pointed out, rather depended on how much money his bank was prepared to put in. This was going to be expensive and the profits would be several years down the road.

'Ah, you English,' he said. 'You do like to think on a grand scale, do you not? Now we Venetians would naturally think of several dozen small establishments, each one to be erected when the previous one was paid off. It is an interesting idea. Even more interesting is why you don't worry that I might go ahead without you. You need me, but do I need you?'

'Build something on this scale, without being able to raise capital in London? Find the skilled workforce scattered across Europe? Persuade companies like Cook's to run excursions to Venice and stay in your hotel?'

'True enough. If you can do all of these things. I have learned that the English promise more than they deliver, sometimes.'

'For example?'

'We have lent a substantial amount of money to an Englishman,' he said. 'Who, like you, promised wonderful things. But so far has delivered none of them.'

'I have met Mr Macintyre,' I said, 'if that is who you refer to.'

'He is a scoundrel and a rogue.'

'Really? I find him to be very straightforward.'

'Far from it. We learned – this was only after he took our money – that the only reason he is in Venice is because he would be thrown into gaol should he ever have the temerity to return to England.'

'You astound me.' And that was a genuine statement; I found it momentarily difficult to believe we could be talking about the same person. I would have wagered a very considerable amount of money that Macintyre was entirely honest.

'It seems that he embezzled a very substantial sum from his employers, and absconded with it. It is only the fact that he owes us money which stops us from sending him packing.'

'Are you sure of this?'

'Quite sure. Naturally, once we learned of it, we declined to advance him any more and I now have grave doubts whether we will ever see our money returned. So you see, a proposal from an unknown Englishman . . .'

'I quite understand. Naturally, any collaboration between us would require total trust, but I am confident I would be able to satisfy your concerns with no difficulty. And, as it is a matter of patriotic pride, I will willingly offer to provide assistance over the matter of Mr Macintyre. How much does he owe you?'

'I believe about five hundred pounds sterling.'

Interesting, I thought to myself. I knew quite well he had put in considerably less than that. This was very hopeful.

'Very imaginative, I must say,' I continued. 'Few people would have been prepared to take such a risk.'

He waved a hand. 'If his machine works, then it has obvious possibilities. If it doesn't, of course, then that is different. And the constant delays and excuses make me concerned. Consequently . . .'

'. . . another proposal from another Englishman does not fill your heart with gladness.'

He smiled.

'In that case,' I continued, 'I will make a down payment to acquire your trust. Let me buy Mr Macintyre's debt from you. Pay it off on his behalf. Should we come to a later agreement on this project for a hotel we will be able, I am sure, to adjust the matter then. I cannot have you thinking that all the English are scoundrels. Even if some undoubtedly are. If you wish, I will reach an agreement now.'

Ambrosian was much too cautious a man to accept. He looked almost shocked. Well, not quite, but he did have the air of someone who is being taken for a simpleton. He did not object to me trying, of course, and he knew perfectly well that I knew he would not accept the offer.

'I can see no reason to sell what may turn out to be a fine stream of future profits,' he said reproachfully. 'Particularly as my investment gives me complete rights to the machine.'

'Well, I cannot blame you,' I said with a smile to indicate I understood perfectly well. 'None the less, my interest remains. Should you change your mind . . .'

I left, feeling very thoughtful. My offer to acquire Macintyre's debt had had the desired effect, I thought; Ambrosian was prepared to take me seriously. It would have been a different matter had he suddenly accepted the proposal. The last thing I wanted was to spend money on a machine that might well be useless. If that was the case, he could keep it. But if it did work, he would keep it. Should the trials be a success, he would certainly refuse to put in any more money, call in the debt and take full possession of the patent. Macintyre would have nothing more to do with it, except, perhaps, as an employee, a declared bankrupt who would have to work for whatever pittance he was paid.

A pity the machine wasn't a complete disaster, I thought. That would not be good for Macintyre, but at least he would have the pleasure of realising that Ambrosian had lost its money as well. Small compensation, and I didn't think it would give him much joy. Only financiers think like that. But . . .

It made me think though, and as I walked across the Piazza San Marco, I ran through all the possibilities in my mind.

I stopped, and smiled happily at a group of urchins throwing stones at a washing line, seeing if they could knock a sparrow off it. That was it, of course. The only problem was how to organise it.

CHAPTER 12

Anyone reading this might be surprised that I was not more concerned at Ambrosian's assertion that Macintyre was some sort of crook. Often enough such characteristics are something of an impediment to good business. But not always, and not if the scoundrel is in no position to do you harm. I had not the slightest intention of giving Macintyre any money in a manner I could not control. He could not abscond with what he did not have. Besides, such people can be useful, if they are working for you, rather than against you. The past life of Xanthos, for example, is not something I would wish to know too much about – although when he came knocking at my door I did discover that it would be unwise ever to send him anywhere controlled by the Sultan, as it would be a long time before he was let out of gaol. But now his devious skills are employed to my advantage, and he has been a good and loyal employee, up until recently.

So Ambrosian's beliefs about Macintyre did not worry me much. But it would be wrong to say I was not intrigued, and I was impatient that my dear friend Cardano, to whom I had written some time previously, had not yet replied. Until he did, there was very little I could do. I could find old newspapers in Venice, some basic reference books, but little more; the sort of information I required could only be found in the dining rooms and board rooms of the City of London, and then it would be available only to those who knew how to ask.