He went downstairs and climbed into his jeep, then drove to Calvi and boarded the first ferry for Marseille. There, he collected a car Orsati had left for him near the waterfront and set out for Venice.

36

THE ITALIAN PRESS had come alive. There was an avalanche of speculation about which pieces Anna Rolfe would perform. Would she attempt her signature piece, Giuseppe Tartini’s demonic sonata, “The Devil’s Trill?” Surely, the music writers speculated, Miss Rolfe would not try such a difficult composition after being away from the stage for so long.

There were appeals to move the recital to a larger venue. It was scheduled to take place in the upper hall of the Scuola Grande di San Rocco, a room which seated only six hundred, and competition for tickets had deteriorated into something of a scrum among the Venetian well-to-do. Zaccaria Cordoni, the promoter, refused to consider moving the recital, though in an effort to preserve his good standing in Venice he adroitly laid blame at the feet of Anna Rolfe. Miss Rolfe had requested a small venue, he said, and he was a mere prisoner to the demands of the artist. A magazine with Socialist leanings printed a hysterical editorial arguing that once again music had been hijacked by the moneyed classes. It called for demonstrations outside the San Rocco on the night of the concert. Fiona Richardson, Anna Rolfe’s agent and manager, released a statement in London promising that Miss Rolfe’s considerable appearance fee would be donated to the preservation of the scuola and its magnificent artwork. All of Venice breathed a sigh of relief over the gesture, and the controversy receded as gently as the evening tide.

There was also speculation about where Anna Rolfe would stay in Venice. The Gazzettino reported that the Hotel Monaco, the Grand Canal, and the Gritti Palace were locked in a titanic struggle to attract her, while the Nuova Venezia suggested that Miss Rolfe would avoid the distractions of a hotel by accepting an invitation to stay at a privately owned palazzo. As it turned out, neither newspaper was correct, because at midday on a rainy Friday, the day before the performance, Anna and Gabriel arrived by water taxi at the private dock of the Luna Hotel Baglioni, a quiet establishment on the Calle dell’Ascencione, not far from the tourist mayhem of the Piazza San Marco.

Anna appeared briefly at the front desk and was greeted by the hotel’s shining senior staff. She introduced Gabriel as Monsieur Michel Dumont, her friend and personal assistant. As if to reinforce this image, Gabriel made a point of carrying two violins into the lobby. In French-accented English, he reiterated Miss Rolfe’s desire for complete privacy. The chief concierge, a polished man called Signore Brunetti, assured him that Miss Rolfe’s presence in the hotel would be the most closely guarded secret in Venice. Gabriel thanked him warmly and signed the registry.

“Miss Rolfe will be staying in the Giorgione suite on the fifth floor. It’s one of our finest rooms. Your room is right next door. I trust these arrangements are satisfactory?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Allow me to personally escort you and Miss Rolfe to your suite.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Do you require help with your luggage, Monsieur Dumont?”

“No, I can manage, thank you.”

“As you wish,” said Signore Brunetti, and sadly the concierge surrendered the keys.

IN a quiet backwater of the sestieri of Santa Marco stands the tiny establishment of Rossetti amp; Rossetti Fine Jewelry, specializing in antique and one-of-a-kind pieces. Like most Venetian shopkeepers, Signore Rossetti closes his business at one o’clock each afternoon for lunch and reopens at four in time for the evening trade. Well aware of this fact, the Englishman pressed the security buzzer at five minutes till one and waited for Rossetti to open the door.

It was a small shop, no larger than the kitchen in the Englishman’s Corsican villa. Passing through the doorway, he was immediately confronted by a horseshoe-shaped glass display counter. When the door closed behind him and the dead bolt snapped into place, the Englishman had the sensation of being imprisoned in a crystal vault. He unbuttoned his macintosh and placed his briefcase on the scuffed wood floor.

Signore Aldo Rossetti stood motionless as a footman behind the counter, dressed in a neatly pressed double-breasted suit and a banker’s somber tie. A pair of gold-rimmed reading glasses clung to the tip of his regal nose. Behind him was a tall case of deeply varnished wood with shallow drawers and small brass knobs. Judging from Rossetti’s uncompromising stance, the case might have contained secret documents he was sworn to protect at all costs. The deep silence of the room was broken only by the ticking of an antique clock. Rossetti shook the Englishman’s hand sadly, as though his visitor had come to confess unforgivable sins.

“I was about to leave for lunch,” Rossetti said, and at that moment, as if to accentuate his point, the antique clock on the wall behind him tolled one o’clock.

“This won’t take long. I’m here to collect the signet ring for Signore Bull.”

“The signet?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“For Signore Bull?”

“I believe he told you that I was coming.”

Rossetti tilted his head backward and peered at the Englishman as though he were an item of questionable value and provenance. Satisfied, he lowered his head and came round from behind the counter to change the sign in the window from OPEN to CLOSED.

UPSTAIRS was a small private office. Rossetti settled himself behind the desk and invited the Englishman to sit in the little armchair next to the window.

“I received a call a short time ago from a porter at the Luna Hotel Baglioni,” Rossetti said. “The violinist and a friend have just checked in. Do you know the Baglioni?”

The Englishman shook his head.

Like most Venetians, Rossetti kept a map of the city within easy reach, if only to give assistance to a foreign tourist hopelessly lost in its labyrinthine alleys. Rossetti’s looked as though it had been purchased during the rule of the last doge-a dog-eared, tattered affair, with Scotch tape along the splitting seams, so old it had lost all color. He spread it across his desk, smoothing it with both hands, as though it showed the location of buried treasure.

“The Luna Hotel Baglioni is here”-a tap on the map with the tip of his delicate forefinger-“on the Calle dell’Ascencione, a few steps from the San Marco vaporetto stop. The Calle dell’Ascencione is very narrow, no bigger than this street. There’s a private dock in the Rio della Zecca. It will be impossible for you to watch the front and the back of the hotel on your own.”

The Englishman leaned over the map for a closer look. “You have a suggestion?”

“Perhaps I can use my resources to keep watch on the violinist. If she moves, I can alert you.”

“You have someone inside the hotel?”

Rossetti lifted an eyebrow and dipped his head, a neutral gesture, neither in the affirmative or the negative, which said he wished to discuss the matter no further.

“I assume there will be an additional fee for this service?”

“For Don Orsati? It will be my pleasure.”

“Tell me how it would work.”

“There are places you can wait around the hotel without drawing attention to yourself. The Piazza San Marco, of course. The cafés along the Calle Marzo. The Fontamenta delle Farine overlooking the canal.” Rossetti noted each location with an amiable tap on the map. “I assume you have a mobile telephone?”

The Englishman tapped his coat pocket.

“Give me the number and stay close to the hotel. When they move, someone will telephone you.”