The Good Thief's Guide to Venice Read Online Free PDF

It was only the previous night that her sleep had been interrupted by the break-in. On top of that, she was due to stay with me for at least another week, so perhaps she was hoping to read my novel at a leisurely pace, to enjoy it all the more.
    But alas, I’m not normal – I’m a paranoid writer – and by the time I’d dressed in dark clothes, freed my trusty burglary tools from inside the lining of my suitcase and stuffed my faithful map into my pocket, I’d convinced myself that there was only one thing to do.
    Sneaking back across the hallway, I crawled on my hands and knees over the thin carpet towards her bed. Her snoring had become fainter, and there appeared to be a longer pause between breaths. I cautiously raised my head, freed the top page of the manuscript from the pile and lowered it to the floor. I checked on Victoria, and once I was certain that she hadn’t stirred, I flashed the beam of my penlight.
    Now, speaking as a thief, I can tell you that there are some things you simply don’t lose, no matter how rusty you might be, and it’s a testament to my composure that I didn’t gasp loudly or swear and give myself away. Because the sad discovery I’d made, and the troubling fact that stuck with me as I slipped out of my apartment and trudged through the sombre alleys and abandoned campi to Calle Fiubera, was that Victoria had stopped reading my book midway through chapter four.
    Even when I’m on my game, this burglary lark is a risky business, and it had been a long time since I’d last applied my skills. Talk about barriers. I could have sworn I had enough to be going on with, and that was before I clocked the metal grilles that had been pulled down in front of the darkened exterior of the bookbinding business.
    I paused and pretended to tie my shoe. I couldn’t see anyone in the darkness surrounding me. Further up the alley was an osteria that had long since been closed for the night, as well as a number of shops protected by metal shutters and several layers of graffiti. The only nearby light came from the safety lamps that had been fixed to scaffolding poles outside a boarded-up building undergoing renovation. In short, the coast appeared to be clear, and so I gave the grille a good shake. It creaked and rattled, but it was securely fastened to the ground with three industrial padlocks.
    I considered the other obstacles in my way. There didn’t appear to be an alarm, thank goodness, because although I knew how to bypass all but the most complex of systems, I wouldn’t have relished the prospect of poking around in any of the dodgy Italian wiring snaking across the exterior of the shop. Aside from the padlocks, I could spy a modest collection of locks and bolts on the front door itself. And that, so far as I could tell, appeared to be it.
    Satisfied with my assessment, I took a stroll to the end of the alley and stuck my head out into Calledei Fabbri, just to make sure that nobody was likely to interrupt me. It was just as well I did. The tunnel-like space had appeared empty at first glance, but as I turned, I glimpsed a hunched figure leaning against the doorway of an unlit restaurant.
    I couldn’t remember seeing the man when I’d approached the shop, and I doubted very much that I would have forgotten him if I had. He was very large, almost bear-shaped, and he was dressed in a scruffy camel-hair coat that must have made quite a dent in some unfortunate herd, and that fitted him the way a mess tent fits an army unit. A pair of black suit trousers extended below the hem of his coat to hover disconcertingly above his polished black brogues, revealing a slither of white ankle sock. A tatty black fedora was plonked on top of his sizeable head, among a mass of knotted black curls, shading his eyes. What I could see of the face was mostly beard – a thick, tangled number that obscured his jawline and ringed his open mouth. Coiled about his feet was a mangy-looking cat.
    For a moment, I was too