Die Rich Die Happy

earth where East met West, lord of a quarter and a half quarter of the Roman Empire; a city of fantastic wealth, beauty, power, and cruelty. Craig squeezed past Titian's Young Man with a Glove, nodded at Swyven, a half- convincing Lord Byron, and went to his cabin.

He was a corsair—baggy trousers, soft leather boots, white shirt, black velvet waistcoat, and a scarlet handkerchief for his head. There was a red sash too, stuck with plastic imitations of daggers, cutlasses, yataghans, and pistols. Craig added his new Smith and Wesson and the German's knife to the collection. They looked at home there. Someone knocked on the door, and he pushed the pistol down into the sash. The door opened, and Andrews came in and handed Craig a radiogram.

'From your broker,' he said.

Magna Electrics and Marine Foods had jumped, but Railton Plastics was sluggish. So far Craig had made ? 2,000. Beneath the stock-market quotations Andrews had written: Tavel—negative. Busoni—negative. Swyven believed to be business partner of Trottia. Important nothing happens to Naxos. Stay sober. Loomis.

'That's all?' said Craig.

Andrews said: 'I dare say you'll get more news later.' He turned to the door, then added: 'Oh, by the way, sir, I'm going to this shindig tonight too.'

Craig said carefully: 'I shan't try to reach my broker tonight anyway.'

'Cigarette, sir?' Andrews asked.

'No,' said Craig. 'You try one of these.' He eased the Smith and Wesson up from the sash.

Andrews left, and Craig went to see Naxos.

He was dressed as a Turkish pasha, and he looked like a toad in a turban, a toad with the thrust of a jet. Beside him was the queen of the harem, an olive-skinned, black-haired beauty in filmy pantaloons, slave bangles on wrists and ankles, a velvet jacket, gold lam6 breast coverings, gold necklace, and a velvet cap, gold-trimmed. A muslin veil hid her face but not her body. Craig looked round for Philippa, and the olive-skinned houri laughed.

I'm still here,' said Philippa, and took off her veil. 'When one's husband feels like a Turk, the best thing to do is feel like a harem.' She snapped her fingers, and lifted her arms above her head; her body began to writhe.

'Flip, for God's sake,' said Harry. His voice was a blast from a foghorn.

Philippa let her arms drop, loosed her muslin veil.

I'm sorry, John,' she said. 'I feel lousy tonight.'

'Give the party a miss then,' Craig said.

'I can't. It's all arranged, you see. I've got to go.'

'It'll do you good, honey,' Naxos said. 'What can we do for you, John?'

Craig looked at the woman, her hands pulling restlessly at her veil, a nerve in her cheek twitching so that her face was never still. She needed a fix. Desperately.

'I haven't got an invitation card,' said Craig.

'Help yourself,' said Naxos, and gestured to a pile of huge, stiff cards.

'Thanks,' said Craig, and turned to Philippa. 'Tour necklace is coming loose,' he said. 'Shall I fix it for you?'

'I'll do it,' said Naxos, and his great body came round his wife's like a wall.

Craig took two invitation cards.

I'll be off then,' he said. 'See you at the ball.'

Grierson was waiting at the piazzetta. He was dressed in red velvet with a velvet mask, a quattrocento Venetian dandy with a rapier by his side. The two men walked along the molo to a point opposite the palazzo, watching the yacht's big tender running a ferry service of stewards and sailors from the ship to the house.

'I like your costume,' said Craig.

'It's terribly me,' said Grierson.

Craig handed him his invitation card. A small crowd' watched respectfully, a gaggle of gondoliers swooped to them like swallows.

'It cost the earth,' Grierson said. 'Every shop in Venice was besieged. Lucky I'm on an expense account.'

He gestured, regally, and the selected gondolier darted forward. His day was made. Craig and Grierson sat, and the boat moved off to the Palazzo Molin, its polished marble and granite brilliant under arc lamps. 'I suppose we should have arrived in the palace gondola,' Grierson said, and adjusted his cloak that was black, slashed with crimson. 'But I don't like ostentation.'

They reached the palazzo landing stage, and sailors in white held the gondola with boathooks as Craig and Grierson stepped ashore. There was a soft 'Aaah!' from the crowd on the molo. The first of the extras had arrived, the curtain would go up soon. Theseus appeared, took their invitation cards, and saluted. The crowd sighed again.

'One can't help feeling ostentatious,' said Grierson.

They went inside, preceded by a sailor Theseus summoned to show them the way. The great hall on the ground floor was a blaze of chandeliers, a hot brilhant light that warmed the cool elegance of the blue walls, the blue and white stuccoed ceiling. At intervals on the walls Craig could see pictures, and Grierson stopped in front of one.

'That's the best copy of a Titian I've ever seen,' he said. 'I wonder who did it?'

'Titian,' said Craig.

'Titian, Veronese, Tiepolo, Longhi, Carpaccio—there's about a quarter of a million quid's worth here,' said Grierson. 'It's fantastic.' But it was more than money, it was power. And vulnerability, too. At one end of the room the band from Rome was tuning up, at the other, stewards were polishing glasses at a bar backed with flowers. Behind the bar a fountain played. It was champagne. Grierson called for a glass, sipped, and shuddered.

'It's Italian,' he said.

'The French champagne's in the other fountain, sir,' said the barman. 'It won't be switched on until Mr. Naxos arrives.'

They went up the great central staircase, massive, magnificent, galleon-like, and on to the second floor, a maze of rooms opening into each other, those looking out on to the Grand Canal shuttered, and all of them glowing like pearls in the light of candles that softened and made tremulous the richness of green brocade, the pink and yellow splendor of marble. They saw a room set up for a main, and fighting cocks clucking in basket cages, a room set for cards, where all the cards were of ivory, rooms for dancing, dueling, making love, and one long, narrow room, where the candles were islands of light on a black canal, and the wooden floor was sanded. Craig turned to Grierson. 'A room for dueling?' Grierson asked.

'What else?' asked a voice.

Craig turned to the door. A fat man stood just inside its frame, a fat man with Titian hair and the face of a cupid by Tiepolo. He was dressed as a cardinal, and held a matching purple mask attached to an ivory shaft.

'You must be Trottia,' said Craig, and walked toward

him.

'Designer in chief, regisseur, director, comptroller of the household,' said the fat man. 'Trottia.' He bowed.

Craig continued toward him, his booted feet almost soundless on the sanded floor, the cutlass trailing behind him. Like a cat, Trottia thought. A deadly grace, an elegant cruelty. Precise and feline and terrible. When he kills he will move like a dancer. Yet the one he strikes will still be dead.

I'm Craig—in charge of security. This is Grierson. He's helping me.'

'Splendid,' said Trottia. 'I'd better explain the entertainment.'

As he talked, his self-confidence returned. Venice would see nothing like it, ever again. In the great hall the dancing, where ex-kings, film stars, noblemen, matadors, racing motorists, opera singers, detergent manufacturers, boxers, thousand-dollar call girls, ski champions, brewers, the members of seven governments, five armies, and nine oil companies would twist, shout, cha-cha, locomotive, and glide. And above, the happenings, the animated paintings with actors taking the part of Titian's figures, the scenes from Venetian life, the Galluppi toccatas with a concert harpsichord player improvising to order, the gambling, the flirtations, the duel.

'The what?' asked Grierson.

'The duel,' said Trottia. 'Two Olympic swordsmen —it's all on the program. You have a program?'