The Thief Lord

"These things are definitely worth much more," Prosper insisted.

Scipio turned around and just said, "Probably." He looked quite scary again, with the long black bird nose. The naked lights cast his shadow massively on the movie theater's walls. "See you!" he said. He turned once more before vanishing through the musty curtain. "Do we need a new code word?"

"No!" The answer came very quickly and in perfect harmony.

"Fine. Oh yes, Bo," -- Scipio turned around again -- "there's a cardboard box behind the curtain. There are two little kittens in there. Someone wanted to drown them in the canal. Look after them, will you? Good night, everybody."

5 Barbarossa

The shop where so much of the Thief Lord's loot had been turned into money lay in a small alley not far from the Basilica San Marco. Next door to it was a pasticceria with pastries and cakes of all shapes and sizes in its windows.

"Come on," Prosper grumbled at Riccio, who was pressing his nose against the shop window. Reluctantly, Riccio let himself be dragged away, his head still swimming with the scent of sweet almonds.

Barbarossa's shop didn't exactly smell as nice. From the outside it didn't look any different from all the other junk shops in Venice. The glass front was painted with ornate letters: ERNESTO BARBAROSSA -- RECORDI DI VENEZIA, Souvenirs of Venice. In the window itself, there were vases and candlesticks, surrounded by little gondolas and glass insects, laid out on threadbare velvet drapes. Thin china plates were crammed next to piles of old books, and pictures in tarnished silver frames lay next to cheap paper masks. Barbarossa stocked whatever anyone could desire. And if something particular wasn't on show, then the redbeard would get hold of it -- by crooked means if necessary.

Dozens of glass bells chimed above his head as Prosper opened the shop door. Inside, a few tourists stood among the crammed shelves, whispering as solemnly as if they were in a church. They seemed awed, either by the chandeliers that hung from the dark ceiling, or by the countless candles that burned everywhere in their heavy holders.

With bowed heads, Prosper and Riccio pushed past the tourists. A man was holding a statuette that Mosca had sold to the redbeard two weeks before. When Prosper saw the price tag underneath its plinth, he nearly knocked over a large statue in the center of the shop.

"Do you remember how much Barbarossa paid us for that figure there?" he whispered to Riccio.

"No. You know I can't remember numbers."

"Well, that number has now got two more zeros on the end of it," Prosper whispered. "Not a bad deal for the redbeard, is it?"

He stepped up to the counter and rang the bell next to the register. Riccio made faces at the masked lady smiling down at them from a large painting on the wall. This was his regular joke, for behind the lady's mask was a peephole through which Barbarossa kept an eye on his customers.

A few seconds later the beaded curtain behind the counter tinkled into life and Ernesto Barbarossa appeared in person. The redbeard was a very fat man but Prosper was always amazed at how nimbly he could move through his crammed shop.

"I hope you brought some decent goods this time," the man murmured disdainfully, but the boys noticed how he stared at the bag in Prosper's hands, like a hungry cat eyeing up a fat, juicy mouse.

"I think you'll be interested," Prosper answered. Riccio said nothing. He was staring at Barbarossa's ginger beard as if he expected something to crawl out of it at any moment.

"What are you looking at, you little ferret?" the redbeard cursed.

"Oh, I, I --" Riccio began to stutter "-- I was just wondering whether it was real. The color, I mean."

"Of course it's real! Are you saying I dye my beard?" Barbarossa growled at him. "You gnomes get some strange ideas." He stroked his beard with his fat, ringed ringers. Then he nodded discreetly in the direction of the couple of tourists that were still standing by the shelves, whispering to each other. "I'll get rid of them as quickly as possible," he muttered. "Go ahead into my office -- and don't even think of touching anything! Clear?"

Prosper and Riccio nodded. Then they disappeared behind the beaded curtain.

Barbarossa's office looked completely different from his shop. Here there were no chandeliers, no candles, or glass insects. The windowless room was lit by a neon light and was completely bare, except for a big desk with a massive leather armchair behind it, two guest chairs, and a few high shelves stuffed with meticulously labeled boxes. A poster from the Museo di Accademia hung on the white wall behind the desk.

There was also an upholstered bench, placed underneath Barbarossa's peephole. Riccio climbed onto it and peered into the shop. "You've got to see this, Prop," he whispered. "The redbeard is purring around those tourists like a fat tomcat. I don't think anyone has ever escaped his shop without buying something."

"Or without paying far too much for it." Prosper placed the bag with Scipio's loot on one of the chairs and looked around.

"He definitely dyes it," Riccio murmured without taking his eye from the peephole. "I've bet Hornet three comics that he does."

Barbarossa's head was as bald as a glitter ball. His beard, however, grew thick and frizzy and was the color of fox fur. "I think there's a bathroom behind that door," whispered Riccio. "Have a look and see if he's got any hair dye in there!"

"If I have to." Prosper crossed to the narrow passage and put his head around another door. "Wow! There's more marble here than in the Doge's Palace," Riccio heard him say. "This is just about the classiest bathroom I've ever seen."

Riccio pressed his eye against the peep hole. "Prosper, get out of there," he called under his breath, "The redbeard is finished with the customers -- and he's locking the door!"

"He dyes it, Riccio!" Prosper called. "The bottle's right here, next to his smelly aftershave. Eurghh, that stinks! Should I dye a bit of toilet paper as evidence?"

"No! Get out of there!" Riccio jumped off the bench. "Quick, he's coming back, darn it!"

The beaded curtain announced Barbarossa as he entered the office.

Prosper and Riccio were sitting in front of his desk, wearing their most innocent faces.

"I'm going to have to deduct the money for a glass beetle," the burly redbeard announced as he let himself fall into his vast armchair. "Your little brother," he gave Prosper a disapproving look, "broke it last time."

"He did not," Prosper protested.

"Oh yes he did," Barbarossa replied without looking at him. He took a pair of glasses from his drawer. "So, what have you got for me today? I hope it's not just fake gold and inferior silver spoons."

With a stony face, Prosper emptied his bag onto the desk. Barbarossa leaned forward. He took the sugar tongs, the medallions, and the magnifying glass, one by one, and turned them in his pudgy fingers. He inspected them from every angle, the boys watching him closely. His face showed nothing. He picked each item up, put it back down, and picked it up again, then pushed it aside, looked at it again -- until the boys were scraping their feet impatiently on the floor.

Finally, Barbarossa leaned back with a sigh and put his glasses on the desk. He stroked his beard as if he were stroking the fur of a small animal.