"Come on, you know I don't steal -- not if I can help it." Prosper put his hand into his jacket and, relieved, pulled it out again. Barbarossa's money was still there.
"Yeah, I know." Riccio frowned. Then he lowered his voice. "Is it one of those child-slave traders?"
Prosper looked shocked. "No. Don't be silly. It's really not that bad." He stared back at a gargoyle that was eyeing him from a stone archway. "I think my aunt Esther is looking for us. She's my mom's sister. She's got loads of money and no children. When my mom died, she wanted to adopt Bo. They were going to send me to a boarding school. So we ran away. What was I supposed to do? He's my little brother." Prosper stopped. "Do you think Esther ever asked Bo whether he wanted her to be his new mom? He can't stand her. He says she smells like paint. And," he smiled, "that she looks like one of those china dolls she collects."
He bent down and picked up a plastic fan from a doorstep. The handle was gone, but Bo wouldn't mind that.
"Bo thinks I can take care of everything," he said, stuffing his find into his pocket. "But if Hornet hadn't found us..."
"Come on, stop worrying about the snoop!" Riccio pulled him along. "He won't find you again. Simple: We'll dye Bo's angel hair black and we'll paint your face so you look like Mosca's twin brother."
Prosper laughed. Riccio could always make him laugh, even if he didn't feel like it. "Do you sometimes wish you were grown-up?" he asked as they crossed a bridge and looked down at its hazy reflection on the water.
Riccio shook his head with astonishment. "No. Why? It's great being young. You don't stand out so much and your stomach fills up more quickly. You know what Scipio always says?" He jumped from the bridge onto the street. "Children are caterpillars and adults are butterflies. No butterfly ever remembers what it felt like being a caterpillar."
"Probably not," Prosper sighed.
"Don't tell Bo anything about the detective, OK?"
Riccio nodded.
7 Bad Luck for Victor
Once Victor realized that Prosper had gotten away, he kicked the nearest wooden post he could find, sprained his foot -- and then hobbled home.
He kept muttering to himself most of the way. People turned their heads, but Victor didn't notice. "Like a lousy amateur," he grunted. "You just let that boy shake you off like a stupid amateur. And who was the other one? Too big to be his little brother. Darn it, darn it, and darn it again! The boy stumbles right into your arms and you let him get away. Stupid idiot!" He kicked an empty cigarette packet with his sprained foot and his face twisted up in pain. "Your own stupid fault," he growled. "Yes, you've only got yourself to blame. No decent detective chases after children. You could pay for tortoise feed even without this blasted job."
Victor's foot was still hurting badly when he opened his front door. "Well, at least now I know they're here," he grumbled as he limped up the stairs. "And if the big one's here, then the small one will be too, that's for sure."
Once in his apartment, he pulled off his shoes and staggered on to the balcony to feed his tortoises. His office still smelled of Esther Hartlieb's hairspray. Phew, he just couldn't get that smell out of his nose.
The boys haunted him day and night. He shouldn't have put their picture up on the wall -- they were always looking at him. Where did they sleep at night? It was already getting quite cold in the evenings, as soon as the sun vanished behind the houses. And because it had rained so much the previous winter the city had flooded a dozen times. Still, Venice had lots of nooks and crannies, like an old rabbit warren. There was always some dry place for two children. Some abandoned house. Or one of the many churches. Not all of them were swarming with tourists.
"I'm going to find them," Victor swore. "Simple as that!"
Once his tortoises were fed, he stuffed himself with mounds of spaghetti and fried sausages. Then he applied some ointment to his aching foot and sat down at his desk to do some of the paperwork that had piled up. After all, he still had other jobs apart from searching for those boys.
Perhaps I should sit on the Piazza San Marco more often over the next few days, Victor thought, drink some coffee, feed the pigeons, and wait for them to turn up. Everyone in Venice comes to St. Mark's Square at least once a day. Why shouldn't that also be true for runaway children?"
8 Scipio's Answer
When Prosper and Riccio finally returned to the Star-Palace, Bo immediately came rushing to greet them and so, for the time being, they did not tell the others about the detective who had delayed them. But the long wait was quickly forgotten anyway, when Prosper pulled the money from his jacket that he had wangled out of the redbeard. They sat around him, lost for words, while Riccio, who passed around the remaining pastries, recounted in great detail how Prosper had coolly held his own against Barbarossa.
"And anyway," Riccio declared as he came to the end, "the fat liar does dye his beard after all. So I get three brand-new comics from you, Hornet -- you haven't forgotten our bet, have you?"
About two hours after Prosper and Riccio's return the bell at the entrance rang and the Thief Lord was at the front door, just as he had promised. And, for once, he had arrived before the moon was already high above the roofs of the city. Of course Mosca opened the door without asking for the password and earned himself a terrible telling off. But when Bo came running excitedly toward him, Barbarossa's wad of money in his hands, even Scipio was silenced. He took the money with an amazed expression and counted every single note.
"Well, what do you say to that? You look as if you've seen a ghost," Mosca teased. "Now you can tell Hornet to buy some paint for my boat!"
"Your boat? Sure, sure, of course." Scipio nodded absentmindedly before turning to Prosper and Riccio. "Was there anything Barbarossa liked especially?"
"Yes, he was really taken by the sugar tongs," Riccio answered. "He said you should bring him things like that more often."
Scipio frowned. "The sugar tongs," he murmured, "yes, they were probably quite valuable." He shook his head as if he wanted to get rid of a troublesome thought. "Riccio," he said, "go and buy some olives and spicy sausage. We've got to celebrate. I haven't much time, so hurry."
Riccio quickly stuffed two of Barbarossa's bills into his pocket and dashed off. When he came back with a plastic bag full of olives, bread, pepper-red salami, and a bag of mandorlati, the chocolates wrapped in colorful paper that Scipio liked so much, the others had already spread the cushions and blankets in front of the curtain. Bo and Hornet had gathered all the candles they could find and their flickering light filled the movie theater with dancing shadows.
"Here's to a few carefree months!" Hornet said once they had all gathered in a circle. She poured grape juice into the red goblets Scipio had brought back from one of his previous raids. Then she raised her glass to Prosper. "And here's to you, because you got the redbeard to part with all that money -- it usually sticks to his fat fingers like chewing gum."
Riccio and Mosca also raised their glasses. Prosper didn't know where to look. Bo, however, leaned proudly against his big brother and put one of the kittens that Scipio had given him on his knee.
