"When were we supposed to collect the Conte's reply from Barbarossa?" Prosper asked as they hurried back into the movie theater, shivering. "The day after we sent our message? She can't be flying far then."
"Pigeons can fly hundreds of miles in one day," Scipio answered. "This evening she could easily be in Paris or London." When he noticed Hornet looking at him with irritation, he quickly added, "I read that somewhere." This wasn't his usual arrogant tone. Today he sounded timid and almost apologetic.
"The Conte's not very likely to live in Paris," Riccio said scornfully. "But who cares? The pigeon is on its way and you'd better go home now."
Scipio gave a start. He cast a pleading look at Prosper, who avoided his eyes. Prosper had not forgotten how Scipio acted when the others had been waiting in front of his grand house. Maybe Scipio guessed his thoughts because he turned away again. He didn't seem sure where else he could look for help. Bo pretended he hadn't noticed the tense atmosphere and carried on feeding his kittens.
Hornet bowed her head. "Riccio is right, Scip," she said. "You have to go back. We can't afford to have your father turning the whole city upside down because his son has run away. I mean, how long would it take him to think of his old movie theater? He'd get half the police force of Venice out here in no time. We're in enough trouble as it is."
Scipio's face froze. Prosper could see the old Scipio returning, the stubborn, arrogant Scipio who would fight to get his way. "I see," he said. "You're not going to throw out Prosper and Bo, even though it's completely their fault the detective came sneaking around here in the first place. But I -- I'm not allowed to stay. I showed you this place. I gave you money and warm clothes. I even brought you the mattresses -- and I nearly drowned in Mosca's rotten boat doing it. When it got cold, I brought you blankets and heaters. Do you think it was easy to steal all those things from my parents?"
"Of course it was easy." Mosca gave Scipio a look of utter contempt. "They probably suspected the maid, or the cook, or another of your thousands of servants."
Scipio didn't answer that. He just turned bright red.
"Bingo!" Riccio exclaimed. "Got it in one."
"Do you mean they suspected someone else?" Hornet asked Scipio in astonishment.
Scipio buttoned his jacket right up to his neck. "My nanny."
"And? Did you at least defend her?"
"How?" Scipio returned Hornet's angry glance. "You don't know my father. If he ever caught me stealing just a single one of his cufflinks, he'd make me walk around with a big sign around my neck saying: I'm a rotten little thief!"
Bo, despite his efforts not to listen to them, had heard it all. "Did they lock her up? Like, in a real prison?"
"Of course not!" Scipio shrugged. "They couldn't prove anything. She was fired, that's all. If I hadn't taken those darn sugar tongs, they would never have noticed it. I took most of the stuff from rooms that are never used anyway. So now I don't have a nanny anymore." The others looked at Scipio as if he had snakes growing out of his head.
"Jeez, Scip!" Mosca muttered.
"I only did it for you!" Scipio shouted. "Have you forgotten how you used to live before I looked after you?"
"Get lost!" Riccio shouted back at him. He gave Scipio a fierce shove in the chest. "We can do without you. We want nothing to do with you. We should never have let you back in here again."
"You shouldn't have let me in here?" Scipio was now yelling so loudly that Bo put his hands over his ears. "Who do you think you are? All this belongs to my father!"
"Oh, sure!" Riccio yelled back. "Why don't you tell him about us then, you little toad?"
Scipio went for him. The two of them got so entangled that Hornet and Prosper needed Mosca's help to separate them.
When Bo saw that Riccio's nose was bleeding, he let out such an anguished sob that the others turned to comfort him.
Hornet was there first. She wrapped her arms around Bo and gently stroked his hair, which was already growing blonde at the roots. "Go home, Scip," she said sadly. "We'll let you know when we're meeting the Conte. Perhaps we'll have a message by tomorrow afternoon. One of us will go to Barbarossa right after breakfast."
"You what?" Riccio pushed Mosca away just as he was trying to wipe the blood from his face. "You want to tell Scipio? Why?"
"Stop it, Riccio!" Prosper interrupted angrily. "I've seen Scipio's father. You wouldn't dare to steal even a single spoon off him, let alone tell him about it."
Riccio just sniffed and pressed the back of his hand against his nose.
Scipio mumbled, "Thanks, Prop." His cheeks were striped raw from Riccio's fingernails. "And you will let me know, right?"
Prosper nodded.
But Scipio still hesitated. "The detective..."
"...has escaped," Mosca finished.
"We have his word of honor that he won't tell on us," Bo said.
Scipio shrugged. "If you say so." He walked slowly past the rows of red chairs, running his fingers along the red velvet and looking intently at the embroidered stars on the curtain. He walked very slowly, as if he was waiting for the others to call him back. But nobody did, not even Bo.
He's scared, Prosper thought as he looked after Scipio. Scared to go home.
29 Another Visit
Barbarossa's shop was empty when Prosper pushed open its door the next morning. The bells above the door jangled madly and Bo, fascinated, stopped in the doorway to stare at them. Hornet pulled him into the shop. It had grown very cold overnight.
"Signor Barbarossa?" Hornet called, looking closely at the painting above the counter. She also knew all about the red-beard's peephole.
"Si, si, pazienza! Patience!" they heard him call in a bad-tempered voice.
Barbarossa poked his head through the curtain in front of his office door. His eyes were bloodshot and he was blowing his nose into a huge handkerchief. "Oh, you brought the little one. Take care he doesn't break anything. What have you done to his angel hair?"
With an impatient gesture he waved the children into his office.
"Winter! What the heck is winter doing here already? Has the whole world gone crazy?" he muttered as he dragged himself back to his desk. "This city's already hard to bear in the summer, but the winter can bring even the healthiest man to the verge of his grave. But I forget who I'm talking to. You wouldn't understand. Children don't feel the chill. They skip around in the puddles and don't even get a cold." Barbarossa slumped into his chair with the sigh of a mortally ill man. "Sore throat, headache, a constantly runny nose!" he moaned. "I feel like a human faucet." He wrapped his scarf even tighter around his fat neck and peered at his visitors over his handkerchief. "No bag, no backpack? Is the Thief Lord's loot today small enough for your pockets?"
Bo reached out his hand and touched a small tin drummer on Barbarossa's desk.
"Get your sticky hands off, that's valuable," the redbeard barked, tossing a cough drop at Bo.
"We're not here to sell anything," Hornet said. "The Conte said he would leave a letter for us with you." Bo had unwrapped the cough drop and was sniffing it suspiciously.
