The Venetian Venture by Suzette A. Hill

Horace. The book was the
sine qua non
. And if Lucia was wrong about the location of the vase (as she probably was) then at least the book held some value of its own. His acquisition of it would impress Sir Fenton and thus be likely to secure further commissions – and of course it would get him that rather exquisite suit (and maybe others.) Yes, first things first: find the book and then see.
    Edward opened his eyes, and gazing at the ceiling in fact began to see quite a lot. Spread out above him lay a vista of possibility: all the stuff of leisured wealth, e.g. yachts, girls, exotic beaches, a permanently reserved table at the Ritz, weekly flights to the Riviera, dining with film stars and Prince Rainier, a team of Maseratis, the whole of Savile Row fighting for his custom and fawning over his lapels, a cellar of cognac, a larder of caviar … and the prospectof never having to chat up old prunes like Fenton Bodger again! And as for Lucia, well she could be told to stuff her economy-class charity – a million quid would probably get him a share in a private plane!
    It was a happy reverie. But Edward was fly enough to recognise the dangers of such daydreams. Despite what Lucia had said about the location of the vase, the chances of laying hands on both objects were negligible. Nevertheless he had stirred his own imagination, and the idea of the tawdry vase grew more insistent. But it was an insistency tempered by his grandfather’s words: ‘Never succumb to fantasy; you’ll be a fool and miss all the best chances.’ Ironic that one who made his living from the artistic fantasies of others should preach such pragmatism. Still, he was probably right, sniffy old sod. (His grandfather’s success was a perennial source of annoyance to Edward. As far as he could make out the man possessed few discernible talents – except to direct and correct the activities of others, a skill he exercised with tireless persistence: his forte one could say.) Edward scowled, and pushing the vase to the back of his mind returned to the task in hand.
    What was it Lucia had been saying about those two English chaps she and Guy had met recently? Apparently they were staying in the same place as Guy himself, old Violet Hoffman’s palazzo … And yes, that was it: they had a friend visiting Venice, some female attached to the British Museum and also looking for the Horace. Huh! Ten-to-one she was the person Bodger had mentioned back in London. He smiled at the memory. The old boy had made it clear he wasn’t expecting much from her – a rather lightweight emissary for such a serious mission! Still, pretty galling ifshe found the thing. After all he hadn’t embarked on this caper to be pipped at the post by a woman, or by anyone for that matter … The Horace was going to be his prize dammit!
     
    In fact Edward did sleep (exhausted by his reveries?), and well rested he went out that evening on sprightly form. The Canellis were always good value. Their supper parties were convivial affairs and this time was no exception. The wife cooked well and the husband had been lavish with the wine. And very good it had been, a vintage Barolo to which Edward had done more than justice. By the time they left, well past midnight, he felt and looked distinctly unsteady. Lucia was unsympathetic. ‘I suggest you take a long walk before coming back to the flat. I don’t want you throwing up over my new rug, you can do that in one of the canals.’
    ‘I have no intention of throwing up anywhere,’ he had told her angrily.
    ‘You said that last time,’ she retorted, ‘one can’t take the risk. Don’t worry about me, Maria and Pietro are going in our direction, I’ll walk back with them … Oh and by the way, try not to bang the door when you come in.’
    Worry? he fumed after Lucia had gone. Why the hell should she think he would worry? God that girl could be so selfish! He sighed and lit a cigarette, but after a few puffs threw it down. Actually he did