The Thief Lord

Hornet bent toward Prosper who was leaning against the wall and staring up at the moon. "You don't have to come inside," she whispered. "I'll look after Bo."



"If Bo goes, I go," Prosper answered.



Riccio said a quick prayer and pushed the door open.



They were greeted by all the sounds of a strange house. A clock ticked. A fridge hummed. They crept on, full of curiosity and shame.



"Shut the door!" Mosca called softly.



Hornet let the beam of her light wander across the walls. There was nothing terribly special about Ida Spavento's kitchen. Pots and pans, spice jars, an espresso pot, a large table, a few chairs...



"Should we leave someone here as a guard?" Riccio asked quietly.



"What for?" Hornet opened the door to the hall and listened. "The police aren't going to come over the garden wall. You go first," she whispered to Mosca.



Mosca nodded and slipped through the door.



The door led into a narrow corridor, just as it was on the floor plan. After a few yards they came to a staircase. On the wall next to it hung masks, looking ghostly in the flickering beams of the flashlights. One of the masks looked just like the one Scipio always wore.



The staircase led to another door. Mosca opened it a crack and listened. Then he waved the others into another corridor that was a bit wider than the one on the ground floor. Two lights on the ceiling gave off a dim light. A radiator gurgled somewhere, but otherwise there was complete silence. Mosca put a warning finger to his lips as they passed the stairs that led to the second floor. They all cast worried glances up the narrow stairs.



"Maybe there's nobody at home," Hornet whispered hopefully. The house felt deserted, with all its dark and empty rooms. The first two doors led to a bathroom and a tiny cupboard, Mosca remembered from the floor plan they'd gotten from the Conte.



"Now this is where it gets more interesting," he whispered as they stood in front of the third door. "This should be the living room. Perhaps Ida Spavento has put her wing above the couch." He was just about to reach for the doorknob when someone opened the door from the inside.



Mosca recoiled so quickly that he stumbled into the others. But it wasn't Ida Spavento standing in the open door. It was Scipio.



This was the Scipio they knew. He was wearing the mask and the boots, the black coat and his black leather gloves.



Riccio stared at him in astonishment, but Mosca's face was rigid. "What are you doing here?" he hissed at Scipio.



"What are you doing here?" Scipio spat back. "This is my job."



"Oh, shut up!" Mosca shoved Scipio in the chest. "You lying piece of garbage! You've had a great time, stringing us along, haven't you? The Thief Lord! Well, this may be quite an adventure for you, but we need the money. And that's why we're going to deliver the wing to the Conte. Is it in there?"



Scipio shrugged.



Mosca pushed him roughly aside and disappeared into the room.



"How did you get in here?" Riccio grumbled at Scipio.



"It wasn't hard -- otherwise how would you have done it?" came Scipio's sharp answer. "And I'm telling you: I will give the wing to the Conte. You'll get your share as usual, but now leave!"



"You leave!" Mosca appeared behind him again. "Or we'll tell your father that his fine son likes to creep into other people's houses at night!" His voice had grown so loud that Hornet pushed between them.



"Stop it!" she whispered. "Have you forgotten where we are?"



"You can't take anything to the Conte, Thief Lord," Riccio hissed at Scipio. "You can't even send him a message, because we have the pigeon."



Scipio pressed his lips together. He had completely forgotten about the pigeon.



"Come on," Mosca urged, without looking at Scipio. "Let's keep looking. Prosper, you and I will take the left door and -- Riccio and Hornet -- you take the right."



"And keep out of our way, Thief Lord!" Riccio added.



Scipio didn't answer. He stood there, motionless, and looked after them. Mosca, Riccio, and Hornet had already disappeared behind the doors when Prosper turned back.



"You'd better go home, Scip," he said quietly. "The others are really angry."



"Yeah," Bo mumbled uncertainly, looking nervously at Scipio.



"And you?" Scipio asked. But when Prosper didn't answer immediately, he turned abruptly and ran up the next flight of stairs.



"Look at that!" Mosca pointed as Prosper pushed Bo through the open door. "It says Laboratorio on the plan and I wondered what that was supposed to mean. It's a photographer's dark room!" He admiringly let his flashlight beam wander through the room.



"Scip's gone upstairs," Prosper said.



"What?" Mosca looked surprised. He whirled around as Hornet and Riccio walked through the door.



"The wing's not in the dining room either," Hornet whispered. "How about in here?"



"Scipio's gone upstairs," Mosca told them. "We have to go after him."



"Upstairs?" Riccio ran his fingers through his spiky hair. That's what they had all been afraid of: having to go to the second floor, where the owner of the house might be sleeping in blissful ignorance of her nighttime visitors.



"The wing's got to be upstairs," Mosca whispered.



Suddenly the little room was filled with red light.



The children turned around in surprise. Someone was standing in the doorway: A woman in a thick winter coat, holding a hunting rifle under one arm.



"I do beg your pardon," Signora Ida Spavento said, pointing the gun at Riccio, who was standing closest to her. "I don't quite recall having invited you."



"Please! Please don't shoot," Riccio stuttered. He held up his hands. Bo had already vanished behind Prosper and Hornet.



"Oh, I don't really intend to shoot," Ida Spavento said, "but you will understand that I had to fetch the old gun when I heard you whispering. So, I decide to go out for once, and when I come back what do I find? A gang of little thieves with flashlights, creeping around my house. You should be grateful I didn't call the police."



"Please! Don't call the police!" Hornet whispered. "Please don't."



"Well, perhaps I won't. You don't really look terribly dangerous." Ida Spavento lowered her gun, took a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, and put one between her lips. "Were you after my cameras? You could get those much more easily out there on the streets."



"No, we...didn't want to steal anything valuable, Signora," Hornet said haltingly. "Really, we didn't."



"No? What, then?"



"The w-wing," Riccio stammered, "and it's only m-made of wood." He was still holding up his hands even though the barrel of the gun was pointing down at his feet.



"The wing?" Ida Spavento placed the rifle against the wall.



With a relieved sigh, Riccio put down his hands. Bo now dared to come out from behind Prosper's back.



Ida Spavento looked at him with a frown. "Well, well, here's another one. How old are you? Five? Six?"



"Five," Bo mumbled, looking at her suspiciously.