The Bellini Card (24 page)

“I’m in the hands of Fate, Alfredo.”

“You might be in the hands of the police, signore, unless we move quickly.”

Palewski raised an eyebrow.

“The brother—he’s not as crazy as he seemed,” Alfredo went on. “He took a bullet in the shoulder and I think it sobered him up. In fact, we owe everything to him, as it turns out. He tells the police that it was an accident, no one else involved.”

“And they believe that?”

Alfredo shrugged. “For the moment yes, why not? Come, let’s walk. The band is about to play.”

The arcade was growing more crowded by the minute: patriotic Venetians were sweeping from the piazza to avoid the appearance of enjoying the Austrian band.

They crossed beneath the Procuratie.

“Why did he want to mislead the police?”

“The Venetians have no love for them, signore. And a family like this—they try to solve their own problems.”

“What are they called, this family?”

“Please, Signor Brett, I am not at liberty to say.”

“After all we’ve been through, I’d have thought …” He trailed off. “I was at the palazzo this morning. There’s no old family there.”

“This morning? Why? Whom did you speak to?”

“An old lady. She told me the whole story of the place. She didn’t say a word about last night.”

Alfredo blew out his lips. “The owner of the painting wants to be discreet. If he invited us to his own palazzo, you would soon know his name.”

“But you were saying to me—”

“Signor Brett, if a client wishes to be discreet, I am discreet also. You cannot expect less.”

“Then—why was the brother there, too?”

Alfredo stopped and turned to face Palewski. “Signore. I will answer these questions, which have very simple answers. And then we must go on; there is not much time. Maybe in America, a man may also have a mistress? Good. So in Venice, it is normal. He cannot bring that woman to his house so he takes a little
casino
—a room in another’s house—where they can go for their enjoyment. It is very discreet. No one will talk about it, not even an old lady. But maybe she knows nothing about it herself.”

“But the shot?”

“You are not a Venetian, Signor Brett: you ask too many questions. What happens between a man and his mistress is of no consequence to anyone. A shot? Broken china? The crack of a whip? Do you understand what I am saying?”

He turned and walked on. “Enough. What is important for us is the brother. He does not know who you are, although he could probably recognize us both. So it is important that he should not see us, for obvious reasons. I would not particularly suggest eating at Florian, signore.”

“But he’s made no charge, you said?”

“It remains a possibility. A threat, if you like.”

“The whole thing’s a mess,” Palewski said moodily.

“No. What happened last night looks unfortunate, to say the least, but also in a way I think it has been of benefit. A letting of blood, to relieve pressure, no? There is still a good chance, for you. The brother has spoken to our client. He will not object to the sale, but he wants his share.”

“His share,” Palewski muttered. “Last night he acted as if he couldn’t live without Bellini.”

“There is compensation for everything.”

“Compensation?”

“It means, unfortunately, that the price has risen.”

“Oh,” Palewski said. “I’m to pay him his share, is that it?”

“Not completely. My patron has discussed this with them both and persuaded them to be moderate. Now the client has agreed to lower his price, for the sake of peace. Seven thousand, this is their last price. But you have seen the picture. You know what it is worth.”

“I’ve seen a man shot over it, yes.”

Alfredo gave a rare, dry smile. “As authentication, signore, it’s pretty conclusive. Do you agree?”

“Very well.”

“I have taken some measures to help you, signore. There is a sailing to Trieste this evening. Tomorrow, at twelve, having visited your bankers, you can return. You will be here for a second sailing tomorrow evening—to Corfu. From Corfu you can choose any destination you like—but not, I think, Venice or Trieste.”

“Why doesn’t someone simply accompany me to Trieste, with the painting? Then I can leave directly, from a major port.”

“A very good question, Signor Brett. The brothers do not trust each other farther than they can spit. The only solution is for them both to receive the money together when the painting changes hands—and then, signore, to see that you have actually left the city.”

“They want me waving from the poop, with the Bellini in my other hand?”

“Please, Signor Brett. No jokes. Return to your apartment. I will call for you at five and see you to the Trieste boat.”

“Do something for me, would you? There’s a cicerone, Ruggerio, sitting now at Florian. Small fellow, spectacles, sixty-odd. He expects a good lunch—will you give him this, with my compliments, and ask him to look in this afternoon?”

“Ruggerio. Spectacles? Very well, signore.”

He took the banknote, and they shook hands.
Arrivederci!”

“H
A
! Maria Contarini!
La duchessa
herself! A very fine time to be coming home, to be sure—and your father out worrying himself into the grave, with not a soul to help your mother look after your poor brothers and sisters!”

“Mama, I—”

“Look at the state of you!” Signora Contarini hissed. She grabbed the girl’s arm and hustled her into the tumbledown shack, banging the door. A dozen pairs of eyes had seen her daughter come home.

“That beautiful dress—it’s a rag!
Madonna
—if I didn’t have more work than the good Lord sends hours I’d be dead of worry, Maria Contarini! Where are your shoes? What happened to your dress?”

She glanced at Maria’s swollen face, and her hand went to her mouth. “My God, my God, what has he done to you?”

Her powerful arms swept the girl to her bosom.

“Maria,
ragazza mia!”
She flung her daughter back, at arm’s length, to see her better.
“Ti prego!”
Her voice dropped an octave. “If I find the man who has done this to you I will tear him apart with my bare hands—I, who bore you, my little one!”

She hugged Maria again, then thrust her away to inspect her ruined clothes, her pale, bruised face, and the welts on her wrists.

Finally
la signora
enveloped Maria in a damp embrace.

“I am going to buy meat,” she declared grandly, stroking Maria’s black hair.

“Mamma, please. The man outside—”

“The scarecrow. Did he do this to you?”

“No, mamma. He got me out. Please!”

Maria went to the door.

“What are you all staring at?” she shouted. The courtyard was full of folded arms. Above those arms, dozens of curious eyes.

But the man who had brought her back was nowhere to be seen.

“Did you see him? Did you see him go?”

A woman spat. “He left,” she said grimly. “You do look a sight.”

Maria cast a wild look around the courtyard and went back in, slamming the door.

Finally, standing in the smoke-stained den that served them for a kitchen, her chin wobbled and she burst into tears.

“Mia poverina,”
her mother cooed, putting on her bonnet and gathering the girl into her arms all at once. “Don’t mind them. You just sit right here, and your brother will look after you. Aurelio!”

The shambling figure of a young man broke from the shadows around the fireplace.

Signora Contarini nodded and sailed out with her nose in the air.

Like most Venetians, the signora did not hold with eating much fish, which could be bought in profusion, very cheap; her family ate it only when the church made it an obligation. In general she fed them a diet of onion, garlic, green leaves, and polenta; a few mushrooms, in season, a little risotto, and the occasional slice of pancetta might also make an appearance in her kitchen.

To buy meat she walked as far as the Rialto and spent a long time studying the different cuts, weighing up the relative advantages of beef—which made the best stock—or horsemeat, which was particularly suitable for a delicate patient. The butchers treated her with grave gallantry and patience, for although she was a rare customer it was women of the signora’s sort, who bought seldom but with determination, who kept them in business.

In the end the argument for stock won out. Maria, she reasoned, was weak and wounded, but she was not actually ill. The signora selected a fat shin and took it home in her basket, wrapped in a few pages of the Venetian
Gazzettino
.

P
ALEWSKI
was astonished how fast his mood had changed.

Alfredo’s revelations had bucked him up immensely. He could hardly be accused of cowardice now. The wretched brother was not, after all, dead: far from it! He appeared to be up and about, and scheming like some old Byzantine exarch.

The simile struck Palewski as particularly apt. What was Venice, after all, but some sprig of Byzantium that had somehow taken root and forced its way intact into the nineteenth century like brambles in a church roof? Armenian priests, mosaics, scheming aristocrats—why, even the Fondaco dei Turchi was a Byzantine palazzo.

He smiled grimly. What was a bullet here or there, now that the brother had won his share? And so the deal was back on track—for a thousand more, it was true, but still a very decent buy.

The ambassador would, after all, go to the ball.

S
ERGEANT
Vosper was a slow and methodical man, for whom orders were orders. Other than questioning the procedural validity of taking over another man’s case, he did not doubt his chief. Finkel had analyzed the murderer’s motives. Vosper’s job was to furnish the supporting evidence.

The contessa, of course, would be able to name the guilty lover easily, but Vosper was not a policeman for nothing. He was sly enough to know that she would refuse to give away the name—even if she suspected him. She was probably flattered by the passions she had aroused. Questioning her was, therefore, a waste of time.

The truth was, Vosper was slightly scared by the prospect of interviewing the Contessa d’Aspi d’Istria, with her titles and protocols, and the opportunities for making a fool of himself. But Vosper’s own aunt had been in service, many years ago, and he knew how to talk to servants. He knew, too, that servants kept their eyes open; they were a mine of information.

“So, Andrea?” he said pleasantly to the contessa’s footman, as he slipped into a chair in the little café on the Campo Santa Maria Mater Domini.

“It’s Antonio. Who are you?”

“Police. Don’t worry, I’m not here to put a finger on you. I just want to have a little chat.”

“It’s Barbieri, is it? I know nothing about it.”

“I see. And what makes you so sure it is about Barbieri?”

Antonio looked at the policeman and frowned. “What else would it be?”

Vosper considered the question. He couldn’t think of an answer, so he said, “The contessa, your mistress. She’s an attractive woman.”