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 cafe 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.”
Antonio didn’t respond.
“Unmarried, curiously.” For Vosper, an unmarried woman was a rare and rather unappealing idea. “But she has men in her life, I’m thinking. Admirers.”
Antonio looked blank. “It’s not for me to say.”
“You can confide in me, Antonio, because I am a policeman.” Vosper took out a toothpick and put it into his mouth; he saw no point in beating about the bush. “I wonder, has anyone new come calling on her recently? A new friend, perhaps?”
Antonio smiled to himself. He didn’t have much time for the friends, or their policemen. “You mean, the American?”
“The American,” Vosper returned, noncommittally. “Tell me about him.”
Antonio obliged. There was very little to tell, but he was reasonably sure that a fellow as stupid as Vosper could waste a lot of time pondering Signor Brett’s involvement in the case. He hoped Signor Brett would not be much inconvenienced: he had seemed like a decent man.
“He took the neighboring apartment? Interesting.” How better to manage an affair?
He found the details of Brett’s last-albeit first-public visit to the palazzo interesting, too.
“He felt sick, you say?” Sick with jealousy, no doubt. Brett had seen his rival in the room. He left early and then, having carefully brought Antonio to the door of his apartment to establish an alibi, he waited until the coast was clear and doubled back.
An open-and-shut case, just like the chief said.
“Thank you, Andrea, you’ve been most helpful.”
“My pleasure,” Antonio said.
Only one thing troubled Vosper as he made his way back to the Procuratie.
He was not, he would have admitted, the brightest candle in the chandelier. So why hadn’t Brunelli pounced already?
62
Brunelli returned to the Procuratie after a quick lunch, to find an anxious Scorlotti waiting for him in the office.
“Trouble, Scorlotti?”
“Vosper’s taken over the Barbieri case, Commissario. The chief told him it was a crime of passion.”
Brunelli sat down heavily at his desk and rubbed his eyes. He felt terribly tired.
“Thank you, Scorlotti.”
“Aren’t you-I mean, don’t you want to see the chief?”
Brunelli looked up. “Frankly, Scorlotti, no. He won’t be back from lunch for another hour or two, anyway.”
“Not today, sir. He’s in his office. Vosper thinks he’s found the murderer.”
“Well, that was quick. At least he ruled out suicide.”
Scorlotti grinned.
“So.” Brunelli clasped his hands in front of him and swiveled on his chair. “Who did it?”
“The American, apparently. Brett.”
“Ah, yes.” Brunelli nodded slowly. “Has he asked to see my notes on the case?”
“Not necessary, the chief says.”
“No. No, of course not.” He stood up. “If anyone asks for me-I don’t suppose they will, Scorlotti, but you never know-tell them I’ve gone for a walk.”
“Bene, Commissario.” Scorlotti hesitated. “It’s a mess, isn’t it, sir?”
“For Signor Brett, Scorlotti, it has the makings of a nightmare.”
63
Scorlotti understood that the commissario wanted to be alone. He was not fooled by his air of weary calm. Brunelli might despise the politics of his situation, but he hated injustice even more-especially injustice perpetrated by people whose job was to dispense it fairly.
The walk, Scorlotti dimly supposed, would lead to a resolution.
Brunelli’s own thoughts were equally vague, as he stepped out of the Procuratie and began to stump angrily along the Molo. He did not exercise enough, as it was, and as a matter of course he liked to eat too well- seppia con nero was just the tip of the iceberg. He counted himself lucky that he could eat well, for many people in Venice had been on rations for years, ever since the arrival of the friends and the decline of the port. Sometimes his wife reminded him to be more forgiving. Hunger makes thieves, she said.
He walked, without really choosing where he went, following the invitation of a bridge or the angle of an alleyway, but the intricacy of the walk pleased him, not least because it reflected the intricacies of his own mind. The stadtmeister complained of having nowhere to ride, or to hit his stride when he wanted a walk; sometimes he had himself shipped out to the Lido for an afternoon. “I like a straight line, Brunelli, and-let us not delude ourselves-that goes for police work, too.”
Brunelli knew every inch of his city, from the water and from the land. The Grand Canal curved in a lazy backward S between islands with different dialects, different loyalties, different saints, and separate traditions. Even faces could vary from parish to parish. But Venice itself was compacted out of all these differences. Together, Brunelli sensed, they made a whole.
That explained how the city had subdued a straggling empire, fought and traded and conceded ground when pushed, and regained what it could when the opportunity arose. The money that had built Venice-the money that had paid for the bricks and stones and crockets and secret gardens, for the handsome wellheads in every campo, and the churches and the schools-came from anything but following the straight line. It came, Brunelli thought, as he turned into a sotoportego beneath a building constructed on the profit of camel trading in the Negev, from a habit of looking around the next corner, from regularly observing juxtapositions-the curve of a bridge, the redness of an old wall, and the reflection of a tiny votive niche in a canal at night. It came from a certain sort of efficiency-not the straight-lined sort, but one that could hold a thousand turnings and windings in the mind at once.
He found himself at the Rialto and crossed the bridge.
According to the stadtmeister, the Austrians had plans to fill in canals and bring a railway across the lagoon. Why not? The city was dying on its feet. Carrots were cheaper in Padua or Mestre. Lawyers were busy along the coast-but in Venice, for sure, they wanted work like everyone else.
Brunelli found himself on a bridge with a parapet-another Austrian felicity-and leaned on the wall, looking down into the green water of the canal.
64
Brunelli raised his eyes from the canal and let them rove across the facade of a palazzo he recognized as belonging to the Contessa d’Aspi d’Istria.
This was where Barbieri took his last ride in a gondola.
And in the palazzo next door, one Signor Brett, who came from New York and spoke Italian like a-like what? He spoke it well: in the Tuscan dialect.
Which made three turns of the alley, three pieces of the labyrinth. There were corners to Signor Brett and n
o straight lines.
But Brunelli knew he was innocent of murder.
“Spare a copper, my dear?”
Brunelli glanced down at the ragged figure at his feet and frowned. “You should move along.”
“S’what the other policeman says,” the beggar remarked. He sounded foreign-Genoese, maybe. He had pink sores in his scalp and his face was puffy.
Brunelli glanced up-and there was Vosper, standing in a doorway up the alley with his back turned.
“How long has he been here?”
“‘Alf an hour, maybe less. But there ain’t nobody home.”
“Nobody home?”
“The gentleman in the apartment went out.”
Brunelli looked at Vosper and felt a surge of irritation bordering on contempt.
“Did-did the gentleman come this way?”
“Right over the bridge.”
Brunelli knew what he had to do. “If he comes back-if he comes past again-will you tell him not to go home?”
“Not to go home,” the beggar repeated. “I’ll let him know.”
“Here’s fifty,” Brunelli said, fishing out a coin. He put it into the beggar’s hand. “Tell him to keep away.”
“Very good, your honor. I’ll be here.”
Brunelli turned and began to retrace his steps.
Straight lines!
Stupid people!
65
Palewski walked briskly home through the alleys and switchbacks until he reached the bridge, where the beggar hissed at him.
The sound made Palewski jump.
“I didn’t mean to frighten your honor,” said the beggar obsequiously, touching his brow in a vague salute. “But I’m told to let you know, you’re not to go back to your ‘ome.”
Palewski looked down with astonishment. It was the first time he had really seen the beggar, who wore a pale beard and whose eyes were half closed as if they could not bear the light. He was, with his head sores, a fairly pitiful sight.
“Not go home? What do you mean?”
The beggar shook his head and looked apologetic. “I don’t exackly know, your worship, it’s just like I was tole an’ all.”
“Told? Who told you?”
“P’liceman, sir. What’s got a kindly face. ‘Cos there’s another one, see, hangin’ about the alley now. Reckon ‘e’s waitin’ fer ya.”
Palewski’s heart skipped a beat.
Why would one policeman leave a warning, while the other was waiting outside his house?
“The man you spoke to-did he give you a name? Brunelli?”
The beggar seemed to cringe. “‘E didn’t leave no name, sir. Big bloke, carries some weight. I wager ‘e likes his vittles an’ all. Tell ‘im not to go ‘ome, he says. Tell ‘im to keep away. On account of the other nark, ‘e says.”
Palewski had gone very white.
“It’s no good,” he muttered. “I’ve simply got to get into that apartment.”
The beggar looked interested. “If wishes was gondolas,” he remarked in his reedy voice, “I’d be on the Grand Canal, instead of ‘ere on this bridge all day and night.” He paused. “Is it jewels, your honor? Or cash?”
Palewski ignored him and bit his nails.
Alfredo would be here within the hour. Shortly afterward they’d make the deal and he’d be on a ship, bound for Trieste; tomorrow he’d leave for Corfu, with the Bellini in his bag.
The bag now lying under his bed, containing the letters of credit.
And a policeman watching the door.
He was aware that the beggar was speaking again.
“‘Cos I got an idea, your worship, ‘aven’t I? Worth another florin, mebbe.”
“Go on,” Palewski snapped.
“I’ll show yer,” the beggar said in a thin whisper. He put up a grimy hand and beckoned Palewski closer.
Palewski stooped lower, with barely concealed mistrust. The man was probably half cracked, rummaging through his rags, feeling for a bit of old blanket. It occurred to Palewski that at any moment he might produce a knife.
Instead, the beggar lifted a corner of the blanket.
For a moment Palewski merely stared.
If the beggar had produced a vase of roses, or an African child, Palewski could not have been more surprised.
“You’ve got it,” he croaked weakly. “You’ve got my bag!”
“Safe and sound, your honor. An’ what was inside, too.”
“I-you-did you look inside? I mean-”
“I ain’t on the razzle, your worship, if that’s what you’re finking. Not in my line, if you follow.”
Palewski’s mouth was hanging open in sheer amazement-and relief.
“Take it now if you like, your honor.” The beggar ran a dirt-seamed hand across the end of his nose. “Anything to oblige an old friend.”
Palewski leaped back, as though he had been bitten.
He glanced around wildly, but there was nobody else on the bridge.
His face was ashen.
“I–I’ll take the bag,” he began. “How to repay you-I mean-I think you’ve saved my life!”
“And you’ve saved mine before now, too,” the beggar said. He picked up the bag in both hands and settled it on his knee.
Palewski ran his hands through his hair. His eyes were starting. He bent down and stared the beggar in the face.
“You’re-you can’t be! It’s not possible.” His voice was barely a whisper.
The beggar shrugged.
“I had started to think,” he said, “that you might need a hand.”
Palewski’s legs gave way and he sat down on the stone step with a bump.
“And it seems to me,” Yashim added, “that I am just in time.”
66
“The first thing we have to do,” Yashim went on imperturbably, “is find somewhere safe to put you.”
“The first thing I have to do,” Palewski countered, breathing heavily, “is find somewhere to drink a large glass of grappa.” He peered at the beggar again and looked away. “I just can’t believe it, Yash. I mean, your own mother wouldn’t know you.” He paused. “You look horrible. What have you done to your face?”
“I dyed my eyebrows yellow to match the beard. The beard comes off.”
Palewski saw why the beggar had seemed so sensitive to light: with his eyes wide open, he looked-well, still hardly like his friend of so many years.
“I could guess that much. It’s your-your face that looks so different. Wrong shape.”
Yashim stuck a dirty finger into his mouth and began to work around his gums. Various damp little bundles came out; Yashim flexed his jaw.
“Wadding,” he said triumphantly. He reached behind his ears and removed some putty, so that they lay flat against his head. “Know me now?”
Palewski nodded. It was Yashim-but still a horrible, scabrous, sandy-bearded parody of his old friend. “Your teeth,” he objected weakly.
Yashim chuckled. “I forgot the teeth,” he said and picked off some flakes of wax.
“You look completely horrible.”
“I feel a lot better.”
“I suppose under all those rags you’re beautifully dressed, too?”
“As a matter of fact, I believe I am respectable.”
Yashim stood up and peeled away a few layers of grimy cloth.
“The beard stays,” he said. “It takes lye and water to get it off, I think.”
“I don’t know about respectable,” Palewski pointed out, as he surveyed his friend’s familiar brown robe. “You aren’t exactly going to blend in unobserved.”
“That may be part of the plan,” Yashim said. “Let’s go.”
Leaving his rags in a bundle by the bridge, Yashim led the way to the cafe where Palewski and Ruggerio had had breakfast several days before.
Palewski ordered grappa. The waiter glanced curiously at Yashim but seemed more interested in his ringworm than his costume.
“The worst of it, Yashim, is that…” He trail
ed off. “My God. Yashim. Yashim.” Palewski shook his head. “I still don’t believe it. But it’s all wasted. You’re too late.”
Yashim cocked his head. “On the contrary. I said I was just in time.”
“No, look. I’m sorry. I’ve found the Bellini-I’m taking it tomorrow. In fact, I’d better get back to the house. We have to catch my friend Alfredo before he meets the policeman.” He leaned across the table. “I’ve bought the painting, Yashim. Or nearly. The sultan’s Bellini! That’s why I needed the bag.”
“And that’s why I took it,” Yashim said.
Palewski nodded. “Thank God you did. Whole thing’s getting complicated-I’ll explain later. I’m getting out as quickly as I can. We must get you a passage on that ship tomorrow-it’s only going to Corfu, I’m afraid, but needs must, all that.”
He downed his grappa and sighed. “My God, Yashim. I almost died of shock.”
Yashim looked grave-or as grave as was possible for a man with a false beard with his eyebrows and lashes dyed a sickly yellow.
“I’m afraid the shock’s not quite over yet.” He paused. “You can’t hand over the money,” he said quietly. “Your Bellini’s a fake.”
Palewski was still.
“Oh,” he said coldly. “You know that, do you?”
Yashim nodded.
“The beggar business was inspired, Yashim. I’m still finding it hard to believe you’re here, like this. But if I’m wrong about the Bellini, my name’s not Palewski.”
Yashim smiled, a trifle sadly. “Well, it’s not, is it, Signor Brett?”
“Being a beggar is all very well,” Palewski replied facetiously, “but I don’t suppose you were lurking under the table when we looked at the painting? The chap selling it-his brother almost died as a result. Came in waving a gun and took the bullet himself. It was dark,” he added. “Very nearly shot me first.”
Yashim looked interested. “Ah, so that was how it was done,” he murmured. “I wondered.”
“Oh, come on, Yashim. A family heirloom. Probably the best thing they’d turned up since the fall of Athens.”
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