The Bellini Card (29 page)

V
OSPER
stood stiffly in front of the stadtmeister’s desk and repeated what he had said.

“The pasha’s servant, sir. His very words.”

The stadtmeister spread his papers across his desk, in a gesture of despair. “I have nothing about this. Nothing! And you say he was wearing a turban? My God!”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Sorry?
ja, ja
, we will all be sorry, Vosper. What are we to do? Tomorrow, you say?”

“That’s what he told me, sir.”

“Did he say how many? Any names?”

“I—I don’t think so, sir. He thought I knew all about it. I assumed you had been informed.”

“Der Teufel!
I work with idiots!” The stadtmeister began opening drawers, pulling out sheaves of yellow imperial paper, all embossed with the K.u.K. double-eagle crest. “Go back, Vosper, and find this man, this pasha’s servant, and bring him to me immediately. Be tactful of course. You will say that the stadtmeister wishes to run through a few items on the reception program and would be pleased to discuss them this afternoon.”

Vosper’s heels clicked. “If I can find him, sir.”

“Find him? Of course you must find him! Isn’t he staying in the American’s old apartment?”

“Yes, sir. He was just moving in.”

“There you are, then. And Vosper”—the stadtmeister chewed his mustache—”send Brunelli to me, right away.”

P
ALEWSKI
studied the picture.

“It doesn’t make sense,” he said. “If that’s Eletro being killed—why, who would have painted such a thing? And when, Yashim?”

Yashim was at the open window. It was a twenty-foot drop into the canal below.

He turned and surveyed the room: bare walls, the little paint-splattered table, a crucifix above the bed.

He was about to go back through the door when his glance fell on the tangle of sheets and blankets on the bed.

Yashim strode over to the bed and tugged at the yellowing sheets.

For a moment he thought he had been deceived, that there was nothing there.

The man was curled up with his arms over his head, his knees drawn up to his chin, his hands clenched into bony fists.

Yashim took his arms and pulled them back, to reveal a wizened face the color of old sheets, eyes shut, the mouth dry and cracked.

There was no resistance in the curled-up figure: he was beyond strength, possibly beyond all help. His limbs peeled apart to the touch.

“We need water,” Yashim said. Without hesitation he bent down and scooped the man up in his arms. “Pick up the painting.”

They waded through a cloud of flies and on the landing Palewski pulled the door shut behind them. Outside in the
campo
he opened the well cover and pulled up a bucket of water. Yashim sat down and held the man against his chest, sprinkling his lips with drops from the bucket.

He took the water in his hand and ran it over the man’s face.

The eyelids did not stir, but the cracked lips moved slightly.

Yashim held his hand as a scoop and let a little water trickle into the man’s mouth. There was a catching sound, and the man swallowed.

“What are we going to do with him?”

Yashim looked anxious. “We’ll take him to the Contarinis. Don’t worry. He hasn’t killed anyone. No blood on him.” He glanced up. “It’s you I’m worried about.”

He unclasped his cloak and wrapped it around the frail skeleton.

Palewski said, “Sometimes it’s the ones who seem weak, like him, who survive.”

They carried him to the gondola. The gondolier started at the sight of Yashim’s bundle. “What’s that? It looks like a pietà,” he exclaimed, crossing himself.

“Take us to Dorsoduro as fast as you can,” Palewski said. “And pray, my friend, for the resurrection.”

T
HE
stadtmeister’s atlas confirmed that Venice and the Ottoman capital, Istanbul, were separated by only four degrees of latitude. Very significant, he thought. Two Mediterranean cities—one sheltered from its direct influence by the Adriatic and the lagoon, and the other by the Sea of Marmara.

Brunelli was just the man for the job.

“Ach, Commissario,” he said, as Brunelli entered. “I need your help.”

“Help, sir?” Brunelli faced his chief with a dull expression. “I was under the impression that Vosper provided you with all the help you need.”

“What? What?” The stadtmeister reddened. “Look, Brunelli. It is my job to organize the disposition of forces in this city to the maximum advantage
of the public. Operational necessities. I mean, let us not delude ourselves, what? Sergeant Vosper is a very good man. Good man. But this crime of passion—I cannot afford to squander all my resources on such an inquiry. Sometimes, we must keep the best in reserve.” He grinned, showing his yellow teeth. “Do you follow me, Brunelli? The best, in reserve. And now, I require your help.”

A crime of passion—so that was it! Brunelli could hardly refrain from laughing. Vosper and the stadtmeister in pursuit of a jealous lover who sawed off a man’s head and stuck it on a communion platter. The passionate Signor Brett!

The stadtmeister put his fingertips together.

“I am not quite sure how this situation has arisen,” he began, “but without our knowledge some sort of visit has been arranged, to this city, by a senior functionary of the Ottoman Empire.”

“A pasha in Venice, sir?” Now Brunelli did allow himself a smile.

“Not in the least comic, Brunelli. High matters of state. Not for us to question. I want you to take charge of the, ah, arrangements.”

“Perhaps you could be more specific, Stadtmeister.”

“If I could be more specific, Brunelli, more specific I would be!” the stadtmeister roared, growing very red. “The pasha has sent a man on ahead—he is staying in the American’s apartment, and Vosper is to bring him here, to see us. We must find out what the pasha proposes to do—and how long he will stay.”

“Do we know when he is to arrive, sir?”

“Yes,” the stadtmeister said very quietly. “Yes, Brunelli. He’s arriving from Istanbul tomorrow morning. And you will be his—liaison!”

Y
ASHIM
was not certain that the pitiful figure in his cloak would live to see Dorsoduro, but Palewski was right: he was still alive when they carried him into the signora’s kitchen and laid him down on a pallet of straw.

The signora took one look and raised her hands. “In my house! He will bring disease to us all.”

Yashim said, “He isn’t ill. He’s starved. Bring me some hot water and a towel. I will wash him.”

To Palewski, it was an almost biblical scene: the smoky, blackened room, the emaciated figure on the pallet, and Yashim carefully wiping away the sweat and dirt.

“A little soup, signora, if you don’t mind. Not too hot.”

Palewski knelt to hold the man upright, while Yashim put the spoon to his lips. He swallowed, weakly.

“If it hadn’t been for that appointment—” Palewski frowned and shook his head. “What happened in that room, Yashim? Who is this man?”

He looked down, into his face. The eyes were closed; he was asleep already. He looked better clean: his hair in little golden tufts, his ears surprisingly delicate and small, with three little moles on the tip; you could see the veins in his forehead.

“Scrubbed up well, at least.”

Yashim rocked back on his heels. He took a small leather bag from his pocket and fished in it for a pinch of latakia tobacco, which he rolled up in a spill of rice paper. He touched the end to a brand and smoked it, in silence.

“As to that,” he said finally, blowing a perfect ring into the air, “I have
few ideas. I don’t think he is the killer. It is possible that he painted the murder scene, in which case he may have more to tell us presently. If he recovers.”

He paused and glanced at his friend. “But if he’s not the killer,” he began, then shook his head. “I don’t like it, Palewski. It’s getting—very close.”

Palewski’s shoulders jerked. “Close—to what?”

Yashim pointed a finger. “To you. First Barbieri, then Eletro.”

“But Boschini—the man in the canal. I—I hadn’t had any contact with him.”

“No, you weren’t given the chance.” Yashim took a whiff of his tobacco.

“Do you think it’s time to call it quits? Get back to Istanbul. Admit defeat.” Palewski laid the man down gently on the pallet and drew Yashim’s cloak up to his chin. “That painting seemed such a simple solution to my troubles, once.”

Yashim nodded. “I think we should plan to stay a little longer,” he said. “Someone offered a Bellini for sale. The sultan got to hear of it, at least, so I assumed that the painting was available. But you haven’t heard a thing in ten days.”

“No. And everyone keeps getting killed.”

Yashim held up his hand. “How did the sultan pick up the rumor? Who told him?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Let’s say it was your friend Alfredo. He created the whole scenario in order to get somebody out here—and double-cross him.”

“So there never was a Bellini?”

Yashim looked puzzled. “I don’t know. Someone was supposed to come to Venice. But then—why are people being killed?”

“Why do people get killed? Over money, or women.”

“Or because they know too much.”

Palewski started.

“Alfredo knew where to find me,” he said slowly. “The day after we saw the painting he was waiting by Florian, in the piazza.”

“Go on.”

“I’d simply told Ruggerio to meet me there for lunch. He was there, too, at a table.”

“I see. So Ruggerio told Alfredo where he could find you.”

“Yes. Maybe. It might have been a coincidence.”

Yashim flicked the end of his cigarette into the fire. “Perhaps. But one of them seems to have guessed something else: that you were not Signor Brett. Why else would they take Maria to be questioned?”

“Maybe the gang just wanted to be sure who they were dealing with. To be sure I could come through with the money.”

“No. A courtesan deals in ducats, not thousands in silver. They took Maria because they wanted a confession. Something intimate. They already suspected who you really were.”

Yashim found himself examining his friend. He saw a perfectly plausible visitor to Venice, like any other: well dressed, acceptably à la mode. Signor Brett, connoisseur!

“Are you—” He blushed. “Are you circumcised, Palewski?”

“No.”

Yashim glanced away, baffled, and his eye fell on something on the floor beside Palewski’s chair.

He sighed heavily. “Let me see your hat.”

“My hat?”

“There.” Yashim held the hat by the brim and invited Palewski to look inside.

“Well, I’m—! But I made no secret of the fact that I’d been in Istanbul.”

“That’s right—but casual visitors don’t get their hats in Istanbul. I wouldn’t buy my pantaloons in Venice, either. It isn’t conclusive, of course, but it would have raised Ruggerio’s suspicions.”

“Suspicions of what, Yashim? I don’t understand.”

“That you were the man from Istanbul.”

“The man from Istanbul,” Palewski echoed.