The Bellini Card

109

Carla gave a shaky laugh. “The papers? I don’t understand.”

The stadtmeister curled his lip. “Please don’t joke with me, Contessa.”

Carla’s chest lifted. She half turned her head. “I have nothing whatever that belongs to you, Stadtmeister. Nothing at all.”

The stadtmeister’s eyes were like currants. “To me, no. But I will see to it that you get a receipt from the relevant authorities.”

“Ah, the authorities.” Carla took a deep breath. “But what, exactly, do the authorities seek?”

Finkel’s jaw was working. “We both know exactly what you need to produce. Let us not delude ourselves, Contessa. You have a note of hand, signed by the Duke of Naxos. You also have a proscribed artwork by Gentile Bellini.”

“Proscribed? What does it mean?”

“It means, Contessa, that the state has seen fit to confiscate the said work in its own interest. I hold a warrant, signed by Vienna. A certain compensation can be agreed,” he added.

“A warrant! How alarming.” The contessa sounded less alarmed than furious. “And when did you receive this warrant?”

The stadtmeister looked uncertain. “Receive it, Contessa? Why, I’m not sure. A week or so ago. Of course,” he added, running a gauntleted hand over his whiskers, “I shall be delighted to discuss the, ah, compensation due at any time that suits you. You will find the authorities can be I’m sure.”

Yashim’s mind was racing ahead. His curious gift for self-concealment might just allow him to get out of the salon by the end door. Beyond, he imagined, there would be a staircase to the second floor. With luck, and time, he could then come down to the contessa’s room. Take the picture.

It was the contessa herself, unfortunately, who broke the spell.

“You are a witness to this insult, Yashim Pasha,” she said, switching to Italian.

The stadtmeister’s eyes swiveled toward the window.

“Der Teufel!” he muttered.

Yashim inclined his head. “I am sure the stadtmeister has no intention of insulting you, Contessa. He has done his duty, as I have done mine.”

He salaamed politely. “A thousand pardons, Herr Oberst, if my presence surprises you. Allow me to introduce myself. Yashim Pasha, of the sultan’s household, making a purely private visit to your city.”

The stadtmeister clicked his heels, but he looked extremely wary.

“A private visit? Where’s Brunelli? Vosper!”

Sergeant Vosper shuffled his feet and said nothing.

“The amiable commissario,” Yashim went on, “is a credit to your office.” He took a few steps into the room. “I regret that my understanding of German is only limited, but I think the contessa is mistaken if she thinks you have been insulting her. I am sure you mean nothing of the kind.”

“No, no, of course not,” the stadtmeister replied, sounding nettled.

“Forgive me, but it seemed to me that you were talking about a portrait-and a note.”

“That’s right.”

“But perhaps there has been some misunderstanding,” Yashim pressed on. “After all, it was for the sake of this same portrait, and the note, that I came to Venice.”

The stadtmeister’s face darkened.

“But that-that’s not possible,” he growled.

“The contessa and I made the arrangements yesterday,” Yashim continued imperturbably. “At this moment, Herr Stadtmeister, the portrait is on its way to Istanbul, via Corfu-the ship left Trieste last night. Of course, I will take the matter up on my return to Istanbul. I shall speak to Pappendorf myself. If there is any need to adjudicate a claim, then you will appreciate, sir, that the Ottoman government of Sultan Abdulmecid stands by its international treaties and obligations.”

The stadtmeister opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again.

“But the note!” His voice was almost a squeak.

Yashim had certain ideas about the note, which did not include a fiction of having it shipped to Istanbul.

“I had no difficulty in destroying it, Herr Stadtmeister. You may rest quite easy on that score.”

The stadtmeister gaped. “Destroyed it! Der Teufel! ”

It was Yashim’s turn to look surprised. “But surely, Herr Stadtmeister, it was to our mutual advantage that the note should cease to exist?”

The stadtmeister merely gurgled.

Without the slightest attempt at a bow, he turned on his heel and left the room. Vosper shuffled off after him. Only the two soldiers clicked their heels, shouldered their rifles, and with immaculate nods toward the beautiful contessa retreated backward through the door, closing it gently behind them.

Carla turned to Yashim with an expression of amusement.

“Very neat, Yashim Pasha. Very neat, indeed.”

“Oh, it was nothing,” said Yashim carelessly. “I just followed the diagram, that’s all.”