The Bellini Card

58

Palewski took a gondola at the landing stage and instructed the gondolier to row him down the Grand Canal.

The palazzo with the water gate was one of the largest on the canal. Most of its shutters were closed.

Palewski paid off the gondola at a nearby stage. In his mind’s eye he had imagined a blind alley, with windows overlooking it on the ground floor, but the entrance turned out to be a gate that opened to his touch. Inside was a courtyard with a wellhead in the middle and to his left a stone staircase rising to the first floor.

Some small children were playing, watched by an old lady engulfed in black silk who sat on a bench in the sun.

“Good morning,” Palewski said politely, raising his hat.

“Good morning to you, signore. Are you lost?”

“Perhaps I am.”

“Ah,” she smiled. “This is the Palazzo d’Istria, signore.”

“I’ve heard the name.”

“Heard it? Excuse me-Bepi, is that kind? It doesn’t matter-a boy should never strike a girl. Come here, cara. Come to Nonna. That’s right. That’s better.”

The little girl settled into the old lady’s lap. “A century ago, the Istria family were very gay, signore. You would have known the name then, for sure.”

“I have met a contessa, Contessa d’Aspi d’Istria. A very charming lady.”

“Ah yes. It is a sad story.”

“I can stand a sad story,” he said. “If I may?”

“Please.” She patted the bench and he sat down beside her. The little girl peeped up at him through a tangle of black hair and her grandmother started to pull her fingers through it. “Lucia d’Istria was a great beauty, signore. She married Count d’Aspi. A very good match-two old families.” She leaned sideways to confide: “The Aspis had the money, but the Istrias had the beauty, like Carla.”

“Yes, I see.”

“This was in the days of the Republic, of course. Three hundred guests, and the women-so beautiful, in those days. I was there, and beautiful, too, why not? I was quite young. Married, of course… You should have seen it, signore, the color-even the men! Men did not always wear black, as they do today.

“They lived here in the early days. There was a son-Luciano-and also the daughter you have met.” She shook her head. “We could believe that they would be happy forever.” She batted her fingertips against the ground, as though she were shooing mice. “Now, off you go, little one. Bepi will be nice now-won’t you, Bepi? And you, signore-do you have children?”

“No,” Palewski said.

She patted his hand. “That’s not unusual in Venice now. As I was saying-the Republic fell, and in the war the Aspis lost a lot of good land, on the mainland. Luciano was killed fighting the Austrians, poor boy. Lucia-I think she only lived for her son. A shame for the girl, that was, too.” She heaved a sigh. “Count d’Aspi used to sit on this bench, with his chin on the top of his cane. He said he had lived too long. It had all turned to nothing, you see.”

“And the daughter? The contessa?”

“She is the last. Last of the Aspis, last of the Istrias. But she’ll never marry.”

“Why not?”

“That’s right, Bepi. Good boy.” She seemed not to have heard him.

Palewski stood up, watching the children.

“Are there many families living here now?”

“In the palazzo? Few enough. My son, the doctor, took the piano nobile when he married. I’m afraid it’s an extravagance. I have an apartment above and of course it’s very convenient for them. The Gramantes upstairs. They’re trade but quite respectable.”

“And your family, signora mia. They are all well?”

No gunshot wounds?

He saw her reach out surreptitiously to touch the bench. “Since you ask, yes. Thank God for children, signore.”

Palewski bowed. “Thank you for talking to me. I shall resume my walk.”

How peculiar, he thought, as he wound his way toward the piazza. It evidently wasn’t the doctor who got shot, nor his brother, for that matter. But nobody else lived in the palazzo.

I wonder how this will end, he asked himself.

He caught sight of Ruggerio, sitting at a table, and was about to join him when he noticed a man standing back in the shadows of the arcade, signaling to him.

“Are you crazy, Signor Brett? The piazza, today?”

“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!”