The Bellini Card

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 no 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!