The Bellini Card

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.”