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!”
59
“Ha! Maria Contarini! La duchessa herself! A very fine time to be coming home, to be sure-and your father out worrying himself into the grave, with not a soul to help your mother look after your poor brothers and sisters!”
“Mama, I-”
“Look at the state of you!” Signora Contarini hissed. She grabbed the girl’s arm and hustled her into the tumbledown shack, banging the door. A dozen pairs of eyes had seen her daughter come home.
“That beautiful dress-it’s a rag! Madonna — if I didn’t have more work than the good Lord sends hours I’d be dead of worry, Maria Contarini! Where are your shoes? What happened to your dress?”
She glanced at Maria’s swollen face, and her hand went to her mouth. “My God, my God, what has he done to you?”
Her powerful arms swept the girl to her bosom.
“Maria, ragazza mia!” She flung her daughter back, at arm’s length, to see her better. “Ti prego!” Her voice dropped an octave. “If I find the man who has done this to you I will tear him apart with my bare hands-I, who bore you, my little one!”
She hugged Maria again, then thrust her away to inspect her ruined clothes, her pale, bruised face, and the welts on her wrists.
Finally la signora enveloped Maria in a damp embrace.
“I am going to buy meat,” she declared grandly, stroking Maria’s black hair.
“Mamma, please. The man outside-”
“The scarecrow. Did he do this to you?”
