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.”
66
“The first thing we have to do,” Yashim went on imperturbably, “is find somewhere safe to put you.”
“The first thing I have to do,” Palewski countered, breathing heavily, “is find somewhere to drink a large glass of grappa.” He peered at the beggar again and looked away. “I just can’t believe it, Yash. I mean, your own mother wouldn’t know you.” He paused. “You look horrible. What have you done to your face?”
“I dyed my eyebrows yellow to match the beard. The beard comes off.”
Palewski saw why the beggar had seemed so sensitive to light: with his eyes wide open, he looked-well, still hardly like his friend of so many years.
“I could guess that much. It’s your-your face that looks so different. Wrong shape.”
Yashim stuck a dirty finger into his mouth and began to work around his gums. Various damp little bundles came out; Yashim flexed his jaw.
“Wadding,” he said triumphantly. He reached behind his ears and removed some putty, so that they lay flat against his head. “Know me now?”
Palewski nodded. It was Yashim-but still a horrible, scabrous, sandy-bearded parody of his old friend. “Your teeth,” he objected weakly.
Yashim chuckled. “I forgot the teeth,” he said and picked off some flakes of wax.
“You look completely horrible.”
“I feel a lot better.”
“I suppose under all those rags you’re beautifully dressed, too?”
“As a matter of fact, I believe I am respectable.”
Yashim stood up and peeled away a few layers of grimy cloth.
“The beard stays,” he said. “It takes lye and water to get it off, I think.”
“I don’t know about respectable,” Palewski pointed out, as he surveyed his friend’s familiar brown robe. “You aren’t exactly going to blend in unobserved.”
“That may be part of the plan,” Yashim said. “Let’s go.”
Leaving his rags in a bundle by the bridge, Yashim led the way to the cafe where Palewski and Ruggerio had had breakfast several days before.
Palewski ordered grappa. The waiter glanced curiously at Yashim but seemed more interested in his ringworm than his costume.
“The worst of it, Yashim, is that…” He trailed off. “My God. Yashim. Yashim.” Palewski shook his head. “I still don’t believe it. But it’s all wasted. You’re too late.”
Yashim cocked his head. “On the contrary. I said I was just in time.”
“No, look. I’m sorry. I’ve found the Bellini-I’m taking it tomorrow. In fact, I’d better get back to the house. We have to catch my friend Alfredo before he meets the policeman.” He leaned across the table. “I’ve bought the painting, Yashim. Or nearly. The sultan’s Bellini! That’s why I needed the bag.”
“And that’s why I took it,” Yashim said.
Palewski nodded. “Thank God you did. Whole thing’s getting complicated-I’ll explain later. I’m getting out as quickly as I can. We must get you a passage on that ship tomorrow-it’s only going to Corfu, I’m afraid, but needs must, all that.”
He downed his grappa and sighed. “My God, Yashim. I almost died of shock.”
Yashim looked grave-or as grave as was possible for a man with a false beard with his eyebrows and lashes dyed a sickly yellow.
“I’m afraid the shock’s not quite over yet.” He paused. “You can’t hand over the money,” he said quietly. “Your Bellini’s a fake.”
Palewski was still.
