toward the island of Giudecca, across the darkening water.
“This morning,” Palewski said slowly, “I saw a body in the canal.”
“Yes. That is what I came to talk to you about.”
Palewski had believed himself to be in a northern city, but this Brunelli fenced like a Turk. “I thought you had come to check my bona fides.”
Brunelli nodded. “That is why I was sent. It is not the same thing.”
“I see. You think I knew the man?”
“Did you?”
“I don’t know a soul in Venice. Except now you, Commissario. But the body-was pretty far gone.”
“Unfortunately, yes. But you weren’t there when I arrived.”
Palewski frowned. “It wasn’t my affair. Another gondolier offered to take me to the pensione.”
“That’s quite all right,” Brunelli assured him. “I wished only to ask. You see, the dead man was an art dealer, like yourself. He had been strangled.”
His lugubrious features softened. “Well, well, Signor Brett.” He clapped him on the arm. “I hope you enjoy your stay in Venice.”
Palewski lingered by the water, watching the lights on the Giudecca and the last of the fishermen returning from the lagoon. Then he turned away and retraced his steps to the pensione.
The journey took him longer than he had expected; several times he had to double back when the alleyway he was following ended in a set of worn steps going down into some little canal. He began to wish that he had engaged a gondola at the piazza. He wound through one alley after another, almost blind; such light as there was came from votive candles flickering in their little niches above dark doorways and the occasional oil lamp bracketed to a wall where two alleys joined. Nothing-and everything-looked familiar. He had no idea how far he had wandered from his path when a dim light ahead revealed the entrance to the pensione. He fell into it with a flood of relief.
He was already on the stairs when a flunky scuttled forward and presented him with a small envelope addressed to Signor Brett. Surprised, Palewski opened it and pulled out a card with the name Antonio Ruggerio printed on the front. On the back was a short note:
A. Ruggerio presents his compliments and will have the pleasure of calling on Signor Brett tomorrow at ten o’clock.
Palewski grunted. “Ruggerio? Who is this man?”
The flunky spread his hands. “Signor Ruggerio is a friend of visitors to Venice, signore. I am sure you will like him very much.”
“Indeed?” Palewski turned and wished the man good night.
“Good night, signore. I hope you enjoy your stay in Venice.”
Palewski had heard that phrase before.
“Me, too,” he muttered, as he climbed the stairs. “Me, too.”
10
Venice slept, coiled in its lagoon like a cat in a basket. It had once been a lion of the seas, but now its claws were drawn. To its Austrian masters it was merely a curio, a decaying backwater with an illustrious past and a sullen population.
The lagoon had long since rinsed the dawn when Antonio Ruggerio sprang neatly from his rented gondola and entered the water gate of the Pensione Inghilterra. He was small, dark, and ambitiously dressed, with a flower in his buttonhole and a pair of white gloves in his left hand; in the other he carried a sheaf of papers done up in a leather folder.
He reached the stairs without breaking stride. At the door to Palewski’s apartment he straightened his jacket and ran a hand through his glossy black hair, then knocked.
“Signor Brett! I welcome you to Venice.” He took Palewski’s hand with both of his and pumped it enthusiastically. “So I may introduce myself: Antonio Ruggerio. I hope you are comfortable at the Inghilterra?”
Ruggerio’s eyes swept the room. He knew it too well to linger on the rococo furnishings or the Axminster carpet picked out with an Oriental motif. What interested him-what he understood, almost as a science-was the scattering of personal possessions the American traveler had added to the familiar scene. A good valise, the polished traveling trunk with curiously florid brass corners, the ivory hairbrush on the dressing table, and a magnificent top hat and cane.
“Comfortable enough,” Palewski said cautiously.
“You are here, Signor Brett, at the best time of the year in Venice!” Ruggerio inhaled theatrically: it was a delightful scent, the odor of money. He would not lie if he could help it. For a wealthy visitor, any time was the best time in Venice.
“What are your plans? Where do you want to go? The Salute? San Marco? Ah, to be for the first time in Venice! Signor Brett, do you know what? I, Antonio Ruggerio, envy you! It is true. The Ruggerios (you will have heard our name spoken, as that of an old family, aristocrats of Venice; between gentlemen I need say no more) have taken every pleasure from this city-but that one. Do you know our little Tiepolino? I will introduce you to him. To Tiziano, too-you call him Titian. What a prospect, signore! For a man like yourself, in the full vigor of his energies, to come to Venice for the first time! I am so proud-and so happy for you.” He bowed with almost comical speed. “Have you eaten some breakfast?”
“Breakfast? I-”
The little man wagged his finger. “I know, I know. A pensione break-fast-a little roll, a watery coffee, e basta! Come. I will show you how a man should eat in this city.” He made a dive. “Your hat. Your cane. My gondola is down below. We shall go to the Rialto. Like Shakespeare. Come.”
Palewski had adopted the character of an American, but he was not a morning person. Slightly dazed by the fellow’s torrent of words and enthusiasm, he took his hat and cane and followed downstairs to Ruggerio’s boat.
All the way to the Rialto Bridge, seated opposite him on the gondola, Ruggerio radiated good nature and camaraderie, sprinkled with statistics, ancient gossip, and a little sightseeing information. The gondolier, at his bidding, sang several verses of an old song as he rowed them up the Grand Canal.
“He sings of a woman,” Ruggerio explained, quite superfluously as it seemed to Palewski, who supposed most songs were about women. “She is the Queen of Cyprus, Caterina-we will see her picture later. By Bellini. Not a beautiful woman, but a great one. And the painting is a gem of the Renaissance.”
Palewski had started at the mention of Bellini. He wanted to speak, but his new friend was already gesturing out of the window. “Palazzo Mocenigo. Byron lived here. Ah, that was a man. I knew him.”
Palewski raised an eyebrow, and Ruggerio put up a hand. “I am older than you think-but Byron and I, we were both young in those days. We swam together many, many times. Here, in the Grand Canal. My friends say to me-you are crazy, like Byron! Perhaps. What a beautiful man.”
He whipped out a silk handkerchief and trumpeted into it, then tucked it back into his sleeve. “Every palazzo tells a tale, Signor Brett. But you must know where to begin. It is my pleasure. We will have a lovely day. And your accommodation, too. We will see to that. How long will you stay with us?”
Palewski was growing used to Ruggerio’s sudden changes of tack. “A few weeks. A month.”
Ruggerio closed his eyes and his hands swam before him in ecstasy. “A month!” He echoed, emphatically. “In La Serenissima, a month is like a day. But we can see everything,” he added hastily. “In a month, you will almost be a Venetian yourself.” He laughed. “And here we are-breakfast!”
The gondola glided in between poles sunk in the water. Ruggerio handed Palewski out onto the pontoon, then sprang up after him. He bent a little closer. “Signor Brett, a small tip to the gondolier if you think it would be appropriate-he has sung, and he would appreciate it. No, no, five is too much-I will give him three. Already you see I am able to offer you some service-to protect the innocent traveler, ha ha!”
He pushed his way eagerly into the market throng, Palewski in his wake. Now and then Ruggerio would turn around to check that his new American friend was following as they weaved between the stalls, dodging porters
