Jason Goodwin - The Bellini card

The stadtmeister clicked his heels, but he looked extremely wary.

“A private visit? Where’s Brunelli? Vosper!”

Sergeant Vosper shuffled his feet and said nothing.

“The amiable commissario,” Yashim went on, “is a credit to your office.” He took a few steps into the room. “I regret that my understanding of German is only limited, but I think the contessa is mistaken if she thinks you have been insulting her. I am sure you mean nothing of the kind.”

“No, no, of course not,” the stadtmeister replied, sounding nettled.

“Forgive me, but it seemed to me that you were talking about a portrait-and a note.”

“That’s right.”

“But perhaps there has been some misunderstanding,” Yashim pressed on. “After all, it was for the sake of this same portrait, and the note, that I came to Venice.”

The stadtmeister’s face darkened.

“But that-that’s not possible,” he growled.

“The contessa and I made the arrangements yesterday,” Yashim continued imperturbably. “At this moment, Herr Stadtmeister, the portrait is on its way to Istanbul, via Corfu-the ship left Trieste last night. Of course, I will take the matter up on my return to Istanbul. I shall speak to Pappendorf myself. If there is any need to adjudicate a claim, then you will appreciate, sir, that the Ottoman government of Sultan Abdulmecid stands by its international treaties and obligations.”

The stadtmeister opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again.

“But the note!” His voice was almost a squeak.

Yashim had certain ideas about the note, which did not include a fiction of having it shipped to Istanbul.

“I had no difficulty in destroying it, Herr Stadtmeister. You may rest quite easy on that score.”

The stadtmeister gaped. “Destroyed it! Der Teufel! ”

It was Yashim’s turn to look surprised. “But surely, Herr Stadtmeister, it was to our mutual advantage that the note should cease to exist?”

The stadtmeister merely gurgled.

Without the slightest attempt at a bow, he turned on his heel and left the room. Vosper shuffled off after him. Only the two soldiers clicked their heels, shouldered their rifles, and with immaculate nods toward the beautiful contessa retreated backward through the door, closing it gently behind them.

Carla turned to Yashim with an expression of amusement.

“Very neat, Yashim Pasha. Very neat, indeed.”

“Oh, it was nothing,” said Yashim carelessly. “I just followed the diagram, that’s all.”

He glanced through the window in time to see the stadtmeister sitting rigid in his gondola, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. Opposite sat Vosper, his shoulders hunched.

The gondola moved off with a lazy flourish.

Had Vosper been less downcast, or the stadtmeister less rigid in defeat, they might have seen another gondola sweep up to the steps of the Palazzo d’Aspi. They would not have recognized Palewski, but they would have known the man who sat beside him.

“Palewski was right,” Yashim murmured. “Venice is exactly like a theater.”

“Palewski?” the contessa said. “Who is Palewski?”

Yashim smiled. “Count Palewski is the man I sent to Venice to find the Bellini. You know him as Signor Brett.”

The contessa put a hand to her throat. “The lancer.”

“The lancer?” Palewski was Yashim’s oldest friend, but there were still things they had never discussed. “He is the Polish ambassador in Istanbul.”

She nodded, beginning to understand. “Then he, too, is one of us. One of the dispossessed.” She wrapped her hand around her fist. “I have been a fool.”

He could hear them now on the stairs.

“I thought, at first, that he was the killer.”

“Palewski? But that’s-”

“Ridiculous? But he came for the Bellini, too.”

“I sent him, instead of me.”

Carla frowned. “You? You didn’t tell him about the pattern.”

“I didn’t know,” Yashim admitted. “It was to be a signal, wasn’t it? That the palace had received your offer.”

Before she could answer, Palewski and Brunelli were shown into the room.

“Commissario. Count Palewski.” Carla greeted them with a slight bow.

Palewski leaped a few inches and peered at Yashim. “Not Signor Brett, eh?”

“Your Ottoman friend was very clever,” the contessa said. “And I have been very foolish. I should have guessed: the Polish Legion.”

Palewski inclined his head. “The lancers, Contessa. In Italy under Dabrowski. Later, the Vistula Uhlans. Lance and saber.” He shrugged. “Out of fashion now, as you said.”

The contessa laughed. “Only the saber. Handsome men never go out of fashion.”

“Things have changed since yesterday,” Yashim said. “I caught up with an assassin.”

He told them of the night’s events. He explained how he had broken through the dam, and how the Tatar had been swept away in a torrent of surging foam.

“This,” Brunelli said wistfully, “I wish I had seen.”

“He was a professional assassin. He killed three people here.”

“And found them how?”

“As to that, I think somebody showed him. Somebody who signed his own death warrant as soon as the last name was released.”

“Ruggerio,” Brunelli said.

“He’s dead?”

Brunelli nodded. “He played a foolish game, Yashim Pasha.”

Yashim was silent for a while. It was Ruggerio, of course.

“He served the Duke of Naxos,” Carla said.

“That’s how they knew of him, perhaps. But Ruggerio and the Tatar, how did they come together? Here, in Venice.”

Brunelli shrugged. “Perhaps we’ll never really know.”

“Perhaps not.” Yashim looked thoughtful. “Perhaps not.”

The contessa took a deep breath.

“I have something to give you, Yashim. Commissario, would you mind? It’s not heavy, but it’s a little far to reach.”

They went out together, and Palewski told Yashim about Maria’s priest and the way the man had recognized him.

“Yashim,” he said, “you’re not listening.”

“I have an instinct,” Yashim said slowly, “that something is going wrong.”

Brunelli entered with a heavy tread. Behind him came Carla. She looked very pale.

“The painting,” she said in a tone of dazed wonder. “It’s gone!”

Behind the curtain, where the Bellini had hung, the slim gold frame was empty.

Yashim glanced at Carla.

She gave him a look of scorn. “So you think I’m playing with you, now? No, Yashim, you’re wrong. It was mine-and now it is gone.”

“We saw it here last night.”

“Yes, but the Tatar! He took it, before he attacked!”

“The Tatar-” A sudden hope flickered in Yashim’s breast. “In that case, it must still be here. Search the room. Look under the bed.”

Brunelli and Palewski sprang to obey, but Carla didn’t move. “Here in the room?” She sounded puzzled. “He took it with him, I’d imagine.”

“I fought him, Carla.” Yashim sounded surprised. “I’d have noticed him carrying a two-foot panel under his coat.”

She sank down onto the bed.

“A two-foot panel?”

“The Bellini, Carla.”

She had closed her eyes.

“I see. You were expecting a painting on wood.”

Palewski nodded. “Gentile used it.”

“It-it wasn’t on panel anymore.”

The room was still.

“I had it lifted fifteen years ago.”

“Lifted? What do you mean?”

“Oh God.” Carla put her hands over her face. When she pulled them down she was looking at Yashim.

“I had it transferred to canvas.”

“Canvas?” Yashim echoed. “Why? How?”

“Old board doesn’t last,” she said wearily. “Especially not in Venice, with the damp. It warps and cracks, and the paint begins to deteriorate. Eventually there’s nothing left.”