The Bellini Card Read Online Free PDF

“Stop where you are!”
    Palewski turned around slowly.
    Brunelli was shaking his head. “The pillars,” he said. “It is very bad luck to pass between them.”
    “Between them?” Palewski echoed. “Why?”
    Brunelli smiled. “Venice is an old city, Signor Brett. Not like New York.”
    Palewski looked up at the pillars. They were not matched, one green-gray, the other of red granite. On top of the green pillar stood a small winged lion, the symbol of St. Mark, the patron saint of Venice.
    “In former days,” Brunelli explained, “this is where we executed our criminals and traitors. Their heads went on a pillar over there, by the entrance to the church, until they began to stink.”
    They skirted the pillars and came down to the waterfront. “The Republic was finished off when I was three years old,” Brunelli added. “Many people—my family among them—had great hopes of Napoleon. In the end, he destroyed some churches and stole some of our treasures.”
    “Treasures, perhaps, the Venetians had stolen from others.”
    “Yes,” Brunelli said mildly. “Perhaps that is exactly what I mean. We rob, and we are robbed. This is the great game of history, Signor Brett. It is played out over our heads—like a meeting of the gods, painted on a ceiling by Tiepolo.” He drew a breath, like a whistle. “It may be different in America, of course.”
    He blew on his hands, to cool them.
    “In the meantime, the people still need justice—and protection.” Brunelli turned his head and stared out 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