by Iain Pears
'Out,' he said, pointing helpfully to the door, lest there be any confusion about where the stairs were situated.
'All I mean . . .'
'Out,' he repeated. 'I'll talk to you later to see if you have any relevant information. Now, go away.'
Argyll was displeased. He liked constructing theories, and generally found the Roman police receptive to them. Well, Flavia sometimes was. Evidently the Los Angeles police were less sophisticated in their approach. He glanced at Morelli, saw that he meant it, and reluctantly left.
Morelli breathed a deep sigh of relief, and scowled at the quiet snicker from a colleague who'd been listening to his attempts to restore control.
'Right,' he said, 'Let's start again. From the beginning. Can you identify this man?' he asked formally.
Thanet swayed once more, but managed to stay perpendicular. This, he said, was Arthur M. Moresby II.
'No doubts?'
None whatsoever.
Morelli was deeply impressed. Northern Los Angeles, while not the battle zone of other parts of the city, undoubtedly had more than its fair share of mayhem. Generally speaking, however, the victims were not enormously illustrious. Only rarely did a member of the social register get himself disembowelled. Hollywood directors, television magnates, noted authors, fashion models and all the other exemplars of local industry were usually remarkably adept at keeping themselves alive.
It also made him rather nervous. He could not remember the figures, but he was willing to bet that the percentage of homicides where he successfully fixed the handcuffs on the guilty party was pretty small. Ordinarily, this was distressing but had few other consequences. People - and that meant his superiors – understood that a conviction was unlikely and didn't for a moment attach any blame to him. He arrested people often enough to have earned himself a respectable reputation for general professionalism. He did his best and that was that. Better luck next time.
But he already had a strong feeling that a very large number of people were going to be keeping their eyes on him over this one. This time, doing his best was not going to be good enough.
'I was wondering,' he went on, 'about the alarm system. You do have alarms, don't you?'
Thanet snorted. 'Oh yes. This place is wired like Fort Knox.'
'So can we check if any doors except the main entrance were used?'
'Sure. In theory the murderer should have been caught on film in the corridor. Although personally, I'm dubious.'
Thanet explained that their enormously complicated alarm system included concealed cameras in every room of the museum. Although the administrative block was less well endowed, it was still a bit like a maximum security prison. So they trooped off to the central security office, a room on the third floor crammed with enough electronic equipment to equip a small film studio. While they were eyeing it up and wondering where to start, a tall, balding man in his late thirties came in, radiating nervous excitement.
'Who are you?' said Morelli.
The man introduced himself as Robert Streeter, chief security executive, and his curiosity turned to alarm when he was brusquely told that his much vaunted system, responsible both for museum security and his salary, had not so far impressed the police.
'To put it another way,' the detective informed him, 'it was a dead loss. If that man Barclay hadn't discovered the body, no one would have known anything had happened until a hell of a lot later. What good is that?'
Streeter was also concerned, perhaps even more so than was the detective. After all, his job could depend on this. He had been brought in originally as a consultant when the museum was expanding, to give advice about how to protect the collections. However, as he had discovered, consultancy work was merely an elaborate way of being unemployed, and Streeter's income had been somewhat erratic at the time. So, spotting his opportunity, he went for it. His report was disdainful, if not devastating. The place was, he concluded, about as secure as the average doll's house. Not only did he set out a bewildering array of electronic necessities, he accompanied the report with elaborately printed flow diagrams of responsibility structures and integrated fast-response networks to demonstrate how, in the event of a break-in, the felony could be interdicted and the threat neutralised.
It was all Greek to the museum staff, who accordingly concluded that an integrated fast-response network was an absolute must for anyone who wanted to be on the cutting edge of the museum business. Besides, the man was recommended by Moresby. A college friend of his wife's or something. So they did the only thing possible, that is, set aside a vast budget, created a new security department and gave Streeter the job of presiding over both. Who began by using the entire allotment to hire secretaries, administrative assistants and liaison personnel in order to lobby for more money.
He now had a staff of twelve, another six to patrol the museum, enough electronic gadgetry to make the CIA jealous and was beginning to insist on having the final say on where pictures were hung. In the interests of security. He had even restarted his consultancy business on a sounder footing, and travelled the country giving lectures on 'Museum security in the modern age' for hefty fees. It also meant he had less time to spend in Los Angeles, so he was currently bidding for a deputy to take care of day-to-day operations.
Some people didn't approve of what they considered Streeter's imperial tendencies, and Thanet, sensing the growth of an alternative source of power to his own, was one of them. There was no need at all, he suggested, for either Streeter or the vast bureaucracy he had conjured into being. Streeter, not surprisingly, had disagreed quite strongly with this view, and the two men had been at loggerheads ever since. Clearly, a showdown was now in the offing. Recent events would either demonstrate the utter uselessness of all the security systems (victory for Thanet), or indicate the need to work even harder to turn the museum into a cross between Stalag Luft VI and an electronics factory (victory for Streeter). Or, of course, the museum could collapse entirely, and both would find themselves on the breadline.
Going instantly on the offensive, the security man took a perverse pleasure in pointing out that, in fact, he didn't really have quite the equipment he had wanted.
'I did indicate at the time the dangers of cutting corners on security. For optimum coverage . . .'
'Please. That's not what we're here for,' Morelli said, rubbing an inflamed gum and too tired to get involved in domestic squabbles. 'Why don't you just show us what you've got, not what you wanted.'
Not before the guided tour. As Streeter set it all out, each room in the museum was covered by a camera system whose lenses swept across a minimum of eighty-two per cent of the area every minute. Equally, they could be automatically directed to particular spots when pressure pads were activated or light-beams cut. The entrycard system automatically logged the entry and exit of everybody employed by the museum, correlated their personal codes to the telephone system so the administration knew where and when they were dialling. More sensors picked up the cards as people moved from room to room, permitting a read-out of their movements. Finally, microphones in every gallery could pick up conversations, in case any visitors were planning a break-in. And, naturally, all the rooms were fitted with smoke detectors, metal detectors and explosives sniffers.
'Christ,' said a surprised Morelli as this explanation finally came to an end. 'You're all ready for Doomsday here. You seem more intent on watching the staff than anything else.'
'You may sneer,' said Streeter, affronted. 'But because many of my recommendations were ignored, our employer has been murdered. And now my system is going to tell you who did it.'
Even Thanet thought that Streeter's voice lacked its normal conviction as he said this, but Morelli paid no attention, being too busy watching the man manipulate an extraordinary system of controls on the central console. 'Naturally, the administrative block is less comprehensively covered, but we have adequate visual coverage. I've directed the image outputting to this VDU unit,' he said, pointing a finger.
'He means the picture will be on that television screen,' Thanet explained helpfully. Streeter glared at him, then turned disdainfully to watch the screen. It remained resolutely blank.
'Ah,' he said.
Director and detective looked at him inquisitively as he rushed over to his console again and began scanning buttons and levers.
'Damn,' he added.
'Don't tell me, let me guess. You forgot to put a film in?'
'Certainly not,' Streeter said, manipulating wildly. 'It doesn't use film. A visual recording node seems to have malfunctioned.'
'Camera's bust,' Thanet said in a loud stage-whisper.
Streeter rolled back a video, explaining as he did so that the image should come from a camera in the corridor leading to Thanet's office. Still nothing. Careful checks revealed that it had stopped working at a little after 8:30 p.m. Subsequent investigation revealed that the cause of the problem was nothing more hi-tech than a pate sandwich stuck over the lens.
Morelli, who had a deep-seated distrust of all gadgetry, was not in the slightest bit surprised. He would have been much more amazed - pleasantly, admittedly - had the video shown some miscreant trotting down the staircase wiping bloodstained hands on his handkerchief. Fifteen years in the police, however, had taught him that life is rarely so kind. Fortunately, there was always good old-fashioned police procedure to fall back on.
'Who did it?' he asked Thanet, who looked taken aback by the question.
'I've not the faintest idea,' the director said after a moment to gather his thoughts.
'What happened, then?'
'I don't know.'
Morelli paused, standard procedural techniques having proven less than immediately effective, and thought a moment.
'Tell me what happened when the body was discovered,' he said, thinking this might be a good place to start.
Thanet, with the occasional interruption from Streeter, gave his account. Moresby had arrived at the party, circulated awhile, then was approached by Hector di Souza, who insisted on talking to him.
Streeter put in that di Souza seemed agitated and had insisted on privacy.
'What were his exact words?'
'Ah, now, there you've got me. Ah, he marched up to Mr. Moresby, and said something like "I understand you've got your Bernini." Then Mr. Moresby nodded and said, "At last," and di Souza said was he sure? And Moresby said he - di Souza, that is – was going to have to do a lot of explaining.'
'Explaining about what?'
Streeter shrugged, closely followed by Thanet. 'No idea,' he said. 'I'm just telling you what I heard.'
'Time?'
'I'm not entirely certain. Shortly after nine, I'd guess.'
Morelli turned to Thanet. 'Do you know what it might have been about?'
Thanet shook his head. 'No idea. I had words with di Souza earlier myself. He was upset about the bust, but wouldn't tell me why. Just said he urgently wanted to talk privately to Moresby about it. Maybe there was some dispute over the price.'
'An odd time to start having second thoughts.'
Thanet shrugged. No accounting for art dealers.
'You didn't by any chance have a microphone in the director's office, did you?' Morelli asked.
Streeter looked thunderstruck for a moment, then switched to being outraged. 'No,' he said shortly. 'I did once suggest that office space be monitored more closely, but Mr. Thanet here said he'd take me to the Supreme Court if necessary to stop me.'
'A monstrous, unconstitutional and illegal idea,' Thanet huffed. 'How anyone can so lose sight of basic civilised . . .'
'Oh, shut up, both of you,' Morelli said. 'I'm not interested. Can't you keep your minds on the fact that Arthur Moresby has been murdered?'
As they clearly couldn't, he told them he'd take statements properly later, and got a junior officer to usher them out. Then, taking several deep breaths to calm himself down, he ran his fingers through his hair and began to organise his investigation. Press to be talked to, names to be taken, statements to gather, bodies to be moved, someone to go round immediately and find di Souza. Hours of work stretched before him. And he couldn't really face it. So, instead he settled down and watched the video of the party, to see if that produced any real leads.
It didn't help him, nor did it greatly illuminate more professional analysts who looked it over later. The multiple interaction patterning, as the experts termed it, concluded that Thanet was having an affair with his secretary; that no less than twenty-seven per cent of the guests departed with at least one piece of museum cutlery in their pockets; that Jack Moresby drank too much, that David Barclay, the lawyer, and Hector di Souza, the art dealer, both spent extraordinary amounts of time looking at themselves in mirrors and that Jonathan Argyll was a bit lost and ill at ease most of the evening. They also noted that Mrs. Moresby arrived with David Barclay, and didn't speak to her husband once all the time he was there. Finally, they saw with disappointment that the pate sandwiches were singularly popular, although no one was seen secreting one about his person for unorthodox purposes.
They also watched Moresby talking to di Souza and leaving the party with the Spaniard at 9:07 p.m. and later on saw Barclay be summoned to the phone, talk into it, and walk out of the building at 9:58 p.m. The body was discovered moments later and Barclay came back to phone the police at 10:06 p.m. After that, everyone hung around and waited, with the exception of Langton who could be seen on the phone at 10:11 and again at 10:16. Simple enough, he explained later, he was phoning Jack Moresby and then Anne Moresby to inform them of the disaster. He was, it seemed, the only person who even thought of telling them. All the rest were too busy panicking.
Apart from that, they came up with a list of people who, at various stages of the evening, conversed with Moresby. Surprisingly enough there weren't all that many; almost everybody greeted him in one way or another, but he responded in such a frigid manner that few had sufficient courage to pursue the dialogue further. The party may have been thrown in his honour, but Arthur Moresby did not look as though he was in a party mood.
To put it another way, dozens of expert man-hours and all the techniques of advanced social-scientific investigation devoted to analysing the tape produced no useful information whatsoever. And Morelli had known they wouldn't, all along.
Jonathan Argyll tossed and turned in bed, his mind churning over recent events with a degree of manic obsessiveness. He had sold a Titian; he hadn't been paid for it; he had to go back to London; the prospective buyer had just been murdered; he wasn't going to get paid for it; he was going to lose his job; he had nearly been run over; the cheeseburger was in violent dispute with his stomach; Hector di Souza was the likely candidate for gun-toting connoisseur; the Spaniard had smuggled a bust out of Italy.
And he had no one to talk it all over with. A brief conversation with di Souza himself might have cleared his mind enough for him to get some sleep, but the infernal man was nowhere around. Not in his room, anyway; policemen there were aplenty, but Hector himself had, apparently, come back to the hotel, then left again shortly after someone phoned him. The key was with the reception. Maybe he would turn up for breakfast, unless the police got to him first, in which case he might be otherwise engaged.
Argyll rolled over in the bed for the thirtieth time, and looked at the clock with eyes that were not in the slightest bit weary, try as he might to convince them that they needed a rest.
Four in the morning. Which meant that he'd been lying in bed for three and a half hours, eyes open, brain rotating.
He switched on the light, hesitated and finally took the decision he'd been wanting to take ever since he got back to his hotel room. He had to talk to someone. He picked up the phone.
Chapter Four
While Argyll was wide awake in the middle of the night, Flavia di Stefano, sitting at her desk in the Rome headquarters of the Italian art squad, was half asleep in the middle of the day. Like him, however, she was in a disturbed frame of mind, and her c
olleagues were beginning to notice.
Ordinarily she was an exceptionally good-humoured person to have around. Cheerful, charming, relaxed. A perfect colleague to spend an hour chattering to over a cup of espresso when the work load flagged a bit. In the four years she'd worked for Taddeo Bottando as a researcher, she had successfully established a reputation for all-purpose amiability. She was, in short, well-liked.
But not at the moment. For the past few weeks she had been grumpy, uncooperative and a complete pain in the neck. A very junior and pimply-faced lad who had just joined had his head almost bodily ripped off for a trivial mistake that, usually, would have elicited nothing more alarming than a patient explanation of how to do it properly. A colleague asking for a swap on the work rota so he could take a long weekend was told to cancel the weekend. A plea for help from another, bogged down in a mass of documents from an art gallery raid, was told he would have to sort it out himself.
Not herself at all. General Bottando even made cautious enquiries after her health, and wondered whether she was, perhaps, overworking a little. He got short shrift as well, and was told, in effect, to mind his own business. Fortunately, he was a tolerant man, and more worried than annoyed. But he was beginning to find himself watching her more carefully. He ran a happy department, so he liked to think, and was disturbed at the effect she was beginning to have on morale.
Doggedly and persistently, though, Flavia plugged on with the work; forms in, forms annotated, forms out again. No one could fault her work, or the amount of time she spent doing it. She just wasn't much fun anymore. The bad mood seemed an almost permanent fixture, and was approaching high tide when, at 5:30, the phone rang.
'Di Stefano,' she snapped, rather as though the instrument was a personal enemy.
The voice at the other end bellowed through the receiver at a volume which suggested the owner was shouting loudly into it. He was; Argyll had still not fully accepted that the audibility of phone lines varies in inverse proportion to their length. His voice came through as clear as a bell, while a call across Rome was frequently incomprehensible.
