The Bernini Bust ja-3

by Iain Pears

  And the upshot was that Langton would testify about seeing Jack Moresby leave the administrative block, that he would give full details of the phone call that led to the death of di Souza and would refund the two million dollars that he had absentmindedly transferred into a bank account in Switzerland.

  In return Morelli would do his best to arrange matters so that the court looked sympathetically on his genuine sense of remorse and contrition and would not overstress the argument that Langton had incited Moresby to murder di Souza. Jail was likely, but not for very long. All very satisfactory.

  While this was going on, Thanet and Barclay were in another corner, staring out of the window and also doing a certain amount of hard bargaining. They suddenly had a lot to talk about.

  'I'm glad to hear about the Bernini,' Thanet said, crossing the room with a satisfied look on his face. 'Now we won't have the embarrassment of having to send it back.'

  'No. But you can send di Souza back if you want,' Argyll said. 'It is the very least you can do, in the circumstances.'

  'I suppose we should. I'm sure Barclay will oblige with the money. We don't have a penny at the moment. Not until this is all settled.'

  'You're not going to have a penny, anyway, settled or not,' Anne Moresby chipped in from her lonely position on the sofa. 'I'm still going to close you down.' Despite being saved from innumerable years in jail by the efforts of others, the experience did not seem to have softened her much.

  Oddly, the remark did not have the usual effect on Thanet's demeanour. He looked at her with interest, then glanced at Barclay.

  'I don't know that this is a wise move, Mrs. Moresby,' Barclay said.

  'Why not?' she asked.

  'Because of the circumstances. If you go to law over this, the museum will fight. There is a more than fair chance that it will win.'

  'It doesn't have a leg to stand on.'

  'I think that if it came out in court how you persuaded your lover to bug Mr. Thanet's office to get material for blackmail . . .'

  Morelli and Flavia exchanged glances. Streeter? Well, why not. She was having an affair, they were old college friends, she had got him a job, he was useful as a spy in place. No wonder he'd looked so upset when the subject was raised the other day. Another mistake, they thought simultaneously. Anne Moresby looked furious and Streeter had an air of almost childish sheepishness about him.

  'Go on,' she said.

  'Mr. Thanet has made a suggestion . . .'

  'Which is?'

  'A billion to the museum and the rest to you. Even you should be able to rub along on that. And you give up your place as a museum trustee.'

  A silence greeted this remark.

  'You'll abandon the Big Museum?' she asked eventually.

  Thanet nodded regretfully. 'No choice, really. Not much you can do with a billion these days.'

  'Well, at least that's a blow for sanity.'

  She thought carefully, calculating risks, costs and options. Then she nodded. 'OK. Done.' Also a decisive person.

  Thanet smiled, and so did Barclay. Both were highly concerned that their role in the income tax affair should be kept under wraps. This seemed the best way of doing it. Admittedly, preserving their careers had just cost Anne Moresby a fortune she would otherwise have undoubtedly won, but nothing's cheap these days.

  'Get it settled as quickly as possible,' she went on. 'Then I can wash my hands of the entire place.'

  'That will take time, of course,' Barclay said, thinking of his fees.

  'Which, I'm afraid, is the other thing I have to say,' Thanet added apologetically, his face looking concerned once more.

  'What's that?' Argyll asked, as the statement seemed to be addressed to him.

  'Money. It's all frozen, you see.'

  'Pardon?'

  'Until the estate is settled. It's held by administrators. We can't get at it too easily.'

  'So?'

  'So, I'm sorry to say that we won't be able to buy your Titian. No way of paying for it. I'm afraid we'll have to cancel the deal.'

  'What!'

  'It's off. We don't want it. Or rather, we do, of course, naturally, but can't afford it. Not at the moment.'

  'You don't want that Titian?' Argyll said, astonishment growing as understanding seeped in.

  Thanet nodded apologetically, hoping he wasn't about to be thumped.

  'I know it will set back your career . . .'

  Argyll nodded. 'Certainly will,' he said.

  'And I know your employer won't be at all happy . . .'

  'No. Indeed not. He'll be most upset.'

  'We will of course pay a cancellation fee, as per the contract. When we get some money again.'

  'That's kind of you,' he said, feeling strangely elated.

  'And I'd be happy to explain things to Sir Edward Byrnes and the owner, so that there is no misunderstand . . .'

  'No!' Argyll said sharply. 'Absolutely not. Don't you explain anything. Leave that to me.'

  Then, overcome, he gripped Thanet's hand and pumped it up and down. There is a lot to be said for having decisions taken out of your hands. It is so much easier to accept the inevitable without regret or doubt. 'Thank you,' he said to the bewildered director. 'You've taken a great weight off my mind.'

  'Really?' Thanet said cautiously.

  'Yes, indeed. Of course, I have made a proper mess of this . . .'

  'You didn't mess it up,' Thanet said, trying to console.

  'Oh, yes I did. Dreadful. What a waste of time.'

  'Well, I really wouldn't go that far . . .'

  'Of course you would. And Byrnes will think, do I really want someone like that running my gallery? Much better to have that fellow in Vienna. He may be boring, but at least he's reliable. Don't you think?'

  Thanet had given up by now, and just stared at him blankly.

  'So I'll just have to rot away in Rome. Unemployed, homeless, no money, and the market in a mess. How awful.' And beamed happily.

  Flavia had watched all this with interest. It is not everyone who watches their careers disintegrating with such contentment. And the fact that she understood perfectly why he was so happy made her come over all funny.

  Sentimentality apart, though, it did seem a high price to pay for her company. Flattering though it was. Argyll's trouble was his lack of finesse. He often missed a neat flourish because he was, essentially, much too nice to be really determined.

  So she thought she'd provide that extra touch herself. As a mark of affection.

  'Of course, in six months time you might come along and decide you want that Titian, after all,' she said gently. 'For a bit more than you offered this time, taking into account all Jonathan's time and trouble. Risking life and limb to save your museum, and all that.'

  Thanet agreed this might be possible, but privately doubted it. Six months was a long time in the future. Amazing what you could forget. It was not as if he ever wanted the picture in the first place.

  'But it would have to be with no funny business this time,' she continued, half talking to herself. 'I mean, no income tax fiddles. Jonathan here has his reputation with Sir Edward to think about. Did you know that people say Byrnes is the only honest dealer in the business? Hates shady stuff. If he ever heard of any of this . . . I mean, he's the sort of person who just might tell the IRS, just to safeguard his good name. It is the IRS, isn't it?'

  Thanet nodded thoughtfully. IRS it was. And the last thing he needed now was to be hauled over the coals by them. The very thought of those flinty-eyed hatchet men going through the books made him shudder. It might give Anne Moresby fresh ideas as well. So, recognising an in-built transitional overhead cost when he saw one, he nodded.

  'Ten per cent over the original price?' he suggested.

  'Fifteen,' Flavia corrected gravely.

  'Fifteen, then.'

  'Plus a ten per cent cancellation cost now, to go direct to Jonathan.'

  Thanet bowed in agreement.

  'Plus interest, of cours
e.'

  Thanet opened his mouth to protest, then decided it wasn't worth the effort. Flavia was smiling charmingly at him, but he could see her eyes glinting with what looked like a very nasty combination of merriment and determination. She was, he decided, perfectly capable of paying a visit to the IRS before she left the country.

  'Very well, then. I think we understand each other. Is this satisfactory, Mr. Argyll?'

  Argyll, standing there and feeling that life's infinite variety was too kaleidoscopic this evening, could do little more than indicate that it seemed just about OK.

  'By the way,' Flavia continued absently. 'Who is going to keep an eye on the market in Europe for you? Now that Langton seems unlikely to be in any position to keep his finger on the pulse, so to speak?'

  Thanet was getting used to her now, and could see where she was heading. So he stood, feeling resigned, and waited for it.

  'You really need an agent, just to keep you informed. Nothing permanent, or full-time, simply someone to be your eyes and ears on the continent. On a retainer basis. Don't you think?'

  Thanet nodded, and sighed.

  'Indeed,' he said, giving way gracefully. 'And I was rather hoping that Mr. Argyll . . .'

  'Eh? Oh, yes,' said he. 'Delighted. Delighted. Anything to help.'

  'Drink,' Morelli said after everyone had finally gone. He'd sneaked them out of the back and into his car, over the fence and across the neighbour's garden so the waiting press didn't see them. Pity about the neighbour's cactus collection, though. It would take years before Streeter won communal forgiveness. But then he probably wouldn't be living there much longer.

  'You shouldn't. Not with all that junk in your bloodstream.'

  'I know. But I need one. And I owe you one.'

  A dingy bar, full of dingier people. Very nice.

  'Your health,' he said from behind a beer.

  'Salute,' she replied raising the glass. 'Pretty odd about Streeter tapping the office after all. Sneaky little sod.'

  'Yes, interesting, that. Another example of museum politics at work.'

  'How so?'

  'Well,' the detective began, 'as you heard, he was Anne Moresby's lover. More than anyone he knew die Moresbys weren't a tender loving couple, and he suspected that Anne was behind the shooting somehow. Naturally, he was concerned that she not be arrested, so he did his best to keep what he assumed would be incriminating evidence under wraps.

  'The trouble was that we started going after her anyway, and then all this business of the lover as accomplice came up. Streeter wasn't in the camera's view at the time of the murder, he knew that Anne Moresby had a perfect alibi and began to think that he was being set up.

  'So he swapped sides. Instead of trying to protect her, he decided to incriminate her before she got him. Any indecision vanished when Argyll suggested he produce his tape. He thought Argyll had discovered it really existed. I'm not too sure who was more dimwitted, him or us.'

  'If you think about it, none of them are exactly paragons, are they?' Argyll said. 'I mean, tax fiddles, murder, fraud, adultery, theft, framing each other for crimes, eavesdropping, firing people. They deserve each other, I reckon.'

  There was a long pause as they considered this. Then Morelli smiled at the thought, and raised his glass once more. 'My thanks. I don't know whether we would have got him eventually without your help. Maybe we would. But your comment about the bust made Langton tell all. How did you find out where it was?'

  She shrugged. 'I didn't. I haven't a clue.'

  'None?'

  'Not the foggiest. I made it up. I wanted to annoy him.'

  'In that case it was lucky.'

  'Not really. After all, not much depended on it. You could convict Moresby on the taped evidence alone.'

  Morelli shook his head. 'Maybe, but every bit helps.'

  'What were you grinning at when you were listening to that tape, by the way?'

  The American gurgled with sheer pleasure. 'I told you we thought Thanet was carrying on with his secretary?'

  Flavia nodded.

  'Well, he was. In his office. Very passionate. I was just thinking how much I will enjoy myself when that tape is presented at the trial and is played to the entire courtroom.'

  Argyll looked at them both with a rueful grin. 'This hasn't been a very impressive display, has it?'

  'How do you mean?'

  'We pointed the finger at the wrong murderer three times. We got Anne Moresby's lover wrong. Someone tried to murder me and I didn't even notice. Out of all of them Moresby was the only one I thought was basically OK. We invented a theft that didn't happen, and in the end only have a chance of getting a conviction because Streeter completely misunderstood me and Flavia told a whopping lie to Langton. And we still don't know what happened to that bust.'

  Morelli nodded contentedly. 'A textbook case,' he said.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Hector di Souza was buried twice; once after a requiem Mass in Santa Maria sopra Minerva with full choir, dozens of attendants -including a real cardinal archbishop, the sort he'd always had a weakness for - and more cloth-of-gold vestments than you could shake a stick at. Friends, colleagues and enemies turned up in full force, dressed in their best, and the incense was burned like it was going out of fashion. Hector would have loved it. The march to the grave was appropriately solemn, the grave itself suitably verdant and the requiem dinner afterwards agreeably fine. No gravestone, yet. Enormously expensive, gravestones.

  The second time he was buried in the accounts of the Moresby Museum; Argyll sent them a combined bill for transporting di Souza and his antiquities back to Italy and he heard no more of the matter. The beechwood coffin with brass trimmings got lost under the heading of post and packing for unwanted goods and the Mass went down as administrative expenses. All true, in a way, but not exactly poetic.

  However sneaky they may have been in the past, the jolt of recent events seemed to reform the museum somewhat. The removal of Langton, and Streeter's decision to develop his consultancy on a more full-time basis lightened Samuel Thanet's universe to such an extent that he became almost obliging. Certainly, as far as Argyll was concerned, the director kept his word; Argyll got a cheque for his cancellation fee and a post-dated contract for the Titian within a fortnight. He and Byrnes came to an arrangement regarding future commissions and thankfully put aside any thought of his returning to England. And, within three months, the cheques for his retainer started arriving with commendable regularity. Not big, by the standards of art dealing, but more than sufficient to live off and have money left over.

  There was a problem of accommodation, of course; the housing shortage in Rome has been chronic since the days of the Renaissance popes and there is no sign of that changing before the end of the next millenium. In the end, he lodged with Flavia until he got organised. But the practical solution was largely disingenuous; both were primarily concerned to see what happened. To their mutual amazement, the arrangement worked extraordinarily well and he eventually gave up even the pretence of looking for anything of his own. Domestically speaking, she was a complete pig, having developed not a single housewifely skill in her entire life, but that was OK; Argyll was not exactly houseproud either.

  Domestic matters sorted out, Flavia got back to work with a vengeance and a cheery insouciance that made Bottando both relieved at the change and complacent about his original diagnosis of her ill humour. Among more routine matters, she interrogated Collins at the Borghese, took a statement from him about his involvement with Langton, got him to admit burgling Alberghi, picked up the other oddments he'd stolen from his flat, sent them back to their rightful owner - together with a stern recommendation that he look after them this time - and packed the young and foolish man off to California for a little chat with Morelli. For her own part she persuaded Bottando not to bring any charges against him. No point in being vindictive; it just created paperwork and she doubted whether he'd ever do the like again. Not in Italy, anyway; not with a pass
port stamped like that.

  And then it was truffle season, one of the highlights of any thinking person's year. Black ones, white ones, and sported ones. Cut thin and scattered as liberally as you can afford over fresh pasta. Worth travelling several hundred miles for, so you can eat them fresh. And to one restaurant in particular, which is so good that it appears in no guides, no gazettes and is scarcely known to anyone outside the Umbrian hilltown where it has been seducing tastebuds for a generation.

  Flavia was even reluctant to tell Argyll where it was, but he got the information out of her eventually, and he decided that it was time to celebrate his return to full mobility by taking her to lunch. And en route, she had the brainwave of what to get him for his birthday. He was thirty-one and beginning to feel his age. It is the time of life when even the most optimistic get their first glimpse of senile decay looming up over the horizon.

  A fine lunch of truffles, mushrooms and Frascati did something to reconcile him to the vale of tears through which he was passing at such alarming speed, however, and he was in a much more benevolent mood by the time he loaded himself into the passenger seat of Flavia's car and they set off erratically on the road once more.

  True to his Californian decision, he not only refrained from criticising the speed at which she drove, he even managed to avoid flinching every time she overtook. But as far as he could see there was no absolute ban on asking where they were going, even if it was a surprise.

  She just smiled, and kept on driving. Only as they swept on to the road to Gubbio did he begin to have an inkling and even then he kept his conclusions to himself. It would be a pity to spoil it by guessing.

  He was right though; she parked near the main square, led the way down the side streets and knocked on a door. Signora Borunna answered, and smiled as Flavia apologised for disturbing them.

  The smile was not as gentle as before; rather there was a sad tinge about it which she found disconcerting. But they were invited in and Flavia explained that she wanted to take up the offer of a piece of sculpture. To buy, of course.