The Bernini Bust (16 page)

He was working long hours, his wife was starting to protest and, although he was rapidly accumulating masses of pieces of information, until this afternoon he had made little progress in fitting them together. The fact that they were now slotting together made him feel no less tired. And however much he welcomed international co-operation, he could not really see how the arrival of Flavia di Stefano was going to help. She would undoubtedly use up more of his precious time, and contribute little in return.

On the other hand, as those further up the greasy pole had pointed out, it was something to throw to the press as a way of distracting their attention for a while. The arrival of this woman had already sent the reptiles into paroxysms of speculation. The prospect of a connection with Europe (a place indelibly associated in all right-thinking West Coast minds with deviousness and decadence) was a useful red herring. Mention the word Italy in connection with a crime and by morning half a dozen pundits will be intoning gravely about the Mafia.

While they chewed on that, and Moresby’s possible links with organised crime, Morelli and his comrades could get on quietly with their business.

He saw her first, wandering around in a daze heading for the enquiries desk. Even at that time in the morning he could feel a touch of envy for Argyll. Being of Italian descent, Morelli still had a patriotic preference for women from the Old Country. Bashed and battered though she was from the flight, she was still pretty beautiful, and the fair dishevelled hair and rumpled clothes somehow made her look more so. Nor, he thought as she wandered in his direction, was she just a pretty face. There was something which gave an impression of sturdy competence.

“Signorina di Stefano?” he asked as she gave another enormous yawn and rubbed her eyes.

She looked at him suspiciously, slowly worked out who he was and gave a smile.

“Detective Morelli,” she replied, thrusting out her hand. “It’s very good of you to meet me here,” she added as he shook it.

She spoke good English, with a heavy accent that Morelli found so unbearably appealing he could hardly stand listening to it, and gave him an account of the flight as they walked to Morelli’s car. Miserable. What else?

“I’ve booked you into the same hotel as Argyll. I hope that’s OK. It’s near the museum, and is pretty comfortable.”

“I suppose it’s too late to go and see Jonathan?” she asked. “I’ve spoken to the hospital a couple of times, but I’ve never got through to him direct.”

“You’d be wasting your time,” he said, pulling out on to the freeway and heading north. “He discharged himself this afternoon.”

“Was that wise?”

“Not according to the doctors, no. But doctors are like that. I don’t suppose it matters really. He apparently said that if he stayed in the hospital he’d die of boredom and he was going home. So he called a taxi and hopped out. I haven’t heard from him since.”

“Oh, dear, and he’s so careless.”

“So it seems. He’s only been here five days and he’s nearly been run over, had a major car crash, destroyed a shop, broken his leg and been the cause of a brawl in the hospital. People like that are dangerous to be around. Besides, I wanted to give him protection, until the case is properly wrapped up. But as I don’t know where he is…’

“What do you mean, “protection”? What for?”

“In case someone tries to kill him again.”

All news to Flavia. Until then, she’d been assuming that Argyll’s mishap was one of the inevitable and normal parts of his life-cycle. Morelli’s account of loosened brake leads, of the party, of something he must know but couldn’t remember, was the first she’d heard of any of it. She was also a little bit irritated by the American’s confidentexplanationof howthenoosewas,metaphorically speaking, tightening around David Barclay and Anne Moresby. What was the point of her coming all this way if the case was going to be all over in a matter of hours?

On the other hand, at the moment she was more concerned with Argyll. Now she really did want to see him. Which was fairly easy, as he was back in his hotel room. Flavia discovered him, leg propped up, sitting on the bed reading, with a glass of whisky and an ashtray by his side. Freedom.

Had he been more mobile, he would have leapt up, raced across the room and taken her in his arms when she came in. As it was, he did the best he could, waving enthusiastically, beaming with welcome and beginning to apologise for not moving.

He was not allowed to finish the explanation. Flavia had intended to make some sardonic remark about his carelessness before sitting down for a civil conversation about this bust. Cool and distant. She still hadn’t forgiven him for planning to leave Italy.

Somehow or other it all went wrong. She had been angry with him, worried about him and thoroughly alarmed by the news that someone had tried to kill him. The fact that she was able to walk straight through his unlocked door, that he was so dimwitted he was taking no precautions at all, simply pushed her over the edge, and she let rip with a veritable torrent of abuse which completely erased his cheerful welcome.

Briefly summarised, she informed him that he was stupid, inconsiderate, reckless, selfish, a danger to himself and others, blind as a mouse (here her command of English idiom let her down) and thoroughly irritating. Except that she took longer to deliver her opinion, which came complete with innumerable examples stretching back over many weeks, accompanied by much wagging of the finger, elaborated with many baroque turns of phrase - Italian when the supply of English ran out - and was finally spoiled by ending with a lower lip that was beginning to tremble with relief that, after all that and despite his best efforts, he was still in one piece.

For Argyll it was a critical moment. He had two choices; either to pick up the gauntlet and shout back, at which point the reunion he’d been looking forward to would degenerate into a slanging match; or try to calm her down, and run the risk of receiving another torrent based on the thesis that he was, in addition, pompous and condescending.

This he knew very well, as well as he knew Flavia. A ticklish choice, and he took so long trying to make up his mind that he said nothing at all, just looked at her wistfully. Oddly, it was the right thing to do. You can stand, hand on hips, looking pugnacious, for only so long. Sooner or later you have to shift stance, and when she did, he reached out, took her hand and gave it a squeeze.

“I’m so very glad to see you,” he said simply.

She sat down, sniffed loudly and nodded. “Yeah, well. Me too, I suppose,” she replied.

Chapter Ten

“The trouble is,” Argyll said next day when Flavia’s mental faculties had returned to something approaching normal, “that I’m a bit stuck, you see. The deal was that if I sell this Titian, I keep my job and go back to London. And I’ve sold it.”

“Can’t you just say you don’t want to go?”

“Not really, no. Not without resigning or being fired. Besides, Byrnes has done an awful lot for me, and he wants someone there he thinks he can trust.”

“He trusts you?”

“I did say
thinks
he can trust.”

“Can’t you say you need more experience, or something?”

“I’ve just sold a Titian for a client for a handsome fee. He seems to think that indicates I’m doing quite well.”

“Cancel the sale.”

“But the deal’s going through. I can’t cancel it. How would I explain to the owner. “Sorry, but I want to stay in Italy so you’ll have to accept only half the price in a year’s time?” That’s not the way to get ahead, you know. Besides, the real point is that Byrnes wants to draw in his horns a little. Basically, the choice is promotion in London, or unemployment in Rome. And I’m lucky to have the choice.”

“Hmm. Do you want to go to London?”

“Of course not. Who in their right mind would want to live in London if they could stay in Rome? I could stay on and work to commission…’

“Do that, then.”

“Yes, but you’re missing the point. My big secret.”

“What’s that?”

“Essentially,” he confided, “I’m not a very good art dealer. Without a regular salary, I don’t know that I could earn enough to survive. Not at the moment. And on top of that, you didn’t seem to care one way or the other.”

“That’s not my fault,” she protested. “Is it my fault your way of declaring undying affection is to offer someone a cup of tea?”

Argyll brushed these details aside. “The point is, I’ve now given up the lease on my flat. I will have nowhere to live and nothing to live on.”

“But,” she said, “what if the museum cancels the sale?”

“They won’t.”

“They will if the museum closes. Then you can call Byrnes, say the whole thing was a flop, you’re a disaster as an art dealer, and insist that your presence in his London gallery would ensure bankruptcy in a matter of months.”

“And lose my job. Very helpful.”

“But you could sell the Titian to someone else and keep all the commission yourself.”

“If I could sell it. If the owner wanted me to sell it. This place is paying far more than the picture is worth and the market’s in a right mess at the moment. I could be sitting on it for months. Besides, I don’t know what’s going to happen to the museum at all yet. Thanet’s worried about Mrs. Moresby, but it’s all in the hands of lawyers.”

“Fine. So let’s go and find out what the situation is.”

The Moresby seaside retreat, one of the many homes where the happy and united family spent the summer months, was not at all what Argyll had imagined, and certainly far from Flavia’s experience. But almost everything in Los Angeles was far from her experience. She had a very traditional notion of cities; cathedral, museum, town hall and railway station telling you where the centre was, historic district, modern suburbs wrapped around separating town from country. Los Angeles is not like that and from the moment she arrived to the moment she left she had not a clue where she was. Only by keeping the Pacific Ocean in view could she tell if she was going north or south, east or west. And it was unexpectedly difficult to tell where the ocean was. Flavia associated beaches with public access but Californians, in this as much else, evidently did things differently. As far as she could see, most of the Pacific had been commandeered for private use, with houses built along the coast specifically to obscure the view for everyone else.

At first sight,
chez
Moresby was not much to look at. That at least was Flavia’s excuse for driving past the first time; turning round and coming back again was not easy, so it was doubly unfortunate that she overshot again heading south. From the road, the place could have been the back end of a seedy restaurant, and the site straight on to the road was not what either of them would have associated with enormous wealth.

Convinced that they were in the wrong place, they walked cautiously round to the front, and changed their minds. It was an extraordinary house, if you like twentieth-century architecture, plate glass windows thirty foot long with uninterrupted views of the Pacific Ocean, and a hand-carved beechwood sundeck about the size of a tennis court.

Of course, it would have helped if the architect had provided an easily findable door, so they could have knocked on it, but fortunately they didn’t need one. A man, evidently a servant of some sort, emerged from somewhere and shouted at them. Argyll cupped his hand over his ear and tried to understand what he was saying.

“He’s telling us to go away,” Flavia said.

“How do you know that? I can’t understand a word he’s saying.”

“That’s because he’s speaking Spanish,” she said, and bellowed back a stream of verbiage in his direction.

He came over, eyed them suspiciously and a lengthy conversation ensued. Argyll was impressed. He didn’t know Flavia spoke Spanish. Very irritating; she could do things like that. He had laboured long and hard to acquire his smatterings of language, and had sweated blood over the most regular of imperfect subjunctives. Flavia, in contrast, seemed to pick up the most abstruse grammatical points as casually as someone buying a bar of chocolate. She didn’t put any effort into it at all, as far as he could see. There’s no justice in life.

“What are you talking about, then?” he asked as the conversation petered out into mutual smiles.

“I’ve been winning his confidence,” she said. “He has orders from Mrs. Moresby not to let anyone into the house and, because I am such a particularly nice person, he is going to make an exception on our part. He’s from Nicaragua, and doesn’t have any work permit, and the Moresby’s pay him virtually nothing and threaten to have him deported if he complains. He has to clean the house, do the shopping and the cooking, act as a chauffeur and doesn’t like working here at all. The only compensation is that they have lots of houses and aren’t here very often. On the other hand, the awful son uses the place occasionally when they are away and he has to clean up his empty bottles. He is certain that Mrs. Moresby is having an affair, he doesn’t know who with and, very regrettably, he is her alibi for the time of the murder. He wishes he wasn’t.”

“And how is his family doing back in Nicaragua? Or didn’t you have time to get to that stage?”

“Wasn’t necessary. Let’s go in.”

They advanced into the house before Alfredo could change his mind, as he was clearly beginning to do. The inside was disappointing, as Moresby had filled it, most incongruously, with eighteenth-century French furniture, which looked as out of place as a tubular steel sofa would in the Palazzo Farnese. Not only that, there was an awful lot of it, and the dozens of chairs, sofas, pictures, prints, busts, and miscellaneous knick-knacks seemed to have been chosen more or less at random. Occasionally the junk-shop approach to home decorating works and produces a pleasing confusion, but not here. Arthur Moresby’s beach house, designed for clean, uncluttered, fresh-air modernism, looked as though it had been furnished by an unusually acquisitive magpie.

But despite that, the decor was effective in conveying the impression that the owners were not short of ready money. Even the ashtrays were of baccarat crystal. Argyll suspected the toilet rolls would turn out to be of the finest water-pressed Venetian paper. All the commodes, bureaux, Louis Seize sofas, Chippendale tables had been restored, revarnished, reupholstered and regilded. It looked like the lobby of an international hotel.