The Bernini Bust by Iain Pears

  'That the picture is a dud I don't doubt for a minute. That the whole business was an early attempt to nobble Thanet seems equally likely.'

  Morelli, who'd been staring at the ceiling, nodding to himself and wondering whether she was ever going to produce any evidence, stirred into activity. 'How do you reach that conclusion?' he said as he leant forward, surveyed the sandwiches and selected another beer.

  'It was not bought by Langton, so exposing it wouldn't hurt him. It would hurt Thanet, who OKed it, Barclay who paid out the money, and in turn could well lead to an investigation of Moresby himself. A full investigation would have revealed that, while the picture only cost 200,000 dollars, Moresby claimed on his tax form that he paid 3.2 million. Barclay gave me the figures. Further investigation would undoubtedly have shown up that over the years millions of dollars had been saved in taxes by the process. Moresby would have been in deep trouble and could only have got out of it by blaming Thanet and Barclay. Over zealous servants. You know the routine.'

  'Didn't work, though,' Morelli pointed out.

  'No. Thanet acted with more determination than anyone thought possible and booted the curator out fast. So Langton tries again.

  Collins ends up as an intern at the Borghese and uncovers this document about the Bernini. Cogs click over. Langton has heard the story many times about Moresby being defrauded of a Bernini. It can't be hard for him to work out that Moresby might be very pleased indeed if he got hold of it.

  'There are difficulties, not least the problem of getting hold of it and getting it out of the country. They decide on di Souza as the poor unfortunate who will have to take any blame for smuggling, so that the museum will be in the clear. That will satisfy Moresby's desire for vengeance and add to his temptation to get hold of the bust.

  'So Langton goes to Bracciano to enquire but is thrown out. Collins tells him that old Alberghi has recently died, he phones Colonel Alberghi and finds out that no one has the faintest idea what is in the house. So Langton knows that if there is a Bernini there, he is the only person who is aware of the fact. So there is a robbery to get hold of it, and this comes up with nothing. No Bernini. A bit of a snag.

  'But Langton isn't the sort of person to let a minor detail like this get in his way. He realises that if he came to the conclusion that there was a Bernini there, then so would anybody else. Langton hooks di Souza by buying some of his antiquities and then paying him to transport the case across the Atlantic; money is transferred under the normal scheme, with two million dollars, I suspect, making an unscheduled stop in Collins' bank account until it can be made to disappear properly.

  'Langton is close not only to defrauding Moresby of a large amount of money, but also to gaining his thanks into the bargain and to ousting Thanet. The snag is to make sure that no one looks into the case. Having brought stuff for the museum before, he can be fairly certain the customs won't waste too much time over it. But just to be on the safe side, he delays picking the case up until he hears that Moresby is coming for his unscheduled visit. It was he, after all, who arranged for the case to be put in Thanet's office, partly opened, and suggested that there was no time to examine it. Then all he had to do was stick a sandwich over the camera lens and wait for everyone to start leaping to conclusions.'

  Morelli wrinkled his nose with dissatisfaction. 'He didn't really expect anyone to believe that, did he?'

  'But we did. The trick was to convince everyone that the bust was genuine after it supposedly vanished from Thanet's office. And for that he needed the active, if unknowing, collaboration of the Italian police. Me, in fact, damn him. He knows we'll investigate the robbery at Bracciano, and all we need to do is link that theft and the Bernini. That link was provided by Jonathan Argyll, who immediately rang me up to rabbit on about smuggling in such a way that we were bound to look into it. So I went to the Borghese and only an idiot could have missed the connection.'

  Argyll looked up at this, somewhat surprised to hear himself described as a virtual accomplice in wholesale fraud.

  'Langton bought that Titian very late on, after he had set up di Souza. Then he insisted that Argyll come to Los Angeles. That Titian scarcely fitted in at all with the museum's collection. It stuck out like a sore finger . . .'

  'Thumb.'

  'A sore thumb, amongst the other paintings in the building. If you assumed the museum had a coherent acquisitions policy, it made no sense at all. No more than the purchase of di Souza's sculpture made sense.

  'It was bought simply to make sure Argyll was present when the issue of smuggling came up. His friendship with me and the art squad was no secret in the Italian art business, after all. The moment the bust vanished, Argyll rang me up, and I started following the trail so conveniently laid out for me.'

  Full of idioms, that spurt. Must be a mistake somewhere. She paused, and looked at Argyll enquiringly. He nodded approvingly.

  'Langton's careful planning successfully created the illusion of a convincing provenance. Careful investigation would trace the bust to Alberghi, di Souza, the 1951 sale. And when added to the enthusiastic account of Alberghi in 1951, pretty convincing.

  'The result was that a couple of days later, the polizia sent an urgent message attesting to the national significance of the bust, its undoubted authenticity, and demanding its return.

  'What better way of convincing anyone that the theft had been real and the bust genuine than to have international warrants flying around wanting it back? From the start, the police were being manipulated to convince people that the bust was a lost masterpiece.

  'The trouble is not that di Souza starts grumbling, but that he gets to talk to Moresby so quickly. He has told Jonathan that he can prove he didn't smuggle the bust out and presumably tells Moresby as well. Emergency action is called for. The rest is straightforward.'

  She looked up at them complacently, content that the whole thing was wrapped up barring an arrest. Morelli did not look as admiring as she'd expected; he was still concerned about evidence, and said as much.

  'Oh, that,' she said airily. 'Simple enough; he's bound to turn up this evening at Streeter's. We just collar him then. Besides, I've rung Bottando; he's going to go round to the Borghese and nail Collins' head to the floor until he confesses.'

  'Talking of Mr. Langton,' Argyll said. 'I was thinking about those phone calls he made after the murder.'

  'Nothing fake there,' Morelli said. 'Both recipients confirm them, and Streeter's patent telephone tapping system also confirms the times and the numbers dialled.'

  Argyll looked disappointed, so Morelli moved to block off what seemed to be another trivial quibble from the other side of the Atlantic.

  'Here,' he said, opening up his briefcase and pulling out a sheaf of computer print-out. 'Check for yourself, if you don't believe me.'

  Argyll took the proffered sheet of paper. 'External PABX Utilisation,' it was called. Who used the phone, in other words. And not greatly informative in the matter of these calls, either. 10:10 p.m., a phone call to a number identified as Jack Moresby's. 10:21 p.m., another to Anne Moresby from the same phone. All distressingly truthful. He sighed.

  'Oh, well. Just an idea. What's this, by the way?'

  With his finger, he indicated the previous line on the print-out, a record of a call to the same phone, timed at 9:58 p.m.

  'That's the call from old man Moresby,' Morelli said after he'd looked at it briefly. 'The one that summoned Barclay over. It checks out.'

  Argyll scratched his head, then re-examined the sheet. 'Hang on a second,' he said. 'Are you sure?'

  'Oh, yes. We've got it on video.'

  'I know that. But, unless I'm mistaken, this came from outside.'

  'So?'

  'An external call.'

  Morelli looked at him enquiringly.

  'Aren't all the museum's phones linked up to an internal network? I mean, a hi-tech, go-ahead place like this . . .'

  Morelli seemed decidedly upset. 'Of course they are,' he said tho
ughtfully. 'Offices as well. Thanet's office phone too. And this was external. Damnation . . .'

  Argyll smiled. 'Another good reason for going over to Streeter's. Come on.'

  Chapter Fourteen

  The trouble with Robert Streeter's house was that it was so open, light and airy. The sort of residence that makes real-estate agents and potential homeowners lick their chops with excitement can be profoundly annoying to policemen eager to go about their business with discretion. Joe Morelli had not seen the house before, and was profoundly disappointed.

  'Couldn't you have chosen somewhere better than this?' he asked, rubbing his gum with annoyance. Damn thing was getting worse. Much worse. Tomorrow, he'd do something about it. 'This is a nightmare. It's much too exposed. I can't even park my car in the street without risking someone noticing it.'

  He puffed up his cheeks and let the air out slowly as he thought how to proceed. 'Tell you what. I'll go and leave it in the next block. You go and wait in the house, I'll be with you in a few minutes. All the backups will have to make themselves scarce as well. Damnation.'

  He walked back to the car.

  'It's amazing how comforting a policeman can be,' Argyll said a few minutes later as they were settling down in the kitchen. 'I feel quite nervous with him not here.'

  Flavia nodded. She also was feeling a bit nervous. This was, after all, potentially quite a dangerous business. While it was clearly the right way of proceeding, she had been loosely attached to the police for long enough to know that nothing ever goes to plan. There was no reason to think that the first basic rule of police work operated any differently in California than in Italy. Morelli could, and had, called on resources far beyond the capacity of her own department - as far as she could see he could rustle up almost anything from attack helicopters to anti-tank missiles, if needed. Nonetheless, she had a horrible feeling in the pit of her stomach . . .

  'Do you think this is going to work?' he asked.

  'It should do.'

  'You really reckon that he'll fall for this tape story? I don't know that I would. It seems so heavy-handed.'

  'It was your idea.'

  'I know. That doesn't mean I think it was a good idea, though.'

  Morelli came in; he didn't seem to be standing up to the strain quite so well either, all things considered. Bit strange, considering that he was meant to be used to this sort of caper. But there he was, sweating visibly, pale in the face. And trembling; visibly trembling.

  'Are you all right?' Flavia asked, brow furrowed with sudden concern. The first basic law seemed about to swing into operation.

  Morelli nodded. 'Fine, fine,' he muttered. 'Just give me a minute.'

  He sat down uncertainly at the table, supporting himself by leaning on the table.

  'You don't look well,' Argyll observed.

  Morelli looked up at Argyll, gave a sharp cry and sank to his knees. Both Europeans stood looking at him flabbergasted. Flavia bent down.

  'I think it's his tooth,' she said after listening to an incoherent mumble.

  'Hurts, does it?'

  Another mumble, longer this time.

  'He says he's never felt anything like it before.'

  'Sharp, stabbing pain, a bit like having a red hot pin stuck in it?'

  Morelli indicated this was about right.

  Argyll nodded. 'Abcess,' he said firmly. 'Very unpleasant. They sometimes do explode like that. Had one myself once. If it's bad it's a devil to sort out. Do you know, they often can't give you an injection? Just have to pull the nerve out straight. Use a little wire with hooks on.'

  Morelli gave an anguished cry and rocked back and forwards. Flavia suggested Argyll might keep the details to himself and, in the meantime, what were they going to do?

  'I think he needs a dentist.'

  'But we're chasing a murderer. We can't stop to go to a bloody dentist.'

  'Painkillers, then. Strong ones, and lots of them. That might hold it. 'Course, he won't be at his perkiest.'

  Morelli mumbled. Between them, they grasped he was saying that his car had a first-aid kit in it. Police Department issue, complete with painkillers.

  'That's simple, then,' she said. 'I’ll go and get them.'

  'You're not going out there on your own.'

  'We can't leave him here. And he can't go.'

  'Take him with you, then.'

  'And leave you? Absolutely not.'

  'We can't all go. This is meant to be a covert entrapment - that was the term, wasn't it? – not a May Day parade.'

  She looked uncertain.

  'Look, it's very simple,' Argyll said firmly. 'Go out the back, walk him to the car, leave him and come back. I will stay here, and if anything untoward happens I'll be out the door as fast as my crutches can carry me. And believe me, I can really move on these things now. It'll only take a few minutes.'

  Flavia was unconvinced, but could think of nothing better. Morelli's tooth had transformed him from a competent, reliable man into a quivering moaning wreck, more beast than human. On top of that, he was making quite a lot of noise.

  'Oh, all right, then. But remember, no clever stuff.'

  'Don't be silly. Go on, go. We can't stand here all evening discussing it.'

  Between them they lifted Morelli up and pointed him out the back door. He seemed slightly better; it was the initial explosion of pain that had caught him unawares; now it had settled down into steady, consistent agony he could cope. As long as he wasn't required to do anything.

  'Don't open the door while I'm gone,' she said as they lumbered out.

  'I won't,' Argyll promised.

  Courage is all very well, he thought, as he considered his situation a few minutes later, but was this entirely wise? If he was honest with himself, he had to admit that he was only hanging about here to impress Flavia. And wasn't there a distinction to be drawn between the courageous and the merely foolhardy? If, for example, Morelli had thought of leaving his gun, that would have been different. Not that Argyll knew what to do with one, but he supposed he could blast away like anything if necessary.

  But the point is, he reminded himself, Morelli didn't leave his gun.

  And Argyll wouldn't be much use even if something did happen. Not with only one leg operational.

  And the conclusion of that, he thought as he headed for the door and reached for the handle, is that being there on his own was asking for trouble.

  The door opened easily, in fact it opened faster than he pulled it. This was because, as he reached for the handle, so did someone else on the other side. As he turned the knob, so did someone else; and as he, on the inside, pulled the door open, someone else, on the outside, pushed.

  Both were equally surprised when the manoeuvre was completed and each saw the other standing there.

  In Argyll's case, instant automatic responses took over. Ever since he was tiny, people had instructed him in the virtues of politeness and hospitality.

  'Gosh, hello. What a surprise. Come in, do. Make yourself at home.'

  Well, how else do you talk to your murderer?

  Despite the first basic rule of police work, all could still have gone according to plan had not Morelli been forced to park his car in a different street, for the sake of discretion. The little area of houses was arranged in a grid; and a lot of people had more cars than there was space to garage them. A common problem; Rome is the same, if not worse. Morelli had only been able to find space for his vast machine some streets away and it took several minutes to walk back to it. Once they arrived, he slumped in the front seat and Flavia began rummaging through his first-aid kit.

  'I'm still not happy about leaving Jonathan on his own, you know,' she said as she tossed a packet of band aids on to the floor. 'He'll probably electrocute himself making tea. He does have a knack of getting himself into trouble. How about this?'

  She held up a tube. Morelli looked at it and shook his head. Useless. Like using a peashooter on a battleship.

  She searched again.
'I mean, just think. Accidents, attempted murder. Can't even cross the road without being run over by purple trucks. This?' she asked.

  'No good either,' Morelli said indistinctly. 'What do you mean, purple truck? Who said that?'

  'He told you, didn't he? It'll have to be this then,' she went on, holding up a small syringe with a slightly sadistic glint in her eye. 'A bit strong but all there is. Open up.'

  'Not the colour,' Morelli said. 'No one mentioned the colour. Ever. Not tome.'

  'Well, so what?'