The Bernini Bust

by Iain Pears

  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 colleagues 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.

  'Wonderful, I've got you. Listen, something awful's been going on.'

  'What do you want?' she said crossly when she realised who it was. Typical, she thought. Don't see him for weeks on end, then, when he wants something . . .

  'Listen,' he repeated, 'Moresby's been murdered.'

  'Who?'

  'Moresby. The man who bought my picture.'

  'So?'

  'I thought you'd be interested.'

  'I'm not.'

  'And a Bernini's been stolen. It was smuggled out of Italy.'

  This was, of course, more in Flavia's line of business, as much of her time in the past few years had been devoted to stopping smuggling, and recovering at least some of the works of art which were smuggled. Generally speaking, no matter what sort of mood she was in, she would have picked up pen and paper and begun listening. However . . .

  'In that case it's too late to do anything about it, isn't it?' she said shortly. 'What are you ringing about? Don't you know I'm busy?'

  There was a two dollar fifty-eight cent pause from California until the slightly aggrieved voice returned for another try. 'Of course I know you're busy. You always are these days. But I thought you'd want to know.'

  'Don't see what it's got to do with me,' she said. 'It's an American affair. I haven't noticed any official requests for our assistance. Unless you've joined the local police or something.'

  'Oh, come on, Flavia. You love murders and thefts and smuggling and things like that. I rang you up just to tell you. You could at least sound interested.'

  In truth, she was, but was damned if she was going to let on. Argyll and she had been close friends for a couple of years. She had long given up any notion that they would be anything else. Until he came along she had tended to think of herself as the sort of person who, if not irresistible - she was not sufficiently vain to think that -was at least generally attractive. But Argyll didn't notice. He was companionable, friendly, evidently enjoyed trips round the countryside and to movies and dinner and museums with her, but that was it. She had provided the openings, had he been so minded, and he had not taken them. He just stood there, looking awkward.

  She'd eventually got used to that and settled for his company. It was the blithe way he announced he was leaving Italy that finally made her lose patience. Just like that. A career to be made, so he was off.

  And what about her? she'd felt like asking. He was just going to go and forget her? Just like that? Who was she meant to go to dinner with?

  But if that was what he wanted to do, he could go, as far as she was concerned. So she said, in a chilly, angry voice, that if his career needed it, he should go. The sooner the better, in fact. Then she'd got on with her work.

  Now here he was again, with problems.

  'I'm not interested,' she said shortly. 'I don't care if the whole of the National Museum is scattered along the Pacific Rim, and I don't have any time to waste talking to you, you . . . Englishman.'

  And slammed the phone down and made chuntering noises as she tried vainly to remember what it was she'd been doing before he'd rung.

  'Jonathan Argyll, I assume,' came a deep, reassuring voice from the doorway behind her as General Bottando walked in clutching a sheaf of papers. 'What's he up to these days? I heard he was in America.'

  'He is,' she said, turning round and hoping he hadn't heard too much of her conversation. 'He just rang me up to tell me about a murder.'

  'Really? Whose?'

  Flavia told him, and Bottando whistled in surprise. 'Good heavens,' he said. 'I'm not surprised he rang. How extraordinary.'

  'Fascinating,' she said shortly. 'Is there anything you want? Or is this a social visit?'

  Bottando sighed and looked at her sadly. It was perfectly obvious to him what was wrong, but it wasn't at all his job to say. And even if he had tried to give her the benefit of his advice, he was fairly certain it would not have been well received. She was touchy that way, and had no respect for the wisdom of age.

  'I've got a little job for you,' he said, confining himself to business. 'Needs tact and delicacy, I'm afraid.' He looked at her doubtfully before proceeding. 'You remember that little drinks party we had a few weeks back?'
/>   It had been a small celebration for Bottando's fifty-ninth birthday. A date and a number shrouded in secrecy, but the office had weasled it out by dexterous spying on the personnel returns. They'd all clubbed together to throw a surprise party in his office, and presented him with a little Piranesi print and a large plant to replace the one that had died because he always forgot to water it.

  'Well,' he went on a little nervously. 'That plant. Someone watered it to show me how to do it, and water spilled over the desk and I grabbed a piece of paper to mop it up.'

  Flavia nodded impatiently. He did ramble sometimes.

  Bottando produced a stained, crumpled and almost illegible document and handed it to her shamefacedly. 'Been under the pot ever since,' he said. 'Carabinieri report about a burglary in Bracciano. Should have followed it up weeks ago. You know the remarks they'll make if they ever find out. Could you go and do something about it?'

  'Now?' she said, glancing at her watch.

  'If you could. Damned man's a curator at some museum. Influential. The sort who complains. I know it's getting late. . .'

  With a long-suffering look she got up and stuffed the report in her bag.

  'Oh, all right,' she said. 'Got nothing else to do. What's the address?'

  And, radiating disapproval of her boss's inefficiency, she marched out of the office.

  *

  The Alberghi family inhabited a castle - a small one, but a castle nonetheless - rather handsomely sited overlooking the lake. The area has gone downhill in recent years; the nearest bit of fresh water to Rome, it is swamped by people desperate to get away from the heat and dust and pollution of the capital. So they come to the heat and dust and pollution of Bracciano instead. It makes a change, and also means the water is no longer quite as fresh as it once was. Those local residents who bought their houses some time ago are not pleased at the disturbance that thousands of noisy Romans bring with them; others make a small fortune out of them and are perfectly happy about it.

  The Alberghi were firmly in the former category. Their castle looked basically medieval with lots of modern conveniences added in the sixteenth century, like windows. The owners were not the sort of people who rushed out to sell Coca-Cola and popcorn to the tourists. The place was more than a little secluded; from the road the only indication that it was there at all came from the signs at the gate warning of ferocious dogs and announcing that you were entering private property so go away.

  If the gateway was unwelcoming, the owner was even less hospitable. It took some time for the door to be opened, and even longer for the appropriate person to put in an appearance. They were the sort who still had servants; indeed, they were clearly the sort who, without a cook, would starve to death. Flavia handed her card to an ancient woman who opened the door, and waited for results.

  'And about damn time too.' The voice of the owner preceded his actual appearance. He came limping down the stairs shortly afterwards, bristling with indignation. 'Pretty disgraceful, I call it.'

  Flavia looked at him in a cold manner. It seemed the best way to deal with the situation; to adopt a general air that implied that Alberghi was at fault himself and should count himself lucky he was getting any attention at all.

  'Pardon?' she said.

  'Four weeks,' he said, glaring at her. 'What do you call that? I call it appalling, myself.'

  'Pardon?' she repeated frostily.

  'The robbery, woman, the robbery. Good God, we have thieves swarming all over the house and what do the police do about it?

  Nothing, that's what. Absolutely nothing. Can you imagine how my dear wife . . .'

  She held up her hand. 'Yes, yes,' she said. 'But I'm here now, so why don't we get on with it? I gather you were meant to be drawing up a list of everything that was stolen. Have you got it?'

  Still grumbling and stroking his moustache with fury, he grudgingly led the way in. 'Waste of time, I suppose,' he complained as they passed through a dusty entrance hall into a dark, wood-panelled study. 'Can't imagine you'll get anything back now.'

  He flung open the top of a desk in the corner and extracted a sheet of paper. 'There you are,' he said. 'Best I can do.'

  Flavia looked at it and shook her head despairingly. The chances of getting anything back were always fairly small, even when the descriptions were complete and photographs appended. Any burglar with even half a brain knew that it was imperative to get stolen goods over the border fast.

  But this thief needn't have bothered. The list was about as useful as an old sweet packet. On the other hand, it did provide a useful cover for the department's tardiness. No one could blame them if Alberghi's goods were never seen again.

  '"One old landscape. One silver pot, an old bust, two or three portraits,"' she read. 'Is that all you could manage?'

  For the first time she got him on the defensive, and his moustache twirling switched from aggressive to defensive mode. 'Best I could do,' he repeated.

  'But this is useless. What do you expect us to do now? Go round and examine every portrait in Europe in the hope one might turn out to be yours? You're meant to be an art expert, for heaven's sake.'

  'Me?' he said scornfully. 'I know nothing about it.'

  In the circumstances, Flavia thought that the tinge of pride in his voice was misplaced. A small amount of expertise would have greatly increased his chances of recovering his family possessions. Mind you, now she thought about it, he did not look much like a museum curator to her.

  'I thought you worked for a museum,' she said.

  'Certainly not,' he said. 'That was my uncle, Enrico. He died last year. I'm Alberto. Army man,' he said, chin jutting up and chest popping out at the very mention.

  'Isn't there a list or inventory or something? Anything would be better than this.'

  "Fraid not. Uncle had it all in his mind.' He tapped the side of his head as he spoke, in case Flavia was uncertain where his uncle's mind might have been located. 'Never got around to writing it down. Pity, but there it was. Would have done.' He lowered his voice as though revealing a family scandal. 'A bit - you know - in his last years,' he said confidingly.

  'What?'

  'Ga-ga. The old brain box. Not what it was. You know.' He tapped his head again, a bit mournfully this time. Then he cheered up a little. 'Still,' he went on. 'Eighty-nine. A good run. Can't complain. Hope I last so long, eh? eh?'

  Flavia agreed, although privately thinking that the sooner the old fool dropped dead the better, then wondered if there were any insurance documents that might provide a bit of help.

  Colonel Alberghi shook his head again. 'None,' he said. 'I know that, because I went through his papers when he died and looked again after that fella came.'

  'What fella?'

  'Chap turned up, wondering if I wanted to sell anything. Damned impertinence. Sent him away with a flea in his ear, I can tell you.'

  'Hold on a second. You didn't mention this to the carabinieri.'

  'Didn't ask.'

  'What man was this?'

  'I told you. He turned up and knocked on the door. I sent him away.'

  'Did he look around the house?'

  'Damned silly maid let him in here to wait for me.'

  'And what did he look like?'

  'Didn't see him. Maid phoned me, and I told her to chuck him out. Didn't give up, though.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'He rang a couple of days later. I told him I hadn't the faintest idea what my uncle had owned, but I did know I didn't want to - didn't need to - sell any of it.'

  'I suppose it's too much to hope that you got his name?'

  'Sorry.'

  Flavia had thought so, somehow. 'And what was stolen from here?'

  'Ah, now. Let me see.'

  'A painting,' she hinted, pointing at the patch on the woodwork that had evidently been covered by something.

  'Yes, yes. Perhaps. A portrait? Great grandfather? Or may be his father. Perhaps it was my great grandmother? Do you know, I never paid much atte
ntion to it.'

  Evidently. 'And what about that empty pedestal there?'

  'Ah, yes. A bust. Big damn ugly thing, it was. I was going to grow a pot plant over it.'

  'Too much to hope for a description, I suppose?'

  'Just given you one,' he said. 'I'd recognise it if I saw it.'

  Not much chance of that, she thought. 'I'll put out a search request for a big, damn ugly bust, sex indeterminate, then,' she said sarcastically. 'Can I see this maid of yours?'