The Bernini Bust

by Iain Pears

  'Eh?'

  'Fastidious. Punctiliously, even fanatically, neat, tidy and proper. Obsessed with appearances. The sight of a crooked tie or speck of dust makes him feel faint. I once had dinner with him in a restaurant and he was served coffee in a cracked cup. He had to retire to bed to recover, and spent an hour gargling with antiseptic in case he'd picked up any germs.'

  'So?'

  'So, Hector does not make his room untidy. He even makes h own bed in the morning because he doesn't trust chambermaids t get the folds straight.'

  Morelli turned pale as horrified realisation dawned. 'You broke into the wrong room,' he stated flatly.

  'Of course I didn't. What I am trying to say is either that y people made a right mess, or someone else did. Or, I supp. Hector left so fast that he made the place untidy. If so, he must h been in a very great hurry indeed.'

  'Personally, I'd go for the last option,' Morelli replied. 'Seeing that I've just been told he was on the 2:00 a.m. flight back to Italy. That's what they were telling me on the phone. Why else do you think I'm still sitting here rather than running around looking for him?'

  An idea crossed his mind and he glanced at his watch and calculated furiously. 'Damn,' he concluded. 'Won't be enough time to pick him up at the other end.'

  Argyll was not impressed by this, having had recent and all too memorable experience of the length of time it takes to fly between Rome and Los Angeles. Weeks, as far as he could remember. He pointed out that there was at least six hours. All they had to do was get someone to trot down to the airport. . .

  It was not, Morelli assured him, like that at all. There were procedures. Quite apart from the business of getting hold of extradition orders.

  'But why do you want an extradition order, anyway? Obviously you want to talk to him, but this is going a bit far.'

  Morelli gazed at him. 'Why do you think we want one? I want to arrest him for murder, of course. I would have thought that was obvious.'

  Argyll considered this carefully, then shook his head. 'Hector wouldn't kill anyone. Not by shooting them at close range, anyway. Might get blood on his jacket. I see him more of a poison man. Not that he's the murdering sort, really; certainly not clients.'

  Morelli didn't find this line of argument at all convincing. 'I'm sorry, and I know he's your friend, or colleague, or something, but we want him. The evidence so far is pretty convincing.'

  'And that is?' Argyll asked.

  'One, he was angry during the party about that bust; two, the bust was later stolen; three, he went off with Moresby moments before the murder; four, he was the only person with Moresby at the time; five, he immediately tried to leave the country. To me – and remember I'm only a homicide man with fifteen years' experience - it looks suspicious. Not that it's any of your business.'

  It wasn't, of course, except indirectly, and Argyll was beginning to get the glimmerings of an idea. On the whole he disliked crime: but occasional brushes with it always seemed to involve, at some age, police mentally measuring his wrists and wondering how a nice pair of handcuffs would look dangling around them. Similarly, as long as he got his cheque for the Titian, he didn't really care two hoots about Moresby, or Hector di Souza, or stolen Berninis.

  His main aim, in fact, was to sort out his fragmenting friendship with Flavia, whose hostile tone in the middle of the night had upset him enormously.

  And perhaps this overworked and frowzy homicide man sitting in front of him provided an opportunity. Flavia was avoiding him like the plague. She was going to have to be forced into contact, whereupon she could be made to see the error of her ways, or at least he could find out what was upsetting her so much.

  Simple. So he made the suggestion that led to Flavia wasting her evening at Fiumicino and recommended an informal approach to the Roman art squad, which would be much faster and more cooperative if Morelli promised to pass on any information about the odd Bernini that might come into view. Phone General Bottando and say that he, Jonathan Argyll, had suggested it.

  Morelli considered the suggestion. There would, certainly, be advantages, like the possibility of actually catching di Souza. Going by officially prescribed procedures would be hopeless.

  'What's his name?' he asked.

  'Bottando,' Argyll said, looking up the phone number in his book. 'It would be a good idea to play up the importance of this bust. If it was smuggled out of Italy - and it probably was - he'll love to help.'

  'We don't know it was.'

  'All the more reason for him to find out.'

  Morelli nodded. It was quite a good idea.

  'Somebody else other than di Souza could have stolen it, of course,' Argyll went on. 'After all, there are other reasons for stealing busts. It would be a pity to neglect them.'

  Morelli, who was in essence a simple soul and certainly prepared for the extremes of deviousness that come as second'-nature to the true scholar, could think of no others. Argyll listed them one by one.

  'First, for the insurance, although Thanet reckons it wasn’t insured. Second, for ransom. Wait for the demands. If a large hunk of marble ear comes through the post, with a promise that a no-will follow in due course, you know where you are. Third possibility, to stop people looking at it too carefully.'

  'Why?'

  'Fakes.'

  Morelli snorted. He was a man with little time for idle speculation, and pointed out that this was all it was.

  'It's not idle. It's scene setting. The product of years of experience in the nether world of art connoisseurship. Just trying to help.'

  'Gives no practical help, though. Phoning this Bottando character might, and for that idea, my thanks. Then I suppose I'd better go and get on with my work. Have to talk to the press, as well. Like flies round a honey pot already.'

  'Good idea,' Argyll said. 'And I shall go off and visit people as well.'

  Morelli looked uncertain again. 'Don't you do anything of the sort,' he said. 'You've made your contribution. Now keep out of it.'

  'Surely I don't need authorisation from you to pay a visit of condolence to a grieving son who invited me to stop by for a drink? Do I need police permission to see Thanet to finalise details about the sale of his picture?'

  Morelli agreed, with great reluctance, that such bureaucracy was unnecessary. But repeated that he thought Argyll would be better occupied trading pictures, or whatever he did for a living.

  Being naive in such matters, Argyll had imagined that he would get around Los Angeles by public transport. For him trains were the height of civilisation, and by far his preferred means of transport. Failing that, a bus would do. Both, however, were notable for their absence. Buses were in almost as short supply as pedestrians. Trains seemed to be as extinct as the brontosaurus. So, after an enquiry, nervous indecision and much research to find something inexpensive, he had hired a car. The rental place was full of old, rusting machines that looked as though merely in one piece was as much as they could manage. The selection was not great, but, as the salesman - he shook Argyll warmly by the hand and introduced himself as Chuck, by which name Johnny was to call him on all occasions - pointed out, the services weren't so big either. Argyll hated being called Johnny.

  But at least there was one car that he instantly fell in love with. It was a pre-oil-crisis Cadillac. 1971. Light blue. Open topped. About the size of the Queen Mary, and used as much fuel.

  Well why not? Argyll thought when he saw it. He'd never drive anything like it again. This was a moving piece of cultural history. The first thing he did when he got back was to get the doorman of the hotel to take a photograph of him resting against it, wearing sunglasses. So he could show his grandchildren, who might not otherwise believe such machines had ever existed.

  So after Morelli left, Argyll went round to the parking lot behind the hotel. The car started, eventually, and in a billowing cloud of lead-laced petrol fumes he navigated slowly out. It had the acceleration and the manoeuvrability of a supertanker, but otherwise was in reasonable cond
ition, apart from the rust patches. The main thing was that it went forward when requested, and stopped when asked. And traffic regulations in California are such that an ability to accelerate from nought to sixty in under five minutes is a bit redundant, anyway.

  The machine roared along, backfiring periodically, and having to stop every 150 yards for traffic lights. Argyll tried admiring the scenery, and found himself wondering how any place could support so many car dealers.

  It took him about half an hour to drive the six miles to Venice, Jack Moresby's part of town, although he reckoned he could have done it faster had he known where he was going. Once he'd found the place, it took considerable imagination to see why it was called Venice at all; though a rather stagnant patch of water and a sort of piazza-thing that might have been impressive had it been finished, gave a clue as to the original intentions of the developers.

  Still, it looked like being a much more appealing part of the world than the rather obsessive bit of town which housed the museum. The residents' main occupation seemed to be sitting around not doing very much; and Argyll was only too glad to see it. Despite their reputation for being relaxed, everybody else in the city seemed to be constantly hurrying. On the rare occasions that they stopped working, they still bustled manically. Even on the beach they insisted on running around, throwing things at each other and jumping in and out of the ocean for no obvious reason. It was agreeable to see that some people liked just to lie about, immune to their fellow-citizens' frantic desire to prolong their lives forever. The place was scruffy, fly-blown and charming, or so it seemed. Perhaps that was how it got its name.

  It was also almost as difficult to get your bearings as in its Italian namesake. Finding the abode of Jack Moresby was harder than he'd anticipated, and he was very surprised when he did eventually track it down. Not what he'd anticipated at all. He knew that Moresby had retreated from the consumer society to write the Great American Novel - a common failing in this part of town, he'd been told - but he'd anticipated that the son of a multi-billionaire would have hung on to some of the vestiges of the good life. He'd met many alternative types in Italy, and they all seemed to find handmade Versace clothes, Rolex watches and nine-room apartments overlooking the Piazza Navona perfectly compatible with the principled rejection of the consumerist tyranny.

  Young Moresby, however, seemed determined to do it properly. His home was not the stereotypical millionaire's residence and bore little resemblance to a Beverly Hills mansion. Millionaires' houses have roofs, with windows in the side. And when windows break, millionaires have them replaced; they don't patch the holes with old newspaper. When a tile falls off the roof they replace it, rather than leaving the rare downpour of rain to come in. Millionaires have gardens, complete with gardeners, Jack Moresby's equivalent bore more than a passing resemblance to the depot where Argyll had hired his car. Nor, in general, do millionaires sprawl on the floor of the little deck at the back, smoking a cigarette with a most unusual aroma, drinking from a half-empty bottle.

  Moresby regarded him passively as he approached, then ha. waved a hand in casual and unenthusiastic greeting.

  'Hey,' he said, a term Argyll had learnt was the local, all-purpose way of indicating hello, goodbye, surprise, alarm, warning, interest, lack of interest, and do you want something to drink. The American looked at a seat by his side, pushed an old and mangy dog off and gestured for him to sit. Argyll eyed the clumps of dog hair warily, then reluctantly eased himself down.

  'Come to commiserate about the old man, I suppose,' he said absently, squinting up at the weak sun through the clouds.

  'When did you hear?'

  'Langton phoned me last night. And everything else I picked up from the police when they woke me up at dawn to ask me to account for my movements. I suppose it would be far too much to expect my stepmother to come a whole twenty miles to pass on the news. Too busy celebrating, I guess. What d'you want?'

  A good question. Pertinent and to the point. The trouble was Argyll didn't really know. After all, he could hardly say he wanted to dig something up about the bust so he could get back into more amicable contact with Flavia. Wouldn't sound right. Heartless, in fact. Besides, initial questioning made it clear that Moresby knew nothing about the Bernini - or any bust, for that matter. Nor did it seem appropriate to enquire why Jack Moresby couldn't be bothered to drive the few miles back to the museum himself to find out what was going on. All families have their ways of going about things.

  'I thought you might want company,' he said rather lamely. 'You struck me as being the only tolerably sane and normal person involved with the museum.'

  It provided no reason at all, but it seemed to do. Moresby gave him an odd look, but it seemed more prompted by surprise that anybody could act humanely than suspicion at his motives. He proffered the bottle by way of welcome. Bourbon was the last thing Argyll wanted at that time of day, but he felt it was uncivil to refuse. He took a long suck and, while he was getting his voice back, and trying to stop his eyes watering, Moresby rambled on about his old man.

  They were not close, Argyll divined. It appeared that old Moresby had cut the aspiring author out of his will a year or so ago – depriving someone of a couple of billion dollars does sometimes make relations a little frosty.

  'Why did he do that?'

  'Let's just say he had a really weird sense of humour. He wanted me to follow him and make more money. I reckoned he'd made enough already. So he said that if money was so unimportant to me, he'd leave all of his to someone who appreciated it more.'

  'Like his wife?'

  'She adores the stuff.'

  'And the museum?'

  'A virtual money sink.'

  'And this was meant to make you mend your ways?'

  'I guess. But, here I am, penniless. Likely to stay that way, as well. Too late to change his mind now.'

  'But he didn't really cut you out, did he?'

  'Not specifically, no. Just didn't leave me anything. Same thing. "To my dear son I leave my very best wishes." Or some such. No one can accuse him of inconsistency.'

  'I suppose that's lucky, in a way,' Argyll commented.

  'Why's that?'

  'Well, the police are looking for whoever killed him. You had a perfect motive for keeping him alive.'

  'Yup. And an alibi, too, as Langton phoned me after the body was found and I was here.'

  Argyll did some quick calculations. That fitted. No way he could have got back that fast. What a suspicious person you are, he thought.

  'And where were you?' Moresby asked.

  'Me?'

  'Yes. You. After all, if you're going to check up on me, it's only fair I should check up on you.'

  'Fair enough. I was in a restaurant until an hour after the murder. Lots of witnesses. No trouble there.'

  'Hmm. OK, I'll believe you. That's us out. That leaves that Spaniard, doesn't it?'

  Argyll wrinkled his nose to indicate disapproval of police thought patterns. 'So the police seem to think, but I don't rate him as a murderer. He wanted to sell your father too much sculpture. Killing the goose is one thing, but a sensible person would wait until it laid an egg or two. Besides, Hector's always appallingly polite to clients. Shooting them is not in his book of etiquette. On the other hand, I must admit that until he turns up he's likely to be the front runner.'

  'You reckon?'

  'Yes. But I'm sure he'll reappear. He hardly seemed homicidal when I talked to him just before the murder. Did he?'

  Moresby confessed he didn't really know how homicidal tendencies manifested themselves in party conversation.

  'I rather suspected your stepmother, myself,' Argyll confessed, not sure whether this was a good thing to say. Jack didn't seem to mind. 'But Morelli tells me she'd already left and has an alibi from her chauffeur. Are you sure she was having an affair?'

  'Oh, sure. Lots of absences, extended shopping expeditions, weekends away with girlfriends. Easy enough to work out.'

  'And your f
ather knew?'

  'He did after I'd rung his office to tell him, yes.' Jack looked at him curiously. 'I suppose you reckon that's pretty disgusting, eh? And you're right. But that bitch poisoned his mind to get me cut out, and all I was doing was fighting back. Fair's fair.

  'I guess it's sad I didn't see the old man before he died,' he went on meditatively. 'I shouldn't have left so soon. Hadn't seen him for, oh, must have been six months or so. Call me an old sentimentalist, but I would have given a lot just to have called him a mean old bastard one more time. By way of farewell. You know.'

  Argyll nodded understandingly. 'Well, I'm glad you're taking it OK. Just came to see.'

  'Appreciate it. Come up for a proper drink sometime.'

  Argyll considered it. 'Thanks. Maybe I will. But I think I'll go back to Rome in a few days. If I stay here much longer I'll probably get run over.'