The Bernini Bust

by Iain Pears

  That stopped the lawyer in his tracks. His mouth opened wide and shut again, and then he whistled softly. 'Well, I'll be.'

  And stopped. Despite the risk of losing the psychological advantage here, Flavia could not help herself. She held up her hand.

  'You'll be what?' she asked.

  'Pardon?'

  'You said "I'll be," and then stopped,' she prompted.

  Barclay frowned, and then grasped what she was talking about. There followed a brief interlude as he explained the meaning of the phrase. Flavia noted it down.

  Then she decided it was time to go. Only her little message to deliver. She merely hoped she could make it sound convincing enough.

  'Fortunately the case is nearly closed, so I'll be able to get back home in a day or so. Pleasant though it is here, I'm looking forward to getting back to Italy,' she said in what she hoped was a cheerfully inconsequential fashion.

  Barclay eyed her suspiciously. 'What do you mean?'

  'The murder. It was all taped.'

  'I thought all the cameras were out?'

  'They were. But Streeter had also installed a bug in Thanet's office. He was another one who suspected that there was something fishy about the financial dealings in that museum. He reckons it probably taped the whole thing. You know, someone saying, "Die, Moresby!" followed by a clump. He's going to hand it over to the police at his house this evening.'

  Chapter Thirteen

  Argyll, having slightly pulled a muscle in his one remaining leg, had decided not to accompany Flavia on her little trip to Barclay's office. Instead he'd stayed in his hotel, resting his plaster cast and watching the television. There was something sinful about watching the television in the morning; he rather enjoyed it, although the choice of fare was a little meagre.

  So meagre, in fact that he eventually settled on a long sermon from what appeared to be a fundamentalist preacher intoning about sin and money; the general line being that you could cancel out the former by giving him the latter. Engrossing stuff; he'd never seen the like before, and was almost annoyed when a knock on the door distracted his attention.

  'Come in,' he called. 'Oh, hello, there,' he went on as Jack Moresby stuck his head round the door. 'How nice to see you.'

  Moresby grinned sheepishly as he came into the room. 'How ya doin'?' he asked. 'I heard you'd taken a tumble.'

  He peered at Argyll's leg and tapped it. 'Only one? Pretty lucky, from what I heard.'

  'Better luck next time, I suppose.'

  'What does that mean?'

  'Eh? Nothing. It was lucky. I can't say I'm that happy about it, mind.'

  Moresby nodded. 'Hmm. Still, you're still here, that's the important thing. Just thought I'd check.'

  'That's very good of you. Get yourself a drink, if you want.'

  'How's the great search coming along?' Moresby grabbed a beer and sat down.

  'For the bust?'

  'I was more concerned about my father's murderer.'

  'Oh. Yes. Well, I suppose you would be. The answer to both is the same, though. Something is coming together.'

  'And who's the front runner?'

  'Your stepmother and Barclay. I suppose that comes as no surprise to you.'

  Moresby digested this along with the beer and nodded sagely. 'I wondered. I did wonder. Seems a wild gamble to take on.'

  'Lot of money. People have done more for less.'

  'But she would have been so rich even if he'd gone ahead with the bigger museum.'

  'Not if she'd been divorced for adultery. And you're likely to be a witness for that.'

  'She been asked about that?'

  Argyll nodded. 'She denies it. But Morelli's lot have been digging away. There's considerable evidence she's having an affair. His little posse of searchers has tracked her going away for weekends, staying in hotels with someone else under assumed names. But how did you find out?'

  'Easy to work out. She's the sort, it was obvious she was having an affair, and her servant at the beach house hinted at it. And I heard she was remarkably well informed about the workings of the museum. My father never told her anything, so it had to be Barclay. Add it all up . . .'

  'Ah. I see.'

  'And it won't be just my word against hers?'

  'Seems not.'

  'Doesn't look good for her, then?'

  'No. But there's nothing solid enough, I gather. I don't know what the rules and regulations are here, but Morelli seems to want something unchallengeable. Reckons he'll soon have it, too.'

  Moresby's interest brightened. 'Oh? How's that?'

  'Streeter is telling everybody he has just recovered a tape. From a bug hidden in Thanet's office.'

  'Oh yeah? And has he?'

  Argyll smirked significantly. 'OK, so it's not such a good story. But we think it might smoke out the murderer, if you see what I mean.'

  'The tape, or the news of it?'

  'There's going to be a little gathering chez Streeter, this evening. At about nine,' he said, ignoring the remark. 'To listen to the tape he's got there.'

  Moresby nodded thoughtfully and stood up. 'Hey,' he said quietly. 'I brought you a little present.'

  Argyll loved presents; always had. It was almost worth getting sick for. He had the fondest memory of measles and mumps and all those childhood diseases. He was halfway through thanking his visitor when there was another knock on the door.

  'Oh, hell,' he said. 'Come in, then.'

  A mousy grey little man came in and nodded nervously. 'Mr. Argyll, sir? Perhaps you don't remember me?'

  He walked towards the bed, holding out a card.

  'Well, I'd better leave you,' said Moresby reluctantly, downing the last of his beer in one great swig.

  'You don't have to go. Wait a bit.'

  'No, it's OK. See you.'

  And he left, quite abruptly. Argyll turned his attention to the stranger standing expectantly before him. He was a little annoyed. Moresby had forgotten to give him his present.

  'My name's Ansty, sir,' the man said, sitting himself down. 'We met at the hospital.'

  Argyll looked at him blankly, then consulted the visiting card. Josiah Ansty, attorney-at-law. Then he remembered.

  'Oh, right. You're the one who got into a fight with the car rental man.'

  Ansty nodded. 'Pig,' he said. 'Aggressive pig. He attacked me.'

  'Well, anyway. What can I do for you?'

  'It's more what I can do for you. I gather that you have several legal problems hanging over your head . . .'

  'No, I don't.'

  'Oh, but you must.'

  'I don't. And if any turn up, I shall get on the plane and go back to Italy. If anyone wants to sue me, they'll have to find me first.'

  Ansty looked properly shocked at this cavalier approach to the law. How was a man expected to earn a living with clients like that?

  'How did you find me, anyway?' Argyll went on. 'I never called you.'

  'Well, I happened to be listening to the police broadcasts when the first report of your accident came in. And the hospital gave me your address. So I thought . . .'

  'You're a bit of a ghoul, aren't you? Is this how you find all your clients?'

  'Some of them. It's no good waiting for people to come to you these days. You've got to get out there. So many people could launch suits, but don't even think of it.'

  'Well, I have, and I still don't want to. Go away.'

  'Surely

  'No.'

  'But the car maintenance . . .'

  'It had nothing to do with maintenance. Someone loosened the brake cable. It was attempted murder. Not an accident.'

  Ansty looked grieved as he saw a lucrative piece of business slipping away forever.

  'Still,' he said, clutching at straws, 'you could always add a civil suit for damages, parallel to any criminal charges.'

  'There's no one been arrested, yet,' Argyll pointed out. 'Who am I meant to sue? Besides, the car rental place says the insurance is perfectly adequate. And I don't
want to sue anybody. Not even Anne Moresby; assuming that she was behind it all.'

  'Is that what the police think?'

  'It seems to be their current theory, yes.'

  'In that case, sir, as a professional I must advise you to start drawing up a suit against her immediately. Otherwise the opportunity will be lost.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  'If I remember correctly, Mrs. Moresby has no personal money of her own; I remember the stories in the papers when they got married. She comes from a modest family. Any money she has will come from her husband's estate.'

  He looked up at Argyll who was gazing at him with an exasperated expression on his face, evidently not grasping the point he was driving at. This, Ansty told himself, is why people need lawyers. Sooner or later, professional expertise shows its true worth. And this was a classic example.

  'Is that not true, sir?'

  Argyll shook his head. 'Probably. For all I know. So what?'

  'In that case the chances of you winning any damages will be slight unless you launch a suit against her prior to charges being preferred.'

  'I'm not with you.'

  The lawyer laid it out, logical step by logical step, as though instructing an infant; or at the very least a first-year student in law school.

  'I assume that the prosecution case will be to argue that she killed Moresby . . .'

  'She didn't. Conspiracy to commit, or some such. But let it pass.'

  '. . . That she was involved in the murder of Moresby,' he said pedantically, 'to gain control of his fortune. If convicted she will automatically be debarred from inheriting his estate under the law that criminals cannot benefit from their crimes. I can quote you . . .'

  'Please don't bother,' Argyll said. 'I'm still not interested in suing anyone.'

  He leant back on his pillow and thought about it all, though. And suddenly had a very nasty idea. So unpleasant, in fact, that he broke out in a cold sweat merely thinking about it. If something he was supposed to know was putting a gigantic inheritance like that at risk, he could see the urgency of getting rid of him. Didn't help him work out what it was he'd heard or seen, but still . . .

  'Hold on, there,' he said. 'Tell me, are you busy today?'

  Ansty looked at him sadly as he prepared to go, and in a sudden fit of honesty confessed that he hadn't been busy for several weeks. No cases and no clients at all, at this precise moment in time.

  'Good,' said Argyll. 'I want you to stay here with me. Just hang around for a few hours, will you? We can have lunch sent up, if you want.'

  Ansty settled himself down again. 'That's very hospitable of you,' he said. 'I'd be delighted.'

  'I've never seen anyone eat so much in my life,' he complained four hours later when Flavia finally returned in the company of Morelli. 'The man was a walking food processor. Even you don't eat that much.'

  Argyll's temper was a little frayed. Putting up with the lawyer had been a sore trial, and the fact that it had been necessary didn't ease the pain at all. Had he known that Flavia was going to be such a long time, or that Ansty had such an appetite, he might have simply taken the risk.

  Still, he couldn't really grumble, as he had not told the man why he so suddenly desired his company. And the latter part hadn't been so bad; sitting on the bed, drinking beer and having the rules of baseball explained was not such a bad way of passing the time. He'd never realised it was so complicated. Fascinating, really. He just couldn't understand why the players dressed in their underclothes, and Ansty was unable to enlighten him.

  So when Flavia and Morelli arrived, they found Argyll and this middle-aged man in a grey suit sitting on the bed, laughing uproariously at a badly timed spitball (when tackled about this, Argyll had to confess he could not for the life of him remember what a spitball was, nor could he differentiate between a well-timed and a badly timed one) the room littered with empty cans of beer and plates, the curtains tightly drawn.

  'No joke,' he said as he finished explaining. 'I've had the most awful day. The trouble was, I couldn't decide whether it was simple paranoia or not. But with murderers wandering around at will, it struck me that I was an easy target, if anyone had thoughts in that direction. I still don't know why they might, but the evidence seems to point that way. Of course, had I known you were with Barclay all the time, I would have been less concerned about the possibility of him leaping through the door, gun in hand.'

  'Well, it's best to be certain about these things.'

  'And we'll look after everything from now on,' Morelli said, with a little frown of anxiety. 'The trouble is, it doesn't really take our case any further. Evidence is evidence, and we still don't have it.'

  'So you'll have to pin your hopes on this meeting, won't you? Have you seen everybody?'

  Morelli nodded. 'They've all been told, as subtly as we could manage. Streeter will be working late, so he won't get back home till just before nine. We've been saying the tape is stored in his house. Very tempting.'

  Argyll grinned. 'Good,' he said. 'I suppose you ought to have something to eat before we go. More sandwiches? Then we can go and lay the phantom bust.'

  Morelli looked puzzled. 'What do you mean?' he asked.

  'Didn't you tell him?'

  Flavia looked sheepish. 'Sorry. I forgot. We've worked it all out, you see. I hope you don't mind.'

  Morelli had the air of someone who did mind very much, and suggested that, seeing that this was Los Angeles and he was in the Los Angeles police and they were little more than tourists here on suffranee, perhaps they would try to keep him better informed.

  'I did mean to tell you. But I only put the last few pieces together when I saw Barclay . . .'

  'And?' Morelli prompted.

  'Langton,' she said firmly. 'It's obvious. That's because of the case, you see. It was empty.'

  'Empty?' Morelli said, thinking he was spending much too much time uttering one-word questions.

  'Empty. It's in the basement of the museum. Weighs 120 pounds. Which is what the shipment label said it weighed when it contained the Bernini. Conclusion, it was always empty. There was no theft from Thanet's office. No bust was smuggled out of the country and, whatever was stolen from Alberghi's place in Bracciano, the haul did not include a bust of Pope Pius V by Bernini. In fact, I'm beginning to doubt Alberghi ever had it.'

  'So what in God's name was all this about? Just a way of confusing us? If it was, it worked very well.'

  'For that we'll have to ask Langton. All I know is that the whole thing was a fraud, and Langton was the only possible person who could have done it. D'you want to hear the reasoning?'

  Another tray of sandwiches and beer arrived, which delayed her satisfying their curiosity for a few moments. Then, when the delivery boy had vanished and she had downed a pastrami sandwich, she recommenced.

  'There were three characteristics to Moresby which made him a target in this. One, he was a collectomaniac, if that's the right word. Two, he did not like anyone getting the better of him, and three, he disliked paying taxes.'

  'Everybody dislikes paying taxes,' Morelli put in, speaking from the heart.

  'Anyway, in 1951 he bought a bust on the Italian black market from Hector di Souza. Paid a deposit, and that was that. It was never delivered. We know it was confiscated, maybe di Souza even told him that as well, but I doubt very much he believed it. After all, it was never heard of again; had it been taken into the Borghese collection it would have been easy to find out. He couldn't do anything about it without letting everyone know he was conspiring to smuggle works out of the country, so he had to forget about it.

  'After that, Moresby was a little cautious about dealers, which is only sensible. Anyway, the next stage was the Frans Hals affair.'

  Morelli frowned. Must have missed that; at least, he couldn't remember interviewing this Hals man.

  'Everybody knew there was something wrong with the painting, but only one person, a junior curator called Collins, had the temerity to say s
o. He suggested it be investigated with more care, and implied that the price had been far too high. Uproar. The curator is out on his ear.

  'If you think about it, this was very curious. On the whole - the Moresby may be an exception but I don't think so - museums don't like owning fakes. If anyone can prove an acquisition is a bit dicey, they should get a pat on the back. The curator in question was an expert on seventeenth-century Dutch painting. And, of course, he was a protege of Langton's.