by Iain Pears
'Hector meanwhile, not knowing old Moresby is already dead, is packing his bags in a hurry - leaving the room in an uncharacteristic mess - and preparing to leave. Jack Moresby, alerted by Langton, calls di Souza, hears he is going to leave the country and offers to take him to the airport. Any favour for a friend of his father's. Especially in the circumstances. He drives like fury to get to the hotel before the police arrive, and is in such a hurry that he almost runs over Argyll near the hotel. Di Souza is probably dead within the hour, and buried in the patch of waste ground within two.'
'The trouble for Moresby is that di Souza's disappearance merely convinces the police even more that di Souza is their man. A heavy hint is required. So he plants the gun near the body and phones the police to tell them where it is.
'Obvious, really. Whoever heard of any sensible murderer leaving an identifiable gun by the side of the victim? But at long last, and after much prodding, the police take the hint.
'Everything is coming along swimmingly. Moresby dead, di Souza converted into evidence against Anne Moresby, the bust safely vanished, with the police in Italy daily increasing their estimate of its importance. And, I imagine, a tacit understanding between young Moresby and Langton that in return for silence he will continue to fund the museum with Langton as director. Or maybe it's just a cash deal.
'And just to be on the safe side, Langton heads back to Italy as quickly as possible in case Moresby decides to dispose of another possible witness. As long as he is immune from attack, Moresby will have to keep to his side of the bargain.
'Perfect and delightful. But it all slowly comes unpicked. How? Firstly because the attempt to kill Jonathan fails and my arrival means that he hangs around rather than taking the first plane back to Italy as any sensible accident victim threatened with being sued should.'
Moresby had kept calm throughout this narrative, and seemed barely perturbed. 'Entrapment,' he said. 'Won't get very far on that without anything else. And you don't have much else, to my way of thinking. I may have stolen the gun, but you have to prove it. I may have nearly run Argyll over, but again you have to prove it. I may have imitated my father, but so might someone else. There are lots of trucks painted all sorts of colours in Los Angeles. I may have tried to kill Argyll, but the cable might have come loose on its own. I may have killed my father, but I may not. A bit flimsy.'
'And this evening?'
'I was invited, got here early. Walked through the door and was kicked in the stomach.'
'Carrying a gun?'
'Lots of people in Los Angeles carry a gun.'
Morelli's frown by this stage was clearly caused by more than his tooth. His anxious glance at Flavia indicated that he was seriously concerned that his case was falling to pieces. He was sure that Moresby had tried to kill Argyll; and that Argyll had little choice but to hit him first; but it undoubtedly weakened the case. A serious provable attempted murder would have been so much more satisfactory, however distressing Argyll might personally have found it.
'And now, I think, I'll go home,' Moresby continued with quiet confidence. 'If you'll undo my handcuffs. And I wouldn't take the risk of harassing me any more. There are laws about that, and I reckon my lawyer will be telling you about them tomorrow morning.'
If it hadn't been so risky, Morelli might have ground his teeth in frustration. Moresby was right; they'd have to let him go, sooner or later. He even started, reluctantly, to fumble in his pocket to get out the keys.
'What the hell have you done to my house?' came an outraged voice from the door. They looked up and saw a red-faced Streeter standing, open-mouthed and surveying the devastation. It was, indeed, a bit of a mess; the lawn had been churned up by cars driving over it and policemen marching up and down; much of the crockery had been broken in Argyll's self-defence exercise; the doors were not on nearly as securely as previously; the furniture had been disarranged, books and furnishings all over the place.
Even before he'd parked his car, a neighbour had marched up and protested.
'Mr. Streeter,' said Morelli, glad of the distraction. 'You're late.'
'Of course I'm late. You could work that out for yourself, couldn't you? Obviously, I couldn't come before Thanet.'
Morelli squinted in the attempt to understand what he meant.
'What are you talking about?'
'I had to wait until he left his office. I couldn't just walk in and take it with him there.'
'Take what?'
'The tape.'
'What tape?'
'The one you asked me to bring. From Thanet's office.'
A long silence, as Morelli, Flavia and Argyll all shook their heads in disbelief.
'You mean to tell us that you were tapping his office?'
'Of course; I don't know how you found out. I put it in several months ago; I have grave concerns about some financial matters . . .'
'But why the hell didn't you say this before?'
'Well, it was illegal,' he said, lamely and unconvincingly.
'I don't believe this,' Morelli said thickly through the painkiller. 'Are you really such a . . . Oh, what's it matter? What's on this tape, then?'
Streeter, with some considerable air of self-importance, handed it over.
'I should say . . .'he began, but Morelli waved him to silence.
'Shut up, Streeter,' he said as he borrowed a Walkman from a patrolman, stuck the earphones in his ears and listened. The silence was interminable, and Morelli didn't help alleviate the tension by the way he occasionally snickered, grinned, frowned, and looked at members of the museum with suspicion, disapproval and a hint of scornful malice. Evidently it was an interesting tape. Eventually he switched it off, pulled out the earphones, and looked around with an air of profound satisfaction.
'Right,' he said cheerfully to two policemen standing in the corner. 'Take him off and charge him with the murder of his father. That'll do for the time being. We can add di Souza later. And him' - here he pointed at Langton - 'you can book for attempted fraud and conspiracy to commit murder.'
Getting Moresby out of the house and into a police car took longer than it should. He didn't want to go, and he was a big man. Overcoming his reluctance took an awful lot of pushing and shoving from the police, but it was clearly work they enjoyed. Eventually Moresby exited, pursued by a television crew.
'Why are you charging me with murder?' Langton asked with understandable alarm when attention finally turned to him. 'I didn't do anything to anybody.'
'That's the law. That's the way it is.'
'This is ridiculous. You can't prove anything.'
'If you were defrauding Moresby about the bust then all the rest follows naturally.'
'If,' he replied. 'But I stand by my story. I bought it from di Souza, and di Souza stole it, as far as I'm concerned. You can't prove that case was empty.'
Flavia smiled sweetly. 'Oh, yes we can.'
'How?' he said scornfully.
'Because we know where the bust is.'
'Do you?'
'Yes.'
'Where?'
'Still in Italy. And, of course, we've arrested Collins.'
'But in return for a co-operative attitude . . .' said Morelli, striking while the iron was hot.
Langton thought it over. 'Do you think I can have a talk with you for a moment, Detective?'
He and Morelli went into the kitchen to discuss matters. Despite the rather strained circumstances, Langton clearly entered into the spirit of the occasion. Once a dealer, always a dealer; it gets into the bloodstream. And he evidently believed that, once you had reached a decision, you should go ahead with it as quickly as possible. As the bargaining went on, voices were raised, both of them flounced about, positions were stated, withdrawals were made.
And the upshot was that Langton would testify about seeing Jack Moresby leave the administrative block, that he would give full details of the phone call that led to the death of di Souza and would refund the two million dollars that he had absentmindedly transferred i
nto a bank account in Switzerland.
In return Morelli would do his best to arrange matters so that the court looked sympathetically on his genuine sense of remorse and contrition and would not overstress the argument that Langton had incited Moresby to murder di Souza. Jail was likely, but not for very long. All very satisfactory.
While this was going on, Thanet and Barclay were in another corner, staring out of the window and also doing a certain amount of hard bargaining. They suddenly had a lot to talk about.
'I'm glad to hear about the Bernini,' Thanet said, crossing the room with a satisfied look on his face. 'Now we won't have the embarrassment of having to send it back.'
'No. But you can send di Souza back if you want,' Argyll said. 'It is the very least you can do, in the circumstances.'
'I suppose we should. I'm sure Barclay will oblige with the money. We don't have a penny at the moment. Not until this is all settled.'
'You're not going to have a penny, anyway, settled or not,' Anne Moresby chipped in from her lonely position on the sofa. 'I'm still going to close you down.' Despite being saved from innumerable years in jail by the efforts of others, the experience did not seem to have softened her much.
Oddly, the remark did not have the usual effect on Thanet's demeanour. He looked at her with interest, then glanced at Barclay.
'I don't know that this is a wise move, Mrs. Moresby,' Barclay said.
'Why not?' she asked.
'Because of the circumstances. If you go to law over this, the museum will fight. There is a more than fair chance that it will win.'
'It doesn't have a leg to stand on.'
'I think that if it came out in court how you persuaded your lover to bug Mr. Thanet's office to get material for blackmail . . .'
Morelli and Flavia exchanged glances. Streeter? Well, why not. She was having an affair, they were old college friends, she had got him a job, he was useful as a spy in place. No wonder he'd looked so upset when the subject was raised the other day. Another mistake, they thought simultaneously. Anne Moresby looked furious and Streeter had an air of almost childish sheepishness about him.
'Go on,' she said.
'Mr. Thanet has made a suggestion . . .'
'Which is?'
'A billion to the museum and the rest to you. Even you should be able to rub along on that. And you give up your place as a museum trustee.'
A silence greeted this remark.
'You'll abandon the Big Museum?' she asked eventually.
Thanet nodded regretfully. 'No choice, really. Not much you can do with a billion these days.'
'Well, at least that's a blow for sanity.'
She thought carefully, calculating risks, costs and options. Then she nodded. 'OK. Done.' Also a decisive person.
Thanet smiled, and so did Barclay. Both were highly concerned that their role in the income tax affair should be kept under wraps. This seemed the best way of doing it. Admittedly, preserving their careers had just cost Anne Moresby a fortune she would otherwise have undoubtedly won, but nothing's cheap these days.
'Get it settled as quickly as possible,' she went on. 'Then I can wash my hands of the entire place.'
'That will take time, of course,' Barclay said, thinking of his fees.
'Which, I'm afraid, is the other thing I have to say,' Thanet added apologetically, his face looking concerned once more.
'What's that?' Argyll asked, as the statement seemed to be addressed to him.
'Money. It's all frozen, you see.'
'Pardon?'
'Until the estate is settled. It's held by administrators. We can't get at it too easily.'
'So?'
'So, I'm sorry to say that we won't be able to buy your Titian. No way of paying for it. I'm afraid we'll have to cancel the deal.'
'What!'
'It's off. We don't want it. Or rather, we do, of course, naturally, but can't afford it. Not at the moment.'
'You don't want that Titian?' Argyll said, astonishment growing as understanding seeped in.
Thanet nodded apologetically, hoping he wasn't about to be thumped.
'I know it will set back your career . . .'
Argyll nodded. 'Certainly will,' he said.
'And I know your employer won't be at all happy . . .'
'No. Indeed not. He'll be most upset.'
'We will of course pay a cancellation fee, as per the contract. When we get some money again.'
'That's kind of you,' he said, feeling strangely elated.
'And I'd be happy to explain things to Sir Edward Byrnes and the owner, so that there is no misunderstand . . .'
'No!' Argyll said sharply. 'Absolutely not. Don't you explain anything. Leave that to me.'
Then, overcome, he gripped Thanet's hand and pumped it up and down. There is a lot to be said for having decisions taken out of your hands. It is so much easier to accept the inevitable without regret or doubt. 'Thank you,' he said to the bewildered director. 'You've taken a great weight off my mind.'
'Really?' Thanet said cautiously.
'Yes, indeed. Of course, I have made a proper mess of this . . .'
'You didn't mess it up,' Thanet said, trying to console.
'Oh, yes I did. Dreadful. What a waste of time.'
'Well, I really wouldn't go that far . . .'
'Of course you would. And Byrnes will think, do I really want someone like that running my gallery? Much better to have that fellow in Vienna. He may be boring, but at least he's reliable. Don't you think?'
Thanet had given up by now, and just stared at him blankly.
'So I'll just have to rot away in Rome. Unemployed, homeless, no money, and the market in a mess. How awful.' And beamed happily.
Flavia had watched all this with interest. It is not everyone who watches their careers disintegrating with such contentment. And the fact that she understood perfectly why he was so happy made her come over all funny.
Sentimentality apart, though, it did seem a high price to pay for her company. Flattering though it was. Argyll's trouble was his lack of finesse. He often missed a neat flourish because he was, essentially, much too nice to be really determined.
So she thought she'd provide that extra touch herself. As a mark of affection.
'Of course, in six months time you might come along and decide you want that Titian, after all,' she said gently. 'For a bit more than you offered this time, taking into account all Jonathan's time and trouble. Risking life and limb to save your museum, and all that.'
Thanet agreed this might be possible, but privately doubted it. Six months was a long time in the future. Amazing what you could forget. It was not as if he ever wanted the picture in the first place.
'But it would have to be with no funny business this time,' she continued, half talking to herself. 'I mean, no income tax fiddles. Jonathan here has his reputation with Sir Edward to think about. Did you know that people say Byrnes is the only honest dealer in the business? Hates shady stuff. If he ever heard of any of this . . . I mean, he's the sort of person who just might tell the IRS, just to safeguard his good name. It is the IRS, isn't it?'
Thanet nodded thoughtfully. IRS it was. And the last thing he needed now was to be hauled over the coals by them. The very thought of those flinty-eyed hatchet men going through the books made him shudder. It might give Anne Moresby fresh ideas as well. So, recognising an in-built transitional overhead cost when he saw one, he nodded.
'Ten per cent over the original price?' he suggested.
'Fifteen,' Flavia corrected gravely.
'Fifteen, then.'
'Plus a ten per cent cancellation cost now, to go direct to Jonathan.'
Thanet bowed in agreement.
'Plus interest, of course.'
Thanet opened his mouth to protest, then decided it wasn't worth the effort. Flavia was smiling charmingly at him, but he could see her eyes glinting with what looked like a very nasty combination of merriment and determination. She was, he decided, perfectly capabl
e of paying a visit to the IRS before she left the country.
'Very well, then. I think we understand each other. Is this satisfactory, Mr. Argyll?'
Argyll, standing there and feeling that life's infinite variety was too kaleidoscopic this evening, could do little more than indicate that it seemed just about OK.
'By the way,' Flavia continued absently. 'Who is going to keep an eye on the market in Europe for you? Now that Langton seems unlikely to be in any position to keep his finger on the pulse, so to speak?'