by Iain Pears
As for the case itself, she could not see any clear explanation for what had happened. This was not surprising - if it had been obvious to her then undoubtedly the Los Angeles police would have leapt to the same conclusion. However, it seemed that Moresby and di Souza had gone to the office to discuss the Spaniard's gripe about this bust; and that it must have been fairly important for a man like Moresby to interrupt his evening to talk to a mere art dealer.
Now, if you are going to talk about something, it helps to see it. So, it was reasonable to suppose that the first thing they did was peer inside the case containing the bust. Moresby then summoned his lawyer or aide or whatever he was, and moments later he was shot and di Souza legged it.
As far as she was concerned, this indicated that the bust was pretty central to proceedings.
She finally located the office record on Hector di Souza - filed under 'H' for some reason - and read it carefully. A bit of a lad, our Hector, she thought. Even though the file was thin - the department had only existed for a few years and early material had been begged, borrowed or stolen from somewhat inadequate carabinieri archives -it was clear that di Souza was one of that breed who couldn't help pulling a fast one on gullible clients. He'd been in operation since about 1948, when he'd been washed up in Rome after the war. A lot of people got into the art business then, in a period when tens of thousands of works of art were drifting around the continent, their owners dead, or lost or forgotten. A lot of money to be made if you knew what you were doing and didn't mind cutting a few corners.
Di Souza was a master corner-cutter. For some reason he had never been prosecuted for anything, but he had sold some dodgy stuff, and almost certainly fobbed newly made fakes on to the unsuspecting for high prices. There was, in fact, the name of a sculptor in Gubbio who had worked for him occasionally. Many years ago, certainly, but old habits . . .
She noted that down thoughtfully. Pity the information was so scanty. Of course, if you open a box and find you have paid four million dollars for a fake, you might get annoyed. Demand your money back.
James Langton, the Moresby agent in Rome who had assiduously plundered the galleries and collections of the country for the past few years to stock the museum, was clearly the place to start. Flavia checked her watch, and reckoned that he should have got back by now. Then she picked up a phone book, found the address and summoned a taxi.
Langton, however, was hard to get hold of; he had gone straight to bed and was evidently reluctant to get out of it again. She had to lean on his doorbell before he appeared, frowsy, ill-humoured and very much the worse for wear. That was his problem; she had a job to do. So she pestered him with officialese until he agreed to get dressed, and then took pity on him and steered him off to get some coffee in him. The fresh air seemed to do something to wake him up.
'Terrible thing, terrible,' he said as they walked across to a small piazza that contained a dingy bar. 'I'd known old Moresby for years. Imagine, being killed like that. Have you heard anything new? Have they arrested di Souza yet?'
Flavia said they hadn't, and asked why he thought they would. Couldn't see who else might have done it, he said.
Langton broke off to order a coffee. Decaffeinated, he insisted. Caffeine made his heart race. 'Bit outside your area of operations, isn't it?' he said. 'I thought you dealt with art thefts?'
'We do. There's been one. Your Bernini,' she went on. 'Quite apart from the fact that it was material to the murder, we have reason to believe it may have left this country illegally. If so, we'll want it back. You know the laws about exporting works of art as well as I do, I'm sure.'
'So what do you want to know?'
'First routine details, if you don't mind. I'll read, stop me if I go wrong. James Robert Langton, nationality British, born 1941, educated London University, worked as a dealer until employed by Arthur Moresby in 1972. OK so far?'
He nodded.
'Curator of Moresby collection in Los Angeles until three years ago, then chief buyer in Europe based in Rome.'
He nodded again.
'A few weeks ago you bought a bust said to be by Bernini . . .'
'It was.'
'Said to be of Pius V.'
'It is.'
'Where did you get it from? What was it like?'
'It was perfect,' he said. 'Undoubtedly genuine. Excellent condition. I can let you have my written assessment, if you want.'
'Thank you. I'd like to see it. Where did it come from?'
'Well, now,' he said. 'That's a bit tricky.'
'Why's that?'
Langton adopted the look of someone whose sense of professional propriety was coming under strain. 'Confidential,' he said at last. She waited for him to go on. 'The owners were most insistent. Family matter, I gather.'
Flavia assured him that, while she was ordinarily very aware of the difficulties of families, she wanted to know where that bust came from. Discretion assured. He still didn't seem convinced, so she also told him that, in order to continue his career in Italy, he'd need to get his residence permit renewed in a few months. And smiled sweetly in the way you do when you have the power to make the Interior Ministry get awkward. Not that she had, and anyway it didn't seem to have much effect. He said he anticipated leaving the country to go and live in America again soon. Having him deported wasn't much of a threat. So she tried the all-buddies-in-this-together approach.
'Listen, Mr. Langton,' she said in her kindest of voices, 'You know as well as I do that an unknown seller is the oldest trick in the book for covering up smuggled goods. Unless you want us to go all the way back until we get to the marble dust underneath Bernini's fingernails, you'd better tell us where that thing came from. Because we'll be after you until we get it back.'
Oddly enough, it didn't work. What more could she possibly do?
All he did was smile at her and shake his head slowly. It seemed that the more she pushed, the more relaxed he got. Strange.
'I can't stop you investigating,' he said smugly. 'But I'm absolutely certain you won't find anything at all to incriminate me. I bought it fairly, and the museum paid for it when it arrived in America. As far as smuggling goes - well, you're right, it was. No harm in admitting that. Di Souza took it out of the country, and the previous possessors owned it until it arrived at the museum. Di Souza and they bear the responsibility, not me. That's why I'm not going to tell you who they are. And, frankly, there's not much you can do about it now.'
The statement made Flavia twitch with anger. Because Langton was essentially correct. The most they could do was fine the owner for smuggling - if they ever worked out who it was – and perhaps di Souza for complicity, if he also turned up. As the bust was not paid for until it arrived in America, it remained the old owner's property until then. The museum had done nothing at all that was actionable. It was enough to make her hope they didn't recover it.
'You will at least confirm that Hector transported it?'
This Langton was happy to do.
'But he didn't know what it was. You can't blame him.'
'A contract's a contract,' he said. 'Besides, you don't really believe that Hector was such an innocent, do you?'
Flavia drummed her fingers on the table with frustration and tried one last time. 'Look,' she said. 'You know very well we're not interested in you, or in this family, or in prosecuting anyone. We want that bust back, but more importantly we're trying to help the Los Angeles police sort out Moresby's murder. Your employer, after all. His death had something to do with that bust. So why don't you just tell us where you got it from?'
Langton shook his head slowly. 'Sorry,' he said, again with the slight glimmering of a smile on his face. 'Can't. And you're wasting your time pressing me.'
'You're not being very helpful, you know.'
'Why should I be helpful? If I thought incriminating this family might be of use I would be bending over backwards to help. But there's nothing I can do or say. That's why I'm back here. The police there didn't want
me for anything. I told them I'd bought the bust, that di Souza had transported it, I'd been at the party and hadn't seen anything unusual. They confirmed from the video cameras that I was sitting on a lump of marble smoking a cigarette at the critical moment so couldn't have killed anyone. That's all I have to tell you as well. Telling you where the bust came from is entirely irrelevant and would achieve nothing but compromise my reputation for integrity.'
'You have one?'
He smirked at her. 'I do. And I intend to keep it. So mind your own business.'
He dusted a fleck of ash from his jacket and stood up. 'Nice to meet you.' With this sardonic comment he walked off, leaving Flavia to pay the bill.
That settles it, she thought, leaving the money on the table and stumping out. I'll have him. And that bust.
Back to basics. Flavia went straight to the office and started ringing old friends, people who owed her a favour and some other people to whom she was prepared to owe a favour.
What she was after was any official mention of either Moresby or Langton. There was very little to be had, except for a file on Moresby held by the security forces who, as usual, were not all that keen on letting outsiders see what they had. She only began to make progress when she solicited Bottando's help. He remembered a senior civil servant connected with Intelligence had once illegally sold a Guardi through a London auction house and the department had buried the affair under a pile of paper.
'Ring him up and remind him,' he said complacently, noting that there was a bit of colour back in her cheeks and her sense of purpose was returning. 'You see, you're always so critical when I do that sort of thing. Now you see how helpful it can be.'
Hmmph. Flavia still thought the civil servant should have been prosecuted, but who was she to complain at the moment?
On the second attempt, security promised the file for that afternoon.
That accomplished, she leant back in her chair and thought. Bernini. How to find out about Bernini? Answer, ask an expert on Bernini. And where do you find an expert? Answer, in the museum that owns lots of Berninis.
Flavia picked up her coat, walked out into the sunlit piazza, and grabbed another taxi.
'Borghese Museum, please,' she said.
The Borghese, one of the nicest museums in the world, not so grand it causes indigestion but every piece in it a marvel, is based on the collection of the Borghese family, one of whom, Scipione, was the first and most enthusiastic patron of Bernini. So keen was he, indeed, that the museum has Berninis coming out of its ears. It's a bit of a shock to discover that the cutlery in the tea room wasn't hand-sculpted by the man as well.
Like all museums, the Borghese houses its employees in a less stately fashion than it does its pieces. Lumps of marble get the full stucco and gilt and painted-ceiling treatment, staff occupy grubby little shoeboxes formerly inhabited by lesser domestic servants. In this respect, at least, museum priorities are pretty much the same the world over. Flavia ended up in a tiny, grim and dark little office, asking her questions.
As might have been expected, the resident Bernini man was on sabbatical in Hamburg for the year, although no one was entirely certain what he was doing there. His deputy was at a seminar in Milan, and the third under-deputy had disappeared at eleven and not come back. In fact, the nearest they had to a resident expert at the moment was a young foreign intern called Collins, working his passage for a year before using the experience (and patronage) as leverage to get a job which actually had a salary attached.
And he confessed after the introductions were performed that he was more of a seventeenth-century Dutch man himself and didn't really know much about sculpture. He was just filling in while everyone else was on holiday. Sorry, on sabbatical. But he was willing to do what he could, as long as it wasn't too complicated.
'Bernini,' Flavia said, resigning herself.
'Oh,' he replied.
'I think a bust of Pius V may have been smuggled out the country. I want to know as much about it as possible. Owners. Where it's been. A photograph would be nice, as well.'
'Pius V?' he said, suddenly interested. 'Has this got something to do with the Moresby murder that's all over the papers?'
She nodded. Of course it had.
This information galvanised Collins into action. He got up from his seat and headed out the door. He was going into battle with the filing system and would be back as soon as possible.
'This could take time,' he said as he disappeared. 'There's so many Berninis around. And those files . . . well, let's just say they could be organised a little better. The man who set them up preferred to keep everything in his head. And he died last year without passing his system on to anyone.'
So Flavia sat and admired the view, after deciding that yet another cup of coffee might not be such a good idea. She had a tolerant stomach, but it could be pushed too far.
Collins came back remarkably quickly, triumphantly waving a thin brown file. 'Stroke of luck. Got something for you,' he said. 'More than I expected, in fact. It's a bit out of date, but all there is.'
Flavia was twitching with anticipation. 'Doesn't matter,' she said. 'Anything will do. Let's have a look.'
He opened the file, and Flavia saw it contained only a couple of pieces of paper, musty with age and covered in tiny crabbed handwriting that was almost indecipherable. 'Here you are. It's all rather curious, in fact. It seems to have passed through the museum very briefly in 1951. This sheet is an assessment of a bust, said to be of your Pope Pius by Bernini. Brought in by the customs police for examination.'
He glanced up at Flavia, who was staring at him blankly. 'Dated September 3, 1951,' he went on. 'Great enthusiasm, detailed description. Conclusion, that this work was undoubtedly by the Man Himself, and a work of national importance. OK?'
Flavia virtually snatched the document from his hands and studied it with the intensity of someone who scarcely credited it.
'Now, as you will see, there is this strange note at the end.'
Collins turned the paper over and pointed out a line, written in the same crabbed hand. Flavia read it.
'"Discharged from the museum by E. Alberghi. September 9, 1951." And signed. What does that mean?'
'Just what it says. In essence, the museum decided it didn't want it and Alberghi authorised it leaving the museum.'
'But Alberghi?'
'Enrico Alberghi - keeper of sculpture here for years. The man who set up the files. He was a very great authority. A nasty man by reputation, but the best. Never made a mistake and used to terrify everybody. One of the old breed; a collector as well as a connoisseur. Nowadays we're all too poor, but . . .'
'Hold it. What did he collect?'
The young man shrugged. 'I've no idea. Before my time. But he was an expert on baroque sculpture.'
'Tell me about this report, then. What does it mean?'
He shrugged. 'Not a clue. This really is outside my area of expertise. All I can tell you is the obvious: Alberghi concluded it was genuine, and the museum didn't keep it.'
'Could they have done?'
He groaned slightly. 'I'm really not the right person to ask,' he repeated. 'But as far as I understand Italian law, yes. If it's caught being smuggled out, then it can be confiscated. Museums can then try and acquire it, or it gets sold off.'
'Wouldn't this museum have wanted another Bernini?'
He shrugged. 'I would have thought so. But evidently not. This document is a little vague. Alberghi might have bought it for himself for all I know. But at least it wasn't returned to the owner.'
'What owner?'
He picked up the file and handed her the other piece of paper. It was a carbon copy of a typewritten letter, dated October 1951, saying that in the circumstances, of which the owner was only too aware, the bust would not be returned and there would be no further communication on the subject.
The letter was addressed to Hector di Souza.
'Well, how very interesting,' Bottando said, as he scratched his s
tomach and considered what Flavia had just told him. 'So you reckon this Alberghi character liked the bust so much he stuck it in his briefcase and took it home, where it stayed until it was pinched a month or so ago?'
'I don't know, but there's a remarkable connection there,' she said. 'All I know is that di Souza owned a Bernini in 1951 and it was confiscated. What happened after that I've no idea. He may even have got it back eventually and been waiting for another chance.'
'Hardly seems likely, though, does it? I mean, a character like di Souza. A real Bernini is a goldmine, and he wasn't so rich. I can't see him sitting on a potential pile of money like that for forty years or so.'
'Unless he was afraid to attract attention by selling it,' she said. 'That would explain it. He might have been waiting for Alberghi to die.'
'True, but you don't think that's what happened, do you?'
'Not really. Morelli reckons di Souza was surprised when he heard the director's announcement. It seems more likely that this awfully confidential family was a blind and the bust came from Bracciano. The point to be cleared up, of course, is who pinched it.'
'Chronology? Does it all fit?'
She picked up her notes and proffered them. Bottando waved them aside. He was prepared to take her word for it.
'Very well, I think,' she said. 'As far as I can work out the burglary took place a few weeks before the case left the country. Perfect timing.'
'If di Souza either owned it or stole it, it's hardly likely he would be surprised about its appearance in the Moresby Museum.'
'He might have been simply alarmed at it being announced publicly, with Argyll there to hear. After all, the first thing he did was ring me up to tell me about it.'
Bottando thought about this for a while, looking out of his window at the big clock on the church of San Ignazio opposite. 'And if your Argyll wasn't there, we might never have been put on to it. There's a coincidence for you. The trouble is,' he added, 'Alberghi's heir can't confirm what was stolen. We'll have to wait until the Americans recover it before there's any chance of identifying it.'