by Iain Pears
Full of idioms, that spurt. Must be a mistake somewhere. She paused, and looked at Argyll enquiringly. He nodded approvingly.
'Langton's careful planning successfully created the illusion of a convincing provenance. Careful investigation would trace the bust to Alberghi, di Souza, the 1951 sale. And when added to the enthusiastic account of Alberghi in 1951, pretty convincing.
'The result was that a couple of days later, the polizia sent an urgent message attesting to the national significance of the bust, its undoubted authenticity, and demanding its return.
'What better way of convincing anyone that the theft had been real and the bust genuine than to have international warrants flying around wanting it back? From the start, the police were being manipulated to convince people that the bust was a lost masterpiece.
'The trouble is not that di Souza starts grumbling, but that he gets to talk to Moresby so quickly. He has told Jonathan that he can prove he didn't smuggle the bust out and presumably tells Moresby as well. Emergency action is called for. The rest is straightforward.'
She looked up at them complacently, content that the whole thing was wrapped up barring an arrest. Morelli did not look as admiring as she'd expected; he was still concerned about evidence, and said as much.
'Oh, that,' she said airily. 'Simple enough; he's bound to turn up this evening at Streeter's. We just collar him then. Besides, I've rung Bottando; he's going to go round to the Borghese and nail Collins' head to the floor until he confesses.'
'Talking of Mr. Langton,' Argyll said. 'I was thinking about those phone calls he made after the murder.'
'Nothing fake there,' Morelli said. 'Both recipients confirm them, and Streeter's patent telephone tapping system also confirms the times and the numbers dialled.'
Argyll looked disappointed, so Morelli moved to block off what seemed to be another trivial quibble from the other side of the Atlantic.
'Here,' he said, opening up his briefcase and pulling out a sheaf of computer print-out. 'Check for yourself, if you don't believe me.'
Argyll took the proffered sheet of paper. 'External PABX Utilisation,' it was called. Who used the phone, in other words. And not greatly informative in the matter of these calls, either. 10:10 p.m., a phone call to a number identified as Jack Moresby's. 10:21 p.m., another to Anne Moresby from the same phone. All distressingly truthful. He sighed.
'Oh, well. Just an idea. What's this, by the way?'
With his finger, he indicated the previous line on the print-out, a record of a call to the same phone, timed at 9:58 p.m.
'That's the call from old man Moresby,' Morelli said after he'd looked at it briefly. 'The one that summoned Barclay over. It checks out.'
Argyll scratched his head, then re-examined the sheet. 'Hang on a second,' he said. 'Are you sure?'
'Oh, yes. We've got it on video.'
'I know that. But, unless I'm mistaken, this came from outside.'
'So?'
'An external call.'
Morelli looked at him enquiringly.
'Aren't all the museum's phones linked up to an internal network? I mean, a hi-tech, go-ahead place like this . . .'
Morelli seemed decidedly upset. 'Of course they are,' he said thoughtfully. 'Offices as well. Thanet's office phone too. And this was external. Damnation . . .'
Argyll smiled. 'Another good reason for going over to Streeter's. Come on.'
Chapter Fourteen
The trouble with Robert Streeter's house was that it was so open, light and airy. The sort of residence that makes real-estate agents and potential homeowners lick their chops with excitement can be profoundly annoying to policemen eager to go about their business with discretion. Joe Morelli had not seen the house before, and was profoundly disappointed.
'Couldn't you have chosen somewhere better than this?' he asked, rubbing his gum with annoyance. Damn thing was getting worse. Much worse. Tomorrow, he'd do something about it. 'This is a nightmare. It's much too exposed. I can't even park my car in the street without risking someone noticing it.'
He puffed up his cheeks and let the air out slowly as he thought how to proceed. 'Tell you what. I'll go and leave it in the next block. You go and wait in the house, I'll be with you in a few minutes. All the backups will have to make themselves scarce as well. Damnation.'
He walked back to the car.
'It's amazing how comforting a policeman can be,' Argyll said a few minutes later as they were settling down in the kitchen. 'I feel quite nervous with him not here.'
Flavia nodded. She also was feeling a bit nervous. This was, after all, potentially quite a dangerous business. While it was clearly the right way of proceeding, she had been loosely attached to the police for long enough to know that nothing ever goes to plan. There was no reason to think that the first basic rule of police work operated any differently in California than in Italy. Morelli could, and had, called on resources far beyond the capacity of her own department - as far as she could see he could rustle up almost anything from attack helicopters to anti-tank missiles, if needed. Nonetheless, she had a horrible feeling in the pit of her stomach . . .
'Do you think this is going to work?' he asked.
'It should do.'
'You really reckon that he'll fall for this tape story? I don't know that I would. It seems so heavy-handed.'
'It was your idea.'
'I know. That doesn't mean I think it was a good idea, though.'
Morelli came in; he didn't seem to be standing up to the strain quite so well either, all things considered. Bit strange, considering that he was meant to be used to this sort of caper. But there he was, sweating visibly, pale in the face. And trembling; visibly trembling.
'Are you all right?' Flavia asked, brow furrowed with sudden concern. The first basic law seemed about to swing into operation.
Morelli nodded. 'Fine, fine,' he muttered. 'Just give me a minute.'
He sat down uncertainly at the table, supporting himself by leaning on the table.
'You don't look well,' Argyll observed.
Morelli looked up at Argyll, gave a sharp cry and sank to his knees. Both Europeans stood looking at him flabbergasted. Flavia bent down.
'I think it's his tooth,' she said after listening to an incoherent mumble.
'Hurts, does it?'
Another mumble, longer this time.
'He says he's never felt anything like it before.'
'Sharp, stabbing pain, a bit like having a red hot pin stuck in it?'
Morelli indicated this was about right.
Argyll nodded. 'Abcess,' he said firmly. 'Very unpleasant. They sometimes do explode like that. Had one myself once. If it's bad it's a devil to sort out. Do you know, they often can't give you an injection? Just have to pull the nerve out straight. Use a little wire with hooks on.'
Morelli gave an anguished cry and rocked back and forwards. Flavia suggested Argyll might keep the details to himself and, in the meantime, what were they going to do?
'I think he needs a dentist.'
'But we're chasing a murderer. We can't stop to go to a bloody dentist.'
'Painkillers, then. Strong ones, and lots of them. That might hold it. 'Course, he won't be at his perkiest.'
Morelli mumbled. Between them, they grasped he was saying that his car had a first-aid kit in it. Police Department issue, complete with painkillers.
'That's simple, then,' she said. 'I’ll go and get them.'
'You're not going out there on your own.'
'We can't leave him here. And he can't go.'
'Take him with you, then.'
'And leave you? Absolutely not.'
'We can't all go. This is meant to be a covert entrapment - that was the term, wasn't it? – not a May Day parade.'
She looked uncertain.
'Look, it's very simple,' Argyll said firmly. 'Go out the back, walk him to the car, leave him and come back. I will stay here, and if anything untoward happens I'll be out the door as fast as my crutches
can carry me. And believe me, I can really move on these things now. It'll only take a few minutes.'
Flavia was unconvinced, but could think of nothing better. Morelli's tooth had transformed him from a competent, reliable man into a quivering moaning wreck, more beast than human. On top of that, he was making quite a lot of noise.
'Oh, all right, then. But remember, no clever stuff.'
'Don't be silly. Go on, go. We can't stand here all evening discussing it.'
Between them they lifted Morelli up and pointed him out the back door. He seemed slightly better; it was the initial explosion of pain that had caught him unawares; now it had settled down into steady, consistent agony he could cope. As long as he wasn't required to do anything.
'Don't open the door while I'm gone,' she said as they lumbered out.
'I won't,' Argyll promised.
Courage is all very well, he thought, as he considered his situation a few minutes later, but was this entirely wise? If he was honest with himself, he had to admit that he was only hanging about here to impress Flavia. And wasn't there a distinction to be drawn between the courageous and the merely foolhardy? If, for example, Morelli had thought of leaving his gun, that would have been different. Not that Argyll knew what to do with one, but he supposed he could blast away like anything if necessary.
But the point is, he reminded himself, Morelli didn't leave his gun.
And Argyll wouldn't be much use even if something did happen. Not with only one leg operational.
And the conclusion of that, he thought as he headed for the door and reached for the handle, is that being there on his own was asking for trouble.
The door opened easily, in fact it opened faster than he pulled it. This was because, as he reached for the handle, so did someone else on the other side. As he turned the knob, so did someone else; and as he, on the inside, pulled the door open, someone else, on the outside, pushed.
Both were equally surprised when the manoeuvre was completed and each saw the other standing there.
In Argyll's case, instant automatic responses took over. Ever since he was tiny, people had instructed him in the virtues of politeness and hospitality.
'Gosh, hello. What a surprise. Come in, do. Make yourself at home.'
Well, how else do you talk to your murderer?
Despite the first basic rule of police work, all could still have gone according to plan had not Morelli been forced to park his car in a different street, for the sake of discretion. The little area of houses was arranged in a grid; and a lot of people had more cars than there was space to garage them. A common problem; Rome is the same, if not worse. Morelli had only been able to find space for his vast machine some streets away and it took several minutes to walk back to it. Once they arrived, he slumped in the front seat and Flavia began rummaging through his first-aid kit.
'I'm still not happy about leaving Jonathan on his own, you know,' she said as she tossed a packet of band aids on to the floor. 'He'll probably electrocute himself making tea. He does have a knack of getting himself into trouble. How about this?'
She held up a tube. Morelli looked at it and shook his head. Useless. Like using a peashooter on a battleship.
She searched again. 'I mean, just think. Accidents, attempted murder. Can't even cross the road without being run over by purple trucks. This?' she asked.
'No good either,' Morelli said indistinctly. 'What do you mean, purple truck? Who said that?'
'He told you, didn't he? It'll have to be this then,' she went on, holding up a small syringe with a slightly sadistic glint in her eye. 'A bit strong but all there is. Open up.'
'Not the colour,' Morelli said. 'No one mentioned the colour. Ever. Not tome.'
'Well, so what?'
'So,' he replied, concentrating hard so the words came out comprehensibly. 'There was a purple truck behind us for a while as we drove here. I didn't think anything of it. And it's parked in the next street down.'
She stared blankly at him, syringe in hand.
'Oh, my God,' she said.
'And, what's more, if you'll get the registration number and hand me that file on the back seat, I think I can tell you who owns it . . .'
But Flavia didn't wait for the details. She thrust the syringe into Morelli's hand, reached under his jacket and grabbed his gun. Then slid towards the door.
'Wait for me,' he called after her.
'No time,' she called back.
And she ran as though her life depended on it. It didn't, but Argyll's did, and she flew around the corner, jumping over hedges, nearly tripping over hosepipes, trampling flowerbeds, anything to cut a second, even a fraction of a second, from the time it would take to get back to the house.
What could Argyll possibly do to defend himself? He wouldn't stand a chance. He had no weapon, he had a leg in plaster and, in truth, violence was not his forte.
It wasn't hers either, but she scarcely thought of that. She would have surprise and a gun. They would have to do. What did they tell her in that self-defence course Bottando had sent her on? Damned if she could remember. Shows how useless these things were.
An expert would probably have counselled a cautious approach. Reconnaissance, as the military would have it. Sneak up to the window, see what's going on, locate your target, plan your mode of attack. A second's calm reflection can save lives.
But Flavia was proceeding by instinct, and would almost certainly have disregarded an expert's advice even had she remembered it. Rather than the calm approach, she ran up the little driveway and round the back of the house as fast as her legs would carry her.
Instead of cautious reconnaissance, she charged at the back door with all her force, crashing into it with her shoulder at such speed that it sprang open.
And instead of patient situation assessment and target location, she slid to the floor on her knees, swung the gun up in both hands and pointed it at the figure standing over the inert form by the living room door.
'Get off him,' she screamed at the top of her voice.
And pulled the trigger.
'All I can say,' Argyll said heavily when he recovered from the fright, 'is thank God for safety catches. Although killing me by nearly scaring me to death is almost as effective.'
When Flavia put in her appearance he'd been feeling quite pleased with himself. But the sudden apparition and the gun - particularly the gun, as it was rather long and pointed at him - made his self-congratulatory mood ebb a little. He hurled himself to one side, and cracked his elbow on a side table as he did so. Just at that point where the funny bone is particularly vulnerable. Brought tears to the eyes.
He lay there gasping and clutching his elbow and Flavia, thoroughly winded from her sprint, her shoulder hurting damnably from the way she'd crashed through the door, and speechless from terror over so nearly blowing Argyll's head off, collapsed on the sofa and panted. That was the other thing they'd taught her on the course, she remembered. Take the safety catch off. Just as well she hadn't paid much attention.
'So what happened?' she asked eventually.
He thought for a moment, trying to choose between the paths of honesty and dissimulation. In the circumstances, he thought that a little light editing might be permissible. So he left out the bit about being on the verge of bolting after them because he was too frightened to be on his own.
'I was in the kitchen and heard someone outside the door. So I hid behind it; I thought it was probably you, but wasn't sure. Anyway, in he came. Saw me, pulled out a gun.'
'And?'
'So I kicked him. When in doubt, you know. Probably wouldn't have done much good except for the plaster cast. It must have been like being hit by a train. Down he went, but began crawling after the gun. So I hopped after him and brought him a sharp crack over the head with my crutch.
'I was a bit worried that he might come round while I was looking for something to tie him up with, and I didn't feel like leaving him alone. So I was just standing, wondering what to do when y
ou came in and nearly killed me.'
'Sorry.'
'That's OK. It's the thought that counts.'
'A small detail,' she went on.
'What?'
She pointed at the recumbent form. 'Who is it?'
'Oh, him. I'm sorry.' He pulled the figure over so she could see his face. 'I forgot, you've never met. Flavia; meet Jack Moresby.'
Chapter Fifteen
By the time all the other invitees had drifted along, the atmosphere in Streeter's living room was almost jolly. Well, not quite. Anne Moresby, causing a local stir by arriving in her absurd limousine, was no more charming than usual. Samuel Thanet had bags under his eyes the size of full suitcases, James Langton had the look of someone prepared for a fight and even David Barclay looked concerned about the on-going situation.
Morelli had turned up only a few minutes after Flavia burst in, doing his best to give support. Quite admirable, really; he had taken the syringeful of painkiller, and injected the whole lot into his gum. All on his own. The very idea gave Argyll the quivers. It's bad enough when a dentist does it. Then he'd grabbed his regulation-issue shotgun and come after Flavia. His run along the street was observed by a back-up car, and they had followed him. Another back-up summoned reinforcements, and that turned the street outside into something resembling a battlefield. Grim-faced men in camouflage talking into radios and marching around with machine-guns; the works. That of, course, alerted the vultures, and within half an hour the press had arrived in full force as well. You could see local residents didn't approve. The neighbourhood watch committee was going to have something pretty severe to say about this at the annual meeting.
They were all a bit late, as well. By that time all the excitement was over. But as Morelli said, it would look great on the news, and he had a promotion to worry about.
Not that he was very talkative; in his haste and enthusiasm he had rather overdone the painkiller, and the lower part of his head felt like a large block of ice. But his tooth had stopped hurting. However, it did curtail his conversational powers.