Both Argyll and Jack were standing next to di Souza, glass in hand, when this announcement was made, and were thus in a position to hear the sharp intake of breath and gargling sound which erupted from the Spaniard’s throat as he choked in mid-martini. They also witnessed the rapid change of expression – from surprise, to alarm and on to anger – which flitted across his face as he digested this announcement.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Jack, patting him on the back. ‘This place has that effect on everybody.’
‘What’s the matter?’ Argyll asked. ‘Jealous?’
Di Souza downed his drink in a gulp. ‘Not exactly,’ he replied. ‘Just heart failure. Excuse me a moment.’
And with that he shot off in the direction of Samuel Thanet. Argyll’s curiosity was piqued so, with as much subtlety as he could manage, he sidled over to see what was going on. Quite a lot, evidently, although most of the conversation seemed to be coming from di Souza. While clearly angry about something, he was at least in sufficient control to keep his voice down, otherwise the cheery atmosphere at the party might well have been severely damaged.
Argyll didn’t catch it all, but the words ‘worrying’ and ‘alarming’ wafted in his general direction as he drew near. Di Souza seemed to be demanding to speak to Mr Moresby.
There was a lot – especially of Thanet’s attempts to pacify – that Argyll didn’t pick up. Also in earshot, Jack Moresby was shaking his head with sheer enjoyment. ‘Christ, these people. How do you stand them?’ he asked. ‘Hell, I’ve had enough. I’m off home. It’s not far. D’you want to come around for a drink sometime?’
He gave Argyll his address and wandered out into the pure air of a Santa Monica evening.
Meanwhile Thanet was rocking back on his heels due to the unexpected assault, but not giving ground. Initially he seemed to be doing his best to reassure the indignant Spaniard then, as the battering continued, resorted to the reliable technique of stonewalling. He had nothing to do with the bust, Thanet insisted; and di Souza knew that perfectly well.
Hector was unimpressed, but could do little. He retreated in good order, muttering furiously. Argyll was, naturally, curious about this display, but knew di Souza’s volubility well enough to realise that all would be revealed in good time. Hector was legendary for never being able to keep anything to himself.
‘What are you looking at?’ the Spaniard said rather sharply in Italian as he returned to the bar.
‘Nothing at all. I was just wondering what you’re so upset about.’
‘A great deal.’
‘Go on, then,’ Argyll prompted.
Di Souza didn’t reply.
‘You’ve been smuggling again, haven’t you?’ he said in a confiding tone. It was relatively well known that di Souza supplemented his income by arranging for works of art to be spirited across the Italian border before the authorities could refuse export permission. They would certainly have refused an above-board application to export a Bernini: there would be thermonuclear detonation if they ever found out that one had been smuggled out of the country.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ di Souza snapped back, with enough uncertainty in his voice to convince Argyll he was on the right track.
Argyll sucked in his breath and tutted with wholly hypocritical sympathy. ‘Wouldn’t want to be in your shoes if the folk at the Belle Arte get their fangs into you. Nasty, that’ll be,’ he said with an uncontrollable grin. Di Souza gave him a very unpleasant look. ‘Serious offence, smuggling…’
‘It’s not smuggling I’m worried about.’
‘Oh, go on, Hector, spill it.’
But there was no persuading him. Di Souza was panicked and adopting the tactic of saying as little as possible. You could see his point, Argyll thought. A public announcement, and reporters here as well. Had Thanet stood up and thanked di Souza for smuggling the bust out for him, it couldn’t have been more awkward. All it needed now was a little whisper, a little looking, and Hector would be in big trouble back in Italy. Standing up in a court and saying that he hadn’t known what was in that case would merely be greeted with hearty guffawing from the prosecutor. Argyll found it hard to believe himself.
‘Hmm,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘You’ll just have to hope that no one notices too much. All I can say is you’re very lucky Flavia isn’t here. She’d have your guts.’
He shouldn’t have said that. Flavia di Stefano had been greatly on his mind all afternoon, all week, in fact, and he had only just succeeded in thinking of other things. If he put his hand on his heart and confessed what it was that most attracted him to living in Rome, he would have had to say that, splendid though the buildings, the art, the streets, the food, the weather and the people were, what he really liked most was Flavia di Stefano, old friend, investigator in the Italian polizia art squad and a woman with a long-standing disapproval of those who smuggle the Italian heritage out of the country.
Flavia, alas, did not return his feelings. She was a wonderful companion and a perfect friend, but though Argyll had worked hard to persuade her to be something more his labours had produced remarkably little result. He was fed up with it. That was why he was able to reconcile himself to going back to England.
What more could he do? He’d mentioned Byrnes’ proposal to her one evening as they came out of the cinema – with what result? Oh, don’t go? Please stay? Even, I’ll miss you, would have been a start. But nothing. All she’d said was that if his career would benefit then of course he should go. And changed the subject. Not only that, since then he’d barely seen her.
‘What was that?’ he said, coming out of his reverie and realising that di Souza was still talking.
‘I said that when I have sorted everything out with Moresby not even your Flavia will have any interest in me.’
‘If you can. Besides, she’s not my Flavia.’
‘I’ve already told you I can. Simple to prove.’
‘What is?’ Argyll asked, puzzled. Evidently he’d missed more of di Souza’s conversation than he’d thought.
‘If you can’t listen I’m not going to repeat it,’ he said crossly. ‘It’s the second time you’ve spurned my anecdotes today. Besides, judging by the way the crowds are beginning to practise doing obeisance, I’d guess Moresby is arriving and I need an urgent talk with him. I’ll fill you in later, if you can pay attention for long enough.’
Argyll followed in the slipstream of the guests heading for the main door where they could get a decent view of the proceedings. Di Souza was right. Moresby arrived with all the sense of occasion of a medieval potentate turning up to visit some minor province. Which he was, in a way. Compared to the vast range of his interests – Argyll vaguely remembered they stretched from oil to electronics, miscellaneous weaponry to financial services and just about everything in between – the museum was a fairly minor operation. Unless, of course, Thanet managed to prise open the old man’s very tight fist and keep it open long enough to build his big museum.
It was an odd experience, halfway between being impressive and slightly ludicrous. The car was one of those stretched limousine affairs, about forty feet long with a small radio telescope on the back, all black tinted glass and shiny chromium. It swept up to the entrance and a host of nervous museum folk swept down to it, competing for the honour of opening the door. Then one of the richest men on the western seaboard emerged in the fading light of evening and everybody gazed at him reverentially.
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