The Bernini Bust (24 page)

“The murder of Arthur Moresby had clearly been decided on, and some of it planned, in advance. The day comes more rapidly than Jack anticipates because he discovers that his father is about to set up the trust for the Big Museum. He comes to the party at the museum - the sort of function that ordinarily he would not be seen dead at - to find out what is going on. He discovers, through Argyll and others, that his father plans to finalise the arrangements very soon - Moresby junior needs to act that same night, or wave goodbye to several billion dollars.

“So straight away he starts laying the groundwork. To Argyll, for example, he drops the information about his stepmother having an affair with Barclay, and says his father knows about it…’

“But I wasn’t,” Barclay interrupted.

“So you say,” replied Morelli.

“But look…’

Flavia raised her voice, lest she lose her tenuous grip on events. “Jack Moresby,” she said, and waited until she had everybody’s attention again. “Overhears di Souza saying he wants Moresby to inspect the bust in Thanet’s office, and spots an opportunity.

“So he leaves, saying goodbye so everyone knows he’s going. Back to his truck, gets the gun, then waits. When di Souza leaves he walks up the stairs to the office, kills his father, then gets in his car and drives home.”

“Hold on, there,” said Thanet, raising a tentative hand in protest. “This is all very interesting, but I don’t think it fits.”

“And why not,” she asked, a little annoyed to be interrupted in mid-peroration.

“Because of the camera. If, as you suggest, Jack decided to kill his father in my office only about half an hour before he did it, how come the camera was knocked out about two hours before? That suggests much more advanced thought.”

“No, it doesn’t,” she said. “I’ll deal with that later. You’ll see. Anyone else have any points they want clearing up?”

Silence.

“Good. Where was I?”

“You’ve just shot Moresby,” Argyll prompted.

“Yes. Anyway, everything else,” she resumed, “happened as the various statements said. Summoned by a call from Arthur Moresby, Barclay makes his way over to the administration block, discovers the body, rushes back to call the police and everybody stands around waiting for them to arrive, except for Langton who, considerate and caring man that he is, goes and makes his phone calls.”

This was a weak spot; Flavia knew it, and so did Jack Moresby. “Yeah, but my alibi,” he said. “Langton called and I was home. Ten minutes after the body was discovered - and the murder can only have been committed a few minutes before that. Because of that call my father made to Barclay.”

Flavia frowned at him, and so did Argyll.

“Of course,” he said. “And if your father had indeed made the phone call to Barclay, then you could not have killed him, because you couldn’t have got home in time to take Langton’s call. But he was already dead by then. You made that call. Easily done, after all. It’s not hard for children to be mistaken for parents - they often have the same accent, mannerisms and intonations. You shot your father, went home, then phoned. The records prove it. The call summoning Barclay came on an external line. Therefore it couldn’t have come from Thanet’s office. Therefore it couldn’t have been your father.”

Flavia looked at him thankfully. A concise explanation, she thought. Nicely put.

“From there on, the police go into action,” Flavia continued calmly, as though she’d been clear on this point all along. “They hear about the trust not being signed; they hear about this affair; they hear that Moresby had been told; they hear he is a vengeful man; they can assume he would not be at all happy; and eventually they find and identify the gun.

“Careful planning has given Anne Moresby and Barclay means, motive and opportunity to kill Moresby. Jack Moresby, seemingly, had none at all.

“The trouble was that it all immediately began to go wrong, because of the missing bust. When the police turn up, one of the first things they discover is the empty case. They assume, reasonably enough, that there is some link between murder and robbery, and everybody wastes a huge amount of time trying to work out what it is. The camera is knocked out too early, as Mr. Thanet noted; the bust vanishes. Query, where is Hector di Souza?”

Here again, her narrative was interrupted by a contemptuous snort from Moresby who was leaning back in his seat with a passable smile of amusement. Indeed, he looked very confident; sufficiently so to make Flavia feel uncomfortable. She would have much preferred him to be quivering with fright and offering to make a confession. Evidently he was made of sterner stuff.

“You expect anyone to believe this garbage? You’re planning to take this to a jury?”

She gave him as nasty a look as she could manage, and tried to resume her story. But she was feeling rattled; this was so far an exercise in creative speculation, undertaken in the hope that something would turn up in time so that they wouldn’t be forced to let Moresby go. She, as well as anyone, was aware that the evidence so far wasn’t that good. It wouldn’t even stand in Italy, let alone in America. What was worse, Moresby clearly realised this as well.

“For reasons which need not detain us here, we have already established that the bust was not stolen, and that the appearance of a theft was a scheme by Langton to unseat Thanet and enrich himself in the process.”

This was the stage at which Langton joined Jack Moresby in scowling ferociously and sniffing contemptuously.

“It wasn’t difficult for Langton to work out what was going on. Clearly, Jack Moresby wanted police attention to focus on his stepmother, and equally obviously Hector di Souza was going to be prime suspect.”

“Very flattering,” Langton commented drily. “Although I must say I don’t see how I’m so clever if the combined resources of two police forces had such trouble.”

“Firstly,” she replied tartly, “because you knew the bust business was mere piffle. Secondly, because you were outside the museum, captured on the camera, at the time when Moresby went over to the office and when Jack Moresby must have left. Jonathan used to sit on the same lump of marble for his smoke as well. If he could see all comings and goings in the administrative block very clearly, so could you.”

“Prove it,” he said. Jack Moresby gave him an understanding smirk.

“Langton saw Jack Moresby leave the administrative block, and was smart enough to realise what was going on,” she continued doggedly. “He also knew that the existence of di Souza meant it was going to go wrong. That is to say, Hector di Souza was going to be the main suspect. It had also dawned on him that Hector knew more about this bust than he’d thought.

“What about Hector? Somehow he knows that whatever is in that case, it isn’t the bust he once owned in 1951. Old Moresby, I imagine, tells him to go back to Rome and get the proof. He has no love of di Souza but this looks like a fraud by a close associate. Hector runs back to the hotel and prepares to leave, booking himself on a two a.m. plane.

“Both Langton and Jack Moresby have a great interest in getting di Souza out of the way. Killing Hector meant that he couldn’t say what he knew about the bust and also that Anne Moresby and Barclay would again become the main suspects.”

More speculation, of course. Any lawyer would make mincemeat of it.

“In essence, I suspect the telephone conversation said either you will be arrested or di Souza will be; but certainly neither Mrs. Moresby nor Barclay will come under suspicion unless you do something fast. Will you confirm that, Mr. Langton?”

“No,” said he uncooperatively. He and Moresby exchanged comradely smiles. Flavia ploughed on.

“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.”