The Bernini Bust Read Online Free PDF Page B

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