You can always hang it in a corridor, he suggested.
Muller shook his head.
You make me a bit sorry I didnt allow it to get stolen, he went on cheerfully. Then you could have claimed on insurance and got your money back.
What do you mean?
Argyll explained. As I say, if Id known you didnt want it, Id have told him to take the thing away and welcome to it.
Somehow his attempts to cheer Muller up didnt work. The idea of such an easy solution having been missed made him even more introspective.
I didnt realize such a thing might happen, he said. Then, jerking himself out of the mood, he went on: Im afraid Ive put you to a great deal of trouble for nothing. So I feel awkward about asking you for something else. But would you be prepared to take it off my hands? Sell it for me? Im afraid I couldnt stand having this in the house.
Argyll gave a variety of facial contortions to indicate the dire state of the market at the moment. It all depended on how much hed bought it for. And how much he wanted to sell it for. Privately he was thinking dark thoughts to himself about people with too much money.
Muller said it had been ten thousand dollars, plus various commissions. But hed be prepared to take less. As a penalty for buying things sight unseen. Think of it as a stupidity tax, he said with a faint smile, an acknowledgement which made Argyll warm to him once more.
So a mild spot of negotiation ensued which ended with Argyll agreeing to put the picture in an auction for him, and seeing if he could get a better price elsewhere before the sale took place. He left with the brown paper package under his arm once more, and a decent cheque in his pocket for services rendered.
After that he spent the rest of the morning cashing the cheque, then went on to the auction house to hand over the painting for valuation and entry into the next months sale.
3
It was no good, Flavia thought to herself as she surveyed the debris all around her. Something will have to be done about this and soon. She had arrived late at her office in Romes Art Theft Department and, after an hour, had achieved nothing.
It was September, for heavens sake. Not August, when she expected everyone in Rome to be on holiday. Nor was one of the local football teams playing at home. She herself was rarely to be seen when Roma or Lazio were playing. What was the point? All Italian government came to an abrupt halt when an important match was on. Even the thieves stopped work for a really big one.
But today there were no excuses, and it was still impossible to get hold of anyone. Shed phoned the Interior Ministry with an important message only to be told that every secretary, under-secretary, deputy under-secretary, everyone, in fact, from minister to floor-sweeper, was busy. And what was the excuse? Some foreign delegation in town for a beano at the public expense. Top-level meetings. International accords. Mutterings of civil servants and lawyers in dark corners on legal and financial regulations and how to get round stipulations from Brussels. How to obey the letter, and disregard the meaning. All over the continent, similar meetings were taking place. Thats what unity is all about. Fiddlesticks. No wonder the country was going to the dogs.
And shed arrived feeling enthusiastic for once, despite the lack of anything really interesting to do. Argyll had recovered from his excursion to Paris, more or less, and at last had something to occupy himself. His client had said yesterday he didnt want the picture and, as he was getting 10 per cent of the sale price on commission, hed decided to waste today seeing what he could find out about it. Some notion about trying to up its value a little. Hed come back fired with enthusiasm from at last having a task to undertake and had scuttled off first thing to the library.
She sympathized with his efforts to find himself something to do; she was in much the same position herself. Not only was the art market in a bit of a slump; the drop in prices had triggered a knock-on effect in the world of crime as well. Or maybe all reputable art thieves had bought package tours for Czechoslovakia, the one place in Europe now where it was even easier to steal art than Italy. Only the second-rankers were still in the country, it seemed. There were the usual break-ins, and all that; but it was petty-crime stuff for the most part. Nothing to get your teeth into.
And what did that leave? Filing, as Argyll had so maliciously suggested. In her own little room she could see several dozen miscellaneous files lying around on the floor. Her boss, General Bottando, had several dozen more in various states of disarray. And across the corridor, in the rabbit-warren of little rooms occupied by the other members of staff, probably about half the contents of what was laughingly known as their archives were being used to rest coffee-cups on, prop up desks and as improvised floor-coverings.
Organization and tidiness were not her strong points, normally, and she was quite prepared to admit that she was as bad as anyone else in the building except for Bottando, but he was in charge so could do as he liked at putting things away. But every now and then some faint echo of house-proud zeal would rumble in her deepest subconscious and she would develop, enthusiastically if only temporarily, a passion for method and order. Perhaps Jonathan was right, she said to herself reluctantly. Maybe I should do something about this place.
So she picked all the files off the floor and stacked them on her desk, and found underneath one of them a small pile of forms requiring Bottandos immediate signature three weeks ago. No time like the present, she thought; so, both to get this little matter seen to and to inform her boss that all pursuit of the criminal element of society would cease until the files were put into order, she marched briskly and with an air of purposeful efficiency up the stairs to Bottandos room.
Ah, Flavia, said Bottando as she marched in, omitting to knock as usual. That was all right; she never did manage to remember, and Bottando was used to it. Some people stand on their dignity. Many a senior Polizia man would produce a freezing look and remind himself and his subordinates that this was a general here who should have his door knocked on politely. But not Bottando. It wasnt in his nature. Nor was it in Flavias, more to the point.
Morning, General, she said cheerfully. Sign here, please.
He did as he was told.
Dont you want to know what it is youve signed? It could have been anything. You should be more careful.
I trust you, my dear, he said, looking at her a little anxiously.
What is it? she asked. Youve got that look on your face.
A little job, he said.
Oh, good.
Oh, good.
Yes. A murder. Peculiar thing, apparently. But we may have to stake out a minor interest in it. The Carabinieri phoned up twenty minutes ago, asking if we could send someone down.
Ill go, she said. She didnt like murder at all, but beggars cant be choosers these days. Anything to get out of the office.
Youll have to. Theres no one else around. But I dont think youll like it.
She eyed him carefully. Here it comes, she thought. Why not?
Giulio Fabrianos been promoted to homicide, Bottando said simply, an apologetic look on his face.
Oh, no, she wailed. Not him again. Cant you send someone else?
Bottando sympathized. She and Fabriano had been very close at one stage. A bit too close for Flavias liking, and their friendship had degenerated into squabbles, fights and general dislike several years back. Shortly before Argyll had appeared on the scene, in fact. In ordinary circumstances, she wouldnt have had much to do with him, but he was in the rival Carabinieri doing surprisingly well, considering his relatively limited intelligence, but then there wasnt a great deal of competition in the Carabinieri and had developed the habit over the past few years of ringing her up every time he was on a case which had even the most tenuous connection with art. For example, a man has his car stolen. He once bought a picture, so Fabriano would ring to see if there was a file on him. Anything would do. He was tenacious, our Fabriano. The trouble was he also had a quite extraordinarily high opinion of himself and, as Flavia continued to keep her distance, and indeed had taken up with a ridiculous Englishman, his tone had turned decidedly hostile. Cutting remarks. Sneering comments to colleagues. Not that Flavia particularly cared or couldnt deal with it. She just preferred not to, if possible.
Im sorry, my dear, Bottando went on, with genuine regret, But there really is no one else here. Im sure I dont know what theyre all doing, but still...
In a toss-up between Fabriano and filing, Flavia was unsure which was the worse option. On the whole, she reckoned Fabriano was. The man just couldnt stop himself from trying to demonstrate what a prize shed let slip through her fingers when theyd broken up. But it seemed Bottando wasnt going to give her any choice.
You really want me to go?
I do. But I dont imagine it will detain you overlong. Try and get back here as quickly as possible.
Dont worry, she said gloomily.
It took about forty minutes before it dawned on her that Fabrianos murder victim was the very same man that Argyll had been talking about the previous evening. To give her credit, thirty minutes of that delay was spent in a traffic jam trying to make her way out of the centre. Most of the remaining ten minutes was spent looking around aghast at the apartment. There was scarcely a book left on the shelves; all had been pulled off, many ripped apart then dumped in the centre of the little sitting-room. All the papers in the filing cabinets had similarly been removed and thrown on the floor; the furniture had been ripped, and the cushions cut up. Every picture had been pulled off the wall and slashed to pieces.
Hold everything, said Fabriano with fake amusement as she walked in. Signora Sherlocks here. Tell me quickly. Who did it?
She gave him a frosty look and ignored the remark. Jesus, she said, looking around at the chaos. Someone did a good job here.
Dont you know who? he said.
Shut up, Giulio. Lets keep this professional, shall we?
I stand corrected, he said, standing in the corner of the room and leaning against the wall. Professionally speaking, I dont know. Must have taken several hours, wouldnt you say? To make a mess like this, I mean. We can rule out simple vandalism, dont you think?