The Bernini Bust

That, of course, was Hector all over. Stick him at the North Pole and he’d act as though he owned the place. Argyll tried to think of a suitably cutting reply, but inspiration failed him, as usual. So he yawned, leant over and stubbed out his cigarette in an inconspicuous corner of the marble.

Fortunately di Souza neither wanted nor waited for a reply. Instead, he resumed his gaze around the landscape, looking with right eyebrow delicately raised to indicate a somewhat contemptuous disapproval of American urbanism. Eventually his eye came to rest on the museum itself, and he sniffed loudly in a fashion that was utterly damning.

‘This is a museum?’ he asked, squinting at the bland and anonymous building behind Argyll’s left shoulder.

‘For the time being. They plan to build a bigger one.’

‘Tell me, dear boy, is it as bad as they say?’

Argyll shrugged. ‘Depends what you mean. By bad, that is. The truly disinterested might say it’s full of tat. But as it’s just shelled out a large amount of money for one of my pictures, I am honourbound to defend it. But I think they could have spent the money better.’

‘They just have, my dear, they just have,’ he said with quite unbearable self-satisfaction. ‘Twelve of the finest pieces of Graeco-Roman sculpture on the market.’

‘Provided by yourself, I suppose? How old are they? Fifty years? Or did you have them carved to order?’

Argyll’s sarcasm was perhaps a little heavy-handed, but to his mind it was perfectly excusable. If not one of the biggest rogues prowling the Roman art market, di Souza was at least one of the more consistent. Not that people didn’t like him; far from it. Admittedly, some had trouble with the way he would come over all a-quiver at the very sight of an aristocrat; others found his baroque gallantry with women (the richer the better) annoying. But, on the whole, once you got used to the arrogance, the affected accent and his uncanny inability to find his wallet whenever a bill for a meal arrived, he was quite good company. If you like that sort of thing.

The only trouble was he could never resist the opportunity to make money, and a naïve and inexperienced Argyll had once come into his sights. Not serious, really; a little matter of an Etruscan figurine (fifth-century BC) cast in bronze a matter of weeks before Argyll was persuaded to buy it. It is difficult to forgive that sort of thing. Di Souza had taken it back – more than he had ever done for a real client – and apologised, and taken him out for a meal in recompense, but Argyll still nursed a certain grievance over the affair. The man had, after all, forgotten his wallet that time as well.

Hence his scepticism, and di Souza’s wish to brush the matter aside.

‘Selling things to you is one thing; selling things to old man Moresby is another,’ he said airily. ‘I’ve been trying to catch him for decades. Now I have, I don’t want to lose him again. The stuff I’ve sent here is perfectly genuine. And I’d much prefer it if you didn’t start casting aspersions on my integrity. Especially considering the favour I’ve done you.’

Argyll regarded him sceptically. ‘And what favour is that?’

‘You got that Titian off your hands at last, didn’t you? Well, you’ve me to thank. That man Langton asked about you, and I gave you a marvellous write-up. Of course, a recommendation from myself carries considerable weight in the more knowledgeable quarters. I told him your Titian was superb, that you were a man of great integrity. And here you are,’ di Souza concluded with a broad sweep of the cane around the landscape which implied strongly that he had personally called it into being.

Privately, Argyll considered that a recommendation from di Souza was no great favour, but let it pass. At least it partly cleared up the point of how Langton had come to him. He’d wondered about that.

‘So,’ di Souza went on, ‘your career in Italy is now on a much more secure footing. You may thank me later.’

Certainly not, Argyll thought. Besides, it looked like his career in Italy was drawing to a close, and he rather resented di Souza for reminding him.

How could he refuse Byrnes’ offer? The art market hadn’t collapsed entirely, but it was shaky round the edges and even a well-established figure like Byrnes was having to draw in his horns. He needed his best personnel on hand to advise him, so someone, either Argyll or his opposite number in Vienna, was going to be summoned back to London. The sale of the Titian made him choose Argyll. It was a gratifying show of confidence.

But – and it was a big but – to leave Italy? Go back to England? The very idea made him miserable.

The same thoughts again. Di Souza’s garrulousness was proving useful for the first time in their acquaintance, taking his mind off matters.

‘It’s a fairly new place, isn’t it?’ he was saying, impervious to Argyll’s inattention. ‘Can’t say I’m all that impressed.’

‘Nor is anyone else. That’s the trouble. Arthur Moresby spent so much money and this is all he gets for it.’

‘Poor man,’ said di Souza sympathetically.

‘Indeed. I’m sure it must be terrible. So now they think it’s not grand enough to stand comparison with the Getty. They’re on the brink of an all-out construction war. You know the Getty Museum is a replica of the Villa dei Papyri at Herculaneum?’

Di Souza nodded.

‘This lot are thinking of building a full-size copy of Diocletian’s Palace at Split. About the size of the Pentagon, as far as I can see, but more expensive. According to rumour, you’ll be able to put the entire Louvre in the thing, and still have enough room left to throw the Olympic Games.’

Di Souza rubbed his hands together. ‘And they’ll have to fill it, dear boy. How splendid! I got here just in the nick of time. When do they start building?’

Argyll tried to dampen his enthusiasm. ‘Don’t get too keen. I gather they’ve got to get Moresby to sign on the dotted line. And he’s not someone who’s used to being hurried along. Still, you may meet the architect. He wanders around with a fanatical look in his eye all the time, muttering to himself. He’s a sort of guru of what he terms the post-modern return to classical tradition. His roofs leak. Awful charlatan.’

Argyll had by this time reconciled himself to di Souza’s company, and they walked over the lawn together so that the Spaniard could present himself to the appropriate authority. He was still plainly irritated that there had been no one to meet him at the airport.

‘What about these priceless objects of yours?’ Argyll asked as they ignored the whistles and shouts of a guardian telling them to get off the grass. ‘Where are they?’

‘Oh, at the airport. They arrived a couple of days ago, I gather. But you know what customs people are like. Same the world over. It’s all on account of the other pieces I brought over.’

‘What other pieces?’

‘Langton’s. He’s been buying stuff all over the place. Nothing important, I gather, but he wanted to get some of it back here. So he asked me to arrange shipment for him. Another healthy fee, and a satisfied customer. One should always be happy to oblige a man with access to so much money, don’t you think?’

Still in an effusive mood, Hector babbled on, hopping from topic to topic with the agility of a mountain goat. He burbled away about his important clients – all nonsense as Argyll knew; Hector’s career had always been more style than substance – and eventually broke off to point at a small figure emerging from the office block and heading in their direction. ‘So this place is inhabited, after all,’ he said. ‘Who’s that odd little man over there?’

‘That’s the museum director. Samuel Thanet. Pleasant enough, but the anxious type. Hello, Mr Thanet,’ he continued, switching to English as the man came into earshot. ‘How are you? Enjoying life?’ It is always a good idea to be nice to museum directors, especially if they command an acquisitions budget bigger than all of Italy’s museums rolled together. In this, at least, he and di Souza had a common outlook.

In making the characterisation Argyll was accurate, but a little unfair. If Samuel Thanet looked worried, it was mainly because he had a great deal to be worried about. It is not easy being in charge of a museum, but when it is owned and run in an almost medieval fashion by a man used to having his every whim treated like a heavenly command, life can become well nigh intolerable.

Not that Thanet bore any resemblance to the archetypal laid-back Californian even on his days off. Instead of the tall, lean, sun-tanned, jogging type the outside world is convinced lives in the area, Thanet was short, overweight, much given to highly formal clothes and was restrained to the point of neurosis. He was not one to waste energy on tennis or surfing; such as he had was divided equally between worrying and an almost fanatical devotion to his museum.

For which latter occupation he needed money, and for that he needed to be appallingly sycophantic to the museum’s patron and owner. There is nothing unusual about this; all museum directors have to be sycophantic to someone, be it patrons, donors or boards of governors. It’s part of the job; some might say the most important part. And everybody else in the museum has to be sycophantic to the director. By the time you make it to the top, you are well practised in the art.

Even for the practised courtier, however, Arthur M. Moresby II was a bit of a handful. It wasn’t just a question of telling him how wonderful he was; he knew that already. It was a given, like the sun rising, or the income tax form arriving. Rather, Moresby had whims. For a start, he was a businessman, and liked reality to be presented in terms of development concepts and budgeting proposals. Next he liked those around him to be lean, mean and hungry. And however ambitious Thanet might be for his museum, he was far from lean, could occasionally be mean, but was utterly hopeless at appearing hungry. It made him nervous, and the prospect of an encounter with the great man turned him into a chronic insomniac for weeks ahead.

‘I’m afraid I’m having to deal with several crises simultaneously at the moment,’ he said in reply to the question, sneezed loudly, and whipped out a handkerchief too late. He blew his nose and looked apologetic. Allergies, he said. Martyr to them.

‘Really? I haven’t noticed any crises. By the way, may I introduce Señor di Souza? He’s arrived with your new sculptures.’

The comment, innocent enough, clearly added another crisis to Thanet’s mental checklist. His brow furrowed mightily and he eyed di Souza with considerable alarm.

‘What new sculptures?’ he said.

This was more than di Souza’s ego could bear. Being ostentatiously ignored was one thing; at least that indicated people knew you were around. But to have Thanet appear genuinely oblivious of his existence was too much. In a clipped and stern voice, marred only by his limited English vocabulary, he explained his presence. Thanet looked even more irritated, although it appeared to be the content of the message, not the style of its delivery, which alarmed him.

‘That infernal man Langton again. He really has no right to cut across established procedures like this,’ he muttered.

‘You must have known I was coming…’ di Souza began, but Thanet cut him off.

‘What, exactly, have you brought with you?’ he demanded.

‘Three cases of Roman sculpture, provided by myself, and one case brought for Mr Langton.’

‘And what’s in that?’

‘I’ve no idea. Don’t you know?’