The Bernini Bust

Thanet explained that their enormously complicated alarm system included concealed cameras in every room of the museum. Although the administrative block was less well endowed, it was still a bit like a maximum security prison. So they trooped off to the central security office, a room on the third floor crammed with enough electronic equipment to equip a small film studio. While they were eyeing it up and wondering where to start, a tall, balding man in his late thirties came in, radiating nervous excitement.

‘Who are you?’ said Morelli.

The man introduced himself as Robert Streeter, chief security executive, and his curiosity turned to alarm when he was brusquely told that his much vaunted system, responsible both for museum security and his salary, had not so far impressed the police.

‘To put it another way,’ the detective informed him, ‘it was a dead loss. If that man Barclay hadn’t discovered the body, no one would have known anything had happened until a hell of a lot later. What good is that?’

Streeter was also concerned, perhaps even more so than was the detective. After all, his job could depend on this. He had been brought in originally as a consultant when the museum was expanding, to give advice about how to protect the collections. However, as he had discovered, consultancy work was merely an elaborate way of being unemployed, and Streeter’s income had been somewhat erratic at the time. So, spotting his opportunity, he went for it. His report was disdainful, if not devastating. The place was, he concluded, about as secure as the average doll’s house. Not only did he set out a bewildering array of electronic necessities, he accompanied the report with elaborately printed flow diagrams of responsibility structures and integrated fast-response networks to demonstrate how, in the event of a break-in, the felony could be interdicted and the threat neutralised.

It was all Greek to the museum staff, who accordingly concluded that an integrated fast-response network was an absolute must for anyone who wanted to be on the cutting edge of the museum business. Besides, the man was recommended by Moresby. A college friend of his wife’s or something. So they did the only thing possible, that is, set aside a vast budget, created a new security department and gave Streeter the job of presiding over both. Who began by using the entire allotment to hire secretaries, administrative assistants and liaison personnel in order to lobby for more money. He now had a staff of twelve, another six to patrol the museum, enough electronic gadgetry to make the CIA jealous and was beginning to insist on having the final say on where pictures were hung. In the interests of security. He had even restarted his consultancy business on a sounder footing, and travelled the country giving lectures on ‘Museum security in the modern age’ for hefty fees. It also meant he had less time to spend in Los Angeles, so he was currently bidding for a deputy to take care of day-to-day operations.

Some people didn’t approve of what they considered Streeter’s imperial tendencies, and Thanet, sensing the growth of an alternative source of power to his own, was one of them. There was no need at all, he suggested, for either Streeter or the vast bureaucracy he had conjured into being. Streeter, not surprisingly, had disagreed quite strongly with this view, and the two men had been at loggerheads ever since. Clearly, a showdown was now in the offing. Recent events would either demonstrate the utter uselessness of all the security systems (victory for Thanet), or indicate the need to work even harder to turn the museum into a cross between Stalag Luft VI and an electronics factory (victory for Streeter). Or, of course, the museum could collapse entirely, and both would find themselves on the breadline.

Going instantly on the offensive, the security man took a perverse pleasure in pointing out that, in fact, he didn’t really have quite the equipment he had wanted.

‘I did indicate at the time the dangers of cutting corners on security. For optimum coverage…’

‘Please. That’s not what we’re here for,’ Morelli said, rubbing an inflamed gum and too tired to get involved in domestic squabbles. ‘Why don’t you just show us what you’ve got, not what you wanted.’

Not before the guided tour. As Streeter set it all out, each room in the museum was covered by a camera system whose lenses swept across a minimum of eighty-two per cent of the area every minute. Equally, they could be automatically directed to particular spots when pressure pads were activated or light-beams cut. The entrycard system automatically logged the entry and exit of everybody employed by the museum, correlated their personal codes to the telephone system so the administration knew where and when they were dialling. More sensors picked up the cards as people moved from room to room, permitting a read-out of their movements. Finally, microphones in every gallery could pick up conversations, in case any visitors were planning a break-in. And, naturally, all the rooms were fitted with smoke detectors, metal detectors and explosives sniffers.

‘Christ,’ said a surprised Morelli as this explanation finally came to an end. ‘You’re all ready for Doomsday here. You seem more intent on watching the staff than anything else.’

‘You may sneer,’ said Streeter, affronted. ‘But because many of my recommendations were ignored, our employer has been murdered. And now my system is going to tell you who did it.’

Even Thanet thought that Streeter’s voice lacked its normal conviction as he said this, but Morelli paid no attention, being too busy watching the man manipulate an extraordinary system of controls on the central console. ‘Naturally, the administrative block is less comprehensively covered, but we have adequate visual coverage. I’ve directed the image outputting to this VDU unit,’ he said, pointing a finger.

‘He means the picture will be on that television screen,’ Thanet explained helpfully. Streeter glared at him, then turned disdainfully to watch the screen. It remained resolutely blank.

‘Ah,’ he said.

Director and detective looked at him inquisitively as he rushed over to his console again and began scanning buttons and levers.

‘Damn,’ he added.

‘Don’t tell me, let me guess. You forgot to put a film in?’

‘Certainly not,’ Streeter said, manipulating wildly. ‘It doesn’t use film. A visual recording node seems to have malfunctioned.’

‘Camera’s bust,’ Thanet said in a loud stage-whisper.

Streeter rolled back a video, explaining as he did so that the image should come from a camera in the corridor leading to Thanet’s office. Still nothing. Careful checks revealed that it had stopped working at a little after 8.30 p.m. Subsequent investigation revealed that the cause of the problem was nothing more hi-tech than a pâté sandwich stuck over the lens.

Morelli, who had a deep-seated distrust of all gadgetry, was not in the slightest bit surprised. He would have been much more amazed – pleasantly, admittedly – had the video shown some miscreant trotting down the staircase wiping bloodstained hands on his handkerchief. Fifteen years in the police, however, had taught him that life is rarely so kind. Fortunately, there was always good old-fashioned police procedure to fall back on.

‘Who did it?’ he asked Thanet, who looked taken aback by the question.

‘I’ve not the faintest idea,’ the director said after a moment to gather his thoughts.

‘What happened, then?’

‘I don’t know.’

Morelli paused, standard procedural techniques having proven less than immediately effective, and thought a moment.

‘Tell me what happened when the body was discovered,’ he said, thinking this might be a good place to start.

Thanet, with the occasional interruption from Streeter, gave his account. Moresby had arrived at the party, circulated awhile, then was approached by Hector di Souza, who insisted on talking to him.

Streeter put in that di Souza seemed agitated and had insisted on privacy.

‘What were his exact words?’

‘Ah, now, there you’ve got me. Ah, he marched up to Mr Moresby, and said something like “I understand you’ve got your Bernini.” Then Mr Moresby nodded and said, “At last,” and di Souza said was he sure? And Moresby said he – di Souza, that is – was going to have to do a lot of explaining.’

‘Explaining about what?’

Streeter shrugged, closely followed by Thanet. ‘No idea,’ he said. ‘I’m just telling you what I heard.’

‘Time?’

‘I’m not entirely certain. Shortly after nine, I’d guess.’

Morelli turned to Thanet. ‘Do you know what it might have been about?’

Thanet shook his head. ‘No idea. I had words with di Souza earlier myself. He was upset about the bust, but wouldn’t tell me why. Just said he urgently wanted to talk privately to Moresby about it. Maybe there was some dispute over the price.’

‘An odd time to start having second thoughts.’

Thanet shrugged. No accounting for art dealers.

‘You didn’t by any chance have a microphone in the director’s office, did you?’ Morelli asked.

Streeter looked thunderstruck for a moment, then switched to being outraged. ‘No,’ he said shortly. ‘I did once suggest that office space be monitored more closely, but Mr Thanet here said he’d take me to the Supreme Court if necessary to stop me.’

‘A monstrous, unconstitutional and illegal idea,’ Thanet huffed. ‘How anyone can so lose sight of basic civilised…’

‘Oh, shut up, both of you,’ Morelli said. ‘I’m not interested. Can’t you keep your minds on the fact that Arthur Moresby has been murdered?’

As they clearly couldn’t, he told them he’d take statements properly later, and got a junior officer to usher them out. Then, taking several deep breaths to calm himself down, he ran his fingers through his hair and began to organise his investigation. Press to be talked to, names to be taken, statements to gather, bodies to be moved, someone to go round immediately and find di Souza. Hours of work stretched before him. And he couldn’t really face it. So, instead he settled down and watched the video of the party, to see if that produced any real leads.

It didn’t help him, nor did it greatly illuminate more professional analysts who looked it over later. The multiple interaction patterning, as the experts termed it, concluded that Thanet was having an affair with his secretary; that no less than twenty-seven per cent of the guests departed with at least one piece of museum cutlery in their pockets; that Jack Moresby drank too much, that David Barclay, the lawyer, and Hector di Souza, the art dealer, both spent extraordinary amounts of time looking at themselves in mirrors and that Jonathan Argyll was a bit lost and ill at ease most of the evening. They also noted that Mrs Moresby arrived with David Barclay, and didn’t speak to her husband once all the time he was there. Finally, they saw with disappointment that the pâté sandwiches were singularly popular, although no one was seen secreting one about his person for unorthodox purposes.

They also watched Moresby talking to di Souza and leaving the party with the Spaniard at 9.07 p.m. and later on saw Barclay be summoned to the phone, talk into it, and walk out of the building at 9.58 p.m. The body was discovered moments later and Barclay came back to phone the police at 10.06 p.m. After that, everyone hung around and waited, with the exception of Langton who could be seen on the phone at 10.11 and again at 10.16. Simple enough, he explained later, he was phoning Jack Moresby and then Anne Moresby to inform them of the disaster. He was, it seemed, the only person who even thought of telling them. All the rest were too busy panicking.

Apart from that, they came up with a list of people who, at various stages of the evening, conversed with Moresby. Surprisingly enough there weren’t all that many; almost everybody greeted him in one way or another, but he responded in such a frigid manner that few had sufficient courage to pursue the dialogue further. The party may have been thrown in his honour, but Arthur Moresby did not look as though he was in a party mood.

To put it another way, dozens of expert man-hours and all the techniques of advanced social-scientific investigation devoted to analysing the tape produced no useful information whatsoever. And Morelli had known they wouldn’t, all along.