The Raphael Affair Read online

  His thoughts were getting confused from the combination of fright, pain and cramps. At one stage he stopped climbing. Doing so scared him to death, but he simply couldn’t go on. He listened over the whistling, rasping sound of his breath; the soft pad of footsteps was just audible. He evidently had a lead, and his pursuer didn’t seem to be hurrying. But then, why should he? – Argyll thought with a flash of despair – it’s not as if I can get away. Perhaps he’s as out of condition as I am?

  The thought of his pursuer keeling over with a heart attack half-way up the stairs cheered him momentarily, but dissipated as he realised it was hardly likely. Whoever it was, the man with the hefty kick was not Sir Edward Byrnes – an elderly gent who, whatever the circumstances, would hardly go around kicking people in the stomach. He could just about see Byrnes knifing someone, but this sort of crawling around with wooden clubs and boots and knives didn’t really seem the man’s style.

  Argyll began climbing the stairs again. He was going slowly, but making progress. The apparent inevitability of death doesn’t mean that you will do nothing to postpone it for as long as possible. He doggedly kept on going to the top. Had circumstances been different, he could have stared at the view from the parapet for a very long time: bent double over the wall, choking as he dragged air into his much abused and protesting lungs, he saw the whole of Siena laid out like something out of a fairy-tale. A crescent moon illuminated the Campo and the jumble of medieval buildings around it. It lit up the black and white marble stripes of the cathedral tower. Twinkling lights from dozens of windows showed where the town’s inhabitants were still up and about, watching the television, drinking wine, talking with friends. A light, warm and refreshing breeze. Beautiful, safe and normal.

  But Argyll was in no mood to ponder over either the scenery or his unfortunate situation. I could shout, scream bloody murder from the rooftops, he thought. But he didn’t. No one would work out where it was coming from in time. And anyway, in the state he was in at the moment, he doubted that he could raise much more than a faint squeak.

  He turned round at the creak of the door. The man was standing, quietly and still in the doorway, evidently evaluating how best to go about things. When Argyll had seen Flavia collapsing in a bloody heap, he had initially been furious, then desperation had sent him flying up the stairs. Now all these impulses had gone, and he was just frightened.

  Knife me, push me over, or both, Argyll thought. Spoiled for choice. Probably push me over, he decided. More ambiguous.

  An arm went round his neck, pushing him back so his head rested on the parapet wall. He saw the flash of the knife in the moonlight. He was choking. He grabbed the wrist below the knife, not that it made any evident difference. The planned resistance was useless; the unplanned response was much more effective: reflex action brought his knee up between the other’s legs so fast and so sharply that the impact hurt it. To Argyll’s faint astonishment, the grip relaxed as his attacker clutched at the offended area and let out a deep, and very satisfying yelp of pain.

  But the respite was only brief. His assailant had kept hold of the knife and was still much too close. Argyll clenched his fist and hit him. He’d never hit anyone before, having led a quiet and largely withdrawn childhood in a world which disapproved of shows of temper among the young. He should have got into more fights when he was small. It was odd how small his fists felt, and how much his knuckles hurt when he punched the man in the general area of the chin. He made a few more desultory taps, then stopped. He could do no more and it didn’t seem to be much use in the long run anyway. His assailant, at least, also seemed less than happy after his brief contact with Argyll’s knee. They both paused, breathing heavily and looking at each other, eyes less than a foot apart. In the dim light, Argyll saw his face clearly for the first time, and was briefly shocked into inactivity.

  Then the knife hand swung back for the last time, and Argyll reached into his pocket for his last weapon. A pity he hadn’t thought of it before. He aimed the aerosol, and pressed the button.

  There was a scream of agony, the knife clattered to the stone flagging. Argyll was appalled. He hadn’t even considered what he’d been doing, just grabbed the one faint chance the moment it occurred to him. He backed away, and stood, dumbly, watching the torment he’d just caused.

  One hand still trying to rub the acid out of his eyes, Argyll’s assailant was scrabbling in the pocket of a heavy blue jacket.

  Oh, Christ, not a gun as well, Argyll thought. This man’s a walking bloody arsenal. It was no good even thinking of another round of fighting to try and disarm him. There was no strength left for that. With the certainty that only desperation can provide, Argyll ran forward once more and pushed with every drop of muscle-power and will-power he had left.

  Without a scream, a cry, or any noise at all, Antonio Ferraro, deputy director of the Italian National Museum, disappeared over the edge and hurtled to the ground, three hundred feet below.

  14

  Argyll sat there for twenty minutes, maybe more. He was too exhausted and in too much pain to move. The adrenaline washed out of his system, leaving a barely functioning wreck behind it. It was very quiet, now. His back resting against the parapet wall, he looked upwards, beyond the tall bell tower that rose from the middle of the Campanile, and stared at the stars. It wasn’t really appropriate but he was far too washed out to do anything else. Flavia was, at the least, badly injured and might well be lying down there with her throat cut. He had, it seemed, just killed someone who would, knowing his current run of luck, turn out to be entirely innocent of any wrong-doing. All for that stupid, useless picture. The thought made him feel ill. It would have been better if he’d never heard of bloody Mantini.

  Great. A good evening. Why can’t you do something right for once? he asked himself bitterly. That’s what comes of trying to be so clever. It’ll take a lot of explaining this time. And the police will be all over the place soon.

  They were evidently all over the place already. He heard sirens as cars drove into the Campo; shouted orders. Footsteps coming up the stairs. Oh well, he thought listlessly, here we go.

  What happened next didn’t really concern him much; he still ached and that seemed more important. He didn’t even take his eyes off the sky when a couple of people came through the door and walked over to him.

  A flashlight shone in his face, blinding him. He shut his eyes, and heard General Bottando say: ‘It’s Argyll. He’s still alive.’

  The rest of the night passed in a blur. Once Argyll realised he wasn’t going to be instantly carted off to the local lock-up, he had thrown a fit, refusing to let a doctor anywhere near him until he was told about Flavia. They said she was all right, but he refused to believe them.

  Eventually, two policemen had to carry him down so he could see for himself. It was difficult, and with much cursing, they tried to help him down the steps without letting him fall. As far as Argyll was concerned, it was well worth it. Flavia was sitting against the wall, wrapped in a blanket, her head covered with a large bandage. A small spot of red was just visible around her left temple. She was conscious, complaining of a headache, and asking for some food. There was clearly not much wrong with her. Argyll was so pleased, so relieved and so exhausted, all he could do was pat her hand and look at her. Bottando stood over them with his arms crossed and looked disapproving.

  ‘General, what about the picture, is it safe?’ Flavia asked drowsily. She had been given a sleeping draught which was nearly taking effect.

  He nodded. ‘Yup,’ he said. ‘Cut out of its frame and damaged, but still basically in one piece. It’ll be all right after a bit of work.’

  This contented her, and she fell asleep. It was the moment for Argyll to say something, but he couldn’t be bothered. It could all wait until tomorrow.

  ‘Young man, she’s fast asleep. If you would let go of her hand and stop staring like a love-sick cow, perhaps we could bandage up that arm of yours.’

  Argyll hadn�
��t even noticed, but he must have scraped his arm on the coarse, abrasive stone as he ran up the stairs. Now he did notice it and it hurt abominably. He stuck it out, and the doctor began washing and dressing it.

  ‘What happened up there, anyway? How did he fall off?’ Bottando asked.

  ‘I pushed him. But it really wasn’t my fault.’

  ‘Yes, yes, we know all that,’ Bottando said impatiently. ‘But why did you push him?’

  ‘He attacked Flavia and came after me. He was pulling a gun. It was the only thing I could think of.’

  ‘I see. And he just stood there and let you give him a shove?’ Argyll didn’t like the tone of that. Didn’t seem entirely sympathetic.

  ‘I doubt that he saw me coming.’ Argyll pulled the little aerosol tube out of his pocket. ‘I sprayed this in his face while we were fighting. It’s a cleaning solution for paintings.’

  ‘Ah. That’ll probably explain it. Needed to clean out his eyes a lot, I imagine. I sympathise with your caution, but he wasn’t pulling a gun,’ Bottando looked at him with a weak smile. ‘He didn’t have one. I’m afraid you have pushed him off a three-hundred-foot tower because he was reaching for a handkerchief.’

  The news upset him considerably, but not for long. He was also given a sleeping shot, and drifted off thinking how wonderful Flavia was. Which was generous, he thought, considering how badly she’d treated him. Like everyone else. A cruel and unjust world, when he was only trying to help.

  Both of them slept deeply and soundly, even though much of the time was spent in the back of two police cars whistling back down the autostrada to Rome. They didn’t even wake when they were lifted bodily from the cars and carried like sacks of turnips up the stairs to Flavia’s flat.

  Bottando supervised the operation, clucking over them with concern. As Flavia had only one bed, he wondered briefly where to deposit Argyll. But there was nothing for it: he conquered his prejudices and had the Englishman laid elegantly by her side, hoping she would understand it was an emergency measure and wouldn’t protest too much the next day. That accomplished, he gave instructions to the policeman who was settling into Flavia’s armchair that he was to remain until they woke, then bring them to the office as quickly as possible.

  Flavia woke first, coming out of a drugged sleep so slowly she wasn’t even aware of doing so. Argyll was curled up beside her, his hand holding on to her arm. She stroked his hair absent-mindedly, wondering where she’d put the aspirin.

  Then she remembered, began to resent his presence, stopped the display of affection and poked him violently on the arm. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

  ‘Jesus. Be careful. That’s tender.’ He woke up fast, shut his eyes again, then opened them and peered around. ‘This is your bed, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll get some coffee. Then we can work out why you’re in it.’ Flavia crawled out of bed and headed out the door to the kitchen. She came back in immediately and grabbed her dressing-gown. ‘There’s a policeman out there,’ she observed. She nodded good morning to him on her second entrance and waved him into silence when he began to explain his presence. ‘Not yet. Can’t take it.’

  She leaned heavily on the kitchen counter while she was waiting for the espresso pot to do its stuff. Her picture of the previous night’s events was hazy, but enough to realise it had been a mixed achievement. Argyll had done his bit and found the picture, which went some way to repairing the damage caused by his rather bizarre behaviour in London. Then he had gone and spoiled it by pushing someone off the parapet. She should be grateful, she supposed, but still wished he hadn’t.

  When Argyll emerged from the bedroom, he was clearly in no more rosy a mood. His arm hurt, his stomach hurt, his lungs hurt, his legs hurt. He was also brooding over his performance. All that risk, that appalling danger, and for what? She could easily be lying in a little plastic bag with a label round her toe. So could he, for that matter. And not even a Raphael, fine painter though he was, was worth that. Too fast. Rush, rush, rush. That had always been his great trouble. Not enough attention to detail.

  So they sat in companionable misery until the policeman, a veritable youth who had recently joined the force and who wasn’t sure how to proceed in these circumstances, interrupted and, following orders, tried to escort them to the office. Flavia made short work of him, and he departed on his own, carrying a message that they’d be along in an hour.

  They spent it having showers, eating breakfast, discussing the events of the night before and staring out of the window. If there had been any chance of Flavia persuading herself into a good humour, it evaporated slowly. Eventually she stood up, tipped the dirty dishes into the sink and turned to Argyll.

  ‘Can’t delay it any longer, I guess. We’d better go in and get it over with.’

  So they walked, as slowly as possible, to the office. ‘I’m not looking forward to this at all,’ Argyll commented on the way.

  ‘What are you worried about? All he can do is shout at you. Me, he’s going to fire.’ She had a point.

  ‘But I’m the one who’s lost his scholarship,’ he replied. He had a point too.

  Bottando’s greeting, though, was a pleasant surprise. ‘Come in, come in,’ he said after they had knocked tentatively on his door. ‘Good of you to come so early.’ It was a little after noon. Flavia couldn’t decide if he was being sarcastic.

  ‘I had a dreadful night last night. You shouldn’t go about worrying me like that. Can you imagine how bad I would have felt if you’d got yourselves killed? Apart from the difficulties of explaining to the minister and getting a suitable replacement for you.’

  ‘Listen, General, I’m sorry…’

  He waved her attempts aside. ‘Don’t apologise. I feel bad enough already. These things happen. Of course, it’s a pity about the business with the tower, Argyll. But I’m sure you didn’t have much choice. Dreadful mess, he made. I’m a little surprised it wasn’t you splattered all over the Campo, though. He was much bigger than you.’

  Argyll confessed that he was equally surprised.

  ‘Ah, well. I don’t suppose it will make any difference in the long run. How are you both? Feeling better yet?’

  Flavia said they were. Bottando seemed in a remarkably jolly mood. But then he didn’t know everything yet.

  ‘Good,’ he continued, blithely unaware of the depressed state of his assistant. ‘I’m glad to hear it. In that case you can come along with me while I make my report to the director. I’ve given him a potted report, but he wants details. I fear he’s not at all happy about Ferraro – the death rate in the museum is a little high, these days. Still, that’s his problem.’

  As he led the way to his official police car and they all three squeezed in the back, Argyll was feeling uneasy.

  ‘Are you sure you want me to come along? After all, I can’t see Tommaso exactly welcoming me with open arms…’

  ‘Probably not,’ Bottando replied. ‘No, indeed. You’re responsible for nearly all his troubles, I suppose. If you hadn’t leapt to the wrong conclusion to start off with, none of this would have happened. But don’t worry. I’ll protect you.’

  Driving up the Corso to the museum the conversation became muted, apart from Bottando muttering to himself: ‘Another Raphael, dio mio! A fine achievement…’

  ‘Thank you…’ began Argyll.

  Bottando held up his hand. ‘Please don’t. We can celebrate later. It’s the grand picture we must concentrate on at the moment.’

  For the rest of the journey through the clogged streets of Rome he kept quiet, but Flavia could see in the reflection from the window that he would smile occasionally as he looked absently at the people in the streets. ‘General, what about Ferraro?’ she asked. ‘I mean, I don’t understand how he did it.’

  Bottando patted her in a fatherly sort of way. ‘Too much running around, not enough thought, that’s the trouble with you young things. I shall tell you when we see the director.’

  At the museum, t
he driver opened the rear door to let them out and saluted as they walked up the wide steps to the entrance. Then they strode quickly through the galleries, up some back stairs into the office leading to the director’s studio.

  ‘I’m afraid you can’t see the director. He’s busy.’

  Bottando searched out his most ferocious expression and put it on. ‘Nonsense, woman,’ he told the secretary. ‘Of course he wants to see me.’

  ‘But he’s in a very important meeting…’ she protested as he brushed past and opened the door.

  Even someone like Argyll – who was not normally particularly perceptive over matters like the finer nuances of atmosphere – could tell that the mood in the room was not especially happy. Tense, in fact. Which was not surprising, really, as the only occupants, sitting in silence round an unlit coal fire, were the director, Enrico Spello and Sir Edward Byrnes. Clearly, their entry did not interrupt a lively conversation.

  ‘Gentlemen. Good morning. I’m so glad you’re all here enjoying yourselves.’ Bottando rubbed his hands together, his cheerfulness not even dented by the less than amicable air in the room. With exaggerated punctiliousness he introduced everyone, even though they had all met before. He sat down and beamed at the assembled group.

  ‘Well, director, there are many details to go through. First, as you know, the museum now has a replacement Raphael, and we can officially call the first one a fake.’

  Tommaso nodded. ‘That is a consolation. A shocking business all round. Ferraro of all people.’ He shook his head in a gesture which seemed more sorrowful than angry.

  ‘Indeed. A distressing affair. As is the other transaction I have to perform.’

  ‘Which is?’ Tommaso enquired.

  Bottando fished around in his pocket and drew out a piece of paper, glancing around at the other five people in the room as he did so. ‘It’s just a little arrest warrant,’ he began in an apologetic tone of voice, clearly enjoying himself. He coughed to clear his throat so as not to stumble as he read out the legal phrasing. He always liked to get these little ceremonies right.