The Titian Committee Page 3

  She looked intently, more out of a wish to seem professional than because she wanted to study them. Merely glancing at them seemed almost an invasion of the woman’s privacy.

  Even dead, she could see that Masterson had been a fairly striking woman. A well-formed face, make-up smudged. The clothes, dishevelled and bloodstained, were evidently of high quality and, to her eyes, a little conservative and severe. A close-up photograph of her hand showed that it was curled round a bunch of flowers, obviously grabbed hold of as she died. There was something else Flavia couldn’t make out.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘A lily,’ Bovolo said.

  ‘Not the flower. This.’ She pointed to it.

  ‘Crucifix,’ Bovolo said. ‘Gold. With a silver chain.’

  ‘That must be fairly valuable,’ she said. ‘I would have thought any robber would have taken it.’

  Bovolo shrugged noncommittally. ‘Maybe, maybe not. She probably fought for it, that prompted him to kill her, he panicked and ran away. Or perhaps he really only wanted cash. It’s safer, after all.’

  ‘What was in her case?’

  ‘Professional papers, wallet, passport, that sort of thing, as far as we can work out.’ He handed over another list and a few xeroxes.

  Flavia thought for a few seconds. She was very keen on instant impressions, mercurial guesses which always made Bottando adopt his long-suffering expression. He liked routine, and had tried over the years to convince her of its merits. Fair enough; he was a policeman and such procedure part of his job. She wasn’t, and preferred imagination – which was as often right as Bottando’s reliance on drudgery. Still, might as well show her devotion to method.

  ‘No footprints, nothing like that?’

  ‘It is a public garden,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Tourists tramp through all the time, treat the place like a dustbin. The shoreline was absolutely disgusting. Do you know how many empty cans and half eaten sandwiches my men had to collect?’

  The last thing she wanted was to hear a long lecture on the nasty habits of tourists. Apart from the fact that Bovolo would probably want to ban all foreigners from the city, she lived in Rome and knew about the problem already.

  ‘I just thought that if she’d been dragged into a greenhouse there would have been some prints nearby.’

  ‘Well, there weren’t. Not recent ones anyway. Very dry summer, hard ground. Hasn’t rained for weeks. With a bit of luck it may any day now; we certainly need it. Of course, you can use up your time looking for yourself, if you think you can do a better job than our technical experts who have spent years examining this sort of thing…’

  Flavia nodded in a way that hinted she might just do that. Not that she would, but it clearly irritated Bovolo, so was worth it.

  There wasn’t much to wrap her imagination around, it had to be said. But the photos of the woman interested her strangely. How much can you tell from photographs? Not much, admittedly, but Masterson looked as though she might have been a bit complicated. She dressed in a hard, no-nonsense style that Americans often prefer; there was none of the femininity that an Italian in her position might have manifested. Her face, also, had a determined edge to it. But there was an ambiguity there. Underneath was something softer, especially around the eyes, which contradicted the firm set of the mouth. Masterson gave the impression of someone trying to be more ruthless than was natural. She might have been quite pleasant had you managed to get through to her.

  Flavia smiled, thinking how Bottando would have sniffed at this exposition, built as it was on nothing whatsoever. One glance at Bovolo was enough to convince her that he was a member of the same school of policework.

  ‘You’ve worked out the whereabouts of all her colleagues, I imagine?’ she asked.

  Bovolo again reacted as though he didn’t know whether she was being sweet or sarcastic, but suspected the worst. ‘Of course,’ he said primly, producing yet another sheaf of papers. He put his spectacles on the end of his nose and looked at the documents carefully, just in case they’d changed in the past five minutes.

  ‘All perfectly reasonable accounts of themselves. And before you ask, we have also checked the clothes in their rooms and not found a single stain, bloody dagger or diary containing a full confession. Professor Roberts and Dr Kollmar cancel each other out, as they were at the opera together. Dr Van Heteren was at dinner with friends near the railway station. Dr Lorenzo was at home, with servants and friends to testify to it. All of those four are staying on the main island, not at the foundation. That leaves Dr Miller.’

  ‘Tell me about him, then. I take it he had no witnesses?’

  Bovolo nodded. ‘Yes. For a moment we also had high hopes there. However, he was on the island with no way of getting off it, because of the strike. He went into the kitchen just after ten to ask for some mineral water to wash down a sleeping pill, drank it down while talking to some of the staff, and went straight off to bed.’

  ‘But he is still the only one who has no one else to vouch for him at the time of the murder?’

  ‘True. But the gate keeper is prepared to swear no one left or arrived after about six o’clock. If he was on the island at ten, he was on it at nine. And in that case, he didn’t kill this woman. Besides, all of them are most distinguished people with no possible motive. It was a very harmonious and scholarly operation, not a branch of the Mafia.’

  Flavia nodded thoughtfully. ‘So, having eliminated all her colleagues, you decide on a lone marauder.’

  Bovolo nodded. ‘And we’ll stick with it, unless you have something else to suggest,’ he said with a don’t-you-dare expression on his face.

  ‘And what’s that?’ she asked, gesturing briefly at another envelope.

  ‘This? Just her mail. Delivered to her room this morning and we picked it up. We thought it might have been important, but it isn’t. Take it if you like and check it out. All art stuff.’

  She read through them briefly. Circulars, notes from her museum, a letter from a photographic agency and a couple of bills. Uninspiring. She put them all down in the pile.

  ‘Still,’ said Flavia, not really feeling comfortable, ‘it seems odd to go to all that trouble to tear a gold crucifix off her neck and then leave it behind. Was she a Catholic, by the way?’

  Bovolo shook his head. ‘Don’t think so,’ he replied. ‘You know what these Americans are like. All religious fanatics, by the sound of them.’

  Another nation to cross off your list. Not a man with a broad appreciation of the varieties of human culture.

  ‘Take copies of these if you want,’ he said, gesturing at the police files on the case with a sudden spurt of co-operative generosity. ‘Not the photographs, obviously, but anything else. As long as you give them back and don’t show them to anyone. They are confidential, you know.’

  Why did she want all that miscellaneous debris? she wondered after she’d shaken the inspector by his clammy little hand and was walking slowly back to the Danieli. Clearly Bovolo thought them useless, or he wouldn’t have allowed her to have them. She felt a slight glimmering of interest in this murder, despite Bottando’s orders that she was not to get involved in any way. It was, perhaps, the woman’s face. There was no fright on it. It was not the face of someone who’d died in the middle of a robbery. If there was any expression at all, it was determination. And indignation. That did not fit in at all with Bovolo’s notion of a mugging somehow.

  3

  Jonathan Argyll sat in a restaurant in the Piazza Manin, trying with mixed success to disguise both his upset at the message and his distaste for the messenger. It was not easy. He felt out of his depth, as usual, and was beginning to have a sneaking feeling that nature had not really designed him to be an art dealer, try as he might to earn an honest crust at the trade. He knew very well what he was meant to do. Ear to the ground to hear gossip in the trade, research in libraries to spot opportunities, careful approach to owners with an offer that, in theory, they leapt to accept. Easy. And he c
ould do all of it pretty well, except for the last bit. Somehow the owners of pictures never seemed quite as ready to part with their possessions as the theory suggested they should be. Perhaps he just needed more practice, as his employer suggested. On good days, this is what he liked to think. On bad days, and this was one of them, he was more inclined to think it was not for him.

  ‘But Signora Pianta, why?’ he asked in an Italian flawed only by the distinct tone of weary desperation. ‘If the terms weren’t satisfactory, why on earth didn’t she say so last month?’

  The vulture-faced, mean-minded, vicious-looking old misery smiled in a tight and very unsympathetic fashion. She had a nose of quite alarming dimensions which curved round and down almost like a sabre, and he found himself increasingly fixated on the monstrous protuberance as the meal progressed and the quality of the conversation deteriorated. He had not especially noticed her singularly unappealing appearance before she demanded more money from him, but the shock had stimulated his senses. On the other hand, he had never liked dealing with her, and found the act of enforced gallantry increasingly difficult to sustain.

  Very irritating. Especially as Argyll and the old Marchesa had hit it off well. She was a feisty, cunning woman with eyes still bright in her old and lined face, a bizarre sense of humour and a very satisfactory desire to unload some pictures. All was going nicely, more or less. Then she’d fallen ill, and it evidently made her cranky. Since her side-kick – companion, she liked to call herself – had taken over, the negotiations had lurched and sputtered. Now it appeared they were going to grind to a final halt.

  ‘And I’ve already told you it is quite unnecessary. We are very experienced at this sort of thing.’

  Tiresome woman. She had spent the evening elliptically dropping bizarre hints, and eventually he had asked outright what on earth she wanted, apart from switching the deal to a percentage of the sale price rather than a lump sum. That he could deal with, although it would have been nice had she thought of it earlier.

  It was the other little detail that upset him. Smuggle the pictures out, she said. Don’t bother with export permits, official regulations and all that nonsense. Stick them in the back of the car, drive to Switzerland and sell them. Get on with it.

  It was, of course, not that unusual. Thousands of pictures leave like that from Italy every year, and some of his less respectable colleagues in Rome made a tidy living as couriers. But, as he said firmly, Byrnes Galleries did not work like that. They went by the book, and were good at hurrying officialdom along. Besides, the pictures were relatively unimportant – family pictures, second-rate landscapes, anonymous portraits and the like – and there was no likelihood of any hitches. The price he had offered was not great, admittedly, but as much as they were worth. By the time they were paid for, transported to England, cleaned, prepared and sold, he and his employer would show a respectable profit. Worked out as a rate per hour for the amount of time he’d put in, he could probably earn more selling hamburgers in a fast food chain.

  She was upset by his adamant refusal. In that case, she said, he must agree to pay all export taxes and registration fees. Whether she was serious or whether this was all a ploy to get him to agree to her request he did not know, but here he put his foot down.

  ‘I’ve been through all the figures. We couldn’t possibly sell the pictures, pay all the expenses and make a profit on this percentage. It’s tantamount to calling the entire deal off.’

  Signora Pianta smiled and drank the coffee that Argyll, it seemed, was paying for. A meal designed to conclude an amicable deal was becoming an expensive waste of time. Initially, he had felt a certain sympathy for the woman, who had an unenviable position as companion to the sharp-tongued Marchesa. It was now evaporating fast.

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ she said, not meaning it at all. ‘But those were my instructions. And as we have now had more interest in the pictures…’

  Argyll was bewildered by this last comment. Who on earth could be interested? Was he about to become involved in a bidding war for these things? If so, it certainly wasn’t worth it. If he wasn’t required occasionally to provide Edward Byrnes in London with some pictures as an exchange for his salary, he would pull out now and go back to Rome.

  ‘Oh, very well, then,’ he said reluctantly. ‘I’ll think about it and call you tomorrow.’

  Cool and professional, he thought. Don’t allow yourself to be stampeded. Keep them guessing. Probably useless, mind you.

  From there until the end of the meal he did his best to remain calmly polite. He did all the right things; paid the bill with much silent gnashing of teeth, helped her on with her coat, escorted her out of the restaurant and was kissing her hand – this always seemed to go down well, even when it wasn’t deserved – when he heard a slight cough from someone standing just behind him in the Campo.

  He turned round, his bad mood dissipating as he recognised the woman standing there, resting with her weight on her left leg, arms crossed and a look of amused disdain on her face.

  ‘What are you doing in Venice?’

  ‘Not having as much fun as you, it seems,’ Flavia replied.

  Argyll, thrown into confusion as he was so easily by almost anything unexpected, performed a flustered and not very competent set of introductions. ‘Flavia di Stefano of the Polizia Art Squad in Rome,’ he concluded.

  Pianta was not impressed. Indeed, she nodded coldly in the way of someone who did not consider the police respectable members of society, looked disapprovingly at her somewhat scruffy clothes – with particular emphasis on the unpolished brown boots – and then ignored her entirely. She thanked Argyll for the meal in a chilly sort of fashion, which bore no relation to how much it had cost, and walked off.

  ‘Now there’s a real charmer,’ Flavia remarked calmly as she went.

  Argyll rubbed his nose in irritation and frustration. ‘Didn’t seem to like you, did she? Don’t take it personally. It may be because she’s just been asking me to break the law. Besides, she doesn’t like me either, and I’ve just paid for her dinner.’

  There was a long silence as he regarded her with a look of affection, which she always interpreted as one of discomfort. It was. He never really quite knew what to do with someone who was both emotionally turbo-charged and also so calm and detached. Somehow the bits never seemed to fit together, or, to put it another way, they obviously did but he couldn’t quite figure out where the joins were.

  ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ he asked eventually. ‘I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you. A friendly face, you know.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said formally, deciding that he had not been changed by his period of living in Rome. If he didn’t understand her, at least it was mutual. His distant, if obvious, affection tended to confuse her. To her mind, he should either forget her or fling his arms round her. Either would do; but to manage neither seemed merely indecisive. ‘I’m here for a couple of days on a case. Of sorts. Not so interesting.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Wasting my time, it seems.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Another silence intervened. ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ she said finally. ‘You look as though you need to ventilate a bit.’

  He glanced sideways at her gratefully. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’d like that. You’re starving, I imagine?’

  She nodded fervently. ‘Yes. How do you know?’

  ‘Lucky guess. Come on. I’ll sit with you and have a coffee. I love to watch a professional at work.’

  They walked into the restaurant again and sat down at the same table he’d occupied before. ‘Same place, better company,’ he said with an attempt at a charming smile that was slightly more successful than the last.

  While Flavia ploughed her methodical and diligent way through much of the menu, Argyll gave a potted history of his trials and tribulations. There was not much she could say. The deal, it seemed to her, was off and the only sensible thing to do
was to go back to Rome. But she tried to be optimistic. He should, she counselled, hang around for a few days yet. You never knew, after all. He could always go in for a bit of smuggling.

  Argyll was properly shocked. ‘And you in the police as well. I’m ashamed of you.’

  ‘Just an idea.’

  ‘No thanks. I will persevere for a few days by legal means, then give up. What I’ll do,’ he said with renewed enthusiasm, ‘is try to get hold of the Marchesa direct tomorrow. Go to the top. That might work.’

  He yawned, leant back in his chair and stretched. ‘Enough of that. I’m sick of hearing about the damn things. Distract me. How’s life in Rome these days?’

  It was a pointed reminder that, though they lived in the same city, they hadn’t seen much of each other recently. Argyll considered this distressing and Flavia also missed his company. But, as she explained, he’d been away, and she’d been busy. Times were tough, and the pressure was on while Bottando battled to save his department.

  ‘In fact,’ she concluded, ‘the only reason I’m here is that everyone in Rome is all excited and Bottando is plotting.’

  ‘As usual, eh?’

  They had different opinions on this; for the Englishman, Bottando’s constant manoeuvrings revealed him as a consummate manipulator. Although he had enormous regard for the amiable Italian, he vaguely thought his time might more properly be spent catching criminals. Flavia, on the other hand, was of Bottando’s view that efficiency was no use at all if the entire department was politicked into oblivion. She just wished he didn’t involve her quite so often.

  ‘It’s serious this time,’ she said with a frown. ‘We’ve got a fight on our hands. I just hope he can get us out of trouble.’

  ‘I’m sure he will. He’s extraordinarily well practised, after all. I suppose you’re here on the Masterson affair that I’ve been reading about in the papers?’

  Flavia nodded absently.

  ‘Who done her in, then?’

  ‘How should I know? The local police think she was mugged. Maybe she was. Not my business, anyway. I’m here simply to lend respectability, follow up anything arty and secure some tactical credit for the department at a difficult moment. You don’t, by any chance, know anything about the’ – she paused to get out the letter and check the name – ‘the Agenzia Fotografica Rossi, do you?’ she asked, switching the subject to something less distressing.