The Bernini Bust by Iain Pears Read Free Book Online

brightly.
    Morelli was halfway through indicating that the Los Angeles homicide division, having managed without Jonathan Argyll for more than half a century, could probably stagger on without him for a bit longer when a pained groan came from the other recumbent form on the floor. Thanet, when he collapsed, had done so inconsiderately, straight in front of the door, causing a major bottleneck to traffic. The groan was caused by a large police boot inadvertently kicking him in the ribs.
    “Oh, the Sleeping Beauty,” Morelli said, then turned to Argyll. “You really want to be useful? Bring him round and get him out of the way. Get yourself out of the way while you’re at it.”
    So Argyll did, bending over the director and slowly helping him to his feet. Propping him up uncertainly, he called to Morelli that they’d be down the corridor, if needed. Then he steered Thanet in that direction, settled him on a sofa and fussed around vainly trying to open windows and, more successfully, to provide glasses of water.
    Thanet was no great shakes at conversation for some time. He stared at Argyll owlishly for several minutes before the power of speech returned.
    “What happened?” he asked, with a striking lack of originality.
    Argyll shrugged. “I was rather hoping you’d tell me that. You were on the scene. I’m just a nosy passerby.”
    “No, no. Not at all,” he said. “First I knew was when Barclay came running back to the museum, telling people to phone the police. He said there’d been some sort of accident.”
    “He must be a bit thick if he thought that was an accident,” Argyll commented.
    “I think he was concerned not to let on too much to the newspaper men around. They always turn up. Can’t keep anything secret from them, you know.”
    “He found the body?”
    “Mr. Moresby said he was going to use my office to talk to di Souza…’
    “Why?”
    “Why what?”
    “He could talk to him anywhere, couldn’t he?”
    Thanet frowned disapprovingly at the Englishman’s concentration on irrelevancies. “Di Souza wanted to talk about that bust and it’s in my office. Anyway, later on…’
    Argyll opened his mouth to ask how much later on. This concentration on detail was a habit he’d picked up from Flavia over the years. But he decided it might throw Thanet off his stride, so shut it again.
    “… later on, Mr. Moresby used the internal phone to call Barclay and told him to come over. He went, and found… that. We called the police.”
    Argyll had about two dozen questions he wanted to ask, but made the grave mistake of pausing briefly to arrange them in order of importance. What was the conversation with di Souza about? Where was di Souza? What time was this? And so on. Unfortunately, Thanet took advantage of the momentary silence to wander off in pursuit of his own thoughts.
    These came across as almost entirely selfish, although this was perhaps forgivable under the circumstances. Samuel Thanet had never liked Moresby; no one had. While it was dreadful that the man should be shot, to Thanet’s way of thinking it was much more terrible that such an event should take place in his office and in his museum. The worst thing of all was that it should take place before Moresby had made his announcement about the Big Museum. Had all the relevant documents been signed? He’d be frantic with worry until he found out.
    “I assume that all the papers were drawn up and signed in advance,” he said. “But it really couldn’t have come at a worse time.”
    “You mean to tell me that Moresby was topped just before he publicly committed himself to this project? Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
    Thanet stared at him blankly. Clearly, everything struck him as odd at the moment. But before he could reply, the door opened and Detective Morelli, hair ever more rumpled and rubbing his inflamed gums in a thoughtful fashion, walked in.
    “Case in your room,” he said flatly. “What is it?”
    Thanet paused a