Morelli considered the suggestion. There would, certainly, be advantages, like the possibility of actually catching di Souza. Going by officially prescribed procedures would be hopeless.
'What's his name?' he asked.
'Bottando,' Argyll said, looking up the phone number in his book. 'It would be a good idea to play up the importance of this bust. If it was smuggled out of Italy - and it probably was - he'll love to help.'
'We don't know it was.'
'All the more reason for him to find out.'
Morelli nodded. It was quite a good idea.
'Somebody else other than di Souza could have stolen it, of course,' Argyll went on. 'After all, there are other reasons for stealing busts. It would be a pity to neglect them.'
Morelli, who was in essence a simple soul and certainly prepared for the extremes of deviousness that come as second'-nature to the true scholar, could think of no others. Argyll listed them one by one.
'First, for the insurance, although Thanet reckons it wasn’t insured. Second, for ransom. Wait for the demands. If a large hunk of marble ear comes through the post, with a promise that a no-will follow in due course, you know where you are. Third possibility, to stop people looking at it too carefully.'
'Why?'
'Fakes.'
Morelli snorted. He was a man with little time for idle speculation, and pointed out that this was all it was.
'It's not idle. It's scene setting. The product of years of experience in the nether world of art connoisseurship. Just trying to help.'
'Gives no practical help, though. Phoning this Bottando character might, and for that idea, my thanks. Then I suppose I'd better go and get on with my work. Have to talk to the press, as well. Like flies round a honey pot already.'
'Good idea,' Argyll said. 'And I shall go off and visit people as well.'
Morelli looked uncertain again. 'Don't you do anything of the sort,' he said. 'You've made your contribution. Now keep out of it.'
'Surely I don't need authorisation from you to pay a visit of condolence to a grieving son who invited me to stop by for a drink? Do I need police permission to see Thanet to finalise details about the sale of his picture?'
Morelli agreed, with great reluctance, that such bureaucracy was unnecessary. But repeated that he thought Argyll would be better occupied trading pictures, or whatever he did for a living.
Being naive in such matters, Argyll had imagined that he would get around Los Angeles by public transport. For him trains were the height of civilisation, and by far his preferred means of transport. Failing that, a bus would do. Both, however, were notable for their absence. Buses were in almost as short supply as pedestrians. Trains seemed to be as extinct as the brontosaurus. So, after an enquiry, nervous indecision and much research to find something inexpensive, he had hired a car. The rental place was full of old, rusting machines that looked as though merely in one piece was as much as they could manage. The selection was not great, but, as the salesman - he shook Argyll warmly by the hand and introduced himself as Chuck, by which name Johnny was to call him on all occasions - pointed out, the services weren't so big either. Argyll hated being called Johnny.
But at least there was one car that he instantly fell in love with. It was a pre-oil-crisis Cadillac. 1971. Light blue. Open topped. About the size of the Queen Mary, and used as much fuel.
Well why not? Argyll thought when he saw it. He'd never drive anything like it again. This was a moving piece of cultural history. The first thing he did when he got back was to get the doorman of the hotel to take a photograph of him resting against it, wearing sunglasses. So he could show his grandchildren, who might not otherwise believe such machines had ever existed.
So after Morelli left, Argyll went round to the parking lot behind the hotel. The car started, eventually, and in a billowing cloud of lead-laced petrol fumes he navigated slowly out. It had the acceleration and the manoeuvrability of a supertanker, but otherwise was in reasonable condition, apart from the rust patches. The main thing was that it went forward when requested, and stopped when asked. And traffic regulations in California are such that an ability to accelerate from nought to sixty in under five minutes is a bit redundant, anyway.
The machine roared along, backfiring periodically, and having to stop every 150 yards for traffic lights. Argyll tried admiring the scenery, and found himself wondering how any place could support so many car dealers.
It took him about half an hour to drive the six miles to Venice, Jack Moresby's part of town, although he reckoned he could have done it faster had he known where he was going. Once he'd found the place, it took considerable imagination to see why it was called Venice at all; though a rather stagnant patch of water and a sort of piazza-thing that might have been impressive had it been finished, gave a clue as to the original intentions of the developers.
Still, it looked like being a much more appealing part of the world than the rather obsessive bit of town which housed the museum. The residents' main occupation seemed to be sitting around not doing very much; and Argyll was only too glad to see it. Despite their reputation for being relaxed, everybody else in the city seemed to be constantly hurrying. On the rare occasions that they stopped working, they still bustled manically. Even on the beach they insisted on running around, throwing things at each other and jumping in and out of the ocean for no obvious reason. It was agreeable to see that some people liked just to lie about, immune to their fellow-citizens' frantic desire to prolong their lives forever. The place was scruffy, fly-blown and charming, or so it seemed. Perhaps that was how it got its name.
It was also almost as difficult to get your bearings as in its Italian namesake. Finding the abode of Jack Moresby was harder than he'd anticipated, and he was very surprised when he did eventually track it down. Not what he'd anticipated at all. He knew that Moresby had retreated from the consumer society to write the Great American Novel - a common failing in this part of town, he'd been told - but he'd anticipated that the son of a multi-billionaire would have hung on to some of the vestiges of the good life. He'd met many alternative types in Italy, and they all seemed to find handmade Versace clothes, Rolex watches and nine-room apartments overlooking the Piazza Navona perfectly compatible with the principled rejection of the consumerist tyranny.
Young Moresby, however, seemed determined to do it properly. His home was not the stereotypical millionaire's residence and bore little resemblance to a Beverly Hills mansion. Millionaires' houses have roofs, with windows in the side. And when windows break, millionaires have them replaced; they don't patch the holes with old newspaper. When a tile falls off the roof they replace it, rather than leaving the rare downpour of rain to come in. Millionaires have gardens, complete with gardeners, Jack Moresby's equivalent bore more than a passing resemblance to the depot where Argyll had hired his car. Nor, in general, do millionaires sprawl on the floor of the little deck at the back, smoking a cigarette with a most unusual aroma, drinking from a half-empty bottle.
Moresby regarded him passively as he approached, then ha. waved a hand in casual and unenthusiastic greeting.
'Hey,' he said, a term Argyll had learnt was the local, all-purpose way of indicating hello, goodbye, surprise, alarm, warning, interest, lack of interest, and do you want something to drink. The American looked at a seat by his side, pushed an old and mangy dog off and gestured for him to sit. Argyll eyed the clumps of dog hair warily, then reluctantly eased himself down.
'Come to commiserate about the old man, I suppose,' he said absently, squinting up at the weak sun through the clouds.
'When did you hear?'
'Langton phoned me last night. And everything else I picked up from the police when they woke me up at dawn to ask me to account for my movements. I suppose it would be far too much to expect my stepmother to come a whole twenty miles to pass on the news. Too busy celebrating, I guess. What d'you want?'
A good question. Pertinent and to the point. The trouble was Argyll didn't really know. After all, he could hardly say he wanted to dig something up about the bust so he could get back into more amicable contact with Flavia. Wouldn't sound right. Heartless, in fact. Besides, initial questioning made it clear that Moresby knew nothing about the Bernini - or any bust, for that matter. Nor did it seem appropriate to enquire why Jack Moresby couldn't be bothered to drive the few miles back to the museum himself to find out what was going on. All families have their ways of going about things.
'I thought you might want company,' he said rather lamely. 'You struck me as being the only tolerably sane and normal person involved with the museum.'
