not go to Langton. And the police tell me it didn't go to di Souza either.'
Nor to anyone else, as far as Flavia could make out. How strange. 'Tell me, all this was just a bit illegal, wasn't it?'
Barclay nodded. 'You could say that.'
'And the total saved in this fashion?'
'I added it all up this morning. Spent about forty-nine million, claimed eighty-seven million. Working it out exactly is hard, but at a rough guess I reckon he avoided tax of about fifteen million dollars.'
'And that's what? Over the last five years or so?'
Barclay looked at her in faint surprise. 'Oh no. The last eighteen months. Of course, the outlay began to go up fast once he began to warm to the idea of the Big Museum.'
Even at the uninflated prices it was pretty impressive stuff; certainly more than any museum in the Italian system ever got. Barclay, however, was more concerned with other matters.
'Pulling a fast one on the IRS . . . Well, I mean, they're vengeful. I'd rather upset the Mob, myself. Only real brutes work as IRS investigators.'
He gave an involuntary shudder, and Flavia considered what he had said. 'Who knew of this? Presumably it was the sort of thing that was kept relatively quiet?'
He nodded. 'Oh yes. I imagine quite a lot of people suspected -Anne Moresby certainly did; she even asked me to pass on material to incriminate Thanet. Of course I refused, because it would have incriminated myself as well, but she seemed to get hold of material anyway. I don't know how. Langton may well have had a notion of what was going on. But I think probably only Thanet, myself and Moresby knew precisely. That's why there was such a fuss over Collins.'
'Who?'
'A curator that Langton brought in. He mentioned he was a bit doubtful over a Hals that Moresby bought. There was a bit of alarm that there'd be an investigation and the real worth - and the real price – of the picture would emerge. So he was got rid of, pronto. Thanet came up with some reason for accusing him of incompetence and he was out. There was a hell of a fight about it in the museum; it brought out the long-standing enmity between Thanet and Langton a bit too clearly for comfort.'
Flavia nodded again. Another complication. Moresby in the centre of things, as a sort of hole in the middle. She realised suddenly that she knew nothing about the man at all. Many opinions, all of them unfavourable, but no real sense of what made him tick. Why, for example, did a man worth so much work so hard to cheat the tax man out of so little? Relatively speaking, anyway.
Barclay, who she was coming to think of as not nearly as facile as initial impressions suggested, scratched his chin and tried to think of an explanation.
'Just the way he was, I guess. He was a miser. Not in the classic sense of living in a slum and hiding it under the mattress, but a psychological miser. He knew the value of money and would do anything to hang on to what he considered was his. It was a religion. He would work as hard to save one dollar as a million. Or a billion. The sum wasn't important; the principle was the thing. He was a man of principle. Anyone who took his money was an enemy, and he'd do anything to stop them. And that included all taxmen.
'That doesn't imply he was mean; he wasn't. When he wanted to be he could be very generous. As long as he decided. Not someone else. Does that sound convincing?'
She supposed so. But having never met anyone like that she'd have to take it on trust.
'Was he a vengeful man?'
'In what sense?'
'I mean, if someone wronged him, in his eyes. Did he bear a grudge?'
Barclay threw back his head and laughed. 'Did he bear a grudge? Ha! Yes, I think you could say that. Indeed. If someone trod on his toe Moresby would follow him to the end of the world to get his revenge.'
'For forty years?'
'Into the next world and the one after that, if necessary.'
'So,' she said, finally manoeuvring for the kill, 'anyone having an affair with his wife might kill him first, if he found out. For fear of the consequences.'
That stopped the lawyer in his tracks. His mouth opened wide and shut again, and then he whistled softly. 'Well, I'll be.'
And stopped. Despite the risk of losing the psychological advantage here, Flavia could not help herself. She held up her hand.
'You'll be what?' she asked.
'Pardon?'
'You said 'I'll be,' and then stopped,' she prompted.
Barclay frowned, and then grasped what she was talking about. There followed a brief interlude as he explained the meaning of the phrase. Flavia noted it down.
Then she decided it was time to go. Only her little message to deliver. She merely hoped she could make it sound convincing enough.
'Fortunately the case is nearly closed, so I'll be able to get back home in a day or so. Pleasant though it is here, I'm looking forward to getting back to Italy,' she said in what she hoped was a cheerfully inconsequential fashion.
Barclay eyed her suspiciously. 'What do you mean?'
'The murder. It was all taped.'
'I thought all the cameras were out?'
'They were. But Streeter had also installed a bug in Thanet's office. He was another one who suspected that there was something fishy about the financial dealings in that museum. He reckons it probably taped the whole thing. You know, someone saying, 'Die, Moresby!' followed by a clump. He's going to hand it over to the police at his house this evening.'
Chapter Thirteen
Argyll, having slightly pulled a muscle in his one remaining leg, had decided not to accompany Flavia on her little trip to Barclay's office. Instead he'd stayed in his hotel, resting his plaster cast and watching the television. There was something sinful about watching the television in the morning; he rather enjoyed it, although the choice of fare was a little meagre.
So meagre, in fact that he eventually settled on a long sermon from what appeared to be a fundamentalist preacher intoning about sin and money; the general line being that you could cancel out the former by giving him the latter. Engrossing stuff; he'd never seen the like before, and was almost annoyed when a knock on the door distracted his attention.
'Come in,' he called. 'Oh, hello, there,' he went on as Jack Moresby stuck his head round the door. 'How nice to see you.'
Moresby grinned sheepishly as he came into the room. 'How ya doin'?' he asked. 'I heard you'd taken a tumble.'
He peered at Argyll's leg and tapped it. 'Only one? Pretty lucky, from what I heard.'
'Better luck next time, I suppose.'
'What does that mean?'
'Eh? Nothing. It was lucky. I can't say I'm that happy about it, mind.'
Moresby nodded. 'Hmm. Still, you're still here, that's the important thing. Just thought I'd check.'
'That's very good of you. Get yourself a drink, if you want.'
'How's the great search coming along?' Moresby grabbed a beer and sat down.
'For the bust?'
'I was more concerned about my father's murderer.'
'Oh. Yes. Well, I suppose you would be. The answer to both is the same, though. Something is coming together.'
'And who's the front runner?'
'Your stepmother and Barclay. I suppose that comes as no surprise to you.'
Moresby digested this along with the beer and nodded sagely. 'I wondered. I did wonder. Seems a wild gamble to take on.'
