The Bernini Bust

Morelli nodded. 'Fine, fine,' he muttered. 'Just give me a minute.'

He sat down uncertainly at the table, supporting himself by leaning on the table.

'You don't look well,' Argyll observed.

Morelli looked up at Argyll, gave a sharp cry and sank to his knees. Both Europeans stood looking at him flabbergasted. Flavia bent down.

'I think it's his tooth,' she said after listening to an incoherent mumble.

'Hurts, does it?'

Another mumble, longer this time.

'He says he's never felt anything like it before.'

'Sharp, stabbing pain, a bit like having a red hot pin stuck in it?'

Morelli indicated this was about right.

Argyll nodded. 'Abcess,' he said firmly. 'Very unpleasant. They sometimes do explode like that. Had one myself once. If it's bad it's a devil to sort out. Do you know, they often can't give you an injection? Just have to pull the nerve out straight. Use a little wire with hooks on.'

Morelli gave an anguished cry and rocked back and forwards. Flavia suggested Argyll might keep the details to himself and, in the meantime, what were they going to do?

'I think he needs a dentist.'

'But we're chasing a murderer. We can't stop to go to a bloody dentist.'

'Painkillers, then. Strong ones, and lots of them. That might hold it. 'Course, he won't be at his perkiest.'

Morelli mumbled. Between them, they grasped he was saying that his car had a first-aid kit in it. Police Department issue, complete with painkillers.

'That's simple, then,' she said. 'I’ll go and get them.'

'You're not going out there on your own.'

'We can't leave him here. And he can't go.'

'Take him with you, then.'

'And leave you? Absolutely not.'

'We can't all go. This is meant to be a covert entrapment - that was the term, wasn't it? – not a May Day parade.'

She looked uncertain.

'Look, it's very simple,' Argyll said firmly. 'Go out the back, walk him to the car, leave him and come back. I will stay here, and if anything untoward happens I'll be out the door as fast as my crutches can carry me. And believe me, I can really move on these things now. It'll only take a few minutes.'

Flavia was unconvinced, but could think of nothing better. Morelli's tooth had transformed him from a competent, reliable man into a quivering moaning wreck, more beast than human. On top of that, he was making quite a lot of noise.

'Oh, all right, then. But remember, no clever stuff.'

'Don't be silly. Go on, go. We can't stand here all evening discussing it.'

Between them they lifted Morelli up and pointed him out the back door. He seemed slightly better; it was the initial explosion of pain that had caught him unawares; now it had settled down into steady, consistent agony he could cope. As long as he wasn't required to do anything.

'Don't open the door while I'm gone,' she said as they lumbered out.

'I won't,' Argyll promised.

Courage is all very well, he thought, as he considered his situation a few minutes later, but was this entirely wise? If he was honest with himself, he had to admit that he was only hanging about here to impress Flavia. And wasn't there a distinction to be drawn between the courageous and the merely foolhardy? If, for example, Morelli had thought of leaving his gun, that would have been different. Not that Argyll knew what to do with one, but he supposed he could blast away like anything if necessary.

But the point is, he reminded himself, Morelli didn't leave his gun.

And Argyll wouldn't be much use even if something did happen. Not with only one leg operational.

And the conclusion of that, he thought as he headed for the door and reached for the handle, is that being there on his own was asking for trouble.

The door opened easily, in fact it opened faster than he pulled it. This was because, as he reached for the handle, so did someone else on the other side. As he turned the knob, so did someone else; and as he, on the inside, pulled the door open, someone else, on the outside, pushed.

Both were equally surprised when the manoeuvre was completed and each saw the other standing there.

In Argyll's case, instant automatic responses took over. Ever since he was tiny, people had instructed him in the virtues of politeness and hospitality.

'Gosh, hello. What a surprise. Come in, do. Make yourself at home.'

Well, how else do you talk to your murderer?

Despite the first basic rule of police work, all could still have gone according to plan had not Morelli been forced to park his car in a different street, for the sake of discretion. The little area of houses was arranged in a grid; and a lot of people had more cars than there was space to garage them. A common problem; Rome is the same, if not worse. Morelli had only been able to find space for his vast machine some streets away and it took several minutes to walk back to it. Once they arrived, he slumped in the front seat and Flavia began rummaging through his first-aid kit.

'I'm still not happy about leaving Jonathan on his own, you know,' she said as she tossed a packet of band aids on to the floor. 'He'll probably electrocute himself making tea. He does have a knack of getting himself into trouble. How about this?'

She held up a tube. Morelli looked at it and shook his head. Useless. Like using a peashooter on a battleship.

She searched again. 'I mean, just think. Accidents, attempted murder. Can't even cross the road without being run over by purple trucks. This?' she asked.

'No good either,' Morelli said indistinctly. 'What do you mean, purple truck? Who said that?'

'He told you, didn't he? It'll have to be this then,' she went on, holding up a small syringe with a slightly sadistic glint in her eye. 'A bit strong but all there is. Open up.'

'Not the colour,' Morelli said. 'No one mentioned the colour. Ever. Not tome.'

'Well, so what?'

'So,' he replied, concentrating hard so the words came out comprehensibly. 'There was a purple truck behind us for a while as we drove here. I didn't think anything of it. And it's parked in the next street down.'

She stared blankly at him, syringe in hand.

'Oh, my God,' she said.

'And, what's more, if you'll get the registration number and hand me that file on the back seat, I think I can tell you who owns it . . .'

But Flavia didn't wait for the details. She thrust the syringe into Morelli's hand, reached under his jacket and grabbed his gun. Then slid towards the door.

'Wait for me,' he called after her.

'No time,' she called back.

And she ran as though her life depended on it. It didn't, but Argyll's did, and she flew around the corner, jumping over hedges, nearly tripping over hosepipes, trampling flowerbeds, anything to cut a second, even a fraction of a second, from the time it would take to get back to the house.

What could Argyll possibly do to defend himself? He wouldn't stand a chance. He had no weapon, he had a leg in plaster and, in truth, violence was not his forte.

It wasn't hers either, but she scarcely thought of that. She would have surprise and a gun. They would have to do. What did they tell her in that self-defence course Bottando had sent her on? Damned if she could remember. Shows how useless these things were.

An expert would probably have counselled a cautious approach. Reconnaissance, as the military would have it. Sneak up to the window, see what's going on, locate your target, plan your mode of attack. A second's calm reflection can save lives.