youthful girl she had noticed behind her on the way back. Not doing a very good job of being discreet, but that was perhaps the idea.
So she changed, and slipped out of the back; she doubted they would have enough people to waste more than one on her at the moment. Then walked, by a slightly circuitous route, to the Hassler—very much grander than her own hotel, but she was in an economical frame of mind these days—marched straight in, up the stairs and made for room 327. Always be on time when possible. She was not in a good mood, but was damned if she was going to let it show.
“Good evening, Mikis,” she said evenly when the door opened. The man who let her in and offered her his hand was in his thirties, but already overweight. He had been drinking, and she was pleased to see that he was nervous. She felt a wave of contempt flow over her.
“Bad news, I’m afraid,” she said unceremoniously.
He frowned.
“Very bad,” she went on. “I’ve been to see the police. They rang this afternoon. They knew I was here, and they are buzzing like a nest of wasps. For which I hold you responsible.”
He frowned with displeasure. “And why do you think that?”’
“Because you’re a clumsy amateur, that’s why. Have you been talking to anyone else about this? Getting someone lined up in reserve? Boasting to your friends? If you have any, that is.”
He stared at her. “No,” he said shortly.
“Are you sure? Absolutely sure? Because someone has been indiscreet. They must have been. It’s the only possible explanation. And it wasn’t me.”
He shook his head firmly. “Absolutely not.”
“The whole thing is blown to bits,” she said. “You’ll have to abandon the idea.”
Again he shook his head. “Sorry. I’m afraid not.”
“It’s all very well for you to say that. Courage in adversity. I’m the one who goes to jail. And if I do, you don’t get your picture.”
He didn’t even reply, so she carried on, hoping to make him see reason. “Listen, I told you how I work. This is exactly the sort of situation I have always managed to avoid. I don’t want you talking to anyone else and above all I don’t want you here.”
“That’s unfortunate,” he said evenly. “But there is nothing you can do about it.”
“And I want this whole thing cancelled, or at least postponed. Now.”
He shook his head, opened his wallet and handed over a small photograph, of a child. “Came this morning. What do you reckon? Quite a good likeness, I thought.”
She took it and stared grimly at a picture of her smiling granddaughter for a few seconds. As is traditional in this most ghoulish of modern art forms, there was a copy of yesterday’s newspaper, clearly showing the date, in the foreground. Just so there would be no misunderstanding. Her attempt to push him off-balance hadn’t worked. Back to the drawing board.
“So what do you expect me to say?”’
“Nothing. But I want it understood I must have that picture quickly.”
“Why doesn’t your father just buy it? He’s got enough money. It can’t be worth that much.”
He smiled indulgently. “It’s worth a king’s ransom, in the right hands. And it is not for sale. So this is the only way.”
“Why’s it so important? It’s not a great picture. I could buy you one twice as good in a gallery for less trouble than this.”
“That is not your concern. Your job is to get it. For that you don’t need to know why I want it. And you will get it. I have every confidence in you. So let us not waste time talking. You have a job, and you’d better get on with it.”
She was angry when she left five minutes later, with the suppressed fury of total impotence. It was something she was not used to and, yet again, she had that slow growing feeling of age creeping up on her. She felt lonely, in fact, having to rely on her own resources and discovering that, for once, they weren’t enough.
It also made her vengeful in a way which was of no use but was no less demanding for all that. Had she been a man, she might have gone out and got drunk and ended up in a brawl. Instead she fixed on the one person nearby with whom she had some sort of acquaintance. When she got back to her hotel by the back entrance, Mary walked straight through the lobby, out the front and crossed the road to the bar.
“Excuse me,” she said to the young woman still sitting patiently and reading her book. Mary noticed with satisfaction the look of perplexed alarm on her face as the poor girl realized what was going on.
“Yes?”’
“You must be a colleague of Flavia’s, I assume.”
“What?”’
“Well, you’ve been following me around all evening, and look terribly bored sitting there with that book. I was wondering if you wanted to come up to my room for a drink? Then you could watch me in comfort.”
“Ah …”
“Please yourself. But as we seem to be stuck with each other for a bit, I thought I might as well introduce myself formally. So that tomorrow we could say good morning properly, rather than pretending we don’t know each other.”
“I don’t think …”
“Or I could just give you my itinerary for tomorrow, so you’d know where to go if you lost me. It’s so ridiculous, your trying to be discreet.”
“Listen …”
“What, my dear? What’s your name, by the way?”’
“Giulia Contestanti.”
“What a nice name.”
“Thank you. But this won’t do.”
“Why not?”’
“Because it won’t.”
“Oh, I’m not meant to know you’re following me, is that right? Don’t worry”—Mary leaned forward in a conspiratorial whisper—“I won’t tell. Promise. Do I take it that you don’t want to come for a drink?”’
“No, I don’t.”
“Pity. Oh, well. I’m off to bed. I’ll be up at about seven and I’ll leave when the shops open. You’ll find me pottering up and down the via Condotti most of the morning. I need a new pair of shoes. I promise not to wave when I see you. It can be our little secret, eh? Good night, my dear.”
And, leaving the poor girl red-faced with embarrassment, Mary Verney went to bed.
4
Argyll was in a sulky mood the next morning, and sat sullenly over his toast when Flavia came into the little kitchen after her shower. She peered at him to assess his mood, made herself a coffee and sat down.
A long silence followed.
“What’s up with you?”’ she asked eventually.
“Nothing.”
“Yes, there is.”
He chewed his toast for a moment, then nodded. “You’re right. There is. Why did you invite that woman for a drink?”’
“Mary Verney? I thought you liked her.”
“No.”
“Business.”
“What sort of business?”’
“A warning shot. Just so that she knows we are aware of her presence. I’ve been meaning to ask you about her.”
Argyll sniffed cautiously.
“Do I conclude that she wasn’t quite as innocent as my report said over the Giotto thefts?”’
Argyll gave a hesitant nod. “Since you ask,” he began reluctantly, “I suppose I should tell you …”
