mine, I would have cleared out every other picture in the entire place, and just had that, hanging in the best position I could find. Not tucked away in some little bedroom surrounded by rubbish.”
Argyll now had a ticklish problem on his hands. He had the picture, or rather Bottando did; Bulovius had the identity. Joining the two together might be more difficult than it seemed. People often make the mistake of thinking that art dealing is all about art. It isn't; it is all about information, and the person who knows what a picture is generally is in a stronger position than the one who merely owns it. Bulovius knew this as well as Argyll did; better, in fact. It was so deeply ingrained in him that he would not disclose what he knew as a matter of honor unless he got something in return. It was Argyll's task now to prize the more important part of the equation out of his grasp.
'Let me get this straight, please,' he said, ignoring the problem for the time being.
'You arrive at the villa, already knowing this picture was there and planning to take it
...”
'No, no,' he said testily. 'What do you think I am? I knew it was there, naturally.
Finzi had mentioned it on many occasions and I was looking forward to seeing it. I was in quite a tremor when I didn't notice it in any of the main rooms. Finzi never considered that Stone-house had kept it merely to prevent him from having it. If he'd loved it and couldn't bear to part with it, then he might have been forgiven.”
He stopped. Damnation, Jonathan thought. Another few words and he might have come out with the name.
'Anyway, when I finally spotted it, sandwiched between a hideous portrait and a print, I was horrified. And contemptuous. It was very naughty of me, but I decided to teach him a lesson. If he didn't know what it was, he wouldn't miss it.”
'So you took it.”
Bulovius heaved a sigh. 'I did. And I must say I can quite see the appeal of a life of crime. It was terribly exciting, sneaking around in the middle of the night on tiptoe, hiding the picture. Although a bit nerve-racking. I was quite a-flutter by the end.”
'Where did you put it?”
'Oh, nowhere very sophisticated. I'm afraid I'm not so imaginative about that sort of thing. I might have done better had I thought a bit more, but I spent so much time screwing up my courage to take it, I didn't really think about what to do next. Stonehouse had a huge settee in the salon; ugly, but the only comfortable thing in the entire room. I put it under there. No one had cleaned under it for years; I almost woke the entire house with sneezing when I stuffed it under. It gave me a bit of a shock the next day when I saw that policeman sitting on it.”
'So how did it get into the ditch?”
'I don't know. All I know is that, after I removed it from Stone-house, someone removed it from me. And then I watched from my window as one of the policemen and that Verney woman strolled across the garden, straight to the ditch where it was found.
And found it.”
Argyll's recovery from the shock was impressive. Scarcely a blink. Not even a slight stammer, let alone anything more melodramatic, like an audible groan, or beating his breast and falling to the floor, even though, in his opinion, all would have been perfectly excusable. He should have known, of course, that Mary Verney would have been involved; how, exactly, still seemed hopelessly obscure to him.
'What Verney woman was this?' he asked with a lack of interest that made him feel rather proud.
'She was some sort of student. Pretty girl, though a bit pert for my taste. A bit too clever, if you understand me. And far too much in the company of the police for my liking. I only remember her because she knew a dealer friend of mine.”
'What do you mean, 'in the company of the police'?”
Bulovius chortled and gave Argyll a knowing wink, which was a remarkably repulsive sight on the ancient face.
'Too fond of them, if you see what I mean. She looked like a young innocent, but always seemed to know far more than she let on.”
Vague and unhelpful, but then Bulovius didn't really want to be helpful. 'I see,' Argyll said. 'But this picture . . .”
'That's all I can tell you,' he replied. 'The policeman handed it over in triumph, much to the obvious irritation of his rather bumptious superior officer, and as far as I know the matter was dropped. The police came up with some theory that the thieves had panicked and dropped it as they fled. Complete nonsense, of course, and I'm sure that young man knew it as well. He was protecting me, it seemed, which was very agreeable of him, although I can't think why he did. Whatever, the police, Stonehouse, and I were all happy for the matter to be dropped, and dropped it was. End of story.”
He paused and sipped his whiskey with such obvious relish that Argyll was glad he'd let him have it. Once the complete thrill of pleasure had coursed around the old man's frail body, Argyll tried again to broach the real subject.
'Your identification. You're sure about it?”
'Of course. I know you think it is just my fancy; it isn't. Compare the one in Fiesole, look at the style, and above all, read your Vasari. There is no doubt about it at all; enough evidence to convince even the most skeptical. Overwhelming, once you put it all together. Many paintings are attributed on far less evidence. If Finzi could only have completed it ...”
Argyll was trembling with frustration. All he had to do was take the plunge. What in God's name is it? He had to ask quietly, although he felt like screaming. But he knew what would happen. Bulovius would clam up. In fact, the faintest twinkle in the old rogue's eye suggested he knew perfectly well what was going on. He might eventually cough up, but not until Argyll worked for it.
He pushed and probed for a while longer, but then gave up for fear of making the old man dig in his heels. Then he left as graciously as possible, and stumped cursing down the stairs. He went to Bottando's apartment, and leaned on the bell for longer than was necessary in the hope that Bottando had returned and could let him in so he could study the picture again. But no luck. The general was still away, and an inch of wood reinforced with steel plate prevented him from getting in.
He went to bed no wiser; and when he decided to take the chance the next day and ask Bulovius a straight question, he was met at the door by the old man's nurse.
Tancred Bulovius, she said in a sorrowful voice, had died in the night, probably because the old soak had somehow managed to get hold of some whiskey.
12
For Flavia, the first indication of trouble came around about the same time that Argyll was listening with mounting discomfort to the nurse's tale of Bulovius's last moments. It was two o'clock in the afternoon, and the loathsome journalist had rung back.
'I was wondering,' he began, 'if I might have your comments on a story we're thinking of printing.”
'Go ahead,' Flavia said. 'If I can, I will.”
'It is about the theft and ransom of a painting from the National Museum.”
Flavia's heart took a little leap downward; her stomach flipped over.
'Do tell,' she said. 'It's the first I've heard of it.”
'Really?' Dossoni sounded unconvinced. 'We have it on good authority that a painting to be shown in the forthcoming exhibition of European art was hijacked by a band of armed robbers, who escaped despite the heroic efforts of guards to stop them
...”
'What did the guards do?”
'Apparently, our sources say they hurled themselves on one robber, and only stopped resisting when the thieves threatened to shoot one of them.”
'Very courageous of them,' Flavia said.
'The painting disappeared, then reappeared a week later. A ransom had obviously been paid.”
'Obviously. If any of this is true. What does the museum say?”
'I haven't talked to them yet.”
'Your source for this is one of the heroic guards, I assume?”
