as far as I can see, but more expensive. According to rumour, you’ll be able to put the entire Louvre in the thing, and still have enough room left to throw the Olympic Games.’
Di Souza rubbed his hands together. ‘And they’ll have to fill it, dear boy. How splendid! I got here just in the nick of time. When do they start building?’
Argyll tried to dampen his enthusiasm. ‘Don’t get too keen. I gather they’ve got to get Moresby to sign on the dotted line. And he’s not someone who’s used to being hurried along. Still, you may meet the architect. He wanders around with a fanatical look in his eye all the time, muttering to himself. He’s a sort of guru of what he terms the post-modern return to classical tradition. His roofs leak. Awful charlatan.’
Argyll had by this time reconciled himself to di Souza’s company, and they walked over the lawn together so that the Spaniard could present himself to the appropriate authority. He was still plainly irritated that there had been no one to meet him at the airport.
‘What about these priceless objects of yours?’ Argyll asked as they ignored the whistles and shouts of a guardian telling them to get off the grass. ‘Where are they?’
‘Oh, at the airport. They arrived a couple of days ago, I gather. But you know what customs people are like. Same the world over. It’s all on account of the other pieces I brought over.’
‘What other pieces?’
‘Langton’s. He’s been buying stuff all over the place. Nothing important, I gather, but he wanted to get some of it back here. So he asked me to arrange shipment for him. Another healthy fee, and a satisfied customer. One should always be happy to oblige a man with access to so much money, don’t you think?’
Still in an effusive mood, Hector babbled on, hopping from topic to topic with the agility of a mountain goat. He burbled away about his important clients – all nonsense as Argyll knew; Hector’s career had always been more style than substance – and eventually broke off to point at a small figure emerging from the office block and heading in their direction. ‘So this place is inhabited, after all,’ he said. ‘Who’s that odd little man over there?’
‘That’s the museum director. Samuel Thanet. Pleasant enough, but the anxious type. Hello, Mr Thanet,’ he continued, switching to English as the man came into earshot. ‘How are you? Enjoying life?’ It is always a good idea to be nice to museum directors, especially if they command an acquisitions budget bigger than all of Italy’s museums rolled together. In this, at least, he and di Souza had a common outlook.
In making the characterisation Argyll was accurate, but a little unfair. If Samuel Thanet looked worried, it was mainly because he had a great deal to be worried about. It is not easy being in charge of a museum, but when it is owned and run in an almost medieval fashion by a man used to having his every whim treated like a heavenly command, life can become well nigh intolerable.
Not that Thanet bore any resemblance to the archetypal laid-back Californian even on his days off. Instead of the tall, lean, sun-tanned, jogging type the outside world is convinced lives in the area, Thanet was short, overweight, much given to highly formal clothes and was restrained to the point of neurosis. He was not one to waste energy on tennis or surfing; such as he had was divided equally between worrying and an almost fanatical devotion to his museum.
For which latter occupation he needed money, and for that he needed to be appallingly sycophantic to the museum’s patron and owner. There is nothing unusual about this; all museum directors have to be sycophantic to someone, be it patrons, donors or boards of governors. It’s part of the job; some might say the most important part. And everybody else in the museum has to be sycophantic to the director. By the time you make it to the top, you are well practised in the art.
Even for the practised courtier, however, Arthur M. Moresby II was a bit of a handful. It wasn’t just a question of telling him how wonderful he was; he knew that already. It was a given, like the sun rising, or the income tax form arriving. Rather, Moresby had whims. For a start, he was a businessman, and liked reality to be presented in terms of development concepts and budgeting proposals. Next he liked those around him to be lean, mean and hungry. And however ambitious Thanet might be for his museum, he was far from lean, could occasionally be mean, but was utterly hopeless at appearing hungry. It made him nervous, and the prospect of an encounter with the great man turned him into a chronic insomniac for weeks ahead.
‘I’m afraid I’m having to deal with several crises simultaneously at the moment,’ he said in reply to the question, sneezed loudly, and whipped out a handkerchief too late. He blew his nose and looked apologetic. Allergies, he said. Martyr to them.
‘Really? I haven’t noticed any crises. By the way, may I introduce Señor di Souza? He’s arrived with your new sculptures.’
The comment, innocent enough, clearly added another crisis to Thanet’s mental checklist. His brow furrowed mightily and he eyed di Souza with considerable alarm.
‘What new sculptures?’ he said.
This was more than di Souza’s ego could bear. Being ostentatiously ignored was one thing; at least that indicated people knew you were around. But to have Thanet appear genuinely oblivious of his existence was too much. In a clipped and stern voice, marred only by his limited English vocabulary, he explained his presence. Thanet looked even more irritated, although it appeared to be the content of the message, not the style of its delivery, which alarmed him.
‘That infernal man Langton again. He really has no right to cut across established procedures like this,’ he muttered.
‘You must have known I was coming…’ di Souza began, but Thanet cut him off.
‘What, exactly, have you brought with you?’ he demanded.
‘Three cases of Roman sculpture, provided by myself, and one case brought for Mr Langton.’
‘And what’s in that?’
‘I’ve no idea. Don’t you know?’
‘If I knew I wouldn’t ask, would I?’
Di Souza looked perplexed. All he’d done was arrange shipment, he said. He assumed it was other bits of sculpture.
‘It’s like trying to run a madhouse,’ Thanet confided to nobody in particular, shaking his head in disbelief.
‘Do you really give your agents free run to buy things? What about my Titian? Did Langton buy that on a whim as well?’
Thanet shifted from foot to foot, then decided to unburden himself. ‘It’s Mr Moresby, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘He often decides to buy things on his own account, and instructs people like Langton to go ahead. Then they turn up here.’
What he meant, and couldn’t bring himself to say, was that, in the past, he had found his employer and benefactor’s judgement in artistic matters to be a little shaky. An alarming number of pictures in the museum were there partly because Mr Moresby was convinced he could spot a masterwork which the dealers, curators and historians of several dozen countries had unaccountably overlooked. And partly for other reasons. There was one picture, and Thanet shuddered involuntarily every time he thought of it, which had almost certainly been painted in the 1920s, probably in London.
But Mr Moresby had been persuaded it was by Frans Hals when he bought it eighteen months previously, and Frans Hals it was still labelled. Thanet couldn’t think of it without remembering the occasion he was walking through the gallery, past a little knot of visitors, and had heard one of them snickering as he read the description. Nor could he forget the awful row that erupted when a junior curator produced proof that the thing was a dud. The Frans Hals was still there; the junior curator wasn’t.
‘In both of your cases,’ he said, pushing such thoughts aside, ‘I’m afraid museum procedure was bypassed. It’s no good, you know. Not professional. I shall have to talk to Mr Moresby – again – when he comes this evening.’
Commercial instincts pricked up their metaphorical ears here. This was