far, so ordinary, and there was nothing in the tale which might help. The point that tickled Argyll’s interest was that the second Stonehouse, by repute, had seen himself as an artist-collector, whose accumulations were not merely an assorted lumping together of high quality bric-a-brac, but an artistic ensemble in their own right, every painting and tapestry and bronze and sculpture and majolica and print and drawing carefully acquired to form a perfect and complete harmony. An obscure achievement, certainly, one that virtually no one could ever appreciate, but a remarkable accomplishment none the less. A tragedy, in its way, that the whole thing was dispersed, but that was the point. In its way, Argyll thought loftily as he poured himself another drink and put his feet up on the sofa to contemplate his inspiration, collecting was the original performance art, transitory, fleeting and evanescent. Called into existence for one brief moment, then blown away on the winds of change as economics had their corrosive effect.
And theft. Seen in that way, theft could be presented as an aesthetic act, part of the never-ending process of breaking up and re-forming groups of pictures. Good heavens, he thought, I might even write my paper on this. Bottando’s little gift and the conference taken care of in one fell swoop. Kill two birds with one Stonehouse, so to speak. Windy, no doubt, insubstantial and vague, perhaps, but just the sort of thing that goes down well at conferences. Besides, time was running short. He really had to get on with it soon, and he had no other ideas at all.
His labours didn’t fill in any details about the little Virgin, however, although it gave him hope. If it had caught the eye of Stonehouse, there might be something to it; merely mentioning its provenance should add a fair amount to its value if Bottando ever wanted to sell it. Provenance hunting is a compulsive hobby in its own right, and once started it is difficult to stop. There is always the temptation to see if you can push the picture just a little bit further back into the past. Argyll had got back firmly only to 1966 and had pinned down only one previous owner. He still knew very little and in any case the idea for the paper had tickled his fancy. And Flavia was so preoccupied and grumpy that he would hardly be missed. Better to keep out of the way for a few days.
He thought about it, then got the number of the American university from directory inquiries, and rang them up. Charming people. Of course they had papers about Stonehouse; of course he could see them; of course they would be happy to put him up for a night if needed. Would that it was always so simple. Half an hour later he was packing his bag to be ready for an early train to Florence the next morning.
Corrado the trainee had done an exemplary job. Not only had he unearthed almost everyone in Italy ever involved in art theft, correlated them with those people known to have a penchant for art, then constructed another list of those connected with organized crime, and broken it down by region (on the reasonable ground that most criminals are remarkably lazy and don’t like commuting), but he had also typed it all up in two dozen typefaces, illustrated it with handsome (if largely meaningless) tables and bound it into a properly professional-looking report some forty-five pages long, complete with references to the case files. Flavia tried not to look impressed.
‘Very pretty,’ she said as drily as she could manage, tossing it on to her desk. ‘Now, if you would summarize your findings?’
‘None,’ he said with commendable directness.
‘None at all?’
‘No one in the files has the profile you need. That is, I was looking for people who work singly and have stolen something similar. I even separated that and assumed that the person who stole the painting might be acting for someone else, but still no one fits very well. I didn’t manage to check everything, of course, but … ’
Good, she thought. So he was fallible after all. A chance to be censorious. ‘Why not? Thoroughness is essential in these matters, you know. Without it …’
‘Not all the files were there,’ he interrupted, cutting the ground away from her just as she was getting into her stride. ‘A few were missing.’
Flavia ground her teeth. The sloppiness of some people was one of the few things that really made her annoyed, largely because she had once been the department’s worst offender in this regard. As a sign of her Damascene conversion, her ascent to the realm of responsibility, so to speak, her first act on moving into Bottando’s office had been to issue a severe memorandum to everyone about signing files out, putting them back afterwards and not resting coffee cups on them. The second had been to clear out all the old files from her office and send them back to the stacks herself.
The edict had as much effect as Bottando’s similarly worded commands had had on her. Great gaps continued to appear, files were placed in the wrong year or the wrong category even on the rare occasion they were put back at all, and every now and then a bellow of rage would echo through the building’s corridors as someone found a blank space where the answer to all their problems should have rested.
‘That’s your afternoon’s entertainment sorted out, then,’ she said. ‘You’d better find them. They must be somewhere in the building.’
‘Maybe. One isn’t, though.’
‘How do you know?’
‘The librarian said it’s down at the EUR. General Bottando borrowed it.’
‘Do without it, then, but find the rest.’ She had ruined his day, she knew that. The poor, crestfallen lad had hoped the splendid job he had done would have won her permission to get back to accompanying Paolo on his rounds.
‘The faster you find them, the faster you get out again,’ she added as he sloped out of the office. Then she leant back in her seat. Really she must get something for the nausea. The only reason she didn’t was her certainty that the doctor would find something wrong. The word ulcer hovered in the back of her mind; the sine qua non of all good bureaucrats. She couldn’t stand the idea. Then the phone rang. The ransom demand had shown up. And about time too.
It was classic stuff; so traditional that it caused a mental eyebrow to waggle up and down in suspicion. A telephone call to the museum – although it seemed that the poor robber had had a hard time getting anyone to listen to him initially – then a codeword to demonstrate his authenticity. Chocolates, the man had said. Fair enough; only someone who knew about the theft knew about the chocolates. Then the demand: three million dollars’ worth of mixed European currencies – how much simpler the Euro will make life for everybody in the ransom business – and a statement that the handover would be communicated tomorrow.
‘I think you should come down here, by the way,’ Macchioli said after he had relayed this information.
‘Why? There’s nothing else is there?’
‘Only this package.’
‘What package?’
‘The one a delivery man has just deposited in my office. I had to sign for it on your behalf.’
Flavia shook her head. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘It arrived five minutes ago. A courier. Don’t know where it comes from. It’s addressed to you, care of the museum.’
‘Why would anyone send me a package there?’
A silence from the other end.
‘Very well, I’ll come and collect it. While I’m on the way, could you see if you can remember anything else about the phone conversation. And get the tapes for me to listen to.’
‘What tapes?’
‘We sent someone round, remember? Just in case you had a phone call. Connected tape recorders to the phone system? Didn’t they?’
‘Oh. That.’ Macchioli sounded doubtful. A small bead of apprehensive sweat put in an appearance at the top of Flavia’s skull.