‘Damnation,’ said Thanet, turning to confront the menace.
‘Samuel Thanet. I want a word with you,’ she called as she marched across the lawn, giving the luckless gardener a nasty look as he started to protest once more.
Her eyes swept across the assembled company with all the warmth of a high-pressure water-hose. ‘What piece of chicanery have you pulled off this time?’
‘Oh, Mrs Moresby…’ Thanet said desperately, giving the others the only introduction they ever received.
‘Oh, Mrs Moresby,’ she mimicked in an unappealing fashion. ‘Stop whingeing. What I want to know is,’ she paused for dramatic effect and pointed an accusing finger at him, ‘what in God’s name are you up to now?’
Thanet stared at her in bewilderment. ‘What?’ he said in surprise. ‘I don’t know what…’
‘You know very well what. You’ve been bamboozling my husband again.’
Di Souza, always adverse to being left out of conversations with handsome and vastly wealthy women, spotted his opportunity. ‘What does bamboozling mean?’ he asked, smiling in the way which, he firmly believed, normally made hearts flutter.
Mrs Moresby added him to her list of people who deserved looks of withering contempt. ‘Bam-boozling,’ she said slowly but rather nastily. ‘From bamboozle. Verb. To defraud. To corrupt. To pull the wool over the eyes of sweet, trusting old men. To buy, in other words, stolen or otherwise illegally acquired works of art for the purposes of egotistical self-aggrandisement. That’s what bamboozling means. And this stumpy little creep,’ she said, pointing at Thanet in case there was any doubt, ‘is the arch bamboozler. Got it?’
Di Souza nodded slowly, having failed to understand what on earth she was talking about. ‘Yes, perfectly, thank you,’ he said in what he always considered to be his most charming fashion. Highly reliable usually, and the prop on which he had built an old but deserved reputation for irresistibility. It singularly failed to work its magic on Anne Moresby.
‘Good,’ said Mrs Moresby. ‘Now keep your nose out of this.’
Di Souza drew himself up in dignified protest. ‘Madam, please…’
‘Ah, shut up.’ She cut him dead and directed her full attention at Thanet. ‘Your grasping ambition for this museum is out of hand. I’m warning you, if you keep on manipulating my husband, when he comes this evening you are going to pay a very heavy price indeed. So you watch yourself.’ She poked him in the chest for emphasis.
She did an abrupt about-turn and marched back across the lawn. Didn’t even say goodbye. In the background the gardener threw up his hands in despair and, as soon as the car swept back out into the street, came across to examine the damage.
Thanet watched her go impassively. He almost looked pleased.
‘What on earth was that all about?’ Argyll asked in astonishment.
Thanet shook his head and declined the invitation to hand out confidences. ‘Oh, it’s a long story. Mrs Moresby likes to take on the role of the dutiful wife protecting her husband from the outside world. And looking after her own interests into the bargain. I’m very much afraid she likes to practise on me. It may well indicate that Mr Moresby will indeed be making an important announcement tonight.’
Clearly, much remained unsaid here, but Argyll had no opportunity to pursue the matter. Thanet fended off further questions, apologised profusely for the unorthodox way in which di Souza had been welcomed, and sniffled his way off to the solitary splendour of his office in the administrative block. The two Europeans watched him go in silence.
‘Can’t say I’d like his job,’ Argyll ventured after a pause.
‘I don’t know,’ di Souza said. ‘Whatever Moresby’s faults, I have heard that he pays well. Are you going to go this evening?’
Argyll nodded. ‘Seems so.’
Di Souza waved his hand dismissively. ‘Good. The place will probably be littered with artistically starved wealth. All wanting genuine works of art imported direct from Europe. Could make your career, if you oil your way around the clientele properly. And mine, come to think of it. If I can only unload my stock on some of them I’ll be able to retire a happy man. I just hope that dreadful woman won’t be there.’
‘The trouble is, I’ve never been very good at parties…’
Di Souza tut-tutted. ‘You’re the only art dealer I know who feels embarrassed about selling things to people. You must get over this disgusting reticence, you know. I know it’s the mark of an English gentleman but it’s bad news here. The hard sell, my boy. That’s what’s needed. Get the bit between your teeth, the wind in your sails, the eye on the ball…’
‘And trip up?’
‘And make money.’
Argyll looked shocked. ‘I’m most surprised to hear you talking in such blatantly materialistic terms. And you an aesthete, too.’
‘Even aesthetes must eat. In fact, we spend a fortune on food, because we’re so fussy. That’s why we’re such expensive friends. Come now, this is your big chance.’
‘But I’ve just sold a Titian…’ Argyll protested, feeling his professional acumen was being called into question a little.
Di Souza looked unconvinced. ‘Many a slip,’ he said supportively, and Argyll glared at him. The last thing he needed at the moment was something else to worry about. ‘After all, you’ve not cashed the cheque yet.’
‘I haven’t even got the cheque yet.’
‘There you are. It’s amazing the things that can go wrong. Take Moresby, now. I remember, just after the war…’
Argyll did not want to hear. ‘That Titian is as sold as you can get,’ he said firmly. ‘Don’t go around putting ideas into people’s heads.’
‘Oh, very well,’ di Souza replied, annoyed to be interrupted in mid-anecdote. ‘If you restrain yourself over my sculpture. All I was trying to say is that the good dealer never misses an opportunity. Think how much your stock will rise with Byrnes if you unload something else while you’re here.’
‘My stock is quite high already, thank you,’ Argyll said primly. ‘I’ve been asked to go back to London. Perhaps become a partner.’
Di Souza was impressed, as well he might be. Argyll, after all, left out the bit that it was more of an order than a request, and the result of a cutback rather than a promotion.
‘You’re leaving Rome? I thought you were settled permanently.’
That, of course, was the rub. Argyll had also thought he was settled permanently. But it seemed that, in reality, he had no real ties to the place at all. Not when it came to the test.
He shrugged miserably. Like Thanet, he was not in a confiding mood at the moment. Di Souza, ever insensitive, assumed he was thinking about money.
2
For all Argyll’s misgivings, the party was an impressive affair, especially for a scratch effort. However nasty an employer Moresby might be, clearly parties were an area where blank cheques ruled. And whatever the inadequacies of the museum itself at least its entrance lobby was a good place for a bash. Centre stage was a vast table covered in ice and half an ocean full of miscellaneous shellfish; nibbles there were aplenty; a jazz band blasted away in one corner, a string quintet in another, to emphasise the museum’s mission to unify high and popular culture. No one paid much attention to either. The drink situation, while not generous, was adequate if you worked at it.
In short supply, however, were all those multi-millionaires slavering at the chops to buy up Argyll’s small (but select) stock of goods. Perhaps they were there and he just didn’t know how to spot them. You couldn’t, after all, just sidle up to someone and ask for a quick peek at their bank statement, though some people did seem to have a sixth sense for this sort of thing: Edward Byrnes instinctively headed towards people with excess cash burning a hole in their pockets. Argyll had never worked out how he did it. Nor had he ever grasped how to manipulate a conversation so that it imperceptibly came round to the question of, say, nineteenth-century French landscapes. Of which, by chance, you happened to have a fine example…