by Iain Pears
As Argyll approached with an amiable smile on his face and Socrates under his arm, Rouxel grunted, bent over – stiffly, as you’d expect from a man in his seventies, but with signs of suppleness none the less – and pounced on a weed, which he ripped out and eyed with triumph. He then placed it carefully in a small wicker basket hanging on his right arm.
‘They’re a devil, aren’t they?’ said Argyll walking up. ‘Weeds, I mean.’
Rouxel turned round and looked at him puzzled for a moment. Then he noted the package and smiled.
‘You’ll be Monsieur Argyll, I imagine,’ he said.
‘Yes. Do forgive me for disturbing you,’ Argyll said as Rouxel looked placidly at him. ‘I hope your granddaughter told you I would be coming …’
‘Jeanne? She did mention she’d met you. I didn’t realize you’d be coming here, though. No matter, you’re most welcome. Let me just get this little one here …’
And he bent down again and resumed the attack on his incipient bindweed problem. ‘There,’ he said with satisfaction when this too had been consigned to the basket. ‘I do love my garden, but I must confess it is becoming a bit of a burden. A brutal occupation, don’t you think? Constantly killing, and spraying and rooting out.’
He had an impressive voice, mellow and well modulated with an underlying vitality of considerable power. Of course, he had been a lawyer, so it was probably part of the job; but from the voice alone, Argyll could see why a run at politics had been tempting. It was the sort of voice that people trust – as well as being the sort of well-honed instrument that could change in a flash to threat, anger and outrage. Not a de Gaulle voice; not the rolling oratorical style which gains your wholehearted support even if, like Argyll when he first heard one of the General’s speeches, you don’t have a clue what he’s talking about because it’s all in French. But certainly a match for all modern French politicians Argyll had ever heard.
So while they both looked carefully for any more weeds, Argyll apologized once more and explained that he’d wanted to return the picture as soon as possible so he could get back to Rome. As he’d hoped, Rouxel was delighted, considerably surprised, and, as any well-brought-up gentleman should, responded by insisting, absolutely insisting, that dear Mr Argyll should come in and take a cup of coffee and tell him the whole story.
Mission accomplished, Argyll thought as he settled himself down in an extremely comfortable stuffed armchair. Another point in the man’s favour. Of all the houses Argyll had ever been in in France, this was the first one to have even remotely comfortable furniture. Elegance, yes. Style aplenty. Expensive, in many cases. But comfortable? It always seemed designed to do to the human body what French gardeners liked to do to privet hedges, that is, bend and distort them out of all recognition. They just have a different idea of what relaxation is.
And on top of that, Argyll even approved of his pictures. He was in the man’s study, and it was lined with a comfortable jumble of paintings and photographs and bronzes and books. By the large glass doors leading on to the garden was further evidence of Rouxel’s enthusiasm for gardening: an impressive array of healthy, and no doubt well-sprayed, house plants. Faded Persian rugs on the floor, evidence of a large dog from the excessive amounts of moulted hair scattered around. One wall was covered in mementoes of a career in and out of public service. Rouxel and the General. Rouxel and Giscard. Rouxel and Johnson. Rouxel and Churchill even. Pictures of awards, records of honorary degrees, this and that. Argyll found it charming. No false modesty, but no boasting either. Just a quiet pride, hitting exactly the right tone.
The pictures were an electric jumble, from Renaissance to modern; no masterpieces but nicely done. Apparently hung at random but, in fact, with a distinct pattern to them. A tiny little Madonna, Florentine school probably, matched by what looked suspiciously like a Picasso drawing of a woman in pretty much the same posture. A seventeenth-century Dutch interior paralleled by an impressionist interior. An eighteenth-century version of Christ enthroned in Glory with Apostles, which Argyll studied carefully for a moment, and alongside it – a bit blasphemously, really – a socialist-realist painting of a meeting of the Third International. Evidently the owner had a slightly impish sense of humour as well.
As Argyll was looking around, Rouxel rang a small bell by the side of the marble fireplace. In due course it produced Jeanne Armand.
‘Yes, Grandfather?’ she asked, then saw Argyll. ‘Oh, hello,’ she said, a bit flatly. Argyll was surprised by this; considering the way they’d hit it off the previous evening, he expected her to be as pleased to see him as he was to see her. Evidently not. Maybe she hadn’t slept well, either.
‘Coffee, please, Jeanne,’ Rouxel said. ‘Two cups.’
Then he turned his attention back to Argyll, and his granddaughter left without saying another word. Again, Argyll found this a little perplexing. There was a brusqueness, almost an impoliteness, which contrasted strangely with the way the charm suddenly returned as the old man indicated a chair for his visitor on one side of the fireplace and settled himself into another one nearby.
‘Now, dear sir, do tell me. I’m dying to hear how this painting has come back to me in such an unexpected fashion. Has it, by the way, been damaged at all?’
Argyll shook his head. ‘No. Considering that in the past few days it’s been hurled around train stations and hidden under beds, it’s in perfect condition. Please examine it, if you want.’
So Rouxel did, and expressed satisfaction once again. Then he gently probed the entire story out of Argyll.
‘Besson,’ Rouxel said half-way through the rendition. ‘Yes. I remember him. He came to the château to measure up and take it away for the exhibition. I must say, I didn’t take to him at all. Although I never would have suspected –’
‘It is only a suspicion, you understand. I wouldn’t want the police –’
Rouxel held up his hand. ‘Goodness, no. I have no intention of bothering the police. I did have a word with one I knew when it was stolen and he told me, frankly, that it would be a waste of time to try and get it back. Now I have got it back, it would be perfectly pointless.’
Jeanne re-entered, bearing a tray with a pot of steaming coffee, milk, and sugar. And three cups. Rouxel looked at the tray with a frown.
‘What’s this?’ he said. ‘I said two cups.’
‘I want a cup myself,’ she said.
‘Oh, no. I’m sorry. But you know how pressed I am. Stop being a gossiping woman and get back to your work. Those letters really must be finished today. Please attend to them.’
She retreated once more, flushed with humiliation at the publicly dismissive tone of his order. Argyll could well understand why. It hardly matched up with the glowing portrait she’d sketched out the previous evening. Far from being the highly valued, indispensable organizer of his life, the devoted and doted-on granddaughter, it seemed that in reality she was little more than a secretary. A bit awkward to have her fantasies unveiled in such a way.
Rouxel carried on as though this small domestic scene had not happened, returning to the conversation as though there’d been no break in it at all. The charm was back in full force.
Then the litany of questions, buried in the running account of the case so far. And at each point, Rouxel shook his head. Muller didn’t ring a bell. Nor Ellman. But at the mention of Hartung, he nodded.
‘Of course, I remember the name,’ he said. ‘It was quite a cause célèbre. And as I was involved with the prosecutor’s office in Paris at the time I knew of the case.’
‘What happened?’
He spread his hands. ‘What can one say? He was a traitor, who caused the death of many, many people. He was arrested and would have been tried. And, I’ve no doubt, found guilty and guillotined, had he not killed himself first. A bad business, all around. There was a hysteria in the air then. Lots of old scores to be paid off, many collaborators and traitors to be rooted out. Fortunately it died down quickly, but we French are still
a little sensitive on the question of what happened during the war. It was not a happy time.’
Now there was an understatement, Argyll thought.
‘So what are your conclusions?’ he asked with a smile. ‘You seem to have done a considerable amount of hard work on my behalf over this.’
‘The only thing which makes sense is that Muller was completely potty,’ he said. This was a bit disingenuous, but he had decided he didn’t wholly like or trust the old man. Just prejudice, and he certainly didn’t have the full facts, but he was almost shocked by the way Rouxel had spoken to his granddaughter. Families have their own little ways, of course, and it is a foolhardy outsider who rushes to pass judgement on them. But Argyll did not approve of the contrast between the cold family man and the warm, charming version being presented to him. Too much of the politician, there.
‘And you have no idea what Muller was after?’
‘All I know is that somebody else took it seriously enough to kill him. And you now have the picture. It’s none of my business, I know, but I would beg you to be a little more careful. I would never forgive myself –’
Rouxel waved his hand dismissively. ‘Pah. I’m an old man, Mr Argyll. What possible point could there be in killing me? I shall be dead soon enough anyway. I’m sure I’m in no danger at all.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ Argyll replied. Then he got up to leave, an exit accompanied by a satisfying jousting between Rouxel who wanted to ply him with cheques for having been so kind and helpful, and Argyll who, desperately as he needed the money, felt it would spoil his gesture if he accepted. He parted instead with a heavy hint that, if ever Rouxel wanted to sell some pictures and needed an agent …
Back in the garden, after he had left Rouxel, he spied Jeanne Armand again. She was clearly waiting for him, so he gave her a wave and waited for her to come over.
‘How are you this morning,’ he asked breezily, noting that she didn’t look so happy.
‘Quite well, thank you. I wanted to explain.’
‘You don’t owe me any explanations, you know.’
‘I know. But it’s important to me. About Grandfather.’
‘Explain away, then.’
‘He’s under enormous pressure at the moment. What with the preparations for the prize, and being on this international financial committee and all the rest. He overdoes it, and that reminds him that he’s getting old. So he gets ill-tempered sometimes.’
‘And takes it out on you.’
‘Yes. But we really are very close. He’s such a great man, you know. I … I just didn’t want you to get the wrong impression. I’m all he has. His one close relative. Close enough to be irritable with.’
‘Right,’ said Argyll, thoroughly mystified by why she felt obliged to tell him this.
‘And of course he’s never really forgiven me.’
‘What for?’
‘For not being a grandson.’
‘You’re not serious?’
‘Oh, yes. It was important to him. He wanted to found a great dynasty, I think. But his wife gave him a daughter and then died. And his daughter produced me. And I’m divorced. He hated it when I left my husband. I think it makes him wonder what it’s all been for. Of course, he never says that,’ she went on quickly. ‘But I know he thinks it sometimes.’
‘It’s ridiculous.’
‘Just old-fashioned. That’s all. He’s an old man.’
‘But still.’
‘And he never refers to it, and never really holds anything against me. And is generally the kindest and most loving of grandfathers.’
‘Fine,’ Argyll said. ‘Whatever you say.’
‘I didn’t want you to get the wrong impression.’
‘No.’
And they smiled distantly at each other, and she let him out of the gate.
11
‘You look wonderful,’ he said intently from the other side of the table, by way of continuing his charm offensive.
There really was no accounting for people, Flavia reflected. She could spend ages getting herself up in her finery and he would not notice – or at least not pass any comment. And now, dressed as she was in crumpled shirt and battered jeans, he was going on as though she was the Venus de Milo. It made a pleasant change; but she would still like to know what had brought it on. Something very fishy going on here.
‘Thank you,’ she said, even more surprised by his sudden devoted attentiveness. ‘And I appreciate the comment. But if you stare into my eyes much longer you’re going to get soup down your jacket.’
They were in a restaurant in the Rue du Faubourg St-Denis, called Chez Julien, one of Argyll’s favorites. Covered in art nouveau plasterwork and mirrors and hatstands. You could eat and be cultivated simultaneously, he pointed out. It saved a great deal of time if you were in a hurry. Food wasn’t bad either, although technically it was breakfast. Without even trying, Flavia had slept straight through until seven in the evening; then she had woken and complained loudly about being hungry. Argyll’s credit card had generously offered to take both of them out to dinner.
Argyll summarized first, talking about Rouxel and Rouxel’s granddaughter. He downplayed her charms, and instead concentrated on the factual material he’d garnered.
‘It was odd,’ he said musingly. ‘She was so insistent that I should understand that Rouxel was really such a doting grandfather. I wouldn’t have bothered. I mean, it was no business of mine.’
‘Family pride,’ Flavia said, as she gazed enraptured at the plate of escalope de foie gras that the unusually amiable waiter delivered. ‘No one likes those little cracks in the edifice to be shown to the public. You try to cover them over. Common enough, isn’t it? Think how embarrassed you get when we have a fight in a restaurant.’
‘That’s different.’
‘Not really. Are you sure we can afford this?’
‘The meal?’ he asked, dragging his mind off Jeanne Armand. ‘Of course we can’t. I’m relying on your expense account to race to the rescue at the last moment. Do you want to tell me what you’ve been doing as well?’
‘Naturally,’ she said after a long pause to allow a slice of foie gras to dissolve like butter on her tongue.
‘Who knows? If we glue our two stories together we might come up with some obvious conclusion. Wouldn’t that be nice? Then we could go home.’
The statement stemmed from his eternal optimism that good times were just around the corner. Even he, when Flavia had finished, was forced to concede that by joining the two together, all they now had was more information which still didn’t make much sense.
‘What do you reckon, then?’
‘I reckon, firstly, that I have to go and do the decent thing tomorrow. That is, go and see Janet. I really should not have gone out to Roissy to talk to Ellman without telling Janet first. Bad manners. He won’t mind, but I’m sure he’ll be a little upset if I don’t go and pay my compliments. Next, we should do a little work on Besson; he might know why Muller wanted that picture, or at least how he came to the conclusion that the picture was the one he wanted.’
‘Splendid. What about me?’
‘You can dig around with this picture. Find out how it got into Rouxel’s hands. And why Muller had it stolen.’
‘That’s easy. Wrong picture.’
‘So, you find the right one.’
‘Not so easy.’
‘No, but it will give your brain cells a bit of exercise. Is there any chance?’
‘Maybe. There was an old dealer’s label on the back of the frame. Rosier, in the Rue de Rivoli. There’s not much likelihood he’s still there, but I’ll see.’
‘Good. And I’ll talk to Bottando to see if any dribbles of information have come in from the Swiss or from Fabriano. I also want him to check out this Schmidt/Ellman a bit more closely. And finally –’
‘Whoa. I think that’s quite enough,’ Argyll said. ‘Your food will get cold. Eat up. Then we should have an early night.’
‘I slept all afternoon. I don’t feel in the slightest bit tired.’
‘Oh, good.’
No doubt about it. He was acting most peculiar these days.
However distinguished a purveyor of art the Rue de Rivoli might have been seventy years ago, it was so no longer. Apart from the excessively expensive galeries slipped in where once there had been one of the finest hotels in Europe, the nearest thing to a decent antique you can buy there nowadays is a luminous model of the Eiffel Tower. The broad Imperial thoroughfare has gone down in the world a little in the past century. Rosier Frères had vanished as well. Even on a sunny morning, the tawdry lines of foreign-exchange booths, postcard stands and souvenir shops are less than appealing. Thinking over what to do next, Argyll sipped his coffee – disgusting weak stuff they sold in France compared to the real Italian brew. Flavia had vanished on her errands, he had decided to start on the great picture hunt.
How do you do that? Eliminate the impossible, so the great man had said. Or, to translate that into more acceptable terms, start with the easy bits. Which, in this case, suggested finding out as much as possible about this picture.
There wasn’t much to go on here. Really famous pictures have pedigrees that can be traced back through the generations; with many, you can tell where they were at any moment during the past five hundred years. Frequently you can even say a picture was hanging on this wall, in this room, in this house, on this day, in this year. But that is the élite minority. Most pictures bumble about the world hopping from owner to owner and it is impossible to find out where they’ve been unless you are really lucky.
In the case of Socrates, all he had was the faded label on the back of the frame. The more he thought about it, the more he was certain it was his only real chance. It was impossible to say with any accuracy how old it was, but from the typeface he placed it somewhere in the inter-war period.
Phone book? he thought. A long shot, certainly, but think how pleasant if it worked. So he borrowed an old, dog-eared copy of the phone book and started hunting. And there it was. Family businesses are wonderful things. Rosier Frères still existed. Perhaps not at the same address, but a gallery of that name had an address in the Faubourg St-Honoré, with a little logo saying ‘Established 1882.’ Bingo. He looked at his map, decided it was an easy walk and set off.