by Iain Pears
‘This doesn’t look too hopeful, does it?’ Argyll whispered.
‘Shh,’ she said. Not that there was much point. The guard was not particularly alert. He didn’t have to be, after all. They’d have to walk over his toes to get out. And as Argyll hinted, there wasn’t much chance of his not noticing that.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘This way.’
And, making sure the guard wasn’t looking, she walked as softly as possible in the opposite direction, towards the blank wall at the far end of the corridor.
In slightly easier circumstances, Argyll could have pointed out the disadvantages of this move. But he managed to restrain himself; sceptical expressions do not make a noise, however, and his doubts were clearly visible.
Their cubicle had been more or less in the middle of a range of about a dozen. When Flavia reached the last one, she eased open its door and pushed her head in. She was unlucky: it was occupied. A worried-looking man, apparently Algerian or Moroccan, was staring glumly at a stiff official, who turned round when he heard the door open.
‘Sorry,’ said Flavia in her brightest French. ‘I thought we were meant to be interviewing him.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Police,’ she said. ‘We reckon this one might be wanted back home for a robbery.’
‘Oh, great. You can have him if you like. I was going to send him back anyway.’
‘Shall we take over? We’ll give you a call when we’re done. There’s no need for you to hang around if you want a break.’
‘Fine by me. I could do with one. This is my twentieth today.’
He stood up, stretched and, with a friendly smile at them, and a scowl at the man he’d been interviewing, strolled out of the room leaving Flavia and Argyll in charge.
‘Come with me,’ Flavia said briskly to the immigrant, who now looked terrified. ‘And shut up,’ she added as he began protesting his innocence.
She opened the door on to the public area and looked out carefully. The armed guards were still outside the door of their original cubicle, idly chatting to each other. More passport officers were in operation now; more importantly, the one who had nobbled them had vanished.
‘Come on,’ she said, and marched confidently out towards one of the passport desks.
‘We’ve got to take this one off to charge him,’ she said to the man on the desk. ‘All the paperwork’s in order. You can have him back once we’ve done the fingerprinting at the station.’
‘OK. As long as you don’t lose him.’
‘We won’t. See you in half an hour.’
And with Argyll gripping the man’s other arm, she frog-marched the protesting Algerian through the immigration and customs sections and out into arrivals. There, she just managed to suppress a snigger.
‘And with one leap, we were free,’ she said. ‘Oh, do be quiet,’ she said to their prisoner as she walked swiftly out to the taxi rank. ‘Do you understand me?’ she added.
The man nodded, still deeply upset.
‘Good. Now. Get in this taxi. Take this money,’ she went on, pulling out a bundle of Edward Byrnes’s notes and thrusting it into his hand, ‘and go and have a nice life. OK? I don’t advise going too near any police for a bit.’
She told the driver to head for central Paris and watched as the cab disappeared along the ramp and into the night air.
‘Now it’s our turn,’ she said, heading for the next one. ‘Christ,’ she added as they got in. ‘I accidentally gave him about six thousand francs. He must think it’s his birthday. How the hell am I going to explain that to Bottando?’
‘Where to?’ asked the driver, revving up his engine.
‘Neuilly-sur-Seine. That’s where he lives, isn’t it?’
Argyll nodded.
‘Good. Take us there then,’ she said to the driver. ‘And as fast as possible, please.’
19
It was now after nine and the rush-hour traffic was easing off, allowing the taxi-driver to show what he could do. He drove a vast Mercedes, hopelessly uneconomic from a commercial point of view, in Argyll’s opinion, but undeniably effective in rushing them into Paris as fast as was conceivable.
The only difficulty was that the driver wasn’t all that certain about where they were going. Flavia and Argyll, neither of them exactly experts in Parisian geography themselves, had to lend a hand: Flavia with a map, Argyll with his memory of the last time he had visited Rouxel’s house. With the three of them working together, they made a decent job of the trip; only two wrong turns and one of those not completely disastrous. The driver, feeling quite pleased with himself but not overjoyed to be leaving his fare in the middle of a residential district with no chance of picking up anyone else, dropped them in the next street along from Rouxel’s.
Caution is a virtue, even when it is not necessary. She needn’t have worried too much. No matter how many police would shortly be swooping down when they got their act together and worked out that their captives had fled the airport, no one had turned up yet.
This time the gate was not locked, and opened with a slight squeak.
‘Flavia, before we go any further here, what is this about?’ Argyll asked.
‘Dates,’ she said.
‘What dates?’
‘The dates for the break-up of the Pilot network.’
‘I’m not with you. But no matter. What has that got to do with anything?’
‘We’ll have to ask Rouxel.’
Argyll sniffed. ‘Have it your own way, then. Although I must say that if I didn’t trust you so much, I’d be mightily tempted to go back to the airport.’
‘But you do. So shall we stop talking and go in?’
Cutting off further opportunity for dissent, she wheeled around and rang the doorbell. There was no answer. After waiting awhile and pressing it again, and tapping her foot with impatience, she decided that in the circumstances the social niceties could be disregarded. She turned the handle, found it open and pushed. Walking into other people’s houses seemed to be becoming a habit.
There was a light on in the hallway, which gave on to three rooms, each with the door firmly closed. Under one, there was a faint chink of light. She picked this one to start off, and went in.
It was empty. But evidently someone had been there recently: there was a book open on the carpet and a half-empty glass of brandy by the hearth.
‘I can hear something,’ Argyll said quietly. There was no great need to whisper, but it seemed appropriate.
‘Well?’ she asked, as they stood outside the room that the noise was coming from.
Although it was an absurdly fastidious piece of courtesy on the part of someone who, after all, had just barged uninvited into someone’s house, Flavia knocked softly. There was no answer. So she again reached for the handle and pushed the door open.
‘Who’s that?’ came a quiet voice from the corner as she opened the door and looked in. Rouxel was by a veritable forest of house plants, spraying the leaves with some unguent. Argyll had said he was keen on plants, Flavia thought unnecessarily.
The room was dark except for two pools of light, one by the desk, the other by a nearby armchair which contained Jeanne Armand. It was the study where Argyll had interviewed – or been interviewed by – Rouxel a few days previously. Dark wooden bookshelves lined with leather-bound books filled one wall. Heavy and comfortable armchairs were on either side of the fireplace.
Flavia looked around the room to try and gain a few moments to think. She was becoming confused about how to proceed. On the one hand was her certainty that she finally understood. On the other was a sudden and burning hatred for it all.
‘Who are you?’ Rouxel said again.
‘My name is Flavia di Stefano. I’m with the Rome police.’
He didn’t seem very interested.
‘I’ve been investigating the theft of your picture.’
‘That has been returned.’
‘And the two murders associated with it.’
&
nbsp; ‘Yes. I was kept informed. But it’s all over now, I think.’
‘I’m afraid you’re wrong. It’s not at all over.’
She walked over to the far wall, on the side of the room opposite the glass doors leading on to the garden. ‘Where is the picture?’
‘Which picture?’
‘The Death of Socrates. The one given to you by your mentor, Jules Hartung.’
‘Ah. Well, you know, it was so much trouble, I had it destroyed.’
‘You what?’
‘It was Jeanne’s idea. She burnt it.’
‘Why?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t think I have to explain to you what I do with my own property.’
‘Still, you have others left,’ she said. ‘Like this one.’ She pointed at the small painting hanging beside a mahogany bookcase. It was about the same size as all the others. Argyll’s sort of thing. Christ sat in the centre of the Apostles, in a fashion derived from Leonardo’s Last Supper; they all looked serious, but some of the Apostles had an air of sympathy, even sadness on their faces. Below them was a queue of people, with one kneeling and awaiting his verdict.
Again, there was no answer. Rouxel was not resisting her questions, not even resenting them or trying to stop them. Nor did he seem worried. He just wasn’t very interested.
‘“And they were judged every man according to their works,”’ she quoted. ‘Are you prepared for that, monsieur?’
At last she gained a response. Rouxel gave a bleak smile and stirred slightly. ‘Is anybody?’
‘I wonder how long it will take for the cavalry to get here,’ she said, looking at her watch.
‘Who?’ Argyll asked.
‘Montaillou and his friends. They should have arrived by now.’
‘And then what?’
Now it was her turn to look indifferent. ‘I don’t really care. What do you think, Monsieur Rouxel? Should I explain?’
‘You seem like a young woman who believes things can be explained. Accounted for, understood and made comprehensible. At my age, I’m not so sure. What people do and why they do it is often incomprehensible.’
‘Not always.’
‘I think they’re here,’ Argyll said, moving to the window and peering through the curtain. ‘Yes. Montaillou and a few others. One looks as though he’s being told to guard the gate. Another is on the front door. The other two are coming in.’
Montaillou and the other man, whom Argyll had never seen before, came through the front door and into the study. While the Intelligence officer had been polite at their last meeting, now he abandoned even a nominal attempt at courtesy.
The other man seemed more detached. In his late fifties, with close-cropped grey hair and a sharp nose, he had a look of alertness that was now masked by resigned concern.
‘A few hours ago I said I would not charge Mr Argyll or disrupt your career,’ Montaillou said in a clipped voice that barely concealed his fury. ‘I’m sure you’ll understand if I say that I no longer feel able to stand by that.’
Flavia ignored him. Possibly not the best way of disarming his anger, but what the hell? ‘Hello again, Inspector Janet,’ she said. ‘How delightful to see you again.’
The grey-haired man nodded at her uneasily. Argyll gave him a quick look-over, at close quarters, for the first time. The man who was supposedly the only one they could trust. Whatever happened, he thought, Franco-Italian relations over art thefts would take a long time to recover.
‘Hello, Flavia,’ he replied with an almost rueful, apologetic smile. ‘I’m really very sorry all this has happened.’
She shrugged.
‘But why did you come here?’ Janet went on. ‘What was the point?’
‘I know what the point was –’ Montaillou began. But Janet held up his hand to silence him. Flavia noticed that. It was interesting. She’d always known that Janet wielded more power than his status strictly warranted; that unlike Bottando he was one of the cadre of officials who knew a lot of people; who could phone contacts and fix things by having a quiet word. But this was new. Montaillou implicitly accepted the man’s greater authority. And Janet still seemed to acknowledge some sort of obligation, or connection to her and the Italian department. It gave her a chance that, at least, she would be heard.
‘I made a promise,’ she said.
‘You have any explanation? Any evidence?’
‘I think I can give a good account.’
‘It will have to be good.’
‘I don’t think so. I don’t think we’ll need any proof or anything. It’s not that sort of case. I fear this is not going to end with anyone arraigned, or extradited or tried, somehow.’
‘Are you going to suggest that French Intelligence was behind the deaths, then? I do hope not,’ Janet said. ‘However inadequate Monsieur Montaillou’s handling of this case …’
She shook her head again, noting the rift. That could be useful; no great love lost between these two representatives of the French state. ‘No. He – and you – merely made it more difficult to find out what was going on.’
‘So who did kill these people?’
‘She did,’ Flavia said simply, pointing at Jeanne Armand. ‘Or at least, she organized the first murder and committed the second.’
A complete silence greeted this, with not even the woman sitting in the chair breaking it with any protest. Eventually it was Argyll who reacted first.
‘Oh, Flavia, really,’ he said. ‘What an idea! Does she look like a murderer to you?’
‘Do you have any evidence for this, either?’ Janet asked.
She shook her head. ‘Nothing conclusive. But Monsieur Rouxel was in Rome that day, heading a delegation to the Interior Ministry. The call which summoned Ellman to Rome was made from the Hotel Raphael. And in the next room but one to Ellman was a witness that Detective Fabriano interviewed. A Madame Armand. That was you, was it not?’
Jeanne Armand looked up and nodded. ‘Yes. But I told the truth. I heard nothing of any interest. It was a dreadful coincidence that I was staying in the same hotel, of course –’
‘Dreadful,’ Flavia agreed. ‘And not entirely frank of you.’
‘I thought it best to protect my grandfather. I –’
‘– didn’t want his name in the papers just before the prize-giving. Yes, of course.’
‘But it was still a coincidence,’ Janet said quietly. ‘Unless you convince us otherwise.’
‘I say again, I have no proof. But I can tell you a story, if you like. You can believe it or not as you wish. Then I will quietly take the next plane home and forget it.’
She looked around, but nobody either urged her on or told her to keep quiet, so she took a deep breath and began.
‘We have a whole loose network of people, spread over several generations and several countries. Some dead, some alive. Jules Hartung, already fairly old when the last war began. Jean Rouxel, Mrs Richards, Ellman, all the same generation and in their twenties in 1940. Much younger was Arthur Muller. Youngest of all is Jeanne Armand here. They came from Switzerland and Canada and England and France. But all of them were profoundly marked by that war, and in particular by what happened on the twenty-seventh of June 1943. The day that the Resistance network dubbed Pilot was broken up by German army Intelligence.
‘If you want, we can talk about that later. First I want to tell you what happened. When Arthur Muller commissioned Besson to steal that picture, he was acting very much out of character. A more upright, honest and straightforward man could scarcely be imagined. He did not do things illegally. But in this case, he got involved quite deliberately in a crime. Why? We know he wanted to examine a picture, but why not write to Jean Rouxel and ask?
‘The answer, I suspect, is simple. He did. And was fobbed off.’
‘That’s not true,’ Rouxel said. ‘I had never heard of the man before last week.’
‘No. Your secretary screens all your mail. She saw the letters, and answered them for you. Initially, I imagi
ne she thought Muller was potty; he had good reason for not being entirely frank and saying why he wanted to look at the picture. Whatever, she blocked all his approaches.’
‘You’ll have a hard job proving that,’ Jeanne said.
‘I know. When you killed Ellman, you made sure you took and destroyed the file of correspondence he’d taken from Muller’s apartment. I imagine that contained all your letters to him.’
‘And maybe not.’
‘Indeed. As I say, I’m just telling a story. When the police arrested Besson, he was interviewed and passed on to Montaillou. He rang to enquire about the painting. You talked to Madame Armand, is that right?’
Montaillou nodded.
‘So she knew the picture was heading for Muller, and she now had an idea why it was so important. She wanted it stopped, so she said that Muller was a complete madman, obsessed with revealing that Rouxel had bungled the inquiry into Hartung’s guilt. It was she who pressed you to get it back before it left the country, warning of possible embarrassment.’
He nodded again.
‘And you failed. As far as she was concerned, by that time it was too late. Even if the painting was recovered from Muller, there was no guarantee that its contents had not been removed. Muller was dangerous and had to be taken care of. And before you interrupt, I will tell you why in a moment.
‘It was a delicate matter, and she needed someone she could trust. So she called Ellman. Phoned him from her hotel, and told him what to do. He agreed.
‘Ellman arrived in Rome and went to Muller. Muller denied having the painting, and was tortured to make him reveal where it was; when he said Argyll had it, he was killed and Ellman left with the documents.
‘Ellman then met Madame Armand, who had stayed behind after Rouxel left for Paris. Perhaps he tried to be too clever; I don’t know. But she shot him with his own gun, then left with all the papers he had in his room. I assume she destroyed them.