Iain Pears - The Last Judgement

‘Oh.’

‘So it may well be that your stepbrother believed that the painting contained what he was looking for. Only—’

‘Yes?’

‘Only it didn’t. Either he was wrong and you are right about him constructing fantasies or, just perhaps, somebody had already found whatever it was. Either way, Jona — the dealer who delivered it said that Mr Muller was very excited when the picture first arrived, then became disappointed and decided he didn’t want it. That only makes sense if he was after not the picture itself, but something in or on the picture. Which wasn’t there.

‘Then he was murdered, and we have not noticed this file among his possessions. There is evidently something about this painting we’re missing.’

She was musing again, and beginning to fantasize herself now, the sleepiness returning and taking her mind off formal matters. With a bit of an effort, she concentrated on the interview. She would be grateful, she said, if Mrs Mackenzie could come back in the afternoon to read over the statement and sign it. Muller’s company was seeing to all the practical matters of dealing with his effects and arranging the funeral. Was there anything she needed?

Mrs Mackenzie said there wasn’t, and thanked her. Flavia escorted her to the door, then went up to discuss matters with Bottando.

‘So what is this, a treasure hunt?’ Bottando said. ‘Is that it?’

‘Just an idea,’ she said. ‘It does fit.’

‘If your interpretation of the reference to the Last Judgement is correct, and if Muller thought the same. Which may be doubted. On the other hand, he did want that picture.’

Bottando thought a moment. ‘Can I see Mr Argyll’s statement?’ he continued. ‘Do you have it on you?’

Flavia rummaged in her file and handed it over, then sat while Bottando read. ‘It says here that when he delivered the painting, he unwrapped it, then went into the kitchen to pour himself a coffee. Beforehand, Muller was excited. When Argyll came back Muller said he didn’t want it.’

‘So he did.’

‘So we have three possibilities, don’t we? One that whatever he was after was not there; he discovered this, realized he’d been wrong and got rid of the thing. The second is that he was right, and removed whatever it was while Mr Argyll was in the kitchen.’

‘But in that case,’ Flavia said reasonably, ‘he wouldn’t have seemed so downcast. Unless he was a good actor.’

‘And the final possibility, of course, is that this whole story is merest moonshine and there is a better, simpler and more correct explanation.’

‘Perhaps he missed something,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we did as well. I think we should have another look at it.’

‘A bit late for that. Your friend Argyll picked it up this morning and took it back to Paris.’

‘Damnation. I forgot about that. I was so tired I didn’t think. He’s going to give it to Janet, is he?’

Bottando nodded. ‘I assume so. At least, I do very much hope he’s not going to stick his nose in where it isn’t needed.’

‘Do you think I ought to take another look at this thing? Go on to Paris after Basle? You could ask Janet to look up some stuff for me to pick up when I get there.’

‘Such as?’

‘Anything on this man Hartung, in essence. It would also be nice to know where this picture came from. We need more background on Ellman as well. Perhaps you could ask the Swiss...?’

Bottando sighed. ‘Oh, very well. Is there anything else?’

She shook her head. ‘No, not really. Except that you could forward a copy of the interview to Fabriano when it’s been typed out. I want to go home, shower and pack a bag. There’s a flight at four to Basle, and I don’t want to miss it.’

‘Whatever you say, my dear. Oh, and by the way...’

‘Hmm?’

‘Don’t get too carefree. Muller died in a very nasty fashion, Ellman in a neat one. I don’t want you — or even Mr Argyll — to suffer either fate. Watch yourself. I intend to say the same thing to him when he gets back.’

‘Don’t worry,’ she said reassuringly. ‘This is perfectly safe.’

Despite his love of trains, dislike of aircraft and acute shortage of money, Argyll had decided to fly to Paris. It showed how seriously he was taking this business, that he was willing to foist on to his Visa card a debt that he had little immediate ability to pay off. But that was what the horrid things were there for, and if the credit-card company was prepared to trust him, who was he to doubt their judgement?

However awful they were, aircraft were at least a little bit faster than trains; he was in Paris as expected by ten. From then, the disadvantages became clear, and what he had fondly hoped would be a quick day trip became rapidly bogged down in hitches. With a train, you turn up with your ticket and hop aboard. Sometimes you may have to stand, or camp out in the guard’s van, but generally you get on. Not so with planes. Considering that they increasingly resemble aerial cattle-trucks, the fuss made about tickets is extraordinary. In brief, every flight that evening for Rome was booked solid. Not a seat available. Sorry. Tomorrow lunch-time, fine.

Cursing airports, airlines and modern life, Argyll booked a seat, then tried to phone Flavia to tell her he would be delayed getting back. Not at home and, when he used up even more money to call the department, the obnoxious character who answered the phone informed him a little coolly that she was conducting an important interview and couldn’t be disturbed. Then he phoned the headquarters of the Paris Art Squad to announce his imminent arrival with the picture. But they didn’t know anything about it and, it being a weekend, there was no one around to ask. Nor were they prepared to find someone to ask. And no, he couldn’t deposit his picture. It was a police station, not a left-luggage depository. Come in on Monday, they said.

So back to the airline desk to change his reservation, and into Paris to find a hotel. At least here he had some luck in that the usual place he stayed at grudgingly admitted to having a spare room, and even more reluctantly allowed him to have it. He tucked the painting under the bed — not an inspired hiding-place, but it wasn’t the sort of hotel that had strong-rooms — then sat and wondered how to fill in the time. He tried Flavia again, but by this time she’d left. Wherever it was, she hadn’t gone home. It was one of those days.

Shortly after, he hit another hitch, when he went down to Jacques Delorme’s gallery to ask a few direct questions about the painting and its origins. He was less than happy with his colleague who, after all, had landed him in a not inconsiderable amount of trouble. Several choice phrases, carefully translated into French, had been lined up on the plane and Argyll was keen to go and deliver them before he forgot them. Nothing worse than moral indignation in the wrong gender. He didn’t want to deliver a fiery speech of outrage and have Delorme giggle because he’d fluffed a subjunctive. The French are fussy about that sort of thing, unlike the Italians who are much more easy-going about the beginner’s tendency to use the scatter-gun approach.

‘I have a bone to pick with you,’ Argyll said stonily as he walked in through the door, and Delorme greeted him cheerfully. First mistake. Something wrong with the dictionary of idiom. He’d have to write and complain. Evidently Delorme thought he was inviting him out for dinner.

‘What?’

‘That picture.’

‘What about it?’

‘Where did you get it from?’

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Because it may have been stolen, it may have been involved in a couple of murders and you certainly got me to smuggle it out of the country.’