Iain Pears - The Last Judgement

‘Madame Rouvet?’ she asked in French as the door opened, having desperately checked her file at the last moment to make sure that she remembered the name properly.

‘Yes?’ She was probably ten years younger than her employer had been, and didn’t seem at all like a housemaid. Very well dressed, with an attractive face spoiled only by a thin, puritanical mouth.

Flavia explained who she was, and where she had come from, showing her Italian police identification. She had been sent up by the Rome police to ask a few questions about Mr Ellman’s death.

She was allowed in without any awkward questions being asked. Like, isn’t it a bit late? And don’t the Swiss authorities insist on accompanying foreign policemen when they investigate on their patch? And where is your written authority to be here?

‘You’ve come from Rome today?’ she asked.

‘That’s right,’ Flavia replied as she carefully looked around to get a feel of the place. The instant impression was of a home that was as proper as the block that contained it. Modestly furnished, with nothing exceptional. Inexpensive modern furniture, a preference for bright colours. No pictures on the wall except for a couple of popular prints of paintings. A vast television dominated the little sitting-room, and the air of meticulous cleanliness was spoiled only by the faint smell of cat.

‘I arrived about half an hour ago,’ she continued as she took all this in. ‘I hope you don’t mind me just turning up like this.’

‘Not at all,’ Madame Rouvet said. She looked properly, but far from excessively, distressed at her employer’s death. One of those people whose period of grief would be fitted into the day’s schedule, somewhere between the shopping and the ironing. ‘How can I help you? I’m afraid this has all come as rather a shock to me.’

‘I’m sure,’ she replied sympathetically. ‘A dreadful thing to happen. And I’m sure you understand, we want to find out what happened as soon as possible.’

‘Do you have any idea who killed him?’

‘Not really. Bits and pieces, hints and clues, and lines of enquiry. But I must tell you that at the moment we need all the information we can gather.’

‘I will, of course, be eager to help. I can’t imagine who would want to kill poor Mr Ellman. Such a nice, kind, generous soul. So good to his family, and to me, as well.’

‘He has family?’

‘A son. A good-for-nothing, frankly. Idle and grasping. Always coming here with his hand out. Never had a decent job in his life.’ She looked disapproving at the mere mention of the son.

‘And where is he?’

‘On holiday. In Africa, at the moment. He’s due back tomorrow. Typical of him. Never around when he’s needed. Always spending. Always other people’s money. And his poor father could never say no. I would have, I can tell you.’

The conversation paused for a moment while Flavia jotted down details of the son and where he was. You never knew. Greedy son, dead father. Will. Inheritance. Oldest motive known to man, more or less. But somehow she thought it wasn’t going to be that easy. Already, this case did not seem the sort that had money at the bottom of it. A pity; those were always the easiest. Even Madame Rouvet was sceptical; she may have disliked the son, but she didn’t think him capable of murdering his own father. Largely because he was too spineless, in her opinion.

‘And his wife?’

‘She died about eight years ago. A heart attack, just as poor Mr Ellman was about to retire.’

‘And he was in the, ah, import-export business?’

‘That’s right, yes. Not rich, but hard-working, and as honest as the day is long.’

‘And the company name?’

‘Jorgssen. It trades in engineering parts. All over the world. Mr Ellman was always flying off somewhere, before he retired.’

‘Did he have any interest in paintings?’

‘Good heavens, no. Why do you ask?’

‘Just that we think he may have gone down to Rome to buy a painting.’

She shook her head. ‘No, that’s not him at all. Mind you, he still did some business, occasionally, when they needed him.’

‘And where was that?’

‘South America. He went there last year. And he went to France at least three or four times a year. He still had contacts there. He had a long phone call from there only the day before he left.’

A slight contact, here, but nothing to get excited about yet. Flavia noted down the name of Jorgssen. She would need to have it checked out.

‘This phone call. Was he planning to go to Italy before?’

‘I don’t know. He certainly didn’t tell me he was going away until just before he left.’

‘Did you happen to hear what this call was about?’

‘Well,’ she said, reluctantly, anxious not to give the impression of someone who made a habit of listening in on her employers’s conversations. ‘A little.’

‘And?’

‘Nothing out of the ordinary. He said very little. At one stage he asked, “How important is this Muller deal to you?” and—’

‘Whoa, there,’ Flavia said. ‘Muller. He said Muller?’

‘I think so. Yes. I’m sure.’

‘Does the name mean anything to you?’

‘Not at all. Of course, Mr Ellman had so many business acquaintances—’

‘But it’s no one you’ve heard him mention before?’

‘No. Anyway, then he said he was sure it could be done with no trouble and mentioned some hotel.’

‘The Hotel Raphael?’

‘Maybe, yes. Something like that. I mean, he didn’t say much. Listened, mainly.’

‘I see. And you don’t know who made the call?’

‘No. I’m afraid I’m not being much help.’

‘You’re doing fine. Most helpful, in fact.’

She brightened at that, and smiled.

‘How do you know the call came from France?’

‘Because he said that it would have been simpler to have organized things better in Paris first.’

‘Ah.’

‘And the next morning, he said he was off to Rome. I told him not to get tired, and he said that it might well be the last time he ever did one of these trips.’

He was right there, Flavia thought. ‘Meaning what?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Was he a rich man, Mr Ellman?’

‘Oh, no. He lived off his pension. It was enough but not a lot. He gave a lot of money to his son, of course. Far more than he should have done. Ungrateful hound. Do you know, when the cheques didn’t arrive promptly enough for him last year, he even had the nerve to come here and bawl his father out? I would have sent him packing, myself. But Mr Ellman just nodded his head and did as he was told.’

Madame Rouvet did not like this son.

‘I see. And when did he get Swiss citizenship?’

‘I don’t know. He came to live and work in Switzerland in about 1948; but when he became a citizen I’m not sure.’

‘Does the name Jules Hartung mean anything to you? He died a long time ago.’

She thought carefully, then shook her head. ‘No,’ she said.

‘Did Mr Ellman have a gun?’

‘Yes, I think so. I saw it once, in a drawer. He never took it out, and the drawer was normally locked. I don’t even know if the gun worked.’

‘Could I see it?’

Madame Rouvet pointed to a drawer in a cabinet in the corner. Flavia went over, tugged and looked in. ‘It’s empty,’ she observed.

Madame Rouvet shrugged. ‘Is it important?’

‘Probably. But it can wait. Now then, what I would like to do is look at any files or accounts Mr Ellman may have had.’

‘Might I ask why?’

‘Because we need to make a list of business acquaintances, colleagues, friends, relations. All people to interview to build up a picture. Who did he know in Rome, for example? Did he go there often?’