Iain Pears - The Last Judgement

In this part of the world lay the Jewish documentation centre, because that was where the Jewish quarter once was, until the combined efforts of Nazis and, more recently, property developers reduced it to a couple of streets.

The Rue Geoffroy-l’Asnier was not a major street in the tourist itinerary. One building of considerable beauty, a concrete memorial to the deported of the war, and that was about it. The rest had been flattened to make way for something. No one seemed too sure what it was. Even in the sunlight it seemed forlorn and half abandoned.

There was a minor debate as the pair of them stood outside, trying to decide who should take on the task of going inside and searching for useful information. Flavia particularly wanted to go in; she felt as though she should turn her mind once more to the attempt to give form to this hodge-podge of miscellaneous information.

‘So, you or me?’ she said, when her train of thought petered out. ‘Personally, I think I’d be better.’

‘OK. I’ve thought of something else to do anyway. I’m off to see about paintings. See you later.’

Flavia went into the building next to the monument to the deported, checked that Janet had, after all, phoned to say she was coming, signed in and then began making earnest enquiries. The woman at the desk was perfectly happy to help — there was almost nobody else in the building, after all — and she was shown to a vast cabinet full of filing cards. The name Jules Hartung was there, and a dossier number, which she wrote on a request form and handed back in. At the same time, the archivist recommended another series of dossiers on confiscated and looted property. If Hartung was rich and dispossessed, then there might well be some account of him, if only a brief one, in that as well.

She thanked the woman, sat down and waited, filling up the time by reading a pamphlet the dear lady brought to her on the confiscation of property during the occupation. She read it with considerable attention, having half formed in her mind the theory that Hartung’s art collection might be at the bottom of this somewhere.

It was a reasonable hypothesis, after all. Since the Berlin Wall had come down, long-lost treasures had been popping up in the basements of obscure East-European museums like mushrooms. Hundreds of paintings, looted in the war and never seen since, were now giving curators major headaches and exercising the minds of diplomats. Was it possible, she thought as she read, that all this business was stimulated by the possession of a major art collection?

Not that she knew anything about it, she realized as she ploughed her way through the pages. She’d never conceived that the looting was so well and bureaucratically organized. Extracts of letters from a secretary at the German embassy in Paris detailed how a special art force, the Einsatzstab Rosenberg, methodically arrested people, searched houses, confiscated goods and transported the product of their labours to Germany. An interim report of 1943 announced that it had confiscated more than 5,000 paintings. By the time its labours were interrupted by the untimely arrival of the Liberation, it had shifted nearly 22,000 articles to Germany. With the diligence of the committed thief, the plunderers made meticulous notes of their labours. None the less, the article concluded by announcing that a large proportion had never been seen again.

‘Here you are, mademoiselle,’ said the archivist, dragging Flavia from her reading and temporarily confusing her before she realized she was being addressed. The woman handed over a bulky file.

‘Confiscated goods. I hope you read German. We’ll bring you the other document you ordered in a while.’

Flavia’s face fell as she opened the dossier. Bad German handwriting was her idea of a nightmare. Still, she wasn’t there to enjoy herself, so screwing up eyes with concentration, and with the library’s best German dictionary by her side, she did her best.

It wasn’t as bad as she feared. The names of the previous owners were at the top of the sheet, so in most cases she merely had to check them off, and head on for the next document. Even so, it took two hours of hard work, and a depressing experience it was, skimming through dozens of lists of rings, jewels, prints, drawings, statues and paintings.

She found it at half-past one. Hartung, Jules; 18 Avenue Montaigne. List of goods confiscated on 27 June 1943, pursuant to orders given under Operation Razor on the twenty-third of the same month.

A rich haul, judging by the size of the list. Seventy-five paintings, 200 drawings, 37 bronzes, 12 marbles and 5 boxes of jewellery. Not bad for a morning’s work. A nice collection, she thought, if the objects really were what the inventory claimed. Rubens, Teniers, Claude, Watteau, they were all there.

But nothing by this Floret man, even though she checked twice. Nothing matching the title. Damnation, she thought. There goes another theory. And, if, this was something to do with the man’s collection, why concentrate on a minor painting when there were all these goodies to be had?

‘Mademoiselle di Stefano?’

She looked up again. ‘Yes?’

‘Would you come and see the director, please?’

Not again, she thought, eyeing the fastest route to the door as she stood up. If I have to take to my heels again I shall scream.

But the librarian still seemed friendly enough, almost apologetic in fact, and led her across to an office at the far end of the room without the slightest hint that she was preparing a trap. I’m getting paranoid, she thought.

‘I’m delighted to meet you,’ said the director, extending his hand in greeting as he introduced himself as François Thuillier. ‘I hope you’ve been getting what you need.’

‘So far, yes,’ Flavia replied, still a little cautious about all this. In her experience directors of archives did not personally welcome each customer, no matter how bad trade was. ‘I’m still waiting for another file, though.’

‘Ah, that’ll be the one on Hartung, no?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I’m afraid we have a problem there.’

Oh, I get it, she thought. I knew life was a little too easy this afternoon. Just saving up the little sting in the tail.

‘It’s very embarrassing to have to admit it, of course, but I’m sorry to tell you that we can’t seem to lay our hands on it at the moment.’

‘You’ve lost it?’

‘Ah, yes. That’s right.’

‘That’s a pity.’

‘It’s just not in place. I assume that it wasn’t put back after the last reader—’

‘What last reader? When was this?’

‘I really don’t know,’ he said.

‘And it disappeared?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Is it such a popular file?’

‘No, not at all. I’m dreadfully sorry, but I’m sure it will turn up soon.’

Flavia was not so certain, but she smiled her most plaintive smile, and explained her problem. She was running out of money, had little time...

Thuillier smiled sympathetically. ‘Believe me, in the last hour or so we’ve tried very hard. I think it must have been put back in the wrong place. I’m afraid we have no choice but to wait until it turns up. However, if you like I am able to tell you what I know of this case. I can do that, at least.’

She stared at him. What was going on here? she wondered. Thuillier looked very upset about something, and she had an idea she knew what it was.

‘When were you told not to let me see this file?’ she asked.

He spread his hands hopelessly. ‘I can’t answer that,’ he said. ‘But it’s true that we don’t have it.’

‘I see.’

‘And I shouldn’t have said that,’ he went on. ‘But I don’t like interference. So, I will tell you what I can, if you want to hear.’