Iain Pears - The Last Judgement

‘And there’s no doubt that he was a traitor?’

‘Absolutely none. We also conduct our interviews, to build up our dossiers of material; we talked to some people ourselves about what happened.’

‘What did they say?’

Thuillier smiled. ‘There you are pressing my memory too far, I’m afraid. It was a long time ago and I haven’t read those statements. All I can supply there is the names. Not that they will be of much use.’

She smiled at him, and asked for the names. He led her out of his office to a bank of card-index drawers. ‘This may take some time,’ he said.

So she wandered off to the desk by the entrance. There was one other thing which she needed to do before she left.

‘I know it’s a little bit irregular,’ she began when the librarian lady smiled apologetically and asked what she needed. ‘But would it be so dreadful to know who else is interested in my files. Just paranoia, I know. But if the documents don’t turn up, I might be able to approach him and see if he has any notes...?’

‘We don’t normally do that, you know,’ she said. ‘But in the circumstances, I’m sure we could bend the rules a bit.’

She rummaged under the desk and took out a book. ‘No computerized technology here, I’m afraid. We just write it all down in this book. Let’s see. A few months back, I’m told. I was on holiday then, otherwise I’d be able to help you.’

Flavia flicked through the pages, frowned, then flicked through them again. There was Muller’s name, bold and clear. She tore the page out and stuffed it in her handbag. It probably wouldn’t be there if she came back for it.

Then she wandered back to Thuillier, still labouring with the file cards. ‘Oh, dear,’ he said. ‘I’m being less help than I hoped. After all that, I can only find one name. The others also seem to have been mislaid.’

‘What a pity,’ she said drily.

He handed over an old file card, with a handwritten annotation on it. H. Richards, it said. With an address in England.

‘And who is this?’

‘I’ve no idea. I imagine he must have been a liaison officer in the British army or something like that. We have an awful lot of cross-references to material in other libraries and centres. This one, you can see from the reference number, is to papers in the Justice Ministry. It wasn’t with the rest, which is why it’s still there. I assume that it was testimony collected for the trial. And that means, of course, that it is confidential.’

‘So you have no idea what’s in it?’

‘Not a clue. And I doubt you’ll be allowed to look. In fact, I know you won’t.’

‘And you don’t know if this man is still alive?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

By the time he got to the café in the Rue Rambuteau where he was meant to meet Flavia, Argyll was feeling pleased with himself. He’d spent a quiet afternoon in the Bibliothèque Nationale, doing valiant battle with the microfiche machines, and had emerged victorious. No small thing. His eyes might never recover from being screwed up for four hours, but he had something fascinating to report, and he was looking forward to a pleasant evening out with Flavia telling her all about it, and hearing her tell him how clever he was.

She wasn’t there, so he sat in a corner, ordered an aperitif and hummed quietly to himself, staring into space and trying to get his eyes back in full working order. A few minutes into his drink, a hand tapped him on the shoulder. He turned round with a welcoming smile.

‘Oh, good, you’re back...’

The words died on his lips. Standing next to him by the table was the man who had stolen his painting, who had tried to nobble Flavia and, he assumed, already had a murder or two to his credit. He’d read somewhere that if you’ve murdered once it’s easier the second time round. Third time round must be about as exciting as going to the supermarket. For some reason the thought didn’t make him any happier.

‘Good evening, Mr Argyll,’ said this presence. ‘Do you mind if I sit down?’

‘Make yourself at home,’ he said a little nervously. ‘I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced, though.’

Nor, it seemed, were they going to be. The man with the little scar settled himself awfully politely on the chair by the window, and looked apologetic.

‘Would you mind my asking when your, ah, friend will be returning?’ he said, very much, to Argyll’s mind, with the air of someone fully in charge of proceedings.

‘Why do you ask?’ Argyll said cautiously.

‘So that we can have a little conversation. We seem to have been running into each other so often that I thought it might be an idea to swap notes. So far, every time we meet, someone hits me. Frankly, I’m getting a little tired of it.’

‘Sorry about that.’

‘Hmm. We also seem to share a common interest in a painting. Your interest I am beginning to find tiresome.’

‘Are you, indeed? Why is that?’ Argyll said perkily, thinking that maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to say it had been returned to its owner. If this man was going to such a lot of trouble to get it, he might be distinctly peeved to discover he was now, thanks to Argyll, back at square one again.

‘I think for the time being it would be best if I ask the questions.’

‘Right-ho. Fire away.’

‘You are an art dealer, is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘And your friend? What is her name?’

‘Flavia. Di Stefano. Flavia di Stefano.’

And there the conversation lapsed into a temporary silence, rather as with two people at a tea-party who feel constrained in each other’s presence. Argyll even found himself smiling encouragingly at the other, in the hope it might stimulate him to say something. It didn’t. Maybe he was just concentrating on his injuries. Poor man. A bad bruising from Argyll’s tackle, then being kicked in the ribs and hit over the head by a bottle thanks to Flavia. He rubbed the plaster over his eye.

‘Guess what?’ said Flavia as she bounded through the door.

‘Do tell,’ said the Frenchman.

‘Oh shit,’ said Flavia.

One thing about her, nothing wrong with her reflexes. The moment she saw him, she swung round and hurled her handbag in his direction. She kept enough emergency rations in it to last a month, so the weight and speed were impressive. The bag hit the man on the temple and, in the few half-seconds he was off balance, Flavia picked up the tiny vase on the table and brought it crashing down on him. He groaned loudly and rolled on the floor, clutching his head. Flavia looked triumphantly at Argyll. Saved him again. What would he do without her?

‘It’s like living with a Rottweiler,’ Argyll said, beginning to run out of the door of the café with her. ‘He was being very peaceful, you know.’

‘Follow me,’ she yelled back in high excitement as she disappeared into a milling throng of tourists. Not Germans, she thought as he elbowed his way after her. Too many to be Dutch, this would be about the entire country. Czechs, maybe. Whoever they were, they were very good at obscuring the couple’s tracks for them. Even though the pursuer was commendably quick, Flavia and Argyll emerged on the other side of the throng with a good five-second lead, and thundered off down what looked like a sort of pedestrianized street a good seventy metres ahead of him.

But he was in rather good shape, and made distinct gains: one of the sort who take care of their bodies. Exercise bikes. Neither Flavia nor Argyll were much into that sort of thing, and while both could put on a decent show of speed in bursts, keeping it up was another matter. Their pursuer kept on gaining.

Then he made his mistake. ‘Police,’ he screamed. ‘Stop them.’