Iain Pears - The Last Judgement

‘Definitely.’

Byrnes, who had been standing in the background looking on approvingly and with some pride at his ability to host reunions, duly poured the drinks, considered the possibility of discreetly retiring, rejected the idea on the grounds that he was too curious, and sat down to listen.

The pair of them sitting there, Flavia’s boss and Argyll’s former boss, had more than a passing resemblance to Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Both portly, both benevolent, both wearing dark, well-cut suits, one with dark grey hair, the other with light grey hair. A very reassuring couple they were; after the events of the past few days, from murders to pursuits to distressing interviews with old ladies, they were the very embodiment of a return to the normal world, where paternal authority existed and was, on the whole, well disposed. Byrnes’s comfortable sitting-room and opulent glasses of gin confirmed the feeling slowly building up in Flavia’s mind that she could now relax a little.

Not that her delivery was smooth and well rehearsed; instead, the story came out with unusual hesitations and interruptions.

‘She’s his mother,’ she started off.

‘Who is?’

‘This woman in Gloucestershire.’

‘Whose mother?’

‘Muller’s. She sent him out of France in 1943 and stayed behind. When the Germans swooped, she was picked up. She decided he’d be better off where he was so left him in the care of those Canadians.’

‘Are you sure?’ Bottando began, then retracted when he saw her frown. ‘I mean, how interesting.’

‘And she was Hartung’s wife and Rouxel’s mistress. Isn’t it a small world?’

‘Indeed. Does this assist us in discovering why Muller was killed? Or why Ellman was killed?’

‘I don’t know. Did I tell you that Ellman’s real name was Schmidt?’

‘You did. And I have badgered the Germans mercilessly for information. I asked what they had on anybody of that name and asked why he would have changed his name. To give them a hint I suggested that they should look at army records. Specifically Paris.’

‘Yes, well...’

Bottando, having something to contribute, was not prepared to be put off. ‘Seemed worth a try. I was quite proud of the idea. Anyway, it took them some time; poor people, working their way through every Franz Schmidt in the German army must have been a fair old task. However, they produced the goods. He was in Paris in 1943 and 1944.’

‘We know that.’

‘But he was no pen-pusher. The man whose name he adopted was a desk-man; Schmidt was in an Abwehr Intelligence unit. Specifically there to counter the Resistance.’

‘We know that too. Mrs Richards told us.’

Bottando looked irritated. ‘I do wish you’d tell me these things. Then maybe I could stop wasting my time on things you already know about.’

‘We only found out this afternoon.’

‘Hmmph! Did you know he was wanted for war crimes?’ he asked hopefully.

‘No.’

‘Good. Well, he was. The wheels of justice go slowly but they seem to have caught up with him in 1948. They were about to arrest him when...’

‘He vanished, went to Switzerland, changed his name and was never heard of again,’ Flavia said helpfully, earning herself another hurt look from Bottando.

‘Anyway,’ he said, a little disappointed. ‘So he knew all about Hartung.’

‘He was the one who broke the good news to the man’s wife,’ she said. ‘While he was torturing her.’

Bottando nodded. ‘I see. And, of course, he would have been well practised in the sort of techniques used on Muller. In fact, I think that we can reasonably conclude beyond much doubt that he did kill Muller. The torture and the gun. Sort of adds up.’

‘But we still don’t know who killed him .’

‘No.’

‘But do we really care?’ Argyll asked wearily, resuming his old theme of wanting to go home. ‘It sounds as though whoever it was was doing a public service. If I happened to have a gun, met this Ellman/Schmidt character and found out what he’d done, I might have shot him as well.’

‘That’s true,’ said Bottando. ‘But who did know what he’d done? Besides, I’m afraid that from an official point of view we’re not allowed to look at it like that. And, of course, there is always the problem that whoever shot Ellman might not be finished. Rouxel. Do we know if he’s been approached by anyone?’

‘No.’

‘You realize, of course, that this Europa prize presentation takes place in ten days? If Rouxel is under any threat it has to be fended off. And to do that we have to know what that threat is.’

‘But how could he possibly be under any threat? Who could be threatening him?’

Bottando cocked his head. ‘This man with the scar, for example?’

‘I’ve been thinking about him,’ Flavia replied. ‘And concluding that he may well be what he says he is. He said he was a policeman. When he was chasing us.’

‘And when he phoned Mr Argyll in Rome, assuming it was him.’

‘And the connection with Besson indicates the same. Janet says he isn’t, but somebody removed documents from that deportation centre and told the director not to help me much, and Janet was the only official who knew I was going there. And in Rome, this man rings Argyll and says he will come round at five. Argyll tells us and you ring Janet, telling him about this murder. And this man doesn’t show up. I think Janet sent him a message saying, in effect, get the hell out of there.’

‘It’s most unlike Janet, though,’ Bottando said reluctantly. ‘He’s normally quite scrupulous.’

‘And so are you. But there are times when you’ve been leant on as well. What I can’t work out is why anyone is leaning on him. But I suspect it’d be no good asking.’

Bottando thought about this for a while, not at all happy. Murders and things were all very well; but he did not see why the smooth running of his department should be disrupted by them. His easy co-operation with the French had been an important factor in his department’s limited success for years; the prospect of its being wrecked by this case was becoming extremely worrying.

‘You’re going to have to sort this out quickly,’ he said glumly. ‘I’m not having years of friendship and careful work wrecked by one stupid picture. Do you have any idea what is going on?’

‘Yes,’ she said simply.

Argyll was roused from his reverie by this comment. He had been staring into space most of the time, not really paying attention to the conversation. There was something in the back of his mind, and he couldn’t quite pin it down. Indeed it had been there for days; and, rather like a very small stone in the bottom of a shoe, it was causing increasing irritation. The fact that, try as he might, he couldn’t work out exactly what was bothering him made it all the worse.

‘You do?’ he said. ‘You might have told me. What is it?’

‘I said I had an idea,’ she replied. ‘I didn’t say I had proof, or that the idea was right.’

‘I’m not impressed,’ he said.

‘Nor am I. But we still don’t have enough information. General, did you, by any chance, have any luck with the Swiss over that phone call? The one to Ellman that sent him to Rome?’

‘Ah, that,’ Bottando said with a frown. ‘Indeed. You might not like the answer though.’

‘Try me.’

‘It didn’t come from Paris at all; it came from Rome. The Hotel Raphael, to be precise.’

‘The what?’

‘As I say.’

‘Whose phone?’

‘Alas, we can’t find that out. But we can conclude certain things ourselves, can we not?’

He looked at her with that faint smile that he adopted when he had reached an answer before she had. A bit unfair, really, as he’d had longer to think about it. Even so, she wasn’t that far behind.