Iain Pears - The Last Judgement

‘Besson asked what was so important about this picture, and was told it belonged to Muller’s father. He persisted, saying it was not a very good reason. Muller then said it contained important material about his father.

‘Besson was paid quite a lot of money and, being the sort of person he was, couldn’t resist. He stole it, and routed it through Delorme, then apparently through you. That was when I came in; as far as I was concerned, you were just another illegal courier.’

‘So why not just arrest me?’

‘We were in an awkward position. Clearly this Muller attached significance to the picture, we didn’t know what that significance was, and the timing was very worrying. Rouxel was going to be awarded this prize in a week or so. A very big deal indeed, and it seemed something or other was about to pop up. Maybe it was something trivial, or untrue, or just the lunacy of a complete nutcase. It didn’t really matter. My superiors decided the best thing to do would be to sit on the thing until we could find out what was going on. If we arrested you and Muller found out, he might say something; the idea was to get the picture back and get down to Rome before he worked out what was going on. On top of that, of course, I was very pressed for time.’

Not convincing, Flavia thought as she scrutinized the smoothly talking man opposite. All very curious, this business. She knew that these spooks were not the brightest people on earth, but this was just ridiculous. Of course it would have been more sensible to descend in a posse on the railway station, arrest Argyll and take the picture. To act as he had was simply absurd. Amateurish. Even more, to expect her to believe this was plain insulting. Someone here was being less than perfectly truthful. And it wasn’t her or Argyll.

She glanced to her side and saw Argyll fidgeting as well, looking unconvinced. So, as discreetly as possible, she poked him and gave him a keep-your-mouth-shut look.

‘And you made a mess of it,’ she said. Just because she was going along with his story didn’t mean she had to let him off easily.

Montaillou looked not at all embarrassed. ‘I’m afraid so,’ he said with an easy smile.

‘And so to Rome, where you went to visit Muller.’

‘Who was out. I never saw the man.’

‘And phoned Argyll, asking for the picture back.’

‘Yes,’ he said with a much more convincing display of being honest. ‘That’s right.’

‘And then your superiors contacted you, told you Muller had been murdered and told you to get the hell out of there fast.’

He nodded.

‘Thus hampering a murder investigation.’

He varied the diet by shrugging this time.

‘Did you phone Ellman in Basle? Tell him to get the painting?’

‘I’d never heard of the man. Really. I still have no idea how he was involved.’

‘Rouxel knew what you were up to?’

‘Not the details. That is, I talked to him, and kept his assistant informed.’

‘Ah,’ she said. ‘And, as far as you’re concerned, there’s nothing more to be said. That is, two murders in Rome are none of your business. The picture is back in place and Rouxel is not going to be touched by anything embarrassing.’

He nodded. ‘That’s correct. All that remains is for you to be sent home. Please don’t think I’m being obstructive—’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’

‘If at any stage you come across real evidence identifying the murderer, we will of course act on it.’

‘Do you mean that?’

‘Of course. But at the moment, your probing is just stirring things up. You have no suspects, I believe? No hard evidence to accuse anyone?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘I thought so. I suggest you contact me when you have something a bit more substantial.’

‘Right,’ she said, as he got up, bade them a good evening, picked up his file of papers and left.

‘You’re very co-operative all of a sudden,’ Argyll said as the door clicked shut. Her sudden shift to contrite acquiescence he found something of a surprise. Not really like her.

‘Go with the flow, that’s what I say. What did you think of all that?’

‘I think I was right all along. I told you phoning Janet wasn’t such a good idea. Of course that man was going to be here to welcome us to France.’

‘I know,’ she said, a little irritated by his being so slow on the uptake. ‘That was the point. I needed to talk to him. How else could I get hold of him? I had to know what his role was. So, what do you think of him? What he said?’

‘I thought it was a little bit peculiar,’ he said. ‘I mean, I know these people do make a mess of things from time to time, but they seem to have gone out of their way to make this whole business unnecessarily complicated.’

‘You reckon.’

‘Yes,’ he said firmly. ‘Dealing with this picture would have been all very simple. And they went out of their way to introduce all sorts of contortions.’

‘So you’re inclined to the incompetence theory.’

‘Do you have something better to suggest?’

‘Yes.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t you know?’

‘No.’

‘That does make me feel better. I do.’

‘Stop being secretive. Just tell me.’

‘No. There isn’t any time. We’ve got to get out of here.’

‘We will be out soon.’

‘I don’t mean getting on a plane and going meekly back to Rome, either. I want to visit Rouxel.’

‘But they don’t want us to,’ Argyll said. ‘At least, I assume that’s what those men with machine-guns are there for.’

‘And it’s not occurred to you that an armed guard is perhaps a little excessive?’

‘I don’t know. And you won’t tell me. All I know is that there’s a man with a machine-gun on the other side of that door.’

She nodded. ‘But probably not on the other side of that one. Come along, Jonathan,’ she added as she tugged at the handle of the door Montaillou had used. ‘We’re in a hurry.’

The little cubicle where they were confined was one of a series in which unfortunates trying to get into the country could be interrogated and kept waiting for hours. On the one side, a series of doors along a wall of the passport-control area admitted the would-be immigrants; on the other a parallel series of doors giving on to a corridor allowed immigration officials to come in to do their business. The corridor had a wall at one end, and at the other, blocking the way to freedom, was a guard with a gun.

‘This doesn’t look too hopeful, does it?’ Argyll whispered.

‘Shh,’ she said. Not that there was much point. The guard was not particularly alert. He didn’t have to be, after all. They’d have to walk over his toes to get out. And as Argyll hinted, there wasn’t much chance of his not noticing that.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘This way.’

And, making sure the guard wasn’t looking, she walked as softly as possible in the opposite direction, towards the blank wall at the far end of the corridor.

In slightly easier circumstances, Argyll could have pointed out the disadvantages of this move. But he managed to restrain himself; sceptical expressions do not make a noise, however, and his doubts were clearly visible.

Their cubicle had been more or less in the middle of a range of about a dozen. When Flavia reached the last one, she eased open its door and pushed her head in. She was unlucky: it was occupied. A worried-looking man, apparently Algerian or Moroccan, was staring glumly at a stiff official, who turned round when he heard the door open.

‘Sorry,’ said Flavia in her brightest French. ‘I thought we were meant to be interviewing him.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Police,’ she said. ‘We reckon this one might be wanted back home for a robbery.’