Iain Pears - The Last Judgement

‘Did you, indeed?’ she said. ‘You have an odd way of showing your affection.’

Argyll, sitting quietly and watching the proceedings, looked up at this comment. There was an edge to it: a tone of bitter sarcasm that was quite out of character for her. He studied her carefully; her face was quite impassive and controlled, but he — and knowing her best, he was the only one who was aware of it — was fairly certain that something nasty was about to happen. And it was all bad enough already, in his view.

‘Considering he was someone who had helped you so much, whom you admired so greatly, you betrayed him pretty comprehensively.’

Rouxel shrugged. ‘I was young and foolish. It was a bizarre time in Paris then.’

‘I didn’t mean that.’

‘What did you mean, then?’

‘Monsieur Montaillou knows, I think.’

Montaillou shook his head. ‘No, I don’t know. All I know is that you are causing a great deal of distress for no reason. We now know who killed Muller. Ellman killed him. You have no proof about who killed Ellman and I don’t imagine anyone is really so concerned. Leave it be.’

‘No,’ said Janet with surprising vehemence. ‘I’m tired of all this. I want to know. I have been subjected to intolerable pressure and interference in the past week. I have had investigations closed down. I’ve been ordered by your people to obstruct a murder inquiry in Italy and caused enormous damage to relations with colleagues abroad in the process. I caught an important thief whom I’ve been chasing for years and you let him go with a virtual amnesty. I’ve had enough. I want to get to the bottom of this before I launch a major complaint against you, Montaillou. So you continue, Flavia. Explain all this.’

‘I don’t know who Montaillou works for, but I’m damned sure it isn’t some potty little organization to protect public figures. As you say, he’s been throwing his weight around in recent days. You can’t do that if you merely follow diplomats and politicians around to make sure they don’t lock themselves in the shower.

‘Montaillou’s job was to prevent a major embarrassment. He and his department were manipulated, of course, by Madame Armand, just as everyone else was. But he was led to believe that the picture stolen by Muller contained incriminating documents which, if revealed at the right moment, might have involved a very public withdrawal of Monsieur Rouxel from accepting the Europa prize. For which he had been nominated by the French government. His job was to stop that happening.

‘So we have to go back again. To Pilot, and its destruction. Someone was betraying it; operations started to go wrong. But who was it? Rouxel took matters into his own hands. Advance information was selectively given to certain people; if the operations in question went ahead without problems, then those people in the organization were probably in the clear. Others remained under suspicion until they were eliminated. A slow and difficult business, but one which someone had to do. Of course, I know nothing about wartime conditions, but I imagine there could be nothing worse than a slow suspicion eating through morale. The culprit had to be found.

‘And he was. Information given solely to Hartung led to an operation going wrong. It was conclusive evidence, and almost convinced even his wife. So Hartung was summoned to an interview where, according to Mrs Richards, Monsieur Rouxel accused him to his face. And then let him escape. Is that correct?’

Rouxel nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘When it came down to it, I couldn’t do it. He was supposed to be taken away and executed. But I couldn’t do it. Sentiment, I suppose, which I regretted immediately. It cost us dearly.’

‘Indeed. Hartung fled, and Pilot was wrapped up quickly. The obvious conclusion being that, knowing the game was up, he alerted the Germans as he left. And this was confirmed by the Germans themselves. Franz Schmidt tormented Hartung’s wife by telling her that her predicament had been caused by her own husband’s betrayal. He hadn’t even tried to save her. Because of that, above all, both she and Rouxel were prepared to pursue him after the war. Is that a fair summary, monsieur?’

‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘that’s about right.’

‘And it’s lies from beginning to end.’

Rouxel shook his head.

‘Hartung was always on the fringes of your cell, and yet he managed to betray it all, every single person in it? How could be possibly have known all that detail? You talked to him on the evening of June the twenty-sixth, round about ten at night, and yet at six-thirty the next morning the Germans swept up the whole lot in a large operation? Which they’d organized from scratch in seven hours? And if that was the case, how did you escape? The only person who really mattered, the leader, the man they were after most of all? The man who really did know the names and identities and location of everyone in the group?’

‘I was lucky,’ he said. ‘And the Gestapo could move very fast when they wanted to. It was called Operation Razor; they were good at that sort of thing.’

‘Yes. Operation Razor. I’ve heard about it.’

Rouxel nodded.

‘To destroy Pilot. Organized on the basis of Hartung’s total betrayal on the night of June the twenty-sixty. Which he did because he knew the game was up after he talked to you.’

Rouxel nodded again.

‘So how is it that the orders for Operation Razor were made out on June the twenty-third?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The dossier about Hartung’s art collection in the Jewish documentation centre. It states quite clearly that they were acting in accordance with instructions for Operation Razor given on June the twenty-third. Three days before Hartung was accused, before he fled and before, according to you, he betrayed you.’

‘So maybe he betrayed us before.’

‘And maybe he didn’t. Maybe when he talked to you that evening he accused you of being the traitor. Maybe he said he had proof. Maybe you contacted the Germans to make sure he was silenced, but he escaped before they could catch him. And you ensured that Henriette was kept alive so she could be told her husband was the traitor and could give evidence against him later.’

Rouxel laughed. ‘Purest fantasy, my dear woman. You have no idea what you are talking about.’

‘I’m not so sure. Let us think about it. This Schmidt character. A torturer, and a wanted war criminal. Known personally to your former mistress. When the authorities wanted to arrest him in 1948 he heard about it in advance and vanished, successfully changing his name. But in recent years a financial services company has been paying him sixty thousand Swiss francs a year. Services Financieres. Controlled by you, monsieur. Can you explain why? Did you feel sorry for him or something? Or were you buying his silence?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Of course you do. Don’t lie to me. A payment of that amount was made into Ellman’s account by a company called Services Financieres. Of which you are a board member and former chairman. And a major shareholder. Why?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Nonsense.’ She paused after this comment, and regathered herself. The last thing she needed was to get herself into a slanging match. She had to proceed methodically and calmly.

‘A last problem,’ she went on. ‘Hartung hanged himself in prison rather than face his trial. Why, though, if he was convinced he could clear his name? Is that a reasonable act for someone who believes he can prove his innocence? Of course not. The official account is that the prosecutor visited him, presented the case and Hartung, seeing no way out, killed himself. He was found in his cell the next day. You were the prosecutor in that case, Monsieur Rouxel. You visited him the night he died. And you hanged him to stop him denouncing you at his trial.’