But
Be seen to be involved, I said. There is also another problem, which is that, for the first time in our acquaintance, brother Janet is not being entirely frank with me and until I know why, we will have to proceed with some caution.
What do you mean?
He said that it would be best if Mr Argyll brought the picture back.
So?
I never told him Mr Argyll had the picture. Which leads me to suspect that maybe there was a Frenchman working here without official notice. Which I dont like. Now, Janet never does anything without a good reason; so we have to try and work out what that reason is. I could ask, but hes already had the opportunity to tell me, if he was so minded.
So, he continued, we must plod along methodically. Mr Argyll, I must ask you to return that picture. I hope you wont find that too much of a burden?
I suppose I could manage, he said.
Good. While there, you might arrange a tactful meeting with your friend Delorme and see if he can shed any light on this. But do not, under any circumstances, do anything else. This is a murder case, and a nasty one. Dont stick your neck out. Do your errand and come straight back. Is that understood?
Argyll nodded. He had not the slightest intention of doing anything else.
Good. In that case, I suggest you go and pack. Now, Flavia, he went on, as Argyll, realizing he was no longer wanted, got up to go, you will go to Basle and see what you can find out. I will tell the Swiss you are coming. You will then come straight back here as well. Anything else you do will be unofficial. I dont want your name on any report, interview or official document of any sort. Understood?
She nodded.
Excellent. I will tell you what Mullers sister says when you get back. In the meantime, I suggest you go round to the Carabinieri to deliver Argylls statement, and see if you can persuade them to let you have a look at what theyve accumulated so far. You dont want to miss something in Basle because you dont know what to look out for.
Excellent. I will tell you what Mullers sister says when you get back. In the meantime, I suggest you go round to the Carabinieri to deliver Argylls statement, and see if you can persuade them to let you have a look at what theyve accumulated so far. You dont want to miss something in Basle because you dont know what to look out for.
Its nearly eleven, she pointed out.
Put in an overtime claim, he replied unsympathetically. Ill have all the bits of paper you need in the morning. Come and get them before you go.
7
Six oclock in the morning. That is, seven hours and forty-five minutes since he got in, seven hours and fifteen minutes since he went to bed. Not a wink of sleep and, more to the point, no Flavia either. What the hell was she doing? Shed gone off with the Carabinieri. And that was the last hed heard. Normally Argyll was a tranquil soul, but Fabriano had irritated him beyond measure. All this muscular masculinity in a confined space, the sneering and posturing. What, he wondered for the tenth time, had she ever seen in him? Something, evidently. He rolled over again, eyes wide open. Had she been there, Flavia would have informed him dourly that all he was suffering from was a bad case of over-excitement, dangerous in someone who liked a quiet life. Murders, robberies, interviews, too much in a short space of time. What he needed was a glass of whisky and a good nights sleep.
With which diagnosis he would have agreed, and indeed he had been agreeing with it all night, as he tossed and turned. Go to sleep, he told himself. Stop being ridiculous. But he couldnt manage either and, when he could no longer endure listening to central Romes limited bird population saluting the morn, he admitted final defeat, got out of bed and wondered what to do next.
Go to Paris, hed been told, so maybe he should. If Flavia could absent herself in such an inconsiderate way, he could demonstrate this was no monopoly of hers. Besides, it would get an unprofitable task over and done with. He looked at his watch as the coffee boiled. Early enough to get the first plane to Paris. There by ten, get the four oclock back and be back home by six. If planes, trains and air-traffic controllers were in a co-operative mood, that is. He only hoped the nightman at the Art Theft Department had instructions to allow him to take the painting away. If he was fortunate, he could be back by evening. And then he could go and see about that apartment. If Flavia didnt like the idea, then tough.
So, his decision made, he scrawled a hurried note and left it on the table as he walked out.
About twenty minutes after he went out, Flavia came in. She too was utterly exhausted, although for different reasons. A long haul. It was amazing how much paper these police could generate in such a short time, and Fabriano had fought hard to avoid giving it to her. It was only when shed threatened to complain to his boss that he reluctantly gave way. Had she been in a better mood, or less tired, she would just about have seen his point. He was working long hours on this case. It was his big chance, and he wasnt going to let it get away. He certainly wasnt going to share the credit with her if he could avoid it. The trouble was, his attitude had the effect of hardening hers. The more he resisted, the more she demanded. The more he and Bottando, in fact wanted to keep her out, the more she was determined to take it further. So shed sat and read. Hundreds of sheets of paper, of interviews and documentation and snapshots and inventories.
But for all the vast quantities of information, there was little of any importance to be discovered. Meticulous lists of the contents of Ellmans hotel room produced nothing of any interest at all. Preliminary enquiries indicated no criminal record in either Switzerland or Germany; not even a driving offence to besmirch his good name. Then there was a mound of interviews, taken after they had gone back to Bottandos office. Waiters, doormen, passers-by, visitors to the hotel restaurant and bar, cleaners and guests. Starting with a Madame Armand in the room opposite who believed she may have caught a glimpse of Ellman that morning, but who spent more time complaining loudly about missing her plane than offering useful clues, right through the alphabet to Signor Zenobi who confessed, with much guilt, that he had been entertaining a, ah, friend and didnt listen to anything and there wasnt any need for his wife to know anything about this, was there?
After hours of concentrated reading, Flavia gave up and walked home to talk it over with Argyll in the short space of time before she disappeared to Switzerland.
Jonathan? she called in her sweetest of voices as she let herself in. Are you awake?
Jonathan? she said a little more loudly.
Jonathan! she shouted when there was still no reply.
Oh, bugger, she added when she glanced down and saw his little note on the table. Then the phone went. It was Bottando, wanting her in his office as soon as possible.
The General had a problem which had surfaced almost the moment he had put the finishing touches to his carefully considered scheme to keep Flavia and this investigation at arms length from each other. It was a linguistic problem, in essence, and surfaced when Helen Mackenzie arrived on the plane direct from Toronto. Mrs Mackenzie spoke English and a little French. Giulio Fabriano, who was meant to be conducting the interview, spoke neither a handicap he had been told more than once might hinder his career in this age of European integration. Try as he might with cassettes and books and lists of words, however, nothing could make any of it stick. According to researchers, about 6 per cent of any population is incapable of learning a new language, however proficient they may be in their own. Fabriano was, unfortunately for himself, a member of that small and increasingly persecuted minority.
Bottando himself had more aptitude, but scarcely any more proficiency, although at his age and rank it scarcely mattered. He could scrape along in French, had a word or so of German, and for anything more demanding could call on the services of Flavia, who was disgustingly good at this sort of thing.
Hence his phone call, breaking his self-imposed rule within five minutes of its dawning that the interview could take weeks and be completely inaccurate unless help arrived soon. Flavia staggered in about half an hour after he called, bleary-eyed, crumpled and far from ready to conduct searching interrogations.
So matters were delayed awhile as Bottando, using his very own hands (something of a rarity but his secretary was late), made the thickest coffee he could manage, stumped off to the nearest bar for food and cigarettes, and encouraged her at least to try and stay awake. It did her stomach no good at all, but the shock treatment did at least stop the compulsive yawning.
After the twelve-hour flight from Canada Mrs Mackenzie was scarcely in better shape, and the proceedings, when they finally began, were punctuated by yawning fits as one set off the other. She was quite a nice lady, Flavia decided. Very trim and attractive, obviously deeply upset at the death of her brother but one of the practical sort who had decided that her grieving should take place in private. For the moment, she wanted to provide as much information as possible; catching the person responsible was her first obligation now.
She was somewhat surprised when Flavia staggered in, notebook and tape recorder in one hand, coffee-pot in the other. It was not her idea of a proper police inquiry. Far too young, far too attractive, far too tired. But the young Italian, she decided, had the most charming smile and won at least the chance to prove herself by a practical account of the inquiry so far. There had been, she said, another murder, almost certainly linked to the death of Muller. She was sorry to start asking questions so quickly after the plane arrived, she went on, but they were obviously in something of a hurry.
I quite understand, Helen Mackenzie said. In fact I find your speed reassuring. Could you tell me, though, how Arthur died?
Ah, Flavia thought. The last thing she wanted was to give details. Maybe the woman had a right to know. For her part, if the roles were reversed, she would rather be kept in the dark.
He was shot, she said. Im afraid he was badly beaten beforehand. Leave it at that, she reckoned.
Oh, poor Arthur. And do you know why?
We dont know, she said frankly. One possibility concerns a painting. He had just bought or almost bought one. The day before, someone tried to steal it as it was leaving Paris, and the thief was seen outside his apartment the day he died. As you may have noticed, there is rather a lot we dont know at the moment. Im afraid that all we have are hazy ideas that need looking into. His accounts show nothing unusual, his work, his friends and his colleagues are all models of ordinariness.