But Im not. Im stuck with the thing.
Sorry about that, Delorme said. He seemed as though he might almost have meant it. He wasnt a bad soul, really. Just not very trustworthy.
I think, said Argyll ponderously, that you knew damn well, or suspected, anyway, that there was something very dodgy about this picture. You wanted to get rid of it and unloaded it on me. That wasnt at all nice of you.
Look, Im sorry. I really am. But I did keep my side of the bargain. I sent those drawings off to California for you.
Thank you.
And I needed the money. Im really scraping along here. Dealing with that painting kept the wolves at bay, at least for a bit. It was simple desperation.
You could always have sold the Ferrari. Delormes penchant for red cars so small you could barely get into them was a weakness well known in the trade. Argyll had never understood it.
Sell the Oh, a joke, the Frenchman said, worried for a moment. No, I needed the money fast.
How much were you paid?
Twenty thousand francs.
For transporting a picture? And youre going to stand up in court and say you never suspected for a moment, your worship, that there was anything wrong?
Delorme looked uncomfortable. Well...
And, now I come to think of it, you were in an unseemly haste to get that picture out of the country. Why?
Delorme rubbed his nose then cracked his knuckles, then, just to be sure, rubbed his nose again. Well, you see...
Argyll looked patient.
Come on.
The owner that is, the man dealing with the painting for a client um, got arrested.
Oh, God. It gets worse.
Delorme smiled, a little nervously.
Who was this man? Has his name popped into your memory yet?
Oh, if you insist. His name is Besson. Jean-Luc Besson. An art dealer. Impeccably honest, as far as I know.
And when this impeccably honest man was rounded up by the boys in blue your first thought was to get rid of any tangible evidence of a connection with him. Not that you suspected anything at all, of course. Just in case the police turned up.
More embarrassment.
They did, Delorme said.
When?
About an hour after you collected the picture and took it away. The man wanted it back.
And you denied ever having seen it.
I could hardly do that, he said reasonably. Seeing that Besson had said hed given it to me. No. I told them you had it.
Argyll stared at him open-mouthed. So much for honour amongst dealers.
You what? You said, I know nothing about it but I do know a shady character called Argyll is at this moment about to smuggle it out of the country?
A watery smile indicated this was about right.
And you told them about Muller?
He already seemed to know.
Who was this policeman?
How should I know?
Describe him.
Quite young, not a regular in the Art Squad that I know of. Thirties, dark brown hair and quite a lot of it, little scar
Above his left eyebrow?
Thats the one. Do you know him?
Enough to know that hes probably not a policeman. Did he show you any identification?
Ah, well, no. In fact he didnt. That doesnt mean hes not one.
No. But the next day he tried to steal the painting at the train station. If he really was a policeman, hed have just whipped out a warrant or something and arrested me. You were quite lucky, really.
Why?
Because after failing to steal the painting from me, he then went and tortured Muller to death. Then he shot someone else. Somehow I dont think you would have enjoyed that.
And, leaving Delorme satisfactorily pale at his apparently narrow escape which in Argylls view would have been no more than he deserved, considering his behaviour he left to see what he could do about this Besson character.
At approximately the same time that Argyll was being appalled by the potential for duplicity contained in the human frame, Flavia was standing in a queue at Basle airport to change some money and buy a map of the city. She was raring to go. Her blood was up, in fact, and she had only briefly considered the possibility of finding a hotel, having a bath, getting changed and settling down for a meal and an early night. No sooner thought of than dismissed. She had work to do and she wanted to get this done, then go straight to Paris to have another look at this painting. Damned nuisance, but nothing to be done about it.
Her decision to go to Switzerland had been reinforced by the careful perusal of the papers accumulated by the Carabinieri the night before. As Fabriano had said, they were methodical; a model of how to do it. The trouble was, they hadnt had much time, and getting information via the Swiss police inevitably involved an awful lot of paperwork and delay. Not the fault of the Swiss, just the way it was.
She had toyed with the idea of ringing ahead to Ellmans apartment to give warning that she was on her way, but decided against. If the housekeeper Fabrianos report mentioned wasnt there, that was a pity. Shed have a wasted journey, but it wasnt a long one, only around fifteen minutes by taxi. When she had arrived at the destination, she stood and examined the street. It was a non-descript line of apartment blocks, all around thirty or forty years old. Comfortable enough, in decent repair and with the streets as immaculate as they always were in Switzerland. A respectable neighbourhood, but not in any way a wealthy one, so she reckoned.
The entrance to Ellmans block was similarly anonymous but worthy in appearance; clean, tidy, the walls covered in little notes reminding tenants to make sure the doors were firmly closed and the rubbish sacks secured to stop the cats getting at them. Muller himself had lived on the fifth floor, and Flavia took the well-maintained, comfortably carpeted lift to get there.
Madame Rouvet? she asked in French as the door opened, having desperately checked her file at the last moment to make sure that she remembered the name properly.
Yes? She was probably ten years younger than her employer had been, and didnt seem at all like a housemaid. Very well dressed, with an attractive face spoiled only by a thin, puritanical mouth.
Flavia explained who she was, and where she had come from, showing her Italian police identification. She had been sent up by the Rome police to ask a few questions about Mr Ellmans death.
She was allowed in without any awkward questions being asked. Like, isnt it a bit late? And dont the Swiss authorities insist on accompanying foreign policemen when they investigate on their patch? And where is your written authority to be here?
Youve come from Rome today? she asked.
Thats right, Flavia replied as she carefully looked around to get a feel of the place. The instant impression was of a home that was as proper as the block that contained it. Modestly furnished, with nothing exceptional. Inexpensive modern furniture, a preference for bright colours. No pictures on the wall except for a couple of popular prints of paintings. A vast television dominated the little sitting-room, and the air of meticulous cleanliness was spoiled only by the faint smell of cat.
I arrived about half an hour ago, she continued as she took all this in. I hope you dont mind me just turning up like this.
Not at all, Madame Rouvet said. She looked properly, but far from excessively, distressed at her employers death. One of those people whose period of grief would be fitted into the days schedule, somewhere between the shopping and the ironing. How can I help you? Im afraid this has all come as rather a shock to me.
Im sure, she replied sympathetically. A dreadful thing to happen. And Im sure you understand, we want to find out what happened as soon as possible.
Do you have any idea who killed him?
Not really. Bits and pieces, hints and clues, and lines of enquiry. But I must tell you that at the moment we need all the information we can gather.
I will, of course, be eager to help. I cant imagine who would want to kill poor Mr Ellman. Such a nice, kind, generous soul. So good to his family, and to me, as well.
He has family?
A son. A good-for-nothing, frankly. Idle and grasping. Always coming here with his hand out. Never had a decent job in his life. She looked disapproving at the mere mention of the son.
And where is he?
On holiday. In Africa, at the moment. Hes due back tomorrow. Typical of him. Never around when hes needed. Always spending. Always other peoples money. And his poor father could never say no. I would have, I can tell you.
The conversation paused for a moment while Flavia jotted down details of the son and where he was. You never knew. Greedy son, dead father. Will. Inheritance. Oldest motive known to man, more or less. But somehow she thought it wasnt going to be that easy. Already, this case did not seem the sort that had money at the bottom of it. A pity; those were always the easiest. Even Madame Rouvet was sceptical; she may have disliked the son, but she didnt think him capable of murdering his own father. Largely because he was too spineless, in her opinion.
And his wife?
She died about eight years ago. A heart attack, just as poor Mr Ellman was about to retire.
And he was in the, ah, import-export business?
Thats right, yes. Not rich, but hard-working, and as honest as the day is long.
And the company name?
Jorgssen. It trades in engineering parts. All over the world. Mr Ellman was always flying off somewhere, before he retired.
Did he have any interest in paintings?
Good heavens, no. Why do you ask?
Just that we think he may have gone down to Rome to buy a painting.
She shook her head. No, thats not him at all. Mind you, he still did some business, occasionally, when they needed him.
And where was that?
South America. He went there last year. And he went to France at least three or four times a year. He still had contacts there. He had a long phone call from there only the day before he left.
A slight contact, here, but nothing to get excited about yet. Flavia noted down the name of Jorgssen. She would need to have it checked out.
This phone call. Was he planning to go to Italy before?
I dont know. He certainly didnt tell me he was going away until just before he left.
Did you happen to hear what this call was about?
Well, she said, reluctantly, anxious not to give the impression of someone who made a habit of listening in on her employerss conversations. A little.
And?
Nothing out of the ordinary. He said very little. At one stage he asked, How important is this Muller deal to you? and