Guynemer nodded understandingly and, very irritatingly, launched into a monologue about the pictures and what he knew about them, mentioning, among other things, the article in the Gazette des Beaux-Arts and a host of other references which Argyll, for the sake of appearances, duly wrote down.
So, the Frenchman said when he finished, could you tell me, Mr Argyll, why it is that you say you have never heard of the Gazette article when youve read my exhibition catalogue which refers to it several times? And how it is that you say you are in the fourth year of writing a book on neoclassicism and still know next to nothing about the subject?
Damnation, Argyll thought. Must have said something wrong again.
Just stupid, I guess, he said abjectly, trying to look like a particularly slow student.
Damnation, Argyll thought. Must have said something wrong again.
Just stupid, I guess, he said abjectly, trying to look like a particularly slow student.
I dont think so, said Guynemer with a brief smile, almost as if he felt apologetic for bringing up such a tasteless topic of conversation. Why dont you just tell me why you are really here? Nobody likes to be made a fool of, you know, he added a little reproachfully.
Oh, dear. Argyll hated the reasonable ones. Not that the man didnt have good reason to feel a little annoyed. Telling lies is one thing; telling bad ones is quite another.
OK, he said. Full story?
If you please.
Very well. Im not a researcher, Im a dealer and at the moment I am providing a little practical assistance to the Italian art police. At the moment I have in my possession a painting by Floret entitled The Death of Socrates. This may have been stolen, no one seems sure. The buyer was certainly tortured to death soon after I brought it to Rome; another man interested in it was also murdered. What I need to know is where the picture came from, and whether it was stolen.
Why dont you ask the police in France?
I have. That is, the Italians have. They dont know.
Guynemer looked sceptical.
Its true. They dont. Its a long story, but as far as I can see they are as mystified as anyone else.
So you come to me.
Thats right. You organized this exhibition with the picture in it. If you wont help, I dont know how else to go about it.
Appeal to the human side. Look pathetic and pleading, he thought. Guynemer considered the matter awhile, clearly wondering which was the least likely, Argylls first story or his second. Neither, in truth, was exactly straightforward.
Ill tell you what, he said eventually. I cant give you the name. Its confidential, after all, and you dont exactly inspire confidence. But, he went on as Argylls face fell, I can ring the owner. If he is willing, then I can put you together. I shall have to go and find out the details. I didnt actually do that section of the exhibition myself. That was Bessons part.
What? said Argyll. Did you say Besson?
Thats right. Do you know him?
His name wasnt in the catalogue, was it?
Yes. In small print at the back. A long story, but he left the project half-way through. Why do you ask?
It seemed time to be open and honest about things; weaving tangled webs had got him nowhere, after all. But it might well turn out that Besson and Guynemer were bosom buddies and he would be thrown out on his ear in a matter of minutes if he were straightforward. In which case it would be a case of so near and yet...
Before I say, can I ask why he left?
We decided that he was not suitable, Guynemer parried back. A clash of personalities. Your turn.
This picture, if it was stolen, subsequently turned up in Bessons hands. I dont know yet how it got there.
Probably because he stole it, Guynemer said simply. Hes that sort of person. Thats why he wasnt suitable. When we found out. We hired him as an expert in tracking paintings down and getting their owners to lend them. Then we discovered that we were in effect helping to introduce a wolf into a sheep pen, so to speak. The police got wind of it and came to warn us. Once I saw the dossier on him
Ah.
So, if I may take it one stage further for you, he would have known where this picture was, and may well have visited the house where it was kept. Draw any conclusions from that you want.
Right. Did you not like him?
The subject of Besson did nothing for Guynemers amiability. Clearly he had a lot to say, but decided against saying it. However, he indicated that they were not close.
But I think I should go and find out about your picture, do you not?
And he disappeared for about five minutes, leaving Argyll to stew silently.
Youre in luck, he said when he returned.
It was stolen?
That I couldnt tell you. But I spoke to the owners assistant, and she is prepared to meet you to discuss the matter.
Why couldnt this woman just say?
Possibly because she doesnt know.
Is that likely?
Guynemer shrugged. No more unlikely than anything youve told me. Ask yourself. She will meet you at Ma Bourgogne in the Place des Vosges at eight-thirty.
And now can you tell me who is the possible owner?
A man called Jean Rouxel.
Do you know him?
Of him. Of course. A very distinguished man. Old now, but immensely influential in his day. Hes just been awarded some prize. It was in all the papers a month or so ago.
Research is the secret of the good dealer; this was the little motto that Argyll had adopted in the few years since he had taken up the business. It wasnt necessarily true; at least, it was clear that he knew an awful lot about pictures he hadnt managed to sell, while colleagues unloaded others so fast they wouldnt have had time to find out about them even if theyd been so minded.
Clients were a different matter. However philistine some dealers may be and many take a very jaundiced view indeed of the things they sell and the people they sell to all believe that the more you know about a client the better. Not about the ones who wander in off the street, see something they like and buy; they dont matter. Its the private clients who deserve this treatment, the ones who, if you work out their tastes and inclinations properly, may come back again and again. Such people vary from the idiots who like to say loudly at dinner parties My dealer tells me... right through to the serious, judicious collector who knows what he wants ninety nine out of hundred collectors are men and will buy if you provide it. The former type is lucrative, but no pleasure to deal with; a good relationship with the latter can be as enjoyable as it is profitable.
So Argyll set to work on Jean Rouxel, not in the hope, this time, of selling him anything, but merely to know what he was getting involved in. For this task he had to go to the Beaubourg, which houses the only library in Paris regularly open after six oclock in the evening. Fortunately it was not raining; the place becomes strangely popular when its wet, and queues form outside the door.
Merely being in the place put him in a bad mood. Argyll liked to think of himself as a liberal sort, open to modern ideas and a fully paid-up believer in the notion that education was a good thing. The more people had it, the better the world would be. Stood to reason, although in the twentieth century the available evidence seemed to contradict the idea. Many academics hed met didnt help the argument, either.
Being on the fifth floor of the Pompidou Centre, however, made Argylls belief wobble. The building itself he loathed: all that dirty glass and peeling paintwork on pipes. Classical buildings can take grime; a bit of weathering even improves them sometimes. The high-tech look just seems battered, sad and miserable when it stops being squeaky-clean.
Then there was the library itself, a haven of popular learning. The trouble was that it was the intellectual equivalent of a fast-food outlet. It was the reverence Argyll missed. Just another consumer temple, offering information instead of clothes or food. Take your pick; Socrates or Chanel, Aristotle or Asterix, they all become of equal value in the Beaubourg.
Then there was the library itself, a haven of popular learning. The trouble was that it was the intellectual equivalent of a fast-food outlet. It was the reverence Argyll missed. Just another consumer temple, offering information instead of clothes or food. Take your pick; Socrates or Chanel, Aristotle or Asterix, they all become of equal value in the Beaubourg.
Listen to me, he thought as eventually he made his way to a vacant plastic desk with a pile of reference books. Worse than my grandfather. I dont know whats coming over me.
But at least it had some of the books he needed, so he tried to take his mind off the surroundings, and concentrate instead on the reason he was there. Rouxel, he said to himself. Find out, then get out. He worked his way through the material to find out about Jean-Xavier-Marie Rouxel. From a good Catholic family, he thought to himself, with brilliant insight.
Born 1919, the French Whos Who assured him, which made him around about seventy-four. No chicken he. Hobbies: tennis, collecting medieval manuscripts, time with his family, poetry and duck-breeding. So, a well-preserved all-rounder. Address: 19 Boulevard de la Saussaye, Neuilly-sur-Seine, and Château de la Jonquille in Normandy. A rich well-preserved all-rounder. Married Jeanne Marie de la Richemont-Maupense, 1945. Oh, ho, he thought, going up in the world, eh? Daughter of the aristocracy. Bet that helped the career. One daughter, born 1945, quick work. Wife dies 1950, daughter dies 1963. École Polytechnique, graduating 1944, in the middle of the war. Board member of Elf-Aquitaine, the French oil company. Then chairman of Banque du Nord. Then Axmund Frères stock-brokers; Services Financiers du Midi; Assurances Générales de Toulouse; no end to it. Still on the board of some. Deputy in the Assembly, 1958 to 1977. Minister of the Interior, 1967. A high-flyer, thought Argyll. Didnt agree with him though. No more politics after that. Legion dHonneur, 1947. Croix de Guerre, 1945. Hmm. High-ranking war-hero type. I wonder when he fitted that in. Must have joined up at the Liberation. Member of war-crimes tribunal 1945. Private practice for a few years thereafter before the leap into industry and politics. Then a list of clubs, publications, jobs held, honours given. Standard stuff. A model citizen. Even lends his pictures for exhibitions, although after this experience I doubt if hell do it again.