Other volumes fleshed out the picture but added few new facts. Rouxel was not a very successful politician, it seemed. He had been popular with colleagues but somehow or other had got up de Gaulles nose. He was given a trial run for only eighteen months in government then was chucked out and never succeeded in attracting attention again. Or maybe it was the other way round and he didnt like high office; perhaps the pay wasnt good enough or he was more of a backroom man than a fast-talking minister type. Whatever, he still did the odd job committees here, advisory boards there, governing bodies all over the place. One of the great and the good, the old regulars who pop up time and again in every country, serving the public and keeping their well-manicured hands firmly, if discreetly, on the reins of power in the process. Doing well by doing good; reading between the lines, Rouxel did not come from a wealthy family. He had certainly made it now.
Unfair, thought Argyll as he left. Mere jealousy because you will never be asked to do anything like that. Or just because youre in a bad mood from that library. Such were his thoughts as he marched boldly along the Rue de Francs-Bourgeois to his rendezvous with what he gloomily expected would been spinsterish, twittering type of personal assistant; the sort who was good at writing letters but not exactly a live wire. Didnt even know if her employer had been burgled. He might well have to spend an entire evening doing his best to be charming and gallant to this woman and would get nothing useful out of it at all. Had he been consulted, he would have pleaded a previous engagement and held out to see Rouxel himself. But he was stuck with it now, he thought morosely as he rounded the corner at last into the Place des Vosges. Might as well get on with it.
So with scarcely a pause to admire the scenery which showed what a bad mood he was getting into, it being his favourite bit of the city he surveyed the crowd inside the restaurant. Little elderly lady, sitting on your own where are you?
No luck. No such person. Typical. So incompetent she couldnt even show up on time. He checked his watch.
Msieur? said a waiter sliding up alongside. Odd about Parisian waiters, how much they can squeeze into one word. Their most simple greeting can exude so much contempt and loathing it can quite put you off your food, and inspire foreigners with terrors of cultural inferiority. In this case, what the waiter meant was Listen, if youre just a gawping tourist, clear off and stop blocking the way. If you want to sit down and eat, say so, but get a move on, were busy and I dont have time to waste.
Argyll explained he was meant to be meeting someone.
Is your name Argyll? said the waiter, with a passable stab at wrapping his tongue round the surname.
Argyll admitted it.
This way. I was asked to show you to madames table.
Oh-ho. Must be a regular, he thought as he followed. Then his thoughts stopped in their tracks as the waiter pulled out a chair at a table opposite a woman sitting quietly smoking a cigarette.
Jeanne Armand was not little, she was not old, she was not spinsterish and, though technically she might have had nephews and nieces, she was not in the slightest bit auntie-ish either. And if Argyll spent the rest of the evening doing his best to be charming and gallant, his efforts were not forced; he couldnt help it.
Some people are blessed or cursed, depending on how you look at it with being beautiful beyond the ordinary. Flavia, now, had very definite opinions on this. She was very attractive herself, even though she put little real effort into it. But not devastating in the way that can cut off conversation and reduce grown and articulate men to gibbering wrecks. She counted this as good fortune; people instinctively liked her because of her appearance, but they did not ruin her life because they could not take their eyes off her. Even in Italy, she could get people to listen to what she said. Except, of course, Fabriano, but this was a basic defect in his make-up.
Jeanne Armand, however, was one of those who makes even the well-balanced and mature type act a bit oddly. Women often make very sneering comments about male responses in this area, but it is most unfair. Many men are, for the most part, quite good at keeping control and conducting themselves with decorum in strained circumstances. But sometimes, in very exceptional cases, there is nothing to be done; it is as simple as that. A sort of hormonal autopilot takes over which causes hot flushes, trembling hands and a tendency to stare with all the intelligence and sophistication of a rabbit hypnotized by car headlights.
This woman, or more particularly her Raphael face, her beautiful brown hair, delicate hands, perfect figure, soft smile, green eyes, exquisitely chosen clothes and so on, and so on was one of those people who triggers such a reaction that the continuance of even moderately civilized behaviour is an almost superhuman triumph of the will, for which those who manage it should be complimented for their strength rather than criticized for their weakness. Somehow or other she managed to combine a gentle tranquillity with just a hint of wildness. Madonna and Magdalen all in one, gift-wrapped in Yves Saint-Laurent. Potent stuff.
The element that pushed him over the edge was that the woman spoke to him in English, having discerned instantly that his French, while serviceable, was hardly up to the Racine level of eloquence. It was the accent; the woman even sounded beautiful.
What? he said hazily after a while.
Would you like a drink?
Oh. Yes. Gosh. Super.
What would you like? she continued patiently. It may well be that she was used to this sort of thing.
By the time that Argylls pastis had been ordered, he had totally lost control of the proceedings. While he had complacently anticipated an evening of gentle probing, careful pumping and subtle interrogation on his part, instead he was the one who was probed, pumped and interrogated. And loved every minute of it.
Unusually for someone who much preferred to listen to others, he told her about life in Rome, and the difficulties of selling pictures, and his recent tangle with this painting.
Let me see the picture, she said. Where is it?
Ah. Didnt have time to go and get it, he said. Sorry.
She looked displeased with that, and being who she was, Argyll would have crawled on his hands and knees all the way to the hotel and back if it would have made her forgive him. A small, very small part of him was still conscious enough to be profoundly grateful that Flavia was several hundred miles away. He could almost visualize the look of lofty disdain on her face.
Could you describe it, then?
He obliged.
Thats the one. It disappeared about three weeks ago.
Why didnt Monsieur Rouxel report it to the police?
He did, initially. But then decided not to pursue the matter. It wasnt insured, there was no hope of getting it back and there seemed little point in wasting everybodys time. He decided to treat it as the cost of not locking his house up properly and forgot about it.
Still
And now youve not only recovered it, youve found out whose it is and youve brought it back. Monsieur Rouxel will be so grateful...
She smiled at him in the sort of fashion that melts pig-iron. He looked down his nose modestly, and felt a bit like St George after he has successfully sliced up a dragon or two.
That is, if youre willing to let him have it back.
Of course. Why not?
You might insist on some form of remuneration for your time and effort.
Well, he might. But in the interests of chivalry he was prepared to waive the matter.
So, she went on as he adopted the pose of someone with so much money that any reward would be a trivial matter, tell me how you got hold of this painting.
In great detail, he did. About Besson and Delorme and men with scars and train stations and Muller and Ellman and the police and libraries and museum curators. Nothing left out. She was fascinated, staring at him with wide-eyed attention all through the discourse.
So. Who did it? Who was responsible? she asked when he finished. Who is on top of the police list at the moment?
I havent a clue, he answered. Im hardly privy to their innermost thoughts. But from what I can gather no one is, really. Theres this man with the scar, of course. But as no one has a clue who he is, it seems unlikely they will catch him. Unless theyve made progress in my absence, they dont even know why Muller wanted the picture so badly. I mean, it belonged to his father, but so did many other things. And thats no reason to steal it anyway. Do you have any idea?
None, she said, shaking her head to give the word extra emphasis. I mean, I remember the picture quite well now. Its not exactly world-class, is it?
No. But how long has Monsieur Rouxel had it?
He got it when he was young. He said so, once. But where it came from I dont know.
They refilled their drinks and dropped the subject; there seemed little else to say on the matter really. Instead she turned her attention to Argyll. He retold all his little stories about the art business, his complete run of whimsy, jokes and scandal, and she looked properly shocked, impressed and amused in all the right places. Such eyes she had. Occasionally she would laugh outright, resting her hand on his arm in appreciation at well-delivered anecdotes. He told her about life in Rome, about clients, about selling pictures and buying them, about fakes and forgeries and smuggling.
The only thing about his life he didnt mention all evening was Flavia.
And what about you? he said, returning to the really important question. How long have you worked for Monsieur Rouxel?
Several years. Hes my grandfather, you know.
Oh, I see, he said.
I organize his life for him, and help with the running of some of the small companies he still owns.
I thought he was a big-business type. Or a lawyer. Or a politician. Or something.
All of the above. So he was. But since he retired he took on a couple of smaller operations. Stock-broking, mainly. More to keep himself active than anything else. That was going to be my speciality as well.
Was?
I began. Then Grandfather asked me to help him sort out his papers. You can imagine how many someone like him has accumulated over the years. Judicial papers, and business papers and political ones. And he didnt want a stranger going through them. It was just meant to be for a short while, when he was ill and overburdened, but Im still there. I finished organizing his archives years ago but he cant do without me. I used to suggest he got someone more permanent, but he says always that nobody could ever be as efficient as me. Or as used to his ways.