You look really beautiful, he said, standing back and looking at her admiringly. Quite wonderful.
Is anything the matter? she asked.
No. Why do you ask? But I had an awful night. Tossing and turning.
Why was that?
Oh, nothing. I was thinking.
About your picture, I suppose?
Eh? No, not about that. I was thinking about life. Us. That sort of thing.
What?
Its a long story. But I was wondering what it would be like if we split up.
Oh, yes? she said, a little perturbed. What makes you think of that?
It would be awful. I couldnt face it.
Ah. Why is this in your mind at the moment?
No reason, he said brightly, thinking about the previous evening and his decision about apartments. She was going to take some persuading. The old charm was going to be needed. Not that he mentioned any of this, with the result that Flavia was forced to conclude that he was going slightly wobbly on her. This sort of gushing he normally kept to himself. He was English, after all.
Do you have any money? she asked eventually. No point in pursuing this bizarre mood of his, after all. And it was early.
Yes. Not much.
Enough to buy me breakfast?
Enough for that, yes.
Good. So take me somewhere. Then you can tell me what youve been doing in the few minutes I have before I fall asleep for ever.
Thats not bad at all, she said, two coffees and a measly croissant later. A bit patronizing really, but she was too tired for subtlety. If I grasp it right, you think that Muller may have contacted Besson after this exhibition, Besson pinched the thing and delivered it to Delorme. Then Besson gets arrested, Delorme panics and unloads it on to you. The man with the scar talks to Delorme pretending to be a policeman, finds out that you have the thing, and tries to pinch it at the Gare de Lyon. He then trails you to Rome, goes to Muller and wham. Exit Muller.
An exemplary summary, Argyll said. You should have been a civil servant.
I, meanwhile, have discovered that Muller had been obsessed by this picture for the past two years, believing it contained something of value. He thought it belonged to his father who hanged himself. The trouble is this Ellman character. Why would he come to Rome as well? The Paris phone call could have come from your man with the scar, but why would both of them turn up in Rome?
I dont know.
Theres no chance the phone call came from Rouxel? she went on.
Not according to his granddaughter, no. That is, shed never heard of Ellman and deals with all Rouxels mail and stuff. Besides, she said hed given up hope of finding the picture. Wasnt even looking.
She yawned mightily, then looked at her watch. Oh hell, its ten oclock.
So?
So I hoped to have a bath and a lie-down, but there isnt time. I have to get to the airport by midday. Ellmans son is due back. I want to have a little chat with him. Not that Im looking forward to it.
Oh, said Argyll. I was hoping to spend some time with you. You know. Paris. Romance. That sort of thing.
She looked at him incredulously. His sense of timing was sometimes so bad it defied the imagination.
My dear demented art dealer. I have had four hours sleep in the past two days or something. I have not had a bath for such a long time I dont know if I could remember how to run the water. People sitting next to me on the Métro get up and move away. I have no clean clothes, and a lot of work to do. I am not in the mood either for romance or sight-seeing.
Ah, he said, continuing the monosyllabic style he had settled on. Shall I come with you to the airport?
No. Why dont you take that picture back?
I thought you wanted to examine it?
I did. But you tell me theres nothing to examine...
There isnt. Ive been sharing a bed with Socrates for the past day or so. I know it inside and out, up and down. There aint nothing there.
I believe you, she said. Youre the expert. And I thought, now if you took it back, you might get to talk to Rouxel. See if he knows anything that might be of help. Ask him about Hartung. Ellman. Somebody must connect these two somehow. You know. Probe.
Then, looking at her watch again and tutting about how late she was, she ran off, leaving Argyll to pay the bill. She came back a few moments later, just for long enough to borrow some money off him.
Getting to Charles de Gaulle is not the sort of thing you do in a taxi if your boyfriend has only grudgingly given you two hundred francs to last the day. Admittedly it was nearly all that he had on him, but not princely. So she took one as far as Châtelet, then wandered around, getting increasingly anxious, in the semi-lit subterranean corridors, wandering where, in this vast underground mausoleum, they actually kept the trains. By the time shed tracked the right one down, hidden cunningly among the booths and leather-goods stalls, and got on board, she was in no mood to be soothed by the music which wafted across the platform to her ear-drums. She was in a sweat of anxiety which, considering her state, wasnt a good idea. If she didnt have a bath soon, shed have to burn these clothes.
She got to the airport about twenty minutes after Ellman juniors plane was due to land, and then had to wait for a bus to get to the right terminal. Then she ran all the way up to Arrivals, anxiously scanning the notice-boards. Baggage in hall, she was told, damn it. There was not much point in just standing and staring at the tired and weary passengers as they trooped past, so she ran to the enquiries desk and got them to put out a message.
Then she stood around, stifling another fit of yawns, and waited. It wouldnt be a disaster if she missed him, so she thought. But it would be a great shame, and involve not only her having to go back to Switzerland, but also subjection to Bottandos ironic looks when he examined her expenses, coupled, no doubt, with muttered comments about attention to detail.
She was still thinking along these lines when she noticed the man on the desk pointing her out to a newly arrived traveller. She had formed a picture of Bruno Ellman from the description given by the housekeeper. Not a flattering one at all, despite her attempts to keep an open mind. A playboy type, was what shed come up with. Expensive khaki trousers, safari gear, a large Nikon. Sunburnt, extravagant and bit of a parasite.
What she got instead was very different. For a start, he was in his forties, if only his early forties. A bit paunchy, with too much starch in his diet. Rumpled clothes whose condition could not be attributed solely to an overnight flight in an aircraft. Hair thinning on top, with what remained turning a little grey.
Must have made a mistake, she thought, as the man came up and introduced himself and proved her wrong. It was Bruno Ellman.
Im so glad you heard the message, she said in French. I was afraid Id missed you. Is French OK?
He inclined his head. French is fine, he replied with a better accent than hers. And here I am. Standing before you, and at something of a disadvantage.
Im sorry, she said, and introduced herself, producing her identity card for good measure. Im afraid I have some bad news. Could we go somewhere quiet to talk?
What bad news? he asked, standing his ground.
Its your father.
Oh, no, he said with the air of someone almost expecting it. What is it?
Im afraid hes dead. Murdered.
Now this was curious. On first impression of which Flavia was particularly fond Ellman held up well. The sort of person youd trust to give you directions if you were lost. The type who would be a good son, whatever that was. The sort who would be upset to hear of his father dying, and devastated to hear of his being murdered.
But this was not the reaction. Ellman pursed his lips as he digested the information, but produced no further response at all. Youre right, he said. We should go somewhere quiet to talk.
And he led her off to the bar on the ground floor of the vast concrete building, then disappeared to get coffee.
If he was in any way disconcerted by the sudden fashion in which he was given the news, he had put himself back together by the time he returned. Right, he said in a businesslike way. Perhaps youd better tell me whats been going on.
Flavia had no reason not to, so she produced a fairly full account, followed by her increasingly standardized set of questions. Was his father interested in pictures? No. Did he know someone called Muller? No. Or Hartung? No. What about Rouxel?
Not such a rare name, he said non-committally.
It strikes a chord?
Tell me about him.
Jean. A businessman and politician, in his seventies, she said succinctly.
French?
Yes.
Has he been in the news recently?
He was awarded something called the Europa prize. Its quite a big deal, so Im told, so it was probably reported.
Yes, Ellman said. Thats the one. He thought for a moment, trying to pin the memory down. Thats right, he said eventually.
Go on.
Theres nothing else to say, he said apologetically. I heard about it on the news.
Thats all? No connection with your father?
Not as far as I know. My father was not the sort of person someone like Rouxel would ever associate with, I think. I didnt myself, normally, except when there were money problems.
Like your allowance being late.
He looked at her with surprise, noting the faint tone of disapproval that had crept in. You have been doing your work. Been talking to Madame Rouvet as well, I see.
She nodded.
Yes, my allowance, if you want to call it that. Did Madame Rouvet tell you what I do, by the way?
No.
I suppose you got the standard story. Good-for-nothing lay-about. Well, if you like...
OK then. What do you do?
I work for a charity. It sends aid to Africa, mainly francophone. Africa and areas with problems. Ive been in Chad for the last couple of weeks. Theres an epidemic there.
Oh.
Not on safari, if thats what you were thinking. My, ah, allowance funds an orphanage for kids so starved they become brain-damaged. If theres nothing else to be done, we bring them out and try to do what we can in Switzerland. A drop in the bucket, and the money I get from my father got from my father in fact, as Ive no doubt itll all go to his housekeeper now was a mere molecule in the bucket.
Im sorry, she said. I got the wrong impression.
At least youre honest about it. Thank you. Apology accepted. I wouldnt have brought the subject up at all...
Except for the fact that you thought maybe I was wondering whether you had organized your fathers death for the money.
He nodded. If it helps you can see my passport. The village I was in was so out of the way that it would have been impossible to sneak out, kill my father and sneak back in anything under five days. My main defence is that he didnt really have enough money to be worth killing.