Weve got to take this one off to charge him, she said to the man on the desk. All the paperworks in order. You can have him back once weve done the fingerprinting at the station.
OK. As long as you dont lose him.
We wont. See you in half an hour.
And with Argyll gripping the mans other arm, she frog-marched the protesting Algerian through the immigration and customs sections and out into arrivals. There, she just managed to suppress a snigger.
And with one leap, we were free, she said. Oh, do be quiet, she said to their prisoner as she walked swiftly out to the taxi rank. Do you understand me? she added.
The man nodded, still deeply upset.
Good. Now. Get in this taxi. Take this money, she went on, pulling out a bundle of Edward Byrness notes and thrusting it into his hand, and go and have a nice life. OK? I dont advise going too near any police for a bit.
She told the driver to head for central Paris and watched as the cab disappeared along the ramp and into the night air.
Now its our turn, she said, heading for the next one. Christ, she added as they got in. I accidentally gave him about six thousand francs. He must think its his birthday. How the hell am I going to explain that to Bottando?
Where to? asked the driver, revving up his engine.
Neuilly-sur-Seine. Thats where he lives, isnt it?
Argyll nodded.
Good. Take us there then, she said to the driver. And as fast as possible, please.
19
It was now after nine and the rush-hour traffic was easing off, allowing the taxi-driver to show what he could do. He drove a vast Mercedes, hopelessly uneconomic from a commercial point of view, in Argylls opinion, but undeniably effective in rushing them into Paris as fast as was conceivable.
The only difficulty was that the driver wasnt all that certain about where they were going. Flavia and Argyll, neither of them exactly experts in Parisian geography themselves, had to lend a hand: Flavia with a map, Argyll with his memory of the last time he had visited Rouxels house. With the three of them working together, they made a decent job of the trip; only two wrong turns and one of those not completely disastrous. The driver, feeling quite pleased with himself but not overjoyed to be leaving his fare in the middle of a residential district with no chance of picking up anyone else, dropped them in the next street along from Rouxels.
Caution is a virtue, even when it is not necessary. She neednt have worried too much. No matter how many police would shortly be swooping down when they got their act together and worked out that their captives had fled the airport, no one had turned up yet.
This time the gate was not locked, and opened with a slight squeak.
Flavia, before we go any further here, what is this about? Argyll asked.
Dates, she said.
What dates?
The dates for the break-up of the Pilot network.
Im not with you. But no matter. What has that got to do with anything?
Well have to ask Rouxel.
Argyll sniffed. Have it your own way, then. Although I must say that if I didnt trust you so much, Id be mightily tempted to go back to the airport.
But you do. So shall we stop talking and go in?
Cutting off further opportunity for dissent, she wheeled around and rang the doorbell. There was no answer. After waiting awhile and pressing it again, and tapping her foot with impatience, she decided that in the circumstances the social niceties could be disregarded. She turned the handle, found it open and pushed. Walking into other peoples houses seemed to be becoming a habit.
There was a light on in the hallway, which gave on to three rooms, each with the door firmly closed. Under one, there was a faint chink of light. She picked this one to start off, and went in.
It was empty. But evidently someone had been there recently: there was a book open on the carpet and a half-empty glass of brandy by the hearth.
I can hear something, Argyll said quietly. There was no great need to whisper, but it seemed appropriate.
Well? she asked, as they stood outside the room that the noise was coming from.
Although it was an absurdly fastidious piece of courtesy on the part of someone who, after all, had just barged uninvited into someones house, Flavia knocked softly. There was no answer. So she again reached for the handle and pushed the door open.
Whos that? came a quiet voice from the corner as she opened the door and looked in. Rouxel was by a veritable forest of house plants, spraying the leaves with some unguent. Argyll had said he was keen on plants, Flavia thought unnecessarily.
The room was dark except for two pools of light, one by the desk, the other by a nearby armchair which contained Jeanne Armand. It was the study where Argyll had interviewed or been interviewed by Rouxel a few days previously. Dark wooden bookshelves lined with leather-bound books filled one wall. Heavy and comfortable armchairs were on either side of the fireplace.
Flavia looked around the room to try and gain a few moments to think. She was becoming confused about how to proceed. On the one hand was her certainty that she finally understood. On the other was a sudden and burning hatred for it all.
Who are you? Rouxel said again.
My name is Flavia di Stefano. Im with the Rome police.
He didnt seem very interested.
Ive been investigating the theft of your picture.
That has been returned.
And the two murders associated with it.
Yes. I was kept informed. But its all over now, I think.
Im afraid youre wrong. Its not at all over.
She walked over to the far wall, on the side of the room opposite the glass doors leading on to the garden. Where is the picture?
Which picture?
The Death of Socrates. The one given to you by your mentor, Jules Hartung.
Ah. Well, you know, it was so much trouble, I had it destroyed.
You what?
It was Jeannes idea. She burnt it.
Why?
He shrugged. I dont think I have to explain to you what I do with my own property.
Still, you have others left, she said. Like this one. She pointed at the small painting hanging beside a mahogany bookcase. It was about the same size as all the others. Argylls sort of thing. Christ sat in the centre of the Apostles, in a fashion derived from Leonardos Last Supper; they all looked serious, but some of the Apostles had an air of sympathy, even sadness on their faces. Below them was a queue of people, with one kneeling and awaiting his verdict.
Again, there was no answer. Rouxel was not resisting her questions, not even resenting them or trying to stop them. Nor did he seem worried. He just wasnt very interested.
And they were judged every man according to their works, she quoted. Are you prepared for that, monsieur?
At last she gained a response. Rouxel gave a bleak smile and stirred slightly. Is anybody?
I wonder how long it will take for the cavalry to get here, she said, looking at her watch.
Who? Argyll asked.
Montaillou and his friends. They should have arrived by now.
And then what?
Now it was her turn to look indifferent. I dont really care. What do you think, Monsieur Rouxel? Should I explain?
You seem like a young woman who believes things can be explained. Accounted for, understood and made comprehensible. At my age, Im not so sure. What people do and why they do it is often incomprehensible.
Not always.
I think theyre here, Argyll said, moving to the window and peering through the curtain. Yes. Montaillou and a few others. One looks as though hes being told to guard the gate. Another is on the front door. The other two are coming in.
Montaillou and the other man, whom Argyll had never seen before, came through the front door and into the study. While the Intelligence officer had been polite at their last meeting, now he abandoned even a nominal attempt at courtesy.
The other man seemed more detached. In his late fifties, with close-cropped grey hair and a sharp nose, he had a look of alertness that was now masked by resigned concern.
A few hours ago I said I would not charge Mr Argyll or disrupt your career, Montaillou said in a clipped voice that barely concealed his fury. Im sure youll understand if I say that I no longer feel able to stand by that.
Flavia ignored him. Possibly not the best way of disarming his anger, but what the hell? Hello again, Inspector Janet, she said. How delightful to see you again.
The grey-haired man nodded at her uneasily. Argyll gave him a quick look-over, at close quarters, for the first time. The man who was supposedly the only one they could trust. Whatever happened, he thought, Franco-Italian relations over art thefts would take a long time to recover.
Hello, Flavia, he replied with an almost rueful, apologetic smile. Im really very sorry all this has happened.
She shrugged.
But why did you come here? Janet went on. What was the point?
I know what the point was Montaillou began. But Janet held up his hand to silence him. Flavia noticed that. It was interesting. Shed always known that Janet wielded more power than his status strictly warranted; that unlike Bottando he was one of the cadre of officials who knew a lot of people; who could phone contacts and fix things by having a quiet word. But this was new. Montaillou implicitly accepted the mans greater authority. And Janet still seemed to acknowledge some sort of obligation, or connection to her and the Italian department. It gave her a chance that, at least, she would be heard.
I made a promise, she said.
You have any explanation? Any evidence?
I think I can give a good account.
It will have to be good.
I dont think so. I dont think well need any proof or anything. Its not that sort of case. I fear this is not going to end with anyone arraigned, or extradited or tried, somehow.
Are you going to suggest that French Intelligence was behind the deaths, then? I do hope not, Janet said. However inadequate Monsieur Montaillous handling of this case...
She shook her head again, noting the rift. That could be useful; no great love lost between these two representatives of the French state. No. He and you merely made it more difficult to find out what was going on.
So who did kill these people?
So who did kill these people?
She did, Flavia said simply, pointing at Jeanne Armand. Or at least, she organized the first murder and committed the second.