Could she find out when it was disconnected? Sorry. What about if there was another line for the same name? No. Change of address? Fraid not.
Half enraged, half perplexed, Argyll hung up. Good God, he might have to write a letter. Years since hed done anything like that. Rather lost the habit, in fact. Quite apart from the fact that his written French was a bit dodgy.
And so he flicked through his phone book to see who else he knew in Paris who might be persuaded to do him a favour. No one. Damn it, he thought as the phone rang again.
Hello, he said absently.
Am I speaking to a Mr Jonathan Argyll? came a voice in execrable Italian.
Thats right.
And do you have in your possession a painting entitled The Death of Socrates? the voice continued in equally bad English.
Yes, said Argyll, a little surprised. Well, sort of.
What do you mean?
It was a quiet voice, measured, almost gentle in tone, but Argyll didnt like it. Something unreasonable in the way the questions were being put, without so much as a by-your-leave. Besides, it reminded him of someone.
I mean, he said firmly, that the picture is currently at an auction house to be valued. Who are you?
His attempt to regain control of the conversation went unheeded. The man at the other end what was that accent anyway? disregarded his question entirely.
Are you aware that it was stolen?
Whoops, he thought.
I must ask who you are.
I am a member of the French police. The Art Theft Department, to be precise. Ive been sent to Rome to recover this work. And I mean to do so.
But I...
You knew nothing about it. Is that what you were going to say?
Well...
That may be so. I am under instructions not to lodge any complaint against you for your role in this affair.
Oh, good.
But I must have that picture immediately.
You cant.
There was a pause from the other end. The caller evidently hadnt expected opposition. And why not, pray?
I told you. Its at the auction house. Theyre closed until tomorrow morning. I wont be able to get it until then.
Give me the name.
I dont see why I should, Argyll said with a sudden burst of stubbornness. I dont know who you are. How do I know youre a policeman?
I would be more than happy to reassure you. If you like, Ill come and visit you this evening. Then you can satisfy yourself.
When?
Five oclock?
OK. Fine. Ill see you then.
After the phone line had gone dead, Argyll stood around the apartment, thinking. Damnation. It was amazing how things can go wrong on you. It wasnt much money, but at least it would have been something. Just as well hed cashed Mullers cheque.
But the more he thought about it, the more it seemed a little odd. Why hadnt Flavia told him? She must have known there was a French picture-man wandering around Rome. There was no need to spring a nasty surprise on him like that. Besides, if it was stolen, then he had smuggled stolen goods out of France and into Italy. A bit awkward. If he handed the picture straight back, was that an admission of something or other? Should he not consult with people who knew what they were talking about?
He glanced at his watch. Flavia should be back from lunch and hard at work in the office. He rarely disturbed her there, but this, he reckoned, was a reasonable occasion to break the rule.
Oh, I am glad youre here, she said as he marched in twenty minutes later. You got the message.
What message?
The one I left with the neighbour.
No. What was in it?
Telling you to come here.
I didnt get any message. Not from you anyway. Something awfuls happened.
Youre right, she said. Awfuls the word. That poor man.
He paused and looked at her. Were not talking about the same thing, are we?
It doesnt sound like it. What are you here for?
That picture. It was stolen. Ive just had a French policeman on the phone saying he wants it back. I want to ask you what I should do.
The news was surprising enough to make her take her feet off her desk and concentrate a little harder.
When was this? she asked. Then, after hed explained some more, she added: Who was this?
He didnt tell me his name. He just said he would come round this evening to talk to me about it.
How did he know you had it?
Argyll shook his head. Dont know. I suppose Muller must have told him. No one else knew.
Thats the problem though, isnt it? Because Muller is dead. He was murdered.
Agrylls world was already a little disordered because of this picture. This piece of information turned it into complete chaos. What? he said, appalled. When?
Closest estimate so far is last night. Come on. Wed better talk to the General. Oh, God. And I assured him your being with Muller was simple coincidence.
They interrupted Bottando in the middle of his afternoon tea. He was greatly mocked by his colleagues for this habit, so un-Italian in style, and indeed he had adopted it many years back after spending a week with colleagues in London. He had taken to the custom. Not because of the tea itself, which Italians have never succeeded in brewing very well, but because it created an oasis of calm and reflection in the middle of the afternoon when the troubles of the world could be temporarily forgotten. He punctuated his days in this fashion. Coffee, lunch, tea and a quick drink in the bar across the piazza after work. All brief intervals when he put down his papers, sipped meditatively and stared into space, thinking of nothing.
He guarded these moments jealously. His secretary knew how to intone at such periods, The General is in a meeting; can he ring you back? and it was a brave subordinate who dared burst in on him in mid-cup.
Flavia was one such, but even she needed a good reason. She took the good reason in with her, and told him to sit down on the chair opposite, while she calmed Bottandos ruffled feathers.
Im sorry, she said. I know. But I thought you should hear this.
Grumbling mightily, arms crossed in pique, Bottando bid farewell to his tea and meditation and leant back in his seat. Oh, very well, he said crossly. Get on with it.
And Argyll told his story, slowly seeing that, however reluctantly, Bottandos attention was being engaged by his tale. Eventually he came to a halt, and the General scratched his chin and reflected.
Two things, Flavia added before he could say anything. Firstly, when you told me to play around with the computer earlier, I typed in this picture. Just for something to do. Theres no record of it being reported stolen.
That doesnt mean anything, Bottando said. You know as well as I do how unreliable the computer is.
Secondly, are there any French policemen wandering about the place?
No, he said. At least, not officially. And Id be extremely upset if there were any here unofficially. Its not done. Courtesy. And, to give him his due, its not Janets style.
Jean Janet was Bottandos alter ego in Paris, the head of the French Art Squad. A good man, and one with whom the Italians had enjoyed cordial relations for years. As Bottando said, it was not the mans way of doing things. Besides, there was nothing to be gained by it.
I suppose Id better check, though. But we should assume this man on the phone is an imposter. Now, tell me, Mr Argyll, did anybody apart from Muller know you had this painting?
No, he said firmly. I tried to tell Delorme...
Who?
Delorme. The man who supplied it in the first place.
Ah. Bottando jotted down a little note. Is he dubious in any way? he asked hopefully.
Certainly not, Argyll replied stoutly. I mean, I dont care for him much, but I hope I know my way about sufficiently to be able to tell whos dishonest and whos merely sharp.
Bottando wasnt so sure. He made a note to check out Delorme as well when he phoned Janet up.
Now, the General went on, Flavia tells me that someone tried to steal this painting when you left Paris. Is that merely another one of her coincidences, do you think?
He said it pleasantly enough, but it didnt require a great deal of perception to detect the slightly acidic tone underneath. General Bottando was not pleased. And, Flavia thought, with good reason. Fabriano could make a real meal out of this, if he wanted. And he probably would, as well.
How should I know? Argyll said. I assumed he was just a thief spotting an opportunity.
Did you report this to the French police?
No. There seemed little point and the train was about to leave.
When you make your statement youd better include these little details. Will you be able to give a description of this man?
I think so, yes. I mean, he was pretty much standard issue. Average height, average weight, brown hair. Two arms and legs. The only sort of distinguishing feature was a small scar here.
Argyll gestured to a spot above his left eyebrow, and Flavias heart sank again.
Oh, hell, she said again.
What?
That sounds like the man seen trying to visit Muller yesterday.
Bottando sighed. Thats what comes of trying to protect boyfriends. So it seems we must at least entertain the possibility that you are going to receive a visit from a murderer. What time is he coming?
Five, he said.
In which case we should be there to meet him. And take no chances, either. If hes a killer, hes a nasty one. This picture is still at the auction house, you say?
Argyll nodded.
It cant stay there. Flavia, get Paolo to go down and get it. Put it in the strongroom downstairs until we decide what to do with it. Then get hold of Fabriano. A couple of armed men in the street, and another in the apartment should be enough. Discreet, eh? Make sure he understands that. When weve got hold of him, we can decide what to do next. Assuming he turns up, of course. Perhaps if we deliver a murderer we might skate over everything else.
6
Such a simple scenario turned out to be too much to hope for. They waited an hour in the small apartment and received no visitors at all. Not even Fabriano, although to Flavias mind that was no bad thing. They had to make do with one of their own regular policemen who reluctantly admitted to knowing what end of a gun to point at a suspect; Fabriano was out on a case, so the Carabinieri said.
When is he coming back, then? she asked the man who answered. This is important.
He didnt know. Can you patch me through to his radio? she asked impatiently.
Patch you through? came the mocking response. What do you think we are? The US Army? Were lucky if we can get the things to work at all.
Well, get a message to him, then. Its urgent. Hes to come to my apartment as quickly as possible.