The Last Judgement

After he left Rosier Frères, he calculated carefully, decided that the money would just run a taxi and directed it to Besson’s address. Simple and successful so far. He knocked, and Besson opened — about forty, with thinning hair pasted over the front of his scalp to spread it as widely as possible, and an unexpectedly open and friendly face.

Argyll introduced himself with a false name and, despite a none-too-convincing excuse for the visit, Besson invited him in. Coffee? Or tea? The English drink tea, don’t they?

He even began chattering away as the coffee was made without Argyll having to prompt him. He was taking a few days off, he said, as his visitor shuffled discreetly around the apartment eyeing the paintings. Not bad at all. It was a habit that both he and Flavia had. Flavia did it because she was in the police and had a suspicious mind; he did it because he was an art dealer and couldn’t help making running assessments of other people’s possessions. It wasn’t polite, really, but it was occasionally useful. He checked quickly through the pictures, eyed up the furniture, examined the grandfather clock and was on to the collection of photographs in art nouveau silver frames before the water was even boiling. Nothing of interest there; just Besson in the company of various anonymous figures. Relations, by the look of them.

‘You know how it is, I’m sure,’ Besson was saying as he looked up and scuttled back to his seat. ‘You wake up and just decide you can’t face it today. All those customers coming in, looking at your pictures, then finding out the price and sucking in their breath in a disapproving fashion like you’re a fairground pickpocket. Or even worse, trying to look as though they could easily afford it when you know for sure they can’t. The only ones I like are the people who tell you frankly they’d love it if they had the money. But of course, you don’t make an income out of them. Do you have a gallery, Mr Byrnes?’

‘I work in one,’ Argyll lied cautiously.

‘Really? Where? London?’

‘That’s right. Called Byrnes Galleries.’

‘Are you that Byrnes? Sir Edward Byrnes?’

‘Oh, no,’ he said, thinking that maybe it would have been better to have chosen a less prominent name. ‘He’s my, ah, uncle. This is a Gervex, isn’t it?’ he said, pointing with sudden interest at a small but beautifully painted portrait of a woman.

Besson nodded. ‘Handsome, don’t you think? One of my favourites.’

‘You mainly do nineteenth-century French, then?’

‘Not mainly. Only. Got to specialize these days. There’s nothing worse than a reputation for having broad tastes. People only think you know what you’re doing if you narrow your range down.’

‘Oh.’

‘You sound surprised.’

‘I am. Well, more disappointed, in fact.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because it sort of means I’ve wasted my time. And yours. I’ve got a painting, you see, that I was told might have passed through your hands at one stage. But as it’s not nineteenth-century, then perhaps I was told wrong. It’s a shame, I dearly want to find out about it.’

‘I do occasionally handle other stuff. What is it?’

‘I don’t know. It’s a Death of Socrates. Late-eighteenth century.’

As discreetly as possible Argyll watched to see what the reaction to this was. Apart from taking a sip of his coffee, Besson appeared to cope with the surprise quite well. However, there was just a hint of a guarded tone in his voice when he next spoke to indicate that the man was a little cautious.

‘Oh, yes?’ he said. ‘Where did it come from?’

‘I don’t know. I was doing a trip down to Italy a couple of days ago to see what I could lay my hands on. And I bought this painting off a dealer there. Name of Argyll. Jonathan Argyll, he was called. He seemed keen to get rid of it. Very charming man.’

Was there any harm in a bit of publicity? he thought to himself. After all, if you were going to lie, there was no reason not to fib to your own advantage. What was he to do after all? Make himself out to be a monster?

‘Anyway, he said he was short of cash so he wanted to unload it. I’ve taken it off his hands. Now, I think it may be valuable, so I was wondering where it came from. I heard that you...’

Besson, however, was not going to be co-operative. ‘No,’ he said slowly, ‘never heard of it.’

He went through the motions of thinking again. ‘Sorry. Can’t even think of any of my colleagues who might have had it. Tell you what, though, I’ll ask around. How does that sound?’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ he said. They were both getting into the swing of it now. Each trying to out-lie the other. Argyll was quite enjoying himself and he had a sneaking idea that Besson was as well.

‘Not at all,’ Besson said, reaching for a pad of paper and a pen.

‘Tell me where you’re staying in Paris and I’ll let you know if I find anything out.’

Argyll had thought of that one. The last thing he wanted was to hand over the address of his hotel.

‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll be out all day, then I’m going back to London. You can ring me at the gallery if you find something.’