The Last Judgement

Byrnes was going to be a little surprised at the sudden expansion of his family circle, but Argyll felt moderately confident he would deal with the situation with his accustomed aplomb.

‘What are you doing this evening?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘How about going out? I’m going to a wonderful club, in the Rue Mouffetand. Very new, very good. If you like, I could pick you up at your hotel...’

Some people are very persistent. Argyll gripped his leg and grimaced. ‘Oh, I couldn’t.’ And slapped his leg.

Besson looked enquiringly.

‘Broke it a year ago. It’s still painful. I have to be careful.’

‘How dreadful.’

Argyll got up, and shook Besson warmly by the hand. ‘Thanks all the same. Now, I must run.’

‘On that leg?’

They exchanged a knowing smile, and Argyll left, remembering to limp slightly until he was out of sight.

As she was being ushered into Inspector Janet’s office in the great, bleak building on the Île de la Cité Flavia realized that, for the first time since she’d left Rome, she felt comfortable. It was a bad sign, in her view. She was getting too settled. The station was reassuringly familiar: the desk by the entrance manned by a bored policeman; the notice-boards in the corridor full of schedules and rotas and roughly printed complaints from the union about the latest pay offer; the glossy but peeling paint. It all made her feel alarmingly at home. She was becoming too used to her job. She must watch that.

She was there largely as a matter of courtesy. A question of etiquette, really. If one of Janet’s underlings was discovered galumphing around Italy without so much as a by-your-leave, Bottando would have been mightily put out. It’s not done, that sort of thing. You ask first. Then you go galumphing around.

Above all with Janet; Franco-Italian relations in the matter of art thefts were delightfully harmonious, and had been for years. There was no reason at all to be deceitful, and many reasons not to damage a perfect understanding.

Nor did either Bottando or Flavia want to be deceitful. At least, they didn’t want to deceive Janet. The trouble was this sneaking feeling in the back of her mind that Janet might, perhaps, be deceiving them. But she was ushered in, given a warm embrace and a cup of coffee, sat herself down on a comfortable seat just out of range of the man’s halitosis and prattled on about holidays and sights and museums.

It was Janet himself who brought up the subject of a certain painting.

‘Is that why you’re here? Taddeo has been on the phone about it a couple of times.’

‘That’s the one. Although the picture itself is not so important anymore. It was given back to the owner yesterday. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you in advance, but—’

He waved it aside. ‘No matter. As I say, we weren’t formally interested anyway. Where did it come from?’

‘A man called Jean Rouxel.’

Janet looked impressed. ‘Oho. How very interesting.’

‘You know him?’

‘Oh, yes. Not that there’s anything surprising in that. A very distinguished man. One of those people who’ve wielded influence for what seems like decades. You know he was awarded—’

‘The Europa prize. Yes, I do. We’re not interested in that. All I’m trying to do is put together a few bits and pieces about these two murders in Rome. When I do that, then I can go home.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’

Flavia smiled sweetly. ‘I was hoping you’d say that.’

‘I know. That’s why I said it. I mean, this is really our patch. I think it would be much the easiest course if you just told me what you need. There is no real point in staying here, doing stuff that we can almost certainly do in half the time. I could send you the results straight to Rome.’

That’s an idea. A tempting one,’ she said. ‘Well, then. There was a phone call. To Ellman and probably from Paris. It seems to have been what sent him him off to Rome. Is there any way you could find out where it came from?’

Janet looked alarmed at the idea. ‘I’m really not very good at this sort of thing. Can it be done? I’ve not a clue. I’ll have to ask.’

‘I can give you the number dialled, and the approximate time it was made.’

‘That would be a help.’

So she dictated and he jotted down, ending by promising to see what he could do.

‘Anything else?’

‘Yes. The front-runner for the burglar of Rouxel’s château is a man called Besson.’

Janet looked mildly put out at the mention of the name. ‘More than likely,’ he said glumly.

‘You know him?’

‘Oh, yes. Monsieur Besson and I go back a long way. I’ve been trying to lock him up for years. Never succeeded, though. Come close, once or twice, but never pinned him down. What’s he been up to, exactly?’

Flavia explained.