The Last Judgement

He was beginning to get on the nerves of the librarians who brought him the books when at last he struck lucky. The vital information was in an exhibition catalogue of only the previous year. It had just arrived in the library, so he counted himself fortunate. A jolly little show, put on in one of those outlying suburbs of Paris trying to establish a cultural identity for themselves. Myths and Mistresses, it was called, an excuse for a jumble of miscellaneous pictures linked by date and not much more. A bit of classical, a bit of religion, lots of portraits and semi-naked eighteenth-century bimbos pretending to be wood-nymphs. All with a somewhat overwrought introduction about fantasy and play in the idealized dream-world of French court society. Could have done better himself.

However flabby the conception, however, the organizer was greatly beloved of Argyll, if only for catalogue entry no. 127. ‘Floret, Jean,’ it began rather hopefully. ‘The Death of Socrates, painted circa 1787. Part of a series of four paintings of matching religious and classical scenes on the theme of judgement. The judgements of Socrates and of Jesus represented two cases where the judicial system had not given of its best; and the judgements of Alexander and of Solomon where those in authority had acquitted themselves a little more honorably. Private collection.’ Then a lot of blurb explaining the story behind the painting illustrated. Alas, it was not encouraging to Argyll’s hopes of finding a buyer wanting to reunite the paintings. The two versions of justice performed were out of reach, with The Judgement of Solomon in New York and The Judgement of Alexander in a museum in Germany. What was worse, The Judgement of Jesus had vanished years ago and was presumed lost. Old Socrates was liable to stay on his own, dammit.

And this catalogue didn’t even say who it used to belong to. No name, no address. Just ‘private collection.’ Not that it really mattered. He felt a little discouraged, and it was time for lunch anyway. What was more, he had to get to the shops before they shut for the afternoon. It was his turn. Flavia was particular about that sort of thing.

It stood to reason, he thought as he lumbered up the stairs an hour later, bearing plastic bags full of water, wine, pasta, meat and fruit, that this previous owner lived in France. Perhaps he should at least check? He could then construct a provenance to go with the work, and that always increases the value a little. Besides, Muller had said the work had once been in a distinguished collection. Nothing like a famous name as a previous owner to appeal to the snobbism that lurks inside so many collectors. ‘Well, it used to be in the collection of the Duc d’Orléans, you know.’ Works wonders, that sort of thing. And how better to go about tracking him down than to contact Delorme? Courtesy demanded that he should fill the man in about Muller’s decision, and pleasure indicated the need to tell him that, because of Argyll’s diligent labours in the library, he could well make more money on reselling the picture than Delorme did on flogging it in the first place.

Unfortunately, his telephone call to Paris went unanswered. Perhaps, one day, when the European Community has finished deciding on the right length for leeks, and standardizing the shape of eggs and banning everything that is half-way pleasant to eat, it might turn its attention to telephone calls. Every country, it seems, has a different system, so that all of them together make up a veritable songbook of different chirrups. A long beep in France means it is ringing; in Greece it means it’s engaged and in England it means there is no such number. Two chirrups in England means it’s ringing; in Germany it means engaged and in France, as Argyll discovered after a long and painful conversation with the telephone operator, it means that moron Delorme had forgotten to pay his phone bill again and the company had taken punitive action.

‘What do you mean?’ he said. ‘How can it have been disconnected?’

Where do they get them from? There is something about telephone operators — one of the universal constants of human existence. From Algeria to Zimbabwe, they are capable of imbuing an ostensibly polite sentence with the deepest of contempt. It is impossible to talk to one without finally feeling chastened, humiliated and frustrated.

‘You disconnect the line,’ she said, in answer to his question. Everybody knows that, she left unsaid. It’s your fault for having doubtful friends who don’t pay their bills — that passed by equally silently. She even refrained from saying that the chances were that Argyll’s line would probably be disconnected any day now as well, a shifty character like him.

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.