The Last Judgement

‘It can’t 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 we’ve 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 Flavia’s 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 didn’t 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? We’re lucky if we can get the things to work at all.’

‘Well, get a message to him, then. It’s urgent. He’s to come to my apartment as quickly as possible.’

‘You two getting back together again?’

‘Do you mind?’

‘Sorry. OK. I’ll see what I can do,’ said the voice from the other end. Somehow, he didn’t inspire confidence.

If this demonstration of planning skill was less than impressive, at least Bottando had managed to get through to Janet, who informed him that he had absolutely none of his people in Italy.

‘Taddeo,’ came the booming voice down the phone, ‘How could you think such a thing? Would I do something like that?’

‘Just checking,’ Bottando reassured him. ‘We must do things properly. Now, tell me about this painting. Is it stolen?’

Janet said that he didn’t know. He’d have to look it up. He’d ring back with the information as soon as possible.

‘And now we wait,’ said Bottando. He looked around the apartment. ‘Charming place you have here, Flavia.’

‘You mean it’s untidy and minuscule and bleak,’ Argyll said. ‘I quite agree. Personally I think that we should move.’

If he had hoped for support from Bottando, though, Argyll was disappointed. Not that the General didn’t agree, but the ringing of the doorbell prevented him from saying so. An expectant hush fell. Argyll turned pale, the uniformed policeman took out his gun and looked at it unhappily, Bottando went and hid in the bedroom. Unfair, in Argyll’s view. He’d been planning to hide in there himself.

‘OK, then,’ Flavia whispered. ‘Open the door.’

And gingerly, expecting to be attacked at any moment, Argyll edged towards it, unlocked it, and retreated back out of the line of fire. The policeman waved his gun around, looking nervous. It occurred to Flavia that she hadn’t actually asked if he’d ever fired one before.

There was a pause from outside, then the door swung slowly open, and a man stepped in.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ Flavia said with relief and disappointment.

Fabriano, still framed by the doorway, looked at her with irritation. ‘Don’t sound so pleased. Who were you expecting?’

‘You didn’t get my message, either?’

‘What message?’

‘One of those days,’ she said as she explained.

‘Oh. I see.’ He waggled his little radio. ‘Batteries flat,’ he explained. ‘What was it about?’

Flavia provided a brief summary. Edited version only. Some aspects of the story were covered a little fast. By the end, she’d given the impression that her relationship with Argyll was based on mutual lack of communication.

‘This man’s a bit late, isn’t be?’ Fabriano said.

‘Yes.’

‘Perhaps because he was busy doing other things.’ Fabriano had that ‘I know something that you don’t’ look on his face.

She sighed. ‘Well? Like what?’

‘Like committing another murder, perhaps.’ Fabriano went on. ‘Of a harmless Swiss tourist. Who just happened to have Muller’s and your addresses written on a piece of paper in his pocket.’

He explained that he’d been called out at four to the Hotel Raphael, a quiet, pleasant hotel near the Piazza Navona. A hushed and shocked manager had called to report what he said was a suicide in one of the rooms. Fabriano had duly gone along. Not a suicide, he said. That was wishful thinking on the part of the manager. There was no way the dead man could have shot himself like that. Not with the gun wiped clean of fingerprints, anyway.

‘I’m afraid, my dear, that you are going to have to look at this hotel room,’ Bottando said. ‘I know you don’t like bodies, but still...’

She agreed reluctantly, noting as she prepared to go that Bottando himself had slithered out of it. He thought he ought to go back to the office. People to telephone, he said.