The Last Judgement

In great detail, he did. About Besson and Delorme and men with scars and train stations and Muller and Ellman and the police and libraries and museum curators. Nothing left out. She was fascinated, staring at him with wide-eyed attention all through the discourse.

‘So. Who did it? Who was responsible?’ she asked when he finished. ‘Who is on top of the police list at the moment?’

‘I haven’t a clue,’ he answered. ‘I’m hardly privy to their innermost thoughts. But from what I can gather no one is, really. There’s this man with the scar, of course. But as no one has a clue who he is, it seems unlikely they will catch him. Unless they’ve made progress in my absence, they don’t even know why Muller wanted the picture so badly. I mean, it belonged to his father, but so did many other things. And that’s no reason to steal it anyway. Do you have any idea?’

‘None,’ she said, shaking her head to give the word extra emphasis. ‘I mean, I remember the picture quite well now. It’s not exactly world-class, is it?’

‘No. But how long has Monsieur Rouxel had it?’

‘He got it when he was young. He said so, once. But where it came from I don’t know.’

They refilled their drinks and dropped the subject; there seemed little else to say on the matter really. Instead she turned her attention to Argyll. He retold all his little stories about the art business, his complete run of whimsy, jokes and scandal, and she looked properly shocked, impressed and amused in all the right places. Such eyes she had. Occasionally she would laugh outright, resting her hand on his arm in appreciation at well-delivered anecdotes. He told her about life in Rome, about clients, about selling pictures and buying them, about fakes and forgeries and smuggling.

The only thing about his life he didn’t mention all evening was Flavia.

‘And what about you?’ he said, returning to the really important question. ‘How long have you worked for Monsieur Rouxel?’

‘Several years. He’s my grandfather, you know.’

‘Oh, I see,’ he said.

‘I organize his life for him, and help with the running of some of the small companies he still owns.’

‘I thought he was a big-business type. Or a lawyer. Or a politician. Or something.’

‘All of the above. So he was. But since he retired he took on a couple of smaller operations. Stock-broking, mainly. More to keep himself active than anything else. That was going to be my speciality as well.’

‘Was?’

‘I began. Then Grandfather asked me to help him sort out his papers. You can imagine how many someone like him has accumulated over the years. Judicial papers, and business papers and political ones. And he didn’t want a stranger going through them. It was just meant to be for a short while, when he was ill and overburdened, but I’m still there. I finished organizing his archives years ago but he can’t do without me. I used to suggest he got someone more permanent, but he says always that nobody could ever be as efficient as me. Or as used to his ways.’

‘Do you like that?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said quickly. ‘Of course. He’s such a wonderful man. And he needs me. I’m his only family. His wife died young. Such a tragedy; it had been a brilliant match, and he’d loved her for years before they married. And my own mother died having me. So there’s no one else. And someone has to stop him over-extending himself. He can never say no. They keep on asking him to serve on committees and he always says yes. Except when I can intercept the mail and say no first.’

‘You do that?’

‘Privileges of a secretary,’ she said with a faint smile. ‘Yes. I open all his mail, after all. But sometimes they get through. There’s this international financial committee he’s on at the moment. Constant journeys and meetings. It exhausts him, and serves no purpose. But will he give it up and stop wasting his time? Oh no. He’s so kind and so helpful he’d never have a minute to himself if I didn’t stop people wasting his time.’

For the first time that evening, Argyll had a rival. It wasn’t just that Jeanne liked or respected her grandfather, she seemed to come close to hero-worship. Perhaps Rouxel deserved it. For her he was not only a perfect employer, he was also one of the greatest men alive. Overdoing it a bit, though, wasn’t she? Trying so hard to convince him. And what did she get in return? he wondered.

‘He was given the Croix de Guerre,’ Argyll said.

She smiled and shot him a little glance. ‘You’ve been doing your homework, I see. Yes. He was. For his work in the Resistance. He never talks about it, but I gather he was very nearly killed several times, and he dealt with all the internal squabbling. Somehow or other he emerged with his general faith in human nature intact. I don’t know how he did it really.’

‘You have a great admiration for him,’ he commented. ‘What happened to his political career?’