The Last Judgement

‘And so are you. But there are times when you’ve been leant on as well. What I can’t work out is why anyone is leaning on him. But I suspect it’d be no good asking.’

Bottando thought about this for a while, not at all happy. Murders and things were all very well; but he did not see why the smooth running of his department should be disrupted by them. His easy co-operation with the French had been an important factor in his department’s limited success for years; the prospect of its being wrecked by this case was becoming extremely worrying.

‘You’re going to have to sort this out quickly,’ he said glumly. ‘I’m not having years of friendship and careful work wrecked by one stupid picture. Do you have any idea what is going on?’

‘Yes,’ she said simply.

Argyll was roused from his reverie by this comment. He had been staring into space most of the time, not really paying attention to the conversation. There was something in the back of his mind, and he couldn’t quite pin it down. Indeed it had been there for days; and, rather like a very small stone in the bottom of a shoe, it was causing increasing irritation. The fact that, try as he might, he couldn’t work out exactly what was bothering him made it all the worse.

‘You do?’ he said. ‘You might have told me. What is it?’

‘I said I had an idea,’ she replied. ‘I didn’t say I had proof, or that the idea was right.’

‘I’m not impressed,’ he said.

‘Nor am I. But we still don’t have enough information. General, did you, by any chance, have any luck with the Swiss over that phone call? The one to Ellman that sent him to Rome?’

‘Ah, that,’ Bottando said with a frown. ‘Indeed. You might not like the answer though.’

‘Try me.’

‘It didn’t come from Paris at all; it came from Rome. The Hotel Raphael, to be precise.’

‘The what?’

‘As I say.’

‘Whose phone?’

‘Alas, we can’t find that out. But we can conclude certain things ourselves, can we not?’

He looked at her with that faint smile that he adopted when he had reached an answer before she had. A bit unfair, really, as he’d had longer to think about it. Even so, she wasn’t that far behind.

‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘This was Monday, right?’

He nodded.

‘And that was the day I could get no work out of anyone at the Interior Ministry because there was some international delegation in town. Financial liaison and supervision, or something.’

He nodded again.

‘And Rouxel’s granddaughter told Jonathan that he was on the French delegation of some committee dealing with financial supervision.’

Bottando nodded again.

‘Rouxel was in Rome that day?’

A further nod.

‘He made that call?’ she asked, pursuing the matter with what she thought was fine logic.

Bottando shrugged. ‘No,’ he said, spoiling it. ‘It seemed a reasonable presumption. But at the time he was in a meeting, which he never left. A further snag is that when Muller was killed Rouxel was at an official dinner, and when Ellman was shot he was already on a plane back home. I checked and double-checked. There’s no doubt. He didn’t kill anyone or phone anyone.’

‘Which leaves this putative policeman with the scar.’

‘It does. And if you’re right, then we’re delving into very muddy waters indeed.’

‘Oh, God,’ she said, suddenly disgusted with the whole business. ‘What do you think?’

‘As far as evidence goes, I don’t know,’ Bottando replied.

‘Damnation,’ Flavia said crossly. ‘All our leads have gone dead. Or at least, we’ve made progress, but it hasn’t got us anywhere. All we’ve uncovered is long-dead detail that doesn’t mean much. I wish Muller had been right. If there had been something special about that last judgement, we would at least have had something to go on.’

And over in a quiet and almost forgotten corner of the room, cogs whirred. Old, rusty levers clicked over. Synapses, sluggish with disuse, flickered into hesitant life. The half-formed idea in the back of Argyll’s mind leapt suddenly and boldly into full and well-focused shape.

‘What?’ he said.

‘This painting. If we could—’

‘You called it the last judgement.’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah,’ he said, leaning back in his armchair with an air of profound relief and satisfaction. ‘Of course. Do you know, you’ve never told me I’m brilliant as well as beautiful.’

‘And I’m not going to unless you earn it,’ she said a little testily.

‘Logic. Hartung’s letter referred to the last judgement; Muller assumed it meant The Death of Socrates, the last one to be painted.’

She nodded.

‘One of a series of four.’

She nodded again, trying to be patient.

‘The sales list of Rosier Frères listed Hartung’s purchases. One picture by Floret of Socrates. And another. Sent to an address on the Boulevard St-Germain. The street where Mrs Richards’ parents lived. And Rouxel lodged. And Mrs Richards said Hartung had given Rouxel a picture. A religious one.’

‘So?’