The Last Judgement

He paused and looked at her. ‘We’re not talking about the same thing, are we?’

‘It doesn’t sound like it. What are you here for?’

‘That picture. It was stolen. I’ve just had a French policeman on the phone saying he wants it back. I want to ask you what I should do.’

The news was surprising enough to make her take her feet off her desk and concentrate a little harder.

‘When was this?’ she asked. Then, after he’d explained some more, she added: ‘Who was this?’

‘He didn’t tell me his name. He just said he would come round this evening to talk to me about it.’

‘How did he know you had it?’

Argyll shook his head. ‘Don’t know. I suppose Muller must have told him. No one else knew.’

‘That’s the problem though, isn’t it? Because Muller is dead. He was murdered.’

Agryll’s world was already a little disordered because of this picture. This piece of information turned it into complete chaos. ‘What?’ he said, appalled. ‘When?’

‘Closest estimate so far is last night. Come on. We’d better talk to the General. Oh, God. And I assured him your being with Muller was simple coincidence.’

They interrupted Bottando in the middle of his afternoon tea. He was greatly mocked by his colleagues for this habit, so un-Italian in style, and indeed he had adopted it many years back after spending a week with colleagues in London. He had taken to the custom. Not because of the tea itself, which Italians have never succeeded in brewing very well, but because it created an oasis of calm and reflection in the middle of the afternoon when the troubles of the world could be temporarily forgotten. He punctuated his days in this fashion. Coffee, lunch, tea and a quick drink in the bar across the piazza after work. All brief intervals when he put down his papers, sipped meditatively and stared into space, thinking of nothing.

He guarded these moments jealously. His secretary knew how to intone at such periods, ‘The General is in a meeting; can he ring you back?’ and it was a brave subordinate who dared burst in on him in mid-cup.

Flavia was one such, but even she needed a good reason. She took the good reason in with her, and told him to sit down on the chair opposite, while she calmed Bottando’s ruffled feathers.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I know. But I thought you should hear this.’

Grumbling mightily, arms crossed in pique, Bottando bid farewell to his tea and meditation and leant back in his seat. ‘Oh, very well,’ he said crossly. ‘Get on with it.’

And Argyll told his story, slowly seeing that, however reluctantly, Bottando’s attention was being engaged by his tale. Eventually he came to a halt, and the General scratched his chin and reflected.

‘Two things,’ Flavia added before he could say anything. ‘Firstly, when you told me to play around with the computer earlier, I typed in this picture. Just for something to do. There’s no record of it being reported stolen.’

‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ Bottando said. ‘You know as well as I do how unreliable the computer is.’

‘Secondly, are there any French policemen wandering about the place?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘At least, not officially. And I’d be extremely upset if there were any here unofficially. It’s not done. Courtesy. And, to give him his due, it’s not Janet’s style.’

Jean Janet was Bottando’s alter ego in Paris, the head of the French Art Squad. A good man, and one with whom the Italians had enjoyed cordial relations for years. As Bottando said, it was not the man’s way of doing things. Besides, there was nothing to be gained by it.

‘I suppose I’d better check, though. But we should assume this man on the phone is an imposter. Now, tell me, Mr Argyll, did anybody apart from Muller know you had this painting?’

‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I tried to tell Delorme …’

‘Who?’

‘Delorme. The man who supplied it in the first place.’

‘Ah.’ Bottando jotted down a little note. ‘Is he dubious in any way?’ he asked hopefully.

‘Certainly not,’ Argyll replied stoutly. ‘I mean, I don’t care for him much, but I hope I know my way about sufficiently to be able to tell who’s dishonest and who’s merely sharp.’

Bottando wasn’t so sure. He made a note to check out Delorme as well when he phoned Janet up.

‘Now,’ the General went on, ‘Flavia tells me that someone tried to steal this painting when you left Paris. Is that merely another one of her coincidences, do you think?’

He said it pleasantly enough, but it didn’t require a great deal of perception to detect the slightly acidic tone underneath. General Bottando was not pleased. And, Flavia thought, with good reason. Fabriano could make a real meal out of this, if he wanted. And he probably would, as well.

‘How should I know?’ Argyll said. ‘I assumed he was just a thief spotting an opportunity.’

‘Did you report this to the French police?’

‘No. There seemed little point and the train was about to leave.’

‘When you make your statement you’d better include these little details. Will you be able to give a description of this man?’

‘I think so, yes. I mean, he was pretty much standard issue. Average height, average weight, brown hair. Two arms and legs. The only sort of distinguishing feature was a small scar here.’

Argyll gestured to a spot above his left eyebrow, and Flavia’s heart sank again.

‘Oh, hell,’ she said again.

‘What?’

‘That sounds like the man seen trying to visit Muller yesterday.’

Bottando sighed. That’s what comes of trying to protect boyfriends. ‘So it seems we must at least entertain the possibility that you are going to receive a visit from a murderer. What time is he coming?’

‘Five, he said.’

‘In which case we should be there to meet him. And take no chances, either. If he’s a killer, he’s a nasty one. This picture is still at the auction house, you say?’

Argyll nodded.

‘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 (#ulink_e0af09da-3e01-5529-85bd-6d1b4bfe9aa7)

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.’