by Iain Pears
According to a technician who had been called in to look at it, it was a marvellous product of European co-operation. A perfect symbol of the continent, he said in abstract philosophic vein as the machine had, yet again, insisted that a Futurist sculpture was a long-lost masterpiece by Masaccio. Specification by the Germans; hardware by the Italians; software by the British; telecommunication links by the French. Put it all together and naturally it didn’t work. Did anyone really expect it to? He left eventually, recommending the postal system. More reliable, he said gloomily.
‘Please, Flavia. We have to use it.’
‘But it’s useless.’
‘I know it’s useless. That’s not the point. This is an international venture which cost a fortune. If we don’t use it periodically we’ll be asked why not. Good heavens, woman, last time I went into the room the monitor was being used as a plant-stand. How would that look if anyone from the budget committee came around?’
‘No.’
Bottando sighed. Somehow or other he seemed to have trouble projecting his authority, despite holding the rank of general. Think of Napoleon, for example. If he issued an order, did his subordinates snort derisively and refuse to pay a blind bit of attention? If Caesar ordered an immediate flanking movement, did his lieutenants look up from their newspapers and say they were a bit tired at the moment, how about next Wednesday? They did not. Of course, the fact that Flavia was perfectly correct weakened his case a little. But that was not the point. It was time to exert control. Discipline.
‘Please?’ he said appealingly.
‘Oh, all right,’ she said eventually. ‘I’ll switch it on. Tell you what, I’ll leave it on all night. How about that?’
‘Splendid, my dear. I’m so grateful.’
5
While the authorities in the Art Theft Department were dealing with crucial matters of international co-operation, Jonathan Argyll spent the morning coping with more basic matters of stock management. That is, he was doing a little work on his picture. He had been struck by a good idea. That is, Muller had said the picture was one of a series. Who more likely to want to buy it than the person, or museum, or institution, who owned the others? Assuming, that is, they were all together. All he had to do was find out where the rest were, and offer to complete the set. It might not work, of course, but it was worth an hour or so of his time.
Besides, this was the bit of his trade that he liked. Dealing with recalcitrant clients, and bargaining and extracting money and working out whether things could be sold at a profit were the bread and butter of his life, but he didn’t really enjoy them much. Too much reality for him to cope with comfortably. A meditative hour in a library was far more to his taste.
The question was where to start. Muller said he’d read about it, but where? He was half minded to ring the man up, but reckoned he’d have gone to work, and he didn’t know where that was. Anyway, a skilled researcher like himself could probably find out fairly quickly anyway.
All he knew about the picture was that it was by a man called Floret; and he knew that because it was signed, indistinctly but legibly, in the bottom left-hand corner. He could guess it was done in the 1780s, and it was obviously French.
So he proceeded methodically and with order, a bit like Fabriano only more quietly. Starting at the beginning with the great bible of all art historians, Thieme und Becker. All twenty-five volumes in German, unfortunately, but he could make out enough to be directed to the next stage.
Floret, Jean. Künstler, gest. 1792. That was the stuff. A list of paintings, all in museums. Six lines in all, pretty much the basic minimum. Not a painter to be taken seriously. But the reference did direct him to an article published in the Gazette des Beaux-Arts in 1937 which was his next port of call. This was by a man called Jules Hartung, little more than a biographical sketch, really, but it fleshed out the details. Born 1765, worked in France, guillotined for not being quite revolutionary enough in 1792. Served him right, as well, according to the text. Floret had worked for a patron, the Comte de Mirepoix, producing a series of subjects on legal themes. Then, come the Revolution, he had denounced his benefactor and supervised the confiscation of the man’s goods and the ruin of his family. A common enough sort of story, perhaps.
But 1937 was a long time ago, and in any case the article didn’t say where any of his pictures were, apart from hinting strongly that, fairly obviously, they no longer belonged to the Mirepoix family. For their current whereabouts he had to work a lot harder. For the rest of the morning and well into his normal lunch-hour, he trawled through histories of French art, histories of neoclassicism, guides to museums and check-lists of locations in the hunt for the slightest hint that would point him in the right direction.
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 o
f 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.
Half enraged, half perplexed, Argyll hung up. Good God, he might have to write a letter. Years since he’d done anything like that. Rather lost the habit, in fact. Quite apart from the fact that his written French was a bit dodgy.
And so he flicked through his phone book to see who else he knew in Paris who might be persuaded to do him a favour. No one. Damn it, he thought as the phone rang again.
‘Hello,’ he said absently.
‘Am I speaking to a Mr Jonathan Argyll?’ came a voice in execrable Italian.
‘That’s right.’
‘And do you have in your possession a painting entitled The Death of Socrates?’ the voice continued in equally bad English.
‘Yes,’ said Argyll, a little surprised. ‘Well, sort of.’
‘What do you mean?’
It was a quiet voice, measured, almost gentle in tone, but Argyll didn’t like it. Something unreasonable in the way the questions were being put, without so much as a by-your-leave. Besides, it reminded him of someone.
‘I mean,’ he said firmly, ‘that the picture is currently at an auction house to be valued. Who are you?’
His attempt to regain control of the conversation went unheeded. The man at the other end – what was that accent anyway? – disregarded his question entirely.
‘Are you aware that it was stolen?’
Whoops, he thought.
‘I must ask who you are.’
‘I am a member of the French police. The Art Theft Department, to be precise. I’ve been sent to Rome to recover this work. And I mean to do so.’
‘But I …’
You knew nothing about it. Is that what you were going to say?’
‘Well …’
‘That may be so. I am under instructions not to lodge any complaint against you for your role in this affair.’
‘Oh, good.’
‘But I must have that picture immediately.’
‘You can’t.’
There was a pause from the other end. The caller evidently hadn’t expected opposition. ‘And why not, pray?’
‘I told you. It’s at the auction house. They’re closed until tomorrow morning. I won’t be able to get it until then.’
‘Give me the name.’
‘I don’t see why I should,’ Argyll said with a sudden burst of stubbornness. ‘I don’t know who you are. How do I know you’re a policeman?’
‘I would be more than happy to reassure you. If you like, I’ll come and visit you this evening. Then you can satisfy yourself.’
‘When?’
‘Five o’clock?’
‘OK. Fine. I’ll see you then.’
After the phone line had gone dead, Argyll stood around the apartment, thinking. Damnation. It was amazing how things can go wrong on you. It wasn’t much money, but at least it would have been something. Just as well he’d cashed Muller’s cheque.
But the more he thought about it, the more it seemed a little odd. Why hadn’t Flavia told him? She must have known there was a French picture-man wandering around Rome. There was no need to spring a nasty surprise on him like that. Besides, if it was stolen, then he had smuggled stolen goods out of France and into Italy. A bit awkward. If he handed the picture straight back, was that an admission of something or other? Should he not consult with people who knew what they were talking about?
He glanced at his watch. Flavia should be back from lunch and hard at work in the office. He rarely disturbed her there, but this, he reckoned, was a reasonable occasion to break the rule.
‘Oh, I am glad you’re here,’ she said as he marched in twenty minutes later. ‘You got the message.’
‘What message?’
‘The one I left with the neighbour.’
‘No. What was in it?’
‘Telling you to come here.’
‘I didn’t get any message. Not from you anyway. Something awful’s happened.’
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘Awful’s the word. That poor man.’
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 r
eflected.
‘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.
