by Iain Pears
Argyll sighed. He should have known better. ‘Tell me the worst, then,’ he said. ‘What is it?’
‘I know who delivered the painting. He told me that he was acting for a client. All he wanted me to do – and it was a generous commission – was to organize its delivery. Which I did.’
‘No questions asked.’
‘He assured me there was nothing improper in what I was doing.’
‘Leaving out the question of whether there was anything improper in what he was doing.’
Delorme nodded. ‘That was his problem. I checked in the latest police list of stolen art and it wasn’t there, which is all I was required to do. I’m in the clear.’
‘But I’m not. I’m stuck with the thing.’
‘Sorry about that,’ Delorme said. He seemed as though he might almost have meant it. He wasn’t a bad soul, really. Just not very trustworthy.
‘I think,’ said Argyll ponderously, ‘that you knew damn well, or suspected, anyway, that there was something very dodgy about this picture. You wanted to get rid of it and unloaded it on me. That wasn’t at all nice of you.’
‘Look, I’m sorry. I really am. But I did keep my side of the bargain. I sent those drawings off to California for you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And I needed the money. I’m really scraping along here. Dealing with that painting kept the wolves at bay, at least for a bit. It was simple desperation.’
‘You could always have sold the Ferrari.’ Delorme’s penchant for red cars so small you could barely get into them was a weakness well known in the trade. Argyll had never understood it.
‘Sell the – Oh, a joke,’ the Frenchman said, worried for a moment. ‘No, I needed the money fast.’
‘How much were you paid?’
‘Twenty thousand francs.’
‘For transporting a picture? And you’re going to stand up in court and say you never suspected for a moment, your worship, that there was anything wrong?’
Delorme looked uncomfortable. ‘Well …’
‘And, now I come to think of it, you were in an unseemly haste to get that picture out of the country. Why?’
Delorme rubbed his nose then cracked his knuckles, then, just to be sure, rubbed his nose again. ‘Well, you see …’
Argyll looked patient.
‘Come on.’
‘The owner – that is, the man dealing with the painting for a client – um, got arrested.’
‘Oh, God. It gets worse.’
Delorme smiled, a little nervously.
‘Who was this man? Has his name popped into your memory yet?’
‘Oh, if you insist. His name is Besson. Jean-Luc Besson. An art dealer. Impeccably honest, as far as I know.’
‘And when this impeccably honest man was rounded up by the boys in blue your first thought was to get rid of any tangible evidence of a connection with him. Not that you suspected anything at all, of course. Just in case the police turned up.’
More embarrassment.
‘They did,’ Delorme said.
‘When?’
‘About an hour after you collected the picture and took it away. The man wanted it back.’
‘And you denied ever having seen it.’
‘I could hardly do that,’ he said reasonably. ‘Seeing that Besson had said he’d given it to me. No. I told them you had it.’
Argyll stared at him open-mouthed. So much for honour amongst dealers.
‘You what? You said, “I know nothing about it but I do know a shady character called Argyll is at this moment about to smuggle it out of the country?”’
A watery smile indicated this was about right.
‘And you told them about Muller?’
‘He already seemed to know.’
‘Who was this policeman?’
‘How should I know?’
‘Describe him.’
‘Quite young, not a regular in the Art Squad that I know of. Thirties, dark brown hair and quite a lot of it, little scar –’
‘Above his left eyebrow?’
‘That’s the one. Do you know him?’
‘Enough to know that he’s probably not a policeman. Did he show you any identification?’
‘Ah, well, no. In fact he didn’t. That doesn’t mean he’s not one.’
‘No. But the next day he tried to steal the painting at the train station. If he really was a policeman, he’d have just whipped out a warrant or something and arrested me. You were quite lucky, really.’
‘Why?’
‘Because after failing to steal the painting from me, he then went and tortured Muller to death. Then he shot someone else. Somehow I don’t think you would have enjoyed that.’
And, leaving Delorme satisfactorily pale at his apparently narrow escape – which in Argyll’s view would have been no more than he deserved, considering his behaviour – he left to see what he could do about this Besson character.
At approximately the same time that Argyll was being appalled by the potential for duplicity contained in the human frame, Flavia was standing in a queue at Basle airport to change some money and buy a map of the city. She was raring to go. Her blood was up, in fact, and she had only briefly considered the possibility of finding a hotel, having a bath, getting changed and settling down for a meal and an early night. No sooner thought of than dismissed. She had work to do and she wanted to get this done, then go straight to Paris to have another look at this painting. Damned nuisance, but nothing to be done about it.
Her decision to go to Switzerland had been reinforced by the careful perusal of the papers accumulated by the Carabinieri the night before. As Fabriano had said, they were methodical; a model of how to do it. The trouble was, they hadn’t had much time, and getting information via the Swiss police inevitably involved an awful lot of paperwork and delay. Not the fault of the Swiss, just the way it was.
She had toyed with the idea of ringing ahead to Ellman’s apartment to give warning that she was on her way, but decided against. If the housekeeper Fabriano’s report mentioned wasn’t there, that was a pity. She’d have a wasted journey, but it wasn’t a long one, only around fifteen minutes by taxi. When she had arrived at the destination, she stood and examined the street. It was a non-descript line of apartment blocks, all around thirty or forty years old. Comfortable enough, in decent repair and with the streets as immaculate as they always were in Switzerland. A respectable neighbourhood, but not in any way a wealthy one, so she reckoned.
The entrance to Ellman’s block was similarly anonymous but worthy in appearance; clean, tidy, the walls covered in little notes reminding tenants to make sure the doors were firmly closed and the rubbish sacks secured to stop the cats getting at them. Muller himself had lived on the fifth floor, and Flavia took the well-maintained, comfortably carpeted lift to get there.
‘Madame Rouvet?’ she asked in French as the door opened, having desperately checked her file at the last moment to make sure that she remembered the name properly.
‘Yes?’ She was probably ten years younger than her employer had been, and didn’t seem at all like a housemaid. Very well dressed, with an attractive face spoiled only by a thin, puritanical mouth.
Flavia explained who she was, and where she had come from, showing her Italian police identification. She had been sent up by the Rome police to ask a few questions about Mr Ellman’s death.
She was allowed in without any awkward questions being asked. Like, isn’t it a bit late? And don’t the Swiss authorities insist on accompanying foreign policemen when they investigate on their patch? And where is your written authority to be here?
‘You’ve come from Rome today?’ she asked.
‘That’s right,’ Flavia replied as she carefully looked around to get a feel of the place. The instant impression was of a home that was as proper as the block that contained it. Modestly furnished, with nothing exceptional. Inexpensive modern furniture, a preference for bright colours. No pictures on the wall except fo
r a couple of popular prints of paintings. A vast television dominated the little sitting-room, and the air of meticulous cleanliness was spoiled only by the faint smell of cat.
‘I arrived about half an hour ago,’ she continued as she took all this in. ‘I hope you don’t mind me just turning up like this.’
‘Not at all,’ Madame Rouvet said. She looked properly, but far from excessively, distressed at her employer’s death. One of those people whose period of grief would be fitted into the day’s schedule, somewhere between the shopping and the ironing. ‘How can I help you? I’m afraid this has all come as rather a shock to me.’
‘I’m sure,’ she replied sympathetically. ‘A dreadful thing to happen. And I’m sure you understand, we want to find out what happened as soon as possible.’
‘Do you have any idea who killed him?’
‘Not really. Bits and pieces, hints and clues, and lines of enquiry. But I must tell you that at the moment we need all the information we can gather.’
‘I will, of course, be eager to help. I can’t imagine who would want to kill poor Mr Ellman. Such a nice, kind, generous soul. So good to his family, and to me, as well.’
‘He has family?’
‘A son. A good-for-nothing, frankly. Idle and grasping. Always coming here with his hand out. Never had a decent job in his life.’ She looked disapproving at the mere mention of the son.
‘And where is he?’
‘On holiday. In Africa, at the moment. He’s due back tomorrow. Typical of him. Never around when he’s needed. Always spending. Always other people’s money. And his poor father could never say no. I would have, I can tell you.’
The conversation paused for a moment while Flavia jotted down details of the son and where he was. You never knew. Greedy son, dead father. Will. Inheritance. Oldest motive known to man, more or less. But somehow she thought it wasn’t going to be that easy. Already, this case did not seem the sort that had money at the bottom of it. A pity; those were always the easiest. Even Madame Rouvet was sceptical; she may have disliked the son, but she didn’t think him capable of murdering his own father. Largely because he was too spineless, in her opinion.
‘And his wife?’
‘She died about eight years ago. A heart attack, just as poor Mr Ellman was about to retire.’
‘And he was in the, ah, import-export business?’
‘That’s right, yes. Not rich, but hard-working, and as honest as the day is long.’
‘And the company name?’
‘Jorgssen. It trades in engineering parts. All over the world. Mr Ellman was always flying off somewhere, before he retired.’
‘Did he have any interest in paintings?’
‘Good heavens, no. Why do you ask?’
‘Just that we think he may have gone down to Rome to buy a painting.’
She shook her head. ‘No, that’s not him at all. Mind you, he still did some business, occasionally, when they needed him.’
‘And where was that?’
‘South America. He went there last year. And he went to France at least three or four times a year. He still had contacts there. He had a long phone call from there only the day before he left.’
A slight contact, here, but nothing to get excited about yet. Flavia noted down the name of Jorgssen. She would need to have it checked out.
‘This phone call. Was he planning to go to Italy before?’
‘I don’t know. He certainly didn’t tell me he was going away until just before he left.’
‘Did you happen to hear what this call was about?’
‘Well,’ she said, reluctantly, anxious not to give the impression of someone who made a habit of listening in on her employers’s conversations. ‘A little.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing out of the ordinary. He said very little. At one stage he asked, “How important is this Muller deal to you?” and –’
‘Whoa, there,’ Flavia said. ‘Muller. He said Muller?’
‘I think so. Yes. I’m sure.’
‘Does the name mean anything to you?’
‘Not at all. Of course, Mr Ellman had so many business acquaintances –’
‘But it’s no one you’ve heard him mention before?’
‘No. Anyway, then he said he was sure it could be done with no trouble and mentioned some hotel.’
‘The Hotel Raphael?’
‘Maybe, yes. Something like that. I mean, he didn’t say much. Listened, mainly.’
‘I see. And you don’t know who made the call?’
‘No. I’m afraid I’m not being much help.’
‘You’re doing fine. Most helpful, in fact.’
She brightened at that, and smiled.
‘How do you know the call came from France?’
‘Because he said that it would have been simpler to have organized things better in Paris first.’
‘Ah.’
‘And the next morning, he said he was off to Rome. I told him not to get tired, and he said that it might well be the last time he ever did one of these trips.’
He was right there, Flavia thought. ‘Meaning what?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Was he a rich man, Mr Ellman?’
‘Oh, no. He lived off his pension. It was enough but not a lot. He gave a lot of money to his son, of course. Far more than he should have done. Ungrateful hound. Do you know, when the cheques didn’t arrive promptly enough for him last year, he even had the nerve to come here and bawl his father out? I would have sent him packing, myself. But Mr Ellman just nodded his head and did as he was told.’
Madame Rouvet did not like this son.
‘I see. And when did he get Swiss citizenship?’
‘I don’t know. He came to live and work in Switzerland in about 1948; but when he became a citizen I’m not sure.’
‘Does the name Jules Hartung mean anything to you? He died a long time ago.’
She thought carefully, then shook her head. ‘No,’ she said.
‘Did Mr Ellman have a gun?’
‘Yes, I think so. I saw it once, in a drawer. He never took it out, and the drawer was normally locked. I don’t even know if the gun worked.’
‘Could I see it?’
Madame Rouvet pointed to a drawer in a cabinet in the corner. Flavia went over, tugged and looked in. ‘It’s empty,’ she observed.
Madame Rouvet shrugged. ‘Is it important?’
‘Probably. But it can wait. Now then, what I would like to do is look at any files or accounts Mr Ellman may have had.’
‘Might I ask why?’
‘Because we need to make a list of business acquaintances, colleagues, friends, relations. All people to interview to build up a picture. Who did he know in Rome, for example? Did he go there often?’
‘Never,’ she said firmly. ‘Not in the eight years I’ve worked for him. I don’t think he knew anyone there.’
‘But still. Someone knew him.’
With evident reluctance, she agreed to this, then led her out of the sitting-room into a small room, a cubicle almost, just big enough for a desk, a chair and a filing cabinet. ‘There you are,’ she said. ‘It’s not locked.’
With this Madame Rouvet remembered herself and went off to make some coffee. Flavia initially refused it, but then she reflected how long it had been since she last slept. She felt OK at the moment, but you never knew. Besides, it got the woman out of the room.
She started at the front of the filing cabinet and worked her way through to the back. Tax forms, gas bills, phone bills – no calls to Rome over the past year – electricity bills. Letters to landlords – he rented the apartment rather than owned it. All the stuff of a decent, middle-class, professional life, with not the slightest hint of impropriety.
The sheaf of bank statements was also of no major interest. Meticulously balanced every month; Ellman was a man who lived within his income, and judging by the figures, that income was as modest as his tax forms suggested.
Which made the one piece of paper at the back even more strange. It was an annual summary of a bank statement, in Ellman’s name. Dating to the previous year. Every month there was a credit of five thousand Swiss francs. Transferred from something called Services Financieres, not that the name meant anything either. Flavia, never brilliant at arithmetic, screwed up her eyes to help her perform the calculations. Sixty thousand Swiss francs a year was, she reckoned, no small amount. None of it declared for tax. She carried on rummaging and came up with a cheque-book, again in Ellman’s name. Several of the stubs referred to sums made out to Bruno Ellman. Quite a lot of money, in all. The son, presumably.
Madame Rouvet returned.
‘Bruno Ellman? That’s the son?’
She nodded, lips pursed to indicate disapproval. ‘Yes.’
‘He’s flying in to Basle tomorrow? Zurich?’
‘Oh, no. To Paris. He flew from Paris three weeks ago, and comes back to Paris as well.’
Another good reason for going there, she thought. She had a fit of the yawns all the way down the stairs, waves of exhaustion coming across her. She was still yawning half an hour later as she paid for a sleeping-compartment on the 12:05 train to Paris, and only stopped when she fell fast asleep at 12:06.
9
By the time Flavia’s dormant body was passing horizontally through Mulhouse, Argyll was coming to the end of a tumultuous evening. Not that anything notably dramatic had happened, but he had ended up in a somewhat shaky and uncertain state.
After he’d finished with Delorme, he had the problem of not having anything in particular to do. What, after all, can you do in Paris? If, that is, you’re not exactly in the right mood for relaxing. Somehow an evening all alone in a restaurant, however good, or watching a movie, however fascinating, did not appeal. And it was still raining, so long walks were out as well.
That left doing something about the picture under his bed. But what, exactly? There were two obvious lines of enquiry; one being to go and have a little conversation with this man Besson, who had caused all the trouble in the first place. Not that he was assuming that Besson had stolen the thing, but he was inclined to think that, at the very least, he had some explaining to do.
