A very long street, the Rue du Faubourg St-Honoré, about five kilometres long, with galleries stretched out all along it. He should have taken a cab, and he was hot and tired by the time he finally stood outside Rosier Frères, having previously nipped round the corner, straightened his tie, run his fingers through his hair and tried to adopt the air of a successful dealer calling on a colleague in the trade.
He rang the bell, heard the click of the electric lock opening and went in. There were no customers. Really up-market galleries don’t encourage them.
‘Good morning,’ he said to the woman who came forward to greet him with a formal, chilly smile. He handed her his card – he rarely got the chance to do that and generally when someone wanted one he’d left them at home – and asked if the owner was in. He wished to consult him about a picture he’d bought which once passed through their hands.
So far so good. Such a request, if rarely made in person, is not so rare. Art dealers spend quite a lot of their time trying to work out where their pictures have been in the past. Realizing that she was dealing with a colleague and not with a client, the woman became almost welcoming; asked him to wait a moment, disappeared through a curtain at the back then reappeared to ask him to go through.
Despite the name, Rosier Frères was now run by a dapper little fellow called Gentilly, who brushed aside Argyll’s apologies for interrupting with a sweep of the hand. Nonsense. Bored to tears this morning. Glad for the distraction. Who are you?
The aesthetic mating game interrupted business while Argyll laid out his credentials and Gentilly inspected them to see how seriously he should treat the young stranger. This is a standard routine, the artistic equivalent of dogs sniffing each other’s bottom before deciding whether to chase balls together or bury a fang or two into each other’s necks. What makes dogs decide to be friends rather than enemies is unclear; but no more obscure than what makes dealers decide to be co-operative or not to colleagues. In this case it was the former connection with Edward Byrnes that did the trick. Gentilly had, apparently, once done some business with Argyll’s former employer, and got on well with him.
So they talked about Argyll’s old boss awhile, swapped gossip, then commiserated with each other about the parlous state of the market, all by way of building up mutual trust and understanding. Then, all the preliminaries disposed of, they settled down to business. What, exactly, did Argyll want?
Leaving out some of the more interesting details, Argyll explained. He had acquired a picture which, judging by a label on the back, had probably passed through the gallery’s hands. Unfortunately it was many years ago. But he wanted to find out as much as possible.
‘How long ago?’
He said that it was probably sixty or seventy years. Certainly pre-war.
‘Oh, dear. I don’t know if I’ll be of much help, then. The Rosier family threw most of the records away when they sold up, and that was thirty years ago.’
He’d half expected that. Some dealers, the very old, very established ones, keep records of every work of art that passes through. Most run out of space to store the mountains of paper and sooner or later throw them out. At the very best they donate their records to archives or something; few keep such things hanging around the gallery to gather dust.
Gentilly was politely interested, at least, but Argyll had little else to tell him. He described the Socrates in as much detail as he could remember, but without seeing it for himself there was nothing the other man could usefully say. The only further thing he knew about it, Argyll said, was that it might have been owned by a man called Hartung. But even this was doubtful.
‘Hartung?’ Gentilly said, perking up. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’
‘You’ve heard of him?’
‘Good lord, of course. Before he fell from grace he was quite a big Paris collector. An industrialist, I think.’
‘This gallery may well have sold stuff to him, then?’
‘More than likely. From what I’ve heard – and it was well before my time, remember – he bought widely, and judiciously. What’s more, I may well be able to tell you. Like most dealers we’re extraordinarily snobbish in this firm. Ordinary clients – pouf. We throw away the records. Important ones, rich ones – ah, now that’s another matter. We like to remember them. You never know when we might be able to drop their names into the conversation. Hartung, you might know, is not the sort of person one likes to remember as a client, because of his subsequent career … None the less, he’ll be in our old Golden Book of the distinguished. Just one moment.’
And he disappeared to emerge a few moments later with a ledger-book. He thumped it down on the desk in a cloud of dust and opened it up with both hands, then sneezed loudly.
‘Not opened this for some time. Now then. H for Hartung. Let me see. Um.’
And with much frowning and grunting, little reading-glasses perched on the end of his nose, he laboriously turned the pages.
‘There we are,’ he said. ‘Jules Hartung, 18 Avenue Montaigne. First became a customer in 1921, last purchase in 1939. In all bought eleven pictures from us. Not one of our most lavish clients, but a nice selection. Very nice, I may say. Except for some mediocre wallpaper pictures.’
‘May I see?’ Argyll said, coming round to the other side of the desk in his impatience and peering at the ledger eagerly.
Gentilly pointed at a scrawled entry half-way down. ‘This is the one you want, I imagine. June 1939. One painting by Jean Floret of a classical scene, delivered to his house. And another, same painter, of a religious scene, delivered to a different address. The Boulevard St-Germain. The unfashionable end.’
‘Good. Must have been another in the same series.’
‘What series?’
‘There were four,’ he said briskly, displaying his knowledge. ‘All of legal scenes. This other one must be another one of the series.’
‘I see.’
‘Anyway, that’s one little problem cleared up. Now, how can I find out who lived at this other address?’
‘You are keen, aren’t you? Why does it matter?’
‘It probably doesn’t. Just being thorough.’
Gentilly shook his head doubtfully. ‘I don’t see how it can be done. With a lot of work you could find out who owned the apartment, if that’s what it was. But the chances are that it was rented. I don’t imagine there’s the slightest chance of finding out who lived there.’
‘Oh,’ he said, disappointed. ‘That’s a nuisance. What about Hartung himself? How would I get hold of people who knew him?’
‘It was a long time ago, and he’s not the sort of person people like to remember. People did bad things in the war; but he … Do you know the story?’
‘Bits. I know he hanged himself.’
‘Yes. Good thing too. I believe he was quite popular in the social whirl before the war. Very beautiful wife. But you won’t get many people admitting to having been his friend now. Not that there can be many left alive. It’s a very long time ago. All forgotten.’
‘Perhaps not.’
‘As you say; perhaps not. But it should be. The war’s over. Just history. What people did in the past.’
Despite his enhanced confidence in his ability to wheedle information out of fellow art dealers, Argyll’s subsequent assault on Jean-Luc Besson was not a great success.
After he left Rosier Frères, he calculated carefully, decided that the money would just run a taxi and directed it to Besson’s address. Simple and successful so far. He knocked, and Besson opened – about forty, with thinning hair pasted over the front of his scalp to spread it as widely as possible, and an unexpectedly open and friendly face.
Argyll introduced himself with a false name and, despite a none-too-convincing excuse for the visit, Besson invited him in. Coffee? Or tea? The English drink tea, don’t they?
He even began chattering away as the coffee was made without Argyll having to prompt him. He was taking a few days off, he said, as his visitor shuffled
discreetly around the apartment eyeing the paintings. Not bad at all. It was a habit that both he and Flavia had. Flavia did it because she was in the police and had a suspicious mind; he did it because he was an art dealer and couldn’t help making running assessments of other people’s possessions. It wasn’t polite, really, but it was occasionally useful. He checked quickly through the pictures, eyed up the furniture, examined the grandfather clock and was on to the collection of photographs in art nouveau silver frames before the water was even boiling. Nothing of interest there; just Besson in the company of various anonymous figures. Relations, by the look of them.
‘You know how it is, I’m sure,’ Besson was saying as he looked up and scuttled back to his seat. ‘You wake up and just decide you can’t face it today. All those customers coming in, looking at your pictures, then finding out the price and sucking in their breath in a disapproving fashion like you’re a fairground pickpocket. Or even worse, trying to look as though they could easily afford it when you know for sure they can’t. The only ones I like are the people who tell you frankly they’d love it if they had the money. But of course, you don’t make an income out of them. Do you have a gallery, Mr Byrnes?’
‘I work in one,’ Argyll lied cautiously.
‘Really? Where? London?’
‘That’s right. Called Byrnes Galleries.’
‘Are you that Byrnes? Sir Edward Byrnes?’
‘Oh, no,’ he said, thinking that maybe it would have been better to have chosen a less prominent name. ‘He’s my, ah, uncle. This is a Gervex, isn’t it?’ he said, pointing with sudden interest at a small but beautifully painted portrait of a woman.
Besson nodded. ‘Handsome, don’t you think? One of my favourites.’
‘You mainly do nineteenth-century French, then?’
‘Not mainly. Only. Got to specialize these days. There’s nothing worse than a reputation for having broad tastes. People only think you know what you’re doing if you narrow your range down.’
‘Oh.’
‘You sound surprised.’
‘I am. Well, more disappointed, in fact.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because it sort of means I’ve wasted my time. And yours. I’ve got a painting, you see, that I was told might have passed through your hands at one stage. But as it’s not nineteenth-century, then perhaps I was told wrong. It’s a shame, I dearly want to find out about it.’
‘I do occasionally handle other stuff. What is it?’
‘I don’t know. It’s a Death of Socrates. Late-eighteenth century.’
As discreetly as possible Argyll watched to see what the reaction to this was. Apart from taking a sip of his coffee, Besson appeared to cope with the surprise quite well. However, there was just a hint of a guarded tone in his voice when he next spoke to indicate that the man was a little cautious.
‘Oh, yes?’ he said. ‘Where did it come from?’
‘I don’t know. I was doing a trip down to Italy a couple of days ago to see what I could lay my hands on. And I bought this painting off a dealer there. Name of Argyll. Jonathan Argyll, he was called. He seemed keen to get rid of it. Very charming man.’
Was there any harm in a bit of publicity? he thought to himself. After all, if you were going to lie, there was no reason not to fib to your own advantage. What was he to do after all? Make himself out to be a monster?
‘Anyway, he said he was short of cash so he wanted to unload it. I’ve taken it off his hands. Now, I think it may be valuable, so I was wondering where it came from. I heard that you …’
Besson, however, was not going to be co-operative. ‘No,’ he said slowly, ‘never heard of it.’
He went through the motions of thinking again. ‘Sorry. Can’t even think of any of my colleagues who might have had it. Tell you what, though, I’ll ask around. How does that sound?’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ he said. They were both getting into the swing of it now. Each trying to out-lie the other. Argyll was quite enjoying himself and he had a sneaking idea that Besson was as well.
‘Not at all,’ Besson said, reaching for a pad of paper and a pen.
‘Tell me where you’re staying in Paris and I’ll let you know if I find anything out.’
Argyll had thought of that one. The last thing he wanted was to hand over the address of his hotel.
‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll be out all day, then I’m going back to London. You can ring me at the gallery if you find something.’
Byrnes was going to be a little surprised at the sudden expansion of his family circle, but Argyll felt moderately confident he would deal with the situation with his accustomed aplomb.
‘What are you doing this evening?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘How about going out? I’m going to a wonderful club, in the Rue Mouffetand. Very new, very good. If you like, I could pick you up at your hotel …’
Some people are very persistent. Argyll gripped his leg and grimaced. ‘Oh, I couldn’t.’ And slapped his leg.
Besson looked enquiringly.
‘Broke it a year ago. It’s still painful. I have to be careful.’
‘How dreadful.’
Argyll got up, and shook Besson warmly by the hand. ‘Thanks all the same. Now, I must run.’
‘On that leg?’
They exchanged a knowing smile, and Argyll left, remembering to limp slightly until he was out of sight.
As she was being ushered into Inspector Janet’s office in the great, bleak building on the Île de la Cité Flavia realized that, for the first time since she’d left Rome, she felt comfortable. It was a bad sign, in her view. She was getting too settled. The station was reassuringly familiar: the desk by the entrance manned by a bored policeman; the notice-boards in the corridor full of schedules and rotas and roughly printed complaints from the union about the latest pay offer; the glossy but peeling paint. It all made her feel alarmingly at home. She was becoming too used to her job. She must watch that.
She was there largely as a matter of courtesy. A question of etiquette, really. If one of Janet’s underlings was discovered galumphing around Italy without so much as a by-your-leave, Bottando would have been mightily put out. It’s not done, that sort of thing. You ask first. Then you go galumphing around.
Above all with Janet; Franco-Italian relations in the matter of art thefts were delightfully harmonious, and had been for years. There was no reason at all to be deceitful, and many reasons not to damage a perfect understanding.
Nor did either Bottando or Flavia want to be deceitful. At least, they didn’t want to deceive Janet. The trouble was this sneaking feeling in the back of her mind that Janet might, perhaps, be deceiving them. But she was ushered in, given a warm embrace and a cup of coffee, sat herself down on a comfortable seat just out of range of the man’s halitosis and prattled on about holidays and sights and museums.
It was Janet himself who brought up the subject of a certain painting.
‘Is that why you’re here? Taddeo has been on the phone about it a couple of times.’
‘That’s the one. Although the picture itself is not so important anymore. It was given back to the owner yesterday. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you in advance, but –’
He waved it aside. ‘No matter. As I say, we weren’t formally interested anyway. Where did it come from?’
‘A man called Jean Rouxel.’
Janet looked impressed. ‘Oho. How very interesting.’
‘You know him?’
‘Oh, yes. Not that there’s anything surprising in that. A very distinguished man. One of those people who’ve wielded influence for what seems like decades. You know he was awarded –’
‘The Europa prize. Yes, I do. We’re not interested in that. All I’m trying to do is put together a few bits and pieces about these two murders in Rome. When I do that, then I can go home.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’
Flavia smiled sweetly. ‘I was hoping you??
?d say that.’
‘I know. That’s why I said it. I mean, this is really our patch. I think it would be much the easiest course if you just told me what you need. There is no real point in staying here, doing stuff that we can almost certainly do in half the time. I could send you the results straight to Rome.’
That’s an idea. A tempting one,’ she said. ‘Well, then. There was a phone call. To Ellman and probably from Paris. It seems to have been what sent him him off to Rome. Is there any way you could find out where it came from?’
Janet looked alarmed at the idea. ‘I’m really not very good at this sort of thing. Can it be done? I’ve not a clue. I’ll have to ask.’
‘I can give you the number dialled, and the approximate time it was made.’
‘That would be a help.’
So she dictated and he jotted down, ending by promising to see what he could do.
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes. The front-runner for the burglar of Rouxel’s château is a man called Besson.’
Janet looked mildly put out at the mention of the name. ‘More than likely,’ he said glumly.
‘You know him?’
‘Oh, yes. Monsieur Besson and I go back a long way. I’ve been trying to lock him up for years. Never succeeded, though. Come close, once or twice, but never pinned him down. What’s he been up to, exactly?’
Flavia explained.
‘There you are,’ Janet said with satisfaction. ‘Lots of suspicion and likelihood, but will we ever get any proof? No. You can bet your life that on the evening Rouxel’s place was burgled, Besson was surrounded by admirers at a party a hundred kilometres away with at least a dozen people ready to swear blind he never left the room, not even to go to the toilet. All lying through their teeth of course, but we’ll never shake them. Even if we did get your Delorme to say in court that Besson gave him the picture, Besson will claim he bought it at some country auction in outer Poland. How did he know where the picture was?’