‘So why was he killed?’
‘Because I underestimated how nasty a man Ellman was. He didn’t want a rival muscling in on his territory, I think. He was worried Muller might be some investigator who’d go to the newspapers. And, of course, if that happened he might be discovered and prosecuted as well.’
‘And you killed Ellman in turn?’
‘Yes, I did,’ she said perfectly calmly. ‘He deserved it. He told me he had recovered the painting and, if it was so important, I would have to pay a million francs. I had no choice. I didn’t know he was lying and had found nothing. So I shot him with his own gun. So what? Does anybody here think he deserved to live? He should have been hanged years ago. Would have been, had the scourge of injustice here not protected him.’
She nodded to herself, then looked at Flavia as though she was the only person who really understood. What else could any reasonable person do? she seemed to be asking.
‘You say Ellman told you about your grandfather?’
‘Yes. I couldn’t believe it. The great man, you know. So upright and honourable. And the government had never done anything about it …’
‘They knew, of course,’ Flavia said. ‘That’s why Montaillou was given carte blanche.’
‘I knew nothing of the sort,’ Montaillou said stiffly. Good. He was wavering as well.
‘There I believe you,’ Flavia replied. ‘I don’t think you did. Your superiors probably did, though.’
‘Schmidt, Ellman, whatever his name was,’ Jeanne continued, ‘told me that in 1942 or something, Grandfather was arrested and threatened with torture. He caved in immediately. Didn’t even try to put up a fight. Ellman held him in total contempt. Said he would have done anything to be let go. And did. In return for his freedom, he offered to hand over the names of everybody he could think of.
‘The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. And now you tell me there’s proof. Good. I’m glad of that. At least it clears up any uncertainty. I can be sure I didn’t do anything so wrong. Not in comparison with everyone else.’
Flavia breathed an enormous sigh of relief. But she got no satisfaction from having proven her case. ‘Monsieur Rouxel? If you want to prove me wrong, you can.’
But Rouxel had abandoned the struggle as well. He knew as well as Flavia that it didn’t matter now whether there was any proof or not. Everybody in the room knew that what she’d said was correct.
‘One mistake,’ he said wearily after a while. ‘One failing. And I’ve spent the rest of my life trying to make up for it. I have, you know. I’ve worked hard – tirelessly, I might say – for this country. That’s what this prize was for. And I earned it. I deserved it. You can’t take that away.’
‘Nobody is –’
‘It was the pain. I couldn’t stand it. Even the idea. I was arrested by accident. Stupid bad luck, that was all. And I was handed over to Schmidt. He was a terrible man; a monster. Really, I’d never dreamt that people like him existed. He liked hurting people. It was his natural calling. I think it was realizing that interrogating me would give him pleasure that I couldn’t stand. And I knew I’d break eventually. Everybody did. So I gave in. They let me go – pretend to escape – in return for information.’
‘There was no need to co-operate quite so fully, was there?’
‘Oh, yes. They knew where I was. If I hadn’t, they could have come and got me at any time.’
He looked around him to see if what he was saying was having any impact. Evidently he decided he didn’t care one way or the other. ‘Then the war began to turn. The Americans had come in and everybody knew the Germans were going to lose. I met Schmidt, and he offered a deal. Not that I had any chance of refusing. He’d keep my secret, and I’d keep his. He knew that when the Allies won he’d be a wanted man; we needed each other.
‘It was a mistake. It was the meeting, I think, that Hartung heard about. How he knew I never discovered. But he got hold of something: a photograph, a diary, whatever. He began treating me strangely, and so we came up with this idea, Schmidt and I. Solve all our problems in one go. We concocted a scheme in which Hartung would be told about an operation, it would go wrong and I could place the blame on him.
‘Just as everything was ready, he came to my office and accused me to my face of being a traitor. Of course, I denied it, but he must have guessed something.’
‘Was he ever alone there?’
Rouxel shrugged, co-operative, even helpful now. ‘Perhaps yes. Maybe that was when he concealed his evidence. Next day he fled, and the Germans missed him. I don’t know how he got away, but he did. They caught everyone else.
‘After the war he came back. That was easy. I was working for the commission, so it was simple to have him arrested and to prepare the case. My own testimony, that of his wife. Watertight. But when I visited him in jail to interrogate him, he said he was looking forward to the trial. Then he would produce his evidence.
‘Did he have some? I didn’t know, but he seemed confident. I had no choice again, you see. I couldn’t let him make a statement in court. So he was found hanged. It was the same with Schmidt; I couldn’t allow him to be tried either. So when I heard the Germans were looking for him, I tipped him off, and helped him get a new identity. He started blackmailing me properly about ten years ago. Said his son was expensive. Of course I paid.
‘And now it comes to this. I discover I had a son, and that my own granddaughter had him murdered. I can think of no more severe punishment you could mete out.’
Then he lapsed into total silence, and everybody looked around wondering what to do next.
‘I think we ought to have a little talk,’ Janet said. ‘I’m sure you realize this creates problems far beyond a mere murder, however serious that might be. Montaillou here can take Madame Armand away to the police station for further questioning. And you, Flavia, I would like to talk over a few matters with you.’
She thought quickly and looked at Rouxel. If there had ever been any doubt in her mind, the sight of him dispelled it. He was a broken man. All his defences and protests had crumbled into nothing when Jeanne Armand began to talk. He was a man whose life had come to an end. There was not much danger of his running away. And what would it matter, really, if he did? So she nodded.
‘Fine. Shall we go outside?’
And while a very deflated Montaillou led the woman away, Janet and Flavia, with Argyll in attendance, stood in the hallway and talked quietly.
‘Firstly,’ the Frenchman said, ‘I hope you’ll accept my apologies. I really had little choice.’
‘Don’t worry. Bottando’s feathers are a bit ruffled, but I’m sure that won’t last long.’
‘Good. Now, the question is, what do we do now? I don’t know about you, but I think that proper tests might well indicate that Madame Armand is mentally unbalanced.’
‘Which means you want to put her in a hospital?’
‘Yes. I think that would be best.’
‘No trial? No publicity?’
He nodded.
‘Part one of a cover-up? What’s part two?’
He shifted uneasily on his feet. ‘What else can we do?’
‘Bring charges against Rouxel?’
‘Too long ago. No matter what evidence is in that painting, it’s all far too long ago. Besides, can you really imagine the government sanctioning charges against a man they themselves nominated for this prize? When there’s a danger it will come out that they knew about him all along? How damning is this evidence?’
She shrugged. ‘We’ll have to see. I doubt if it would be so good now. Backed up by the testimony of others it might have been enough to acquit Hartung fifty years ago, but now …’
‘So there’s probably no solid evidence? No proof? Almost nothing for anyone even to build a rumour on?’
She shook her head. ‘I doubt it. But you know it’s the truth, though. So does he in there.’ She gestured towards the door leading into Rouxel’s study.
‘Wh
at we know and what we can prove are different.’
‘True.’
‘Shall we go back in again?’
She nodded, and opened the door. ‘I think it’s time,’ she said quietly.
She heard Janet’s gasp as it swung open to reveal the scene inside. Rouxel was dying, tormented by agony but bearing the pain with dignity. On the floor beside him was a phial that had dropped from his hand. It took little intelligence to realize it had contained poison: the insect-killer he had been using on his plants when Flavia and Argyll had arrived. His skin was pale and his hand, clenched into a fist, hung loosely towards the ground.
It was his face, though, that grabbed the attention. The eyes were open and glazed, but it had a dignity and tranquillity. It was the face of someone who knew he would be mourned.
Janet stood still to take in the scene, then swung round on Flavia with sudden anguish. ‘You knew,’ he yelled at her. ‘Damn you. You knew he would do this.’
She shrugged indifferently.
‘I had no proof,’ she said.
Then turned to go.
20
‘Dear me,’ said Bottando. ‘What a mess. What was this evidence after all that?’
‘A couple of photographs and some notes slipped between the canvas and the lining. Hartung must have suspected so he had Rouxel followed. The man witnessed and noted down Rouxel’s movements. Including a late-night visit to a German army headquarters and a meeting in a café with Schmidt.’
‘And you let Rouxel kill himself? That, if I may say so, was unusually callous. Are you becoming an angel of vengeance in your old age?’
She shrugged. ‘I didn’t know he’d do that. Really, I didn’t. But I can’t say I was so upset. It was the best thing that could have happened. In a way Hartung was heroic. He knew Muller was not his son; his reference in that letter to the foster-parents suggests that. But he stuck by his wife in 1940 when he could have escaped. And he continued to encourage Rouxel despite the affair.’
‘I don’t know whether to congratulate you or not,’ he said.
‘Frankly, I’d rather you didn’t,’ she said. ‘This has been a nightmare from beginning to end. All I want to do is forget it.’
‘Difficult. The reverberations will go on for some time, I’m afraid. On the one hand we’re now exceedingly unpopular with Intelligence. Relations with poor old Janet will take some considerable time to repair themselves. And, of course, Fabriano will never talk to you again.’
‘Every cloud has a silver lining.’
‘Still, I feel sorry for him. He’s not going to get much credit for this, even though we will have to keep our nose out. More to the point, it’s been such a nasty case we’re not going to get a great deal of applause either. And I’m sure this has been simply awful for Janet as well. You saw the papers?’
She nodded. ‘I gather they’re going to go the whole hog. A massive funeral. President of the Republic in attendance. Medals on the coffin. I can’t say that I could bring myself to read it.’
‘I suppose not. So, my dear. Back to work? Shall we try to pretend again that you take orders from me?’
She smiled at him. ‘Not today. I’m taking the afternoon off. Domestic crisis. And first I’ve got to write a letter. Which I’m not looking forward to.’
It was surprisingly easy to write it, once she’d got started. But deciding what line to take took nearly an hour of beginning, crossing out, starting again and staring out of the window indecisively.
Then she just emptied her mind and wrote.
Dear Mrs Richards,
I hope you will forgive me for writing, rather than coming to see you in person, to tell you of the outcome of our meeting.
As you may have seen in the newspapers, Jean Rouxel died peacefully in his sleep a few days ago, and will shortly be buried with full honours as befits a man who served his country well. His contributions to France, and indeed to Europe, were immense in almost every field – industrial, diplomatic and political. His courage and vision were an example to an entire generation. They will now continue to inspire others in generations to come.
I was able to talk to him briefly before he died. He told me what you had meant to him, and described the actions he had taken to save you. His feelings for you were unchanged despite the passing of the years, and he had never forgotten you.
I hope you find these words of some comfort. You suffered enormously, but your sacrifice protected a man who, through your courage, was able to go on and make an enormous contribution to his country. And, at the last, your intervention allowed him to die as he deserved.
With very best wishes,
Flavia di Stefano
She reread the letter, thought carefully, then put it in an envelope and sent it off to be posted. Then she picked up her bag and left, glancing at her watch as she closed the office door.
The appointment to see their new apartment was at three, and she was going to be late. As usual.
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About the Author
Iain Pears
Iain Pears is a journalist and art historian. After several years working for Reuters, he went to Yale University to complete his book on eighteenth-century British art, The Discovery of Painting. He now lives with his wife and children in Oxford.
Iain Pears has written six other novels featuring art historian Jonathan Argyll and Flavia di Stefano of Rome’s Art Theft Squad. He is also the author of the acclaimed international bestseller, An Instance of the Fingerpost.
By the Same Author
An Instance of the Fingerpost
Jonathan Argyll novels
The Immaculate Deception
Death and Restoration
Giotto’s Hand
The Bernini Bust
The Raphael Affair
The Titian Committee
Copyright
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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First published in Great Britain by by Victor Gollancz in 1993
Copyright © Iain Pears 1993
Iain Pears asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007121250
Ebook Edition © DECEMBER 2013 ISBN 9780007387793
Version: 2013-12-18
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Iain Pears, The Last Judgement
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