‘And his wife?’
‘She was arrested and was presumably executed. He didn’t even try and save her. He had, apparently, made a bargain; he passed on what he knew and the Germans left him alone. When he fled, he told them and they swooped down before their information became too old to be useful.’
Flavia looked at him for a long time, nodding to herself and chewing this one over. ‘And most of what you’ve just told me came from the missing file?’
‘A lot of it, yes.’
‘Not from the material assembled by the prosecutor?’
‘Not directly. That was bound to be confidential until any trial – which of course didn’t happen. But I imagine it would have covered a lot of the same ground, and there were leaks and newspaper reports at the time.’
‘What happened to Hartung? I know he came back and was arrested.’
‘Perfectly simple, I think; he was interrogated by the prosecutor’s office. It must have become increasingly clear that the case against him was overwhelming, and what the verdict would be. He had a choice of waiting and being guillotined, or cutting short the agony and committing suicide. He chose the latter.’
‘And there’s no doubt that he was a traitor?’
‘Absolutely none. We also conduct our interviews, to build up our dossiers of material; we talked to some people ourselves about what happened.’
‘What did they say?’
Thuillier smiled. ‘There you are pressing my memory too far, I’m afraid. It was a long time ago and I haven’t read those statements. All I can supply there is the names. Not that they will be of much use.’
She smiled at him, and asked for the names. He led her out of his office to a bank of card-index drawers. ‘This may take some time,’ he said.
So she wandered off to the desk by the entrance. There was one other thing which she needed to do before she left.
‘I know it’s a little bit irregular,’ she began when the librarian lady smiled apologetically and asked what she needed. ‘But would it be so dreadful to know who else is interested in my files. Just paranoia, I know. But if the documents don’t turn up, I might be able to approach him and see if he has any notes …?’
‘We don’t normally do that, you know,’ she said. ‘But in the circumstances, I’m sure we could bend the rules a bit.’
She rummaged under the desk and took out a book. ‘No computerized technology here, I’m afraid. We just write it all down in this book. Let’s see. A few months back, I’m told. I was on holiday then, otherwise I’d be able to help you.’
Flavia flicked through the pages, frowned, then flicked through them again. There was Muller’s name, bold and clear. She tore the page out and stuffed it in her handbag. It probably wouldn’t be there if she came back for it.
Then she wandered back to Thuillier, still labouring with the file cards. ‘Oh, dear,’ he said. ‘I’m being less help than I hoped. After all that, I can only find one name. The others also seem to have been mislaid.’
‘What a pity,’ she said drily.
He handed over an old file card, with a handwritten annotation on it. H. Richards, it said. With an address in England.
‘And who is this?’
‘I’ve no idea. I imagine he must have been a liaison officer in the British army or something like that. We have an awful lot of cross-references to material in other libraries and centres. This one, you can see from the reference number, is to papers in the Justice Ministry. It wasn’t with the rest, which is why it’s still there. I assume that it was testimony collected for the trial. And that means, of course, that it is confidential.’
‘So you have no idea what’s in it?’
‘Not a clue. And I doubt you’ll be allowed to look. In fact, I know you won’t.’
‘And you don’t know if this man is still alive?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
14
By the time he got to the café in the Rue Rambuteau where he was meant to meet Flavia, Argyll was feeling pleased with himself. He’d spent a quiet afternoon in the Bibliothèque Nationale, doing valiant battle with the microfiche machines, and had emerged victorious. No small thing. His eyes might never recover from being screwed up for four hours, but he had something fascinating to report, and he was looking forward to a pleasant evening out with Flavia telling her all about it, and hearing her tell him how clever he was.
She wasn’t there, so he sat in a corner, ordered an aperitif and hummed quietly to himself, staring into space and trying to get his eyes back in full working order. A few minutes into his drink, a hand tapped him on the shoulder. He turned round with a welcoming smile.
‘Oh, good, you’re back …’
The words died on his lips. Standing next to him by the table was the man who had stolen his painting, who had tried to nobble Flavia and, he assumed, already had a murder or two to his credit. He’d read somewhere that if you’ve murdered once it’s easier the second time round. Third time round must be about as exciting as going to the supermarket. For some reason the thought didn’t make him any happier.
‘Good evening, Mr Argyll,’ said this presence. ‘Do you mind if I sit down?’
‘Make yourself at home,’ he said a little nervously. ‘I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced, though.’
Nor, it seemed, were they going to be. The man with the little scar settled himself awfully politely on the chair by the window, and looked apologetic.
‘Would you mind my asking when your, ah, friend will be returning?’ he said, very much, to Argyll’s mind, with the air of someone fully in charge of proceedings.
‘Why do you ask?’ Argyll said cautiously.
‘So that we can have a little conversation. We seem to have been running into each other so often that I thought it might be an idea to swap notes. So far, every time we meet, someone hits me. Frankly, I’m getting a little tired of it.’
‘Sorry about that.’
‘Hmm. We also seem to share a common interest in a painting. Your interest I am beginning to find tiresome.’
‘Are you, indeed? Why is that?’ Argyll said perkily, thinking that maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to say it had been returned to its owner. If this man was going to such a lot of trouble to get it, he might be distinctly peeved to discover he was now, thanks to Argyll, back at square one again.
‘I think for the time being it would be best if I ask the questions.’
‘Right-ho. Fire away.’
‘You are an art dealer, is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘And your friend? What is her name?’
‘Flavia. Di Stefano. Flavia di Stefano.’
And there the conversation lapsed into a temporary silence, rather as with two people at a tea-party who feel constrained in each other’s presence. Argyll even found himself smiling encouragingly at the other, in the hope it might stimulate him to say something. It didn’t. Maybe he was just concentrating on his injuries. Poor man. A bad bruising from Argyll’s tackle, then being kicked in the ribs and hit over the head by a bottle thanks to Flavia. He rubbed the plaster over his eye.
‘Guess what?’ said Flavia as she bounded through the door.
‘Do tell,’ said the Frenchman.
‘Oh shit,’ said Flavia.
One thing about her, nothing wrong with her reflexes. The moment she saw him, she swung round and hurled her handbag in his direction. She kept enough emergency rations in it to last a month, so the weight and speed were impressive. The bag hit the man on the temple and, in the few half-seconds he was off balance, Flavia picked up the tiny vase on the table and brought it crashing down on him. He groaned loudly and rolled on the floor, clutching his head. Flavia looked triumphantly at Argyll. Saved him again. What would he do without her?
‘It’s like living with a Rottweiler,’ Argyll said, beginning to run out of the door of the café with her. ‘He was being very peaceful, you know.’
‘Follow me,’ she yelled back in high exc
itement as she disappeared into a milling throng of tourists. Not Germans, she thought as he elbowed his way after her. Too many to be Dutch, this would be about the entire country. Czechs, maybe. Whoever they were, they were very good at obscuring the couple’s tracks for them. Even though the pursuer was commendably quick, Flavia and Argyll emerged on the other side of the throng with a good five-second lead, and thundered off down what looked like a sort of pedestrianized street a good seventy metres ahead of him.
But he was in rather good shape, and made distinct gains: one of the sort who take care of their bodies. Exercise bikes. Neither Flavia nor Argyll were much into that sort of thing, and while both could put on a decent show of speed in bursts, keeping it up was another matter. Their pursuer kept on gaining.
Then he made his mistake. ‘Police,’ he screamed. ‘Stop them.’
One of the most endearing things about the French is that they, especially adolescent Parisians, are so very public-spirited. The Revolutionary tradition of fraternity lives on in them. Policemen – even pretend ones – inspire particular feelings of dislike; no sooner had the man opened his mouth than the entire street was on the alert, watching what was going on, assessing the situation, seeing that the putative fugitives from justice were being steadily overtaken.
With that sense of brotherly concern which they seem to imbibe with their mother’s milk, everybody in close proximity moved to assist. Flavia didn’t see clearly, as she was otherwise engaged, but the snatched glance over her shoulder was just enough to reveal four different legs extending themselves to intercept their pursuer. He successfully leapt the first two but tripped on the third; the owner of the fourth, perhaps dismayed at being cheated, instead kicked him sharply in the ribs as he went down hard on the pavement.
But he was resilient, no doubt about that. He rolled over and was up almost immediately. Resuming the chase, he again began to gain ground.
There was one chance and Argyll, taking the lead once more, grabbed it and Flavia simultaneously. They were running through that part of Paris which once contained Les Halles, the most beautiful food market in Europe. But in the spirit that gave the world the Beaubourg Centre, this was flattened and replaced with a cheapjack and now increasingly tatty shopping mall which dives ever deeper into the damp and often putrid ground near the Seine. About as good a hiding-place as you can imagine; on the few occasions Argyll had ever ventured into its underground streets, he hadn’t even been able to find himself, let alone anyone else.
And access was by escalators, which were edged by flat, smooth, shiny metal sections. The sort of thing that kids love to slide down, despite the best efforts of the authorities to stop them. Flavia had once accused Argyll of having an almost absurd tendency to indulge in childhood pleasures, and now he demonstrated that an infantile sense of fun could have its uses. He hopped on to the side of the escalator and let go, whistling down the incline several times faster than the stairs progressed. Had the situation not been so serious, he would have been tempted to let off a whoop of pleasure. He hadn’t done that for years.
Flavia followed him down, thanking heaven she had chosen to wear jeans that morning, then ran with him to the escalator that took them down to the second level. By the time they got there, they were a good way ahead of their pursuer.
‘Where now?’ she asked.
‘Don’t ask me. Where do you want to go?’
‘Gloucestershire.’
‘Where?’
‘It’s in England,’ she explained.
‘I know where … oh, never mind. Come on.’
And they ran off down the corridor, turning left, right, left, taking short cuts through clothes stores and fast-food outlets, anything to confuse the scent.
It seemed to work. The ominous pounding of feet behind them was no more to be heard, and eventually, slowly coming to believe that they had shaken off the pursuit, they eased up to get their breath back.
Still puffing, but feeling much better, they rounded another corner and realized firstly that they were back where they’d started, and secondly that their pursuer was about six feet in front of them. He had an almost amused smile on his face as he began to run in their direction.
An abrupt about-turn and they disappeared down the next escalator, but this time they were followed closely; they started running again at the bottom with their lead cut to about a second.
It seemed they were in the Métro station; there were tunnels leading off at various places, and a bank of turnstiles directly in front of them. Flavia led the way this time. With the grace of an Olympic athlete in the 400-metres hurdles, she took the turnstile on the run, vaulting over its projecting metal arms with a stylishness that produced ironic cheers from a group of disreputable-looking youths in one corner and a loud protest from a ticket-inspector in another.
Argyll, less elegantly but just as effectively, followed half a second behind her, with the pursuer just behind him. Fortunately, it was at this stage that the forces of law and order decided they had had enough. There was not much to be done about the woman, who was already disappearing down a corridor on the far side of the barrier. The second culprit was heading in the same direction.
But three in as many seconds was too much. With a cry of triumph, the ticket-inspector leapt forward and fastened a powerful hand on the shoulder of the last miscreant, throwing him off balance and making him catch his foot on the stile.
As Argyll in turn vanished down the corridor, he heard the shouts of frustration and furious protest as their pursuer was placed under arrest for trying to avoid paying his 6 franc 20 centimes Métro fare.
In the two hours before the next boat-train left for England from the Gare du Nord, Argyll’s opinion of Flavia underwent a major revolution. He’d known her for years, after all, and tended to think of her as one of those upright citizens who keep on the right side of the law. Especially as, in most cases, she was its appointed embodiment and defender. She was, after all, someone who paid her taxes – most of them, at least – and didn’t leave her car in no-parking zones unless there was really nowhere else to put it.
However, as Flavia pointed out, it was not her fault she was on the run from a bunch of lunatics. Or that Paris seemed a little too dangerous for them to contemplate with equanimity the prospect of remaining there. Or that this case very inconsiderately scattered its witnesses the length and breadth of Europe.
True enough, but she did seem to take to her new role with more relish than was seemly.
There was, for example, the problem of tickets, it being unreasonable to expect that both of them could get all the way to London without being asked to produce one at some stage. To buy a ticket you need money, and between them they had about thirty-five francs left. Argyll would have just whipped out his Visa card, but Flavia pointed out that the sign at the ticket-office clearly said that all tickets for the nine o’clock departure were sold.
So she stole them. Argyll was appalled, and quite lost his power of speech when she turned up after a ten-minute absence with two tickets in her hand and a smug look on her face.
‘You picked someone’s pocket?’ he squeaked as she explained with a slight giggle.
‘It’s very easy,’ she said imperturbably. ‘You just sit down in the café –’
‘But –’
‘Don’t worry. He was very affluent-looking. He can afford to buy new ones. I also relieved him of a couple of hundred francs.’
‘Flavia!’
‘It’s OK. It’s in a good cause. I’m sure he had plenty left. Besides, I took his entire wallet; if you insist I can send him a refund when we get back to Rome. I mean, if you want to give your ticket back and wait for our friends to turn up …’
Argyll had a tough time with his conscience, but ultimately agreed that, now the deed was done, there was no point in thinking about it too much. So Flavia led the way to the train, they found themselves seats and sat, both nervously hoping that the train would pull out of the station before anyone came
looking for them.
It did, although the wait was one of the most anxious either of them had ever spent. Both kept on fabricating reasons for getting up and popping their heads out of the door, scanning the platform with wary eyes just in case a familiar face hove into view. Both fidgeted mercilessly, to the point of provoking irritated looks from the more placid characters ranged alongside them. Both heaved an enormous sigh of relief as the train, with familiar screeching of wheels and jerking movements, lurched forward and slowly gathered speed.
‘Now what do we do?’ Argyll asked as the bleak northern suburbs of Paris began to rattle past.
‘I don’t know about you, but I’m going to eat. I’m starving.’
They trooped off to the restaurant car and grabbed themselves an early seat. By this time Argyll was beginning to enter into the spirit of things as well: considering what they had been going through in the past few days, rude letters from credit-card managers seemed minor stuff. He ordered two champagne cocktails to start off. Flavia had not only stolen tickets, she’d even managed to steal first-class ones.
‘Did that card give an address?’ Argyll asked as Flavia’s account drew to a close and they launched into supplementary questions.
‘Yes. But it’s about forty years old. I mean, the chances of this Richards man being still alive are a bit small. The address is in Gloucestershire. Where is Gloucestershire?’
Argyll explained.
‘Have you really only got seven francs left? I have twenty. Plus the two hundred I …’
Argyll converted it into lire. ‘We’re going to have fun in London with that. What do you fancy, a bus ride and a glass of water? Flavia? Flavia?’ he prompted again.
‘Hmm? I’m sorry. What was that?’