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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 of 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

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