Rocco and the Price of Lies

by Adrian Magson

  Rocco nodded. ‘That and a couple of others.’

  Rizzotti shook his head. ‘You can’t solve them all, you know – especially with the Ministry on your back.’ He pointed meaningfully towards the door, then walked away saying, ‘Doctor’s orders. Rest and recuperation.’

  Rizzotti was right, Rocco thought. He needed sleep. In his present state he was worse than useless. Pushing himself to his feet, he left the office and drove home. As he walked into the house, his phone started ringing. He scooped it up. It was Claude.

  ‘Lucas. Glad I got hold of you.’

  ‘Why, what’s up?’ Rocco drank a glass of water, the cool liquid doing nothing to revitalise him. Bed and sleep, that was what he needed.

  ‘I got a call from Georges Maillard down at the café. He said some feller’s been in asking where you live.’

  ‘A feller?’

  ‘He wouldn’t give his full name, but said he was a friend of yours. Georges didn’t like the look of him so he rang me. Considering he’s the most miserable man in the village, he’s acting like your biggest fan.’

  ‘It’s a long story. So, who was the man asking questions?’

  ‘Do you know anyone called Caspar?’

  Rocco put the glass down, the tiredness flushing away in an instant. Caspar was here in Poissons? He must have something important to tell to come all this way. Caspar must have been trying to get hold of him, but he’d been so careful to keep a low profile he’d forgotten to check for calls with the duty operator in Amiens.

  ‘Where is he now?’ he asked.

  ‘Waiting down by the café. Georges is keeping an eye on him. Delsaire, too, in case he tries to slip away. I’m on my way to see Georges, anyway, so if this Caspar’s a friend of yours I’ll show him the way, if that’s all right?’

  Rocco thanked him and said he’d wait. He smiled at the knowledge that the village telegraph was working on his behalf, instinctively closing ranks against suspicious outsiders. Even more amazing given it was no time at all since he’d been an outsider himself – and here they were treating him as one of their own.

  He tidied up and set about gathering the makings of a quick meal. He had eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms and ham, and some wine to wash it down. Rough and ready, but at short notice it was the best he could do.

  He heard the sound of cars outside and went to the door. Claude waved and drove away, and Caspar got out of his vehicle and walked up the path.

  ‘I didn’t realise I was going to run into a reception committee,’ said Caspar, grinning and jerking a thumb in the direction of the departing car. ‘Suspicious lot, aren’t they? Claude didn’t say but I got the feeling he’s a cop, or was one.’

  Rocco nodded. ‘Still is. He’s a good man. Maillard runs the café and Delsaire’s the local plumber. You were lucky you didn’t run into the local priest; he’d probably have put a curse on you, though it wouldn’t have been for my benefit.’

  ‘Must be nice having them looking out for you. Doesn’t happen in the city.’

  Rocco led him inside and was about to close the door when he saw Mme Denis pottering up the path. She was carrying another cloth-covered dish.

  ‘I see you’ve got company,’ she said. ‘It’s good timing because I’ve made another pie. Chicken this time.’ She thrust it at him. ‘I hope you like it. There’s easily enough for two.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Are you trying to fatten me up? Not that I’m complaining. The other one was delicious. I’ll let you have the dish back tomorrow.’

  ‘No rush. Anyway, it’s a pleasure to cook for someone after all this time.’ She gave him a sideways look. ‘So, what’s the latest on the Bourdelet case, then?’

  ‘You know about that?’

  She gave a mock frown. ‘I read the newspapers. You’re quite the local hero now. Next thing you know they’ll be putting up a plaque for you on the wall of the mairie. Come on, share.’

  ‘Well, it’s getting there, but slow going. There are two other cases as well, not so high-profile, and that’s making it more complicated.’ He added softly, ‘My sources say there’s possible gang land involvement – but don’t tell anyone.’

  Her eyes opened wide. ‘Really? My goodness, you work fast, don’t you?’ She peered past him and whispered, ‘Who’s the young fella – one of your informants come to give you the latest underworld gossip?’

  ‘Damn,’ he said mildly. ‘You guessed. Well, that’s his cover blown. I’ll have to shoot him and bury him in the garden.’

  She disappeared down the path, chuckling to herself. When he turned to go back in, he found a grinning Caspar watching him.

  ‘Not just the village heavies looking after your back, then? Little old ladies, too.’

  ‘Don’t be misled by appearances,’ Rocco said. ‘She’s tougher than the rest of them put together.’

  ‘Like I said, must be nice. I hope Lucille and I can find somewhere like it when we move out of Paris.’

  ‘I’m sure you will. How is she by the way?’

  ‘Great, thanks. She’s at her niece’s near Dreux for a couple of days, helping with a new baby.’

  Rocco put the pie down on the table and removed the cloth. ‘I hope you’re hungry because this pie needs eating now.’

  ‘Famished. Show me the cutlery and plates and I’ll lay the table.’

  ‘And perhaps you’ll tell me what you’ve turned up.’

  ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘You wouldn’t have come all this way otherwise. And you’re grinning like a dog with a new bone.’ He poured two glasses of wine. ‘There’s a spare bed next door. If you don’t mind the fruit rats in the roof, you’re welcome to stay the night.’

  Caspar raised his glass and they touched rims. ‘To good friends and fruit rats. And down with cop-hating lawyers.’

  Thirty minutes later, chicken pie eaten and glasses emptied, Caspar finished telling Rocco what he’d discovered in Serban’s backyard. ‘I thought I’d blown my chances,’ he admitted, ‘but the photos and letters make a good case, don’t they?’

  ‘They’ll certainly help stack up the evidence,’ Rocco admitted. ‘It would help if we could get Peretz the driver to testify against his boss.’

  Caspar pursed his lips. ‘He might, if he thinks he’ll get away without following Serban to jail. If he goes down as well, he won’t last five minutes inside. Serban will see to that.’

  ‘Maybe we can use that.’ Rocco related what Fontenal had told him about Serban’s circle of friends. Peretz was unlikely to want to face up to that kind of retribution in a general prison. But given a guarantee that charges against him would be dropped for giving evidence, he’d probably opt for a new start a long way from Paris.

  Caspar nodded. ‘Actually, from what I know of him, I think you’d be better going after Vauquelin. He’d do anything to get a reduced sentence once the others start talking. Jail is the last place he’ll want to be, even if he makes the mistake of thinking he’s among friends who’ll protect him. They’d skin him alive just for the laugh.’

  ‘Good point. Thanks for doing this, Caspar. It’s been a big help. I hope Lucille won’t hold it against me.’

  Caspar grinned. ‘No chance. To tell you the truth, I enjoyed it.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Sure. I had a moment back there when I had a bit of a wobble, but it made me realise that I haven’t totally lost my nerve. It made me appreciate what I’ve got now even more. Maybe I need a spark of electricity once in a while, to get the adrenalin flowing.’

  ‘As long as it’s only in a while.’ Rocco lifted his glass.

  ‘I’ll drink to that. But don’t forget to call me next time you need help.’

  ‘Will do.’

  They clinked glasses. ‘Santé,’ said Caspar.

  ‘Santé.’

  Thirty-seven

  Early next morning, after Caspar had left for Paris, Rocco called and asked Claude to meet him at Cezard’s château. As he was about to leave, his phone
rang. It was Dreycourt. He sounded sombre.

  ‘Petissier died last night,’ he said, ‘without regaining consciousness.’

  ‘Thanks for letting me know,’ Rocco replied. He wondered if it was his imagination or whether Dreycourt was depressed about losing a potential finger to point at Cezard.

  He thanked the art expert for his help, then gathered the photos and copy letters together and headed for his car. He was tempted to check in with the office first, but he didn’t want to hear the news that he suspected was waiting for him: that the Ministry had called off the investigation. For now, he was out of reach and intended to stay that way. To make absolutely certain, he turned off his car radio.

  The village was quiet as he drove out, the sun already warm and presaging another hot day. The only sign of anyone working was a heavy truck parked outside Maillard’s café, the driver puffing on a cigarette as he climbed into the cab. It reminded Rocco of Maillard’s offer to buy him a drink if he put in an appearance at the 14th-July celebration. His first instinct had been to avoid it, but it would be difficult to think of a polite way of doing so. Maybe he didn’t want to. There were worse ways of spending a few hours than in the company of friends.

  He lowered the car window to let in a breeze, revelling in the cool air. One way or another it promised to be an eventful day. Whether he’d get the result he wanted was open to question, but he was determined to file this investigation as a success if he could.

  Claude was waiting on the front steps of the château when he arrived, with Sébastien Cezard wandering around kicking at some weeds on the drive, a drift of cheroot smoke following him like a cloud on a leash. The artist didn’t look a happy man.

  ‘Lucas,’ Sébastien greeted him when he got out of his car. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure? Should I get Laurent here?’ He tried a smile to reflect the joke but it was clearly a struggle.

  ‘Can we go inside?’ said Rocco. ‘I have something to show you.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll get Eliane to make coffee. Please go through.’ He led the way inside and disappeared down the hallway in search of his daughter.

  Claude was eyeing Rocco with a faint frown. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked softly, when they reached the room at the back. ‘You’re planning to drop something on him?’

  ‘Hopefully, just the weight of the law,’ said Rocco. ‘I want him to feel under a bit of pressure. His daughter, too.’

  ‘Got it. Not too friendly, in other words.’

  Minutes later, Eliane appeared with a loaded tray and invited them to help themselves. The smell of Sébastien’s cheroot was soon joined by the welcoming aroma of coffee.

  ‘Perhaps you could stay?’ Rocco suggested, as Eliane made to leave. ‘This will be of interest to you.’

  ‘That’s not necessary, is it?’ her father suggested. ‘I’m sure she has plenty of other things to be doing. Marking papers and so on.’ He scowled and sucked on his smoke as if it were the last drag he’d ever have.

  Eliane looked from one to the other with an expression of puzzlement. ‘No, I’ve nothing on that can’t wait, Pa.’ She stared at Rocco. ‘What’s this about? Is something wrong?’

  Rocco took an envelope out of his pocket and placed the three letters face down on the table between them. He spread out the photos of the paintings provided by Dreycourt for them all to see. He was watching Sébastien’s face as he did so, and saw the artist stiffen. He made a faint choking sound as if the smoke had gone down the wrong way.

  ‘You’ve seen these photos before,’ said Rocco. ‘They’re the subject of an investigation into three deaths. I wanted to ask you again, Sébastien, if you recognise them.’

  There was a lengthy silence. Sébastien was staring at the paintings as if they were a trio of snakes. Nobody else said a word.

  ‘Well, I know them, as I told you before,’ he said gruffly. ‘Any artist worth his salt would.’ He pointed to each one in turn. ‘There’s a Chassériau, a Boucher and a Gérard, although as an aside, I prefer the earlier version of the Récamier by Jacques-Louis David.’ He looked apologetic. ‘Sorry. Can’t resist the temptation to show off a little. Madame Récamier was a famed society beauty and much sought-after as a subject for artists.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Rocco was slightly relieved. ‘I’m glad you recognise them.’ He turned to Eliane and Claude to explain. ‘These are copies of paintings, one currently residing in the Louvre, another in the Carnavalet in Paris and one in Cologne. I wonder, Sébastien, if you could show us the canvas you had here before, of a woman sewing. A Morisot, I think it was?’

  Sébastien shrugged and looked around vaguely, scattering ash. ‘I’m sorry, I think I must have moved it.’

  ‘No, Pa,’ said Eliane. ‘It’s still there on the floor.’ She went over to the sideboard and picked up the painting, and laid it against a chair leg so they could all see. ‘This one?’

  ‘Ah, yes. Silly me.’ Her father pursed his lips and studied the end of his cheroot.

  ‘You mentioned before,’ said Rocco, ‘that when you produce a copy, you include a small addition to distinguish it from the original.’

  ‘I do, that’s correct. One can’t be too careful these days. Some people are quick to accuse artists of fraud.’

  Like Dreycourt, thought Rocco. ‘Can you tell us what that difference is?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure I can. Artistic confidentiality, you might call it, even mystery, and–’

  ‘It’s a marguerite, silly!’ Eliane said with a laugh. ‘See, here.’ She pointed at the bottom right-hand corner, where a small daisy lay on the bench alongside the woman’s sewing basket. ‘You can just see it if you look carefully.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Rocco. He hesitated before moving on. He hated doing this, especially in front of Eliane, but he had a feeling that nothing else would work. He still wasn’t convinced that Sébastien was part of the blackmail scheme, simply because he didn’t appear to have the right instinct. But he’d been fooled before by accomplished actors. He reached into his pocket and produced three more photographs and laid them on the table.

  ‘What’s this?’ said Eliane. ‘You’ve already shown us these.’

  Rocco looked at Sébastien. ‘Is that correct?’

  The older man said nothing for a moment. Then he tossed his cheroot into the fireplace and the air seemed to go out of him like a punctured balloon.

  ‘No. It’s not.’

  Eliane leaned forward. ‘Pa?’

  Rocco said softly, ‘You should look at the photos more closely. Compare them one by one.’

  Eliane and Claude both leaned forward and scanned the photos. The silence in the room was intense. Rocco was looking at Sébastien, and when the artist looked up, he did so with an expression of resignation, but also of puzzlement.

  Eliane was first to see the difference. ‘These three are of your copies, Pa,’ she murmured, and looked at her father, then at Rocco. ‘I don’t understand – he painted these a long time ago.’

  ‘I’m confused,’ muttered Claude. ‘You’ve lost me.’

  For a moment nobody spoke. Rocco was hoping Sébastien would do so without his hand being forced further. He waited him out.

  ‘He’s right,’ Sébastien said at last. ‘I painted those three … but as you say, chérie, it was a long time ago. I did them for a promising client but he reneged on the deal.’ He sighed and brushed some ash off his front. ‘Hours and days and weeks of work, all for nothing.’

  ‘How long does it take?’ asked Rocco.

  ‘Long enough. You can’t rush these things. I can always work on other projects in between, but it’s not a quick process if you have any pride in your work. And you have to study the originals with great care.’

  ‘You take photographs?’

  ‘I do. But it’s better to see them in the flesh.’

  ‘How did you do that for the Boucher painting? Did you travel to Cologne?’

  Cezard shook his head. ‘I was lucky: it came to Paris on loan fo
r an exhibition, so I haunted the gallery for days, studying the paint, the brush strokes, the light, the application.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘The staff got quite used to me in the end, although they probably thought I was an obsessive old goat. The thing is, you have to get in the artist’s mind, to understand how he went about it. I do, anyway.’

  Rocco detected a fierce pride in Cezard’s voice, and understood a little of what drove him. ‘It must have been a huge disappointment not to sell them.’

  ‘The gallery owner who commissioned them was an important contact in the art world. He said he had a client who would take all three or, if not, that he could sell them individually at a good price. It was an ideal way of getting my name out there, so I took a chance on him. Then he called me to say the client had changed his mind and he didn’t have any other takers for them.’ He shrugged. ‘He paid me a small fee for my trouble but it wasn’t the same. In the end he went bust before we could do anything about it. End of story.’