Spoils of the Game

by Lee Lamond

  As the evening came to a close, it was clear that Vassar had achieved his financial and political goals, and it was also clear that one of the guests was trying to add Madeline to his list of conquests. Madeline was polite and handled the situation wisely. The thought entered Austin’s mind that perhaps someone should take the duke (or the count, or whatever he was) out behind the hotel and give him some good old fashion North Carolina justice, but Madeline was doing well all by herself, and there was no need to upset Vassar’s party. To break up the little problem, Austin approached Madeline and suggested that a little more caviar might be needed. That gave her the break she needed.

  It was about three in the morning when the party ended. The doorman at the hotel had placed several guests into taxis to get them home, and others found rides in their own limos. Austin and Madeline arrived at his apartment at about four. Both were tired, but both had had fun. As Austin fumbled for his keys to his apartment, Madeline stood in her stocking feet, holding her high heels in her hand. With the door closing behind them, Madeline put her arms around Austin and gave him a thank-you kiss.

  “So who was the guy hitting on you?” said Austin.

  “Oh, he was Count Fredrick somebody. He was drunk. You sound a little jealous.”

  “Who, me?” replied Austin.

  Without continuing this discussion, Madeline disappeared into the bedroom and returned dressed in one of Austin’s shirts.

  “Austin, tonight you looked like James Bond. When I was younger, I always thought that James Bond was the sexiest man in the world, and I often wondered what it would be like to be one of the girls that fell under his spell.” Madeline gave Austin a wink. “I am all yours, Mr. Bond.”

  Austin had to meet Henri Feret at ten, and thanks to his alarm clock, he was up by seven-thirty. He would have much preferred to stay in bed, but the man had been nice enough to invited him, and he was determined to go.

  Feeling Austin leave the bed started the process of bringing Madeline back to life. She woke up hungry and slipped out of bed to make breakfast. The smell of food brought Austin out of the shower, and soon he was in the kitchen, helping Madeline, who had dressed in the same borrowed shirt she had used the night before.

  Austin asked, “So what were you going to tell me about the glamour queen that was at the reception last night?”

  “Oh. You mean that woman from Marseille.”

  “Yeah, the one in the purple dress.”

  “That dress was awful,” Madeline was quick to mention.

  “So what’s her deal?”

  “She was the least classy of all of the people there. She talks about art, but she doesn’t know anything. I think she just wants to hang around the art community, but it is clear that she is rather uncultured. The rumor is that her husband is a gangster in Marseille and into drugs or something, and most of us think that she is trying to buy respectability and social acceptance by making friends at the Louvre. The only reason that Vassar puts up with her is that she gave him two hundred thousand euros at one of his receptions. And if he does not keep her happy, we all think Vassar might just disappear.

  “Was I a good escort?”

  “You were great. Perhaps you can move to Paris and do what you did last night full-time,” said Madeline.

  “Are you talking about what I did at the party, or after we got home?”

  “Both. Now eat your breakfast.”

  Not wanting to be late, Austin took a taxi to the address on the piece of paper that Feret had given him. Rue Murillo was a lovely street in one of the wealthy parts of the city. The Phillips mansion was a stately home with a tall front gate and classical French styling. Feret was standing outside of the building, and he greeted Austin with his standard understated smile. At exactly ten o’clock Feret rang the bell, and both men waited for the door to be opened. Austin surveyed the property and counted at least eight video cameras; it was clear that someone was trying to protect something within the fine old building. In only a few seconds the door was opened by a tall man, who greeted them and introduced himself as the butler. Austin and Feret were asked to wait in the foyer of the home while the host was summoned.

  The foyer impressed the man from North Carolina. A large, marble spiral staircase was on his right, while a large crystal chandelier hung from the very high domed ceiling. At many locations around the foyer were alcoves in the wall containing a collection of porcelain figurines, and between each alcove was a painting. The floor was a checkerboard of white and black marble squares, completing what was obviously a small palace within the city. In less than a minute, Austin heard footsteps and looked up to the smiling faces of Sir Reginald Phillips and his French wife, Genevieve. Sir Reginald was perhaps sixty, and his wife appeared to be the same age. Each was impeccably dressed for a Sunday morning, and each had the poise and trappings of the very wealthy.

  “Henri, my old friend, it is so nice to see you this fine morning,” said their host, who had grasped each of Henri Feret’s hand with both of his. “You of course remember my wife, Genevieve.”

  “Oh, yes. Good morning,” Feret said to her.

  “We are so happy to have you here this morning,” replied Genevieve. “You are such a dear friend.”

  Feret was quick to introduce Austin to the man and woman of the mansion.

  “Reginald, this is my friend Austin Clay. He has a project that you might find of interest, but I promised him that he might get a chance to see some of your collection.”

  Sir Reginald said, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Clay and welcome to our home.”

  “Thank you, Sir Reginald. I am sure this visit will be a treat.”

  Genevieve looked Austin up and down and then suggested they join them on the veranda for some late breakfast. Austin was not hungry, but he did not want to turn down the opportunity to see how the rich in Paris lived.

  The veranda on the second floor of the house overlooked the Parc Monceau, providing a beautiful scene. On the walls were numerous paintings; several large bronzes stood by the windows, and antique Chinese rugs were on the floor. The four took seats at large, round table with an ivory-colored linen tablecloth and matching embroidered napkins. When they were seated, the waitstaff tended to each and every request. Austin had experienced the benefits of being rich, but the French seemed to do it with such class. Austin had a mental flashback of Madeline and him eating food on cheap plates and drinking beer directly from the can. He had the money, but he did not have the skill to live up to his means.

  The brunch was excellent, with fresh melon, ham, lavish pastries, and anything could be ordered from the kitchen, but soon it was time to learn more about Sir Reginald and his collection. The three men retired to a rooftop garden that overlooked the park, leaving Genevieve behind.

  Austin began the discussion. “Sir Reginald, your home here is spectacular, but I must ask why you are living here and not in London.”

  “I could live almost anywhere, but Paris is the center of the art world. I am not more than two hours from Florence or any other of the art centers of Europe. When I met my wife, she convinced me that Paris would be the best place to live, and then we found our home here. It met our personal needs, and we had room for most of the pieces in our collection.”

  Austin continued his investigation. “I assume you are retired.”

  Sir Reginald laughed. “My dear Mr. Clay, I must confess that I have never been one to hold a job, as such. I had the good fortune to inherit a large family fortune, and those who monitor my investments have done an excellent job over the years. I’m not what you might call a playboy, and for my own sanity, I had to find something to do in my life besides drinking good brandy. For years my family was in the steel business. With industry consolidation in England, we were bought out and were paid more money than perhaps our holdings were worth, by some Japanese investors that made some bad decisions. I started to build my art collection when I was still at university, and traded or added to the collection over the years, and now we h
ave over five hundred pieces in the collection. We have some of the finest pieces of art, and I suspect that a few people at the Louvre would love to have some of the pieces in our collection. I have four agents that work around the world to identify and acquire those pieces that we believe will be best for the collection. As bidders, we remain anonymous, but if we are selling or looking to trade, we may become a little more visible. We find art, good art, in a variety of locations. There is still a lot of art in private collections here in Europe and at other locations around the world, including Japan. It is funny, but we have found art in some of the strangest places, including flea markets.”

  “Sir Reginald,” said Austin, “I recently watched the Louvre find a number of paintings from an old barn a few hundred miles from here, and it was a very interesting experience.”

  The revelation brought a smile to the face of the man from England. It was clear that he had an interest in the discovery but might have been a little concerned that he had been outfoxed.

  “What did they find, if you don’t mind telling me?” asked Sir Reginald.

  For a second Austin was concerned that he was responsible for a security breach, but then he remembered that no one at the Louvre had appeared too excited about the discovery.

  Austin formulated a nonanswer. “I am not sure what they found. It was by some guy named Maetan, and Henri here told me that he was not much of an artist.”

  Sir Reginald looked at Henri, and Henri looked back.

  “Henri told me the story of the artist’s unfortunate death,” said Austin.

  “Mr. Clay, Henri and I go a long way back with Mr. Maetan,” said Phillips.

  “Badeau showed me the paintings, and they looked like Maetan’s typical work,” added Feret.

  Austin waited as both men fell into silence and apparent thought.

  Suddenly Sir Reginald smirked and again looked at Feret. “Well, I would have felt better if someone had found a map,” said the Englishman. Both men laughed.

  Austin was confused. “Are you men still looking for the gold that Henri mentioned to me the other day?”

  “Mr. Clay,” said Sir Reginald, “it is a five-hundred-year-old dream. It is a puzzle, and I love puzzles—but unfortunately there are too many missing pieces. On top of that, there is the problem of the last five hundred years. I am afraid that Henri and I will be long in our graves before anyone finds the treasure, and I suspect that the only way we will ever learn the truth is if we run into Maetan in the afterlife. Mr. Clay, you came here to see some art. Let’s go down to where you can see my collection.”

  Austin left the mansion at about two o’clock Sunday afternoon. It had been a very interesting, if not mysterious, meeting. The Englishman had an amazing collection of art, with all of the usual names in attendance, along with many lesser-known to the public, but well-known to those who had studied the topic. Austin could have spent the day with the collection, but he did not want to overstay his welcome, and he sensed that Sir Reginald and Feret had other business to discuss. There had been no discussion of Austin’s project, which was fine with him. He sometimes felt that discussions of his project with the wrong people would only reveal his naiveté. He would, however, remember his new friend Reginald and add him to the list of possible contributors.

  Monday was dedicated to taking with Carl and people back at the plant in North Carolina. At nine o’clock Tuesday morning Austin arrived at Father Moreau’s office. The priest had issues with two slides and had some strong recommendations on a few others, but a change in the wording was all that was required. It was clear that Father Moreau was trying to introduce Church-friendly phrases and to suggest that the Church would be perhaps more of a partner that a client.

  “Monsieur Clay, I must tell you that your activities are well-known within the Paris community,” said Moreau.

  Austin looked a little confused.

  The priest continued, “At first I thought you were being set up to fail, but now I believe that you will win. Vassar has invited some of the most influential people in the French art world to your presentation, so don’t believe that it is going to be limited to just a few. As I understand it, some of those invited are very wealthy, and I think that some would love to have an opportunity to buy into the social environment and prestige of being a patron. Your cause might be that opportunity. Don’t underestimate Vassar. He believes in you, and I think he has stacked the deck. Tomorrow should be very interesting. Please understand that I was invited along with another priest from this office. It now appears that your simple presentation is going to be a highlight of the Paris social season,” said the priest with a sarcastic smile.

  “I am sorry that Monsieur Vassar and I don’t appear to be on the same channel,” said Austin. “I was expecting a small gathering for what I planned to be a preliminary presentation, and now I am beginning to expect a major show.”

  Austin left Moreau’s office and immediately got on his cell phone.

  “Madeline, we have to talk.”

  “Yes, I know,” was her reply.

  “What is going on? Moreau tells me that Thursday is going to be some gala with some yahoo from North Carolina … which is me. I had planned on an informal discussion with Vassar, and now it has become a spectacular. I have lost control. You French people are crazy.”

  “Sabine, a girl who works in the office here, just told me that she is ordering champagne, strawberries, caviar, and cheeses for the presentation. Vassar has also inquired about lunch in one of the dining rooms.”

  “Did I not get a memo?”

  Madeline helped Austin make the adjustments that the priest recommended and suggested that he provide a handout. She designed a presentation cover and had fifty copies bound. On Tuesday morning he was ready.

  On Wednesday Austin had nothing to do, and Madeline was tied up in budget meetings all day. Austin took the day off, tended to some housekeeping issues, and read three or four English newspapers.

  On Thursday morning Austin arrived at the Louvre about forty minutes early. Madeline met him and escorted him to one of the large conference rooms. Austin’s computer was connected to a projector, and everything was ready to go. At ten o’clock, Vassar entered the room with twenty other people, most of whom Austin had never met before, but two had been at the reception on Saturday evening, and many were familiar to Madeline, who was impressed with the collection that Vassar had put together, with the exception of her boss, Badeau. Included in the group were Father Moreau and an elderly priest who was Moreau’s boss. The most important of the guests was someone that would be introduced as the CEO of Total, the French petroleum giant.

  Vassar approached Austin, and the two shook hands. Austin took Vassar aside for a moment to discuss the plan (or lack of it) for the presentation; he expressed a little dissatisfaction that he was not more aware of the audience members’ identities and what strategies might be best.

  “Monsieur Clay,” said Vassar, “I talked with Madeline this morning, and she has assured me that you will do an excellent job. This is a meeting among friends. Present your case, and we will see where it goes. Please understand that many of these people will be with me all day on several topics. The topic and timing worked out well. You will do fine.”

  Vassar introduced Austin to those in the room as they mingled with the guests. Austin tried to follow the simultaneous discussions, most of them in French. Soon people began to take their seats. Within a few minutes everyone was seated, and Vassar moved to the podium at the front of the large room.

  Vassar began his introduction and comments in French. Many in the room spoke English, but Madeline had offered to provide a French translation of Austin’s words as required, and Austin was willing to use any help available. They would be a team. Austin could not afford to have any bad feelings in the room. Although the people he had met in France had been very nice to him during his extended visit, he didn’t want it to be seen that this brash American was coming to France to tell the French what to
do, even if that was his mission. As Vassar continued to speak, Madeline spoke softly in his ear.

  “Vassar is really selling you. It is almost too good.”

  “This is bullshit,” was Austin’s reply.

  After about five minutes, Vassar looked at Austin and announced, “Monsieur Austin Clay.”

  Madeline leaned in to Austin and said, “It’s your turn. Speak slowly and clearly.”

  Austin had become a success by winning over enemies, but that was when he was at home with a few friends in the audience. He thanked everyone for their interest and slowly walked through his presentation. With a style worthy of a movie star, he outlined the problem and the responsibility of the art community to participate in the rescue. He addressed some of the political issues and the need for money by defining specific steps required to address the art issue in France, while suggesting that the program could be exported to the other countries of Europe once a success was demonstrated. With the costs defined, he outlined the sources and strategy to raise money among the largest French corporations, including L’Oreal, Michelin, Total, AXA, and France Telecom. While large corporations were targets, the Adopt-a-Painting Program would be open to smaller entities or individuals. His unconscious North Carolina style was working. He spoke slowly, allowing Madeline to present a translation when appropriate. Madeline studied the room, noting the approval on people’s faces.