The Collector

by Anne-Laure Thiblemont

There was nothing in the refrigerator but a few eggs and a bottle of milk.

  Why would he give all that to her? Maybe Chris was right. Maybe he just didn’t have anyone else to give the collection to. End of story.

  She opened the vegetable drawer. A limp carrot.

  Except for Gaudin. He had to be brooding. He couldn’t possibly understand the will’s conditions—or fathom how he had gotten completely robbed. He had served the man for thirty years. He had indulged the man’s obsessions, his desires, and his craziness as if they were his own. He wouldn’t want her to sell. Would he be content to keep an eye on Marion until he learned her game plan? Or was he trying to hurt her? And did those three sculptures have something to do with it?

  “He’s the one.” Marion almost yelled it. She couldn’t see anyone else in the picture with enough motive.

  She slammed the refrigerator door. “Dammit, he tried to kill me!”

  She felt her muscles tighten and bile rise. She paced the room, kicking a pile of books. Then she pulled out her phone. Maybe Chris was right, and there was some determination in her.

  “What the hell were you thinking, trying to drown me? I’m not some plaything. Did you want to scare me? Or kill me?”

  Marion’s hands were shaking. On the other end of the line, George Gaudin said nothing.

  “You won’t admit it, will you? You’re just waiting to get your share. Do you honestly think I’m going to give up?”

  “Mademoiselle, I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “Come on. Are you going to answer me or not? I’ve got friends in the police force.”

  “I have nothing to say. I don’t have any idea what you’re referring to. There’s no point threatening me.”

  “It would be quite convenient for you if I were out of the picture.”

  “Everyone knows I’m attached to that collection. But you give me more credit than I deserve. I don’t decide whether people live or die.”

  “You’ll have to try harder than that. You’re the only person who could be upset about the inheritance.”

  “Listen, young lady, as much as you want to blame me for whatever happened to you, I didn’t lift a finger against you. That collection is my flesh and blood, my sweat and tears. I’ve sacrificed everything for it. I’ve spent so many years living without the company of others. If something happens to you, I won’t shed any tears. But I’m telling you this: messing with you would mess up my entire life’s work. And that’s not going to happen.”

  “Is that it? You’ve got nothing else to offer in your defense?” Marion said, losing steam. “I don’t know—maybe an idea of someone else who’d be interested in eliminating me?”

  “First you accuse me, and then you ask me to find the real culprit?” Gaudin was getting one up on her now, but something had softened in his voice. “Art aficionados all over the world were envious of that collection, and Magni had belittled so many experts and curators, any one of them could want to take their revenge. And any number of them would sell his soul in a minute to the highest bidder.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Can you tell me more about the sculptures?” Marion finally asked, kicking herself for sounding like a frightened little girl.

  “Yes, the sculptures. If you insist. The first one Magni brought back was the Woman with Child. An astonishing work. This was the most valuable piece in his collection. But the figure disappeared almost immediately. Then, in rapid succession, two similar pieces showed up—the warrior and the jaguar. I remember them vividly. Such priceless objects were usually buried deep in royal tombs. Magni, of course, supplied no explanation. He was rarely in Paris during that period, but was spending most of his time in Latin America, leaving me in charge of the collection. It wasn’t until much later that I learned that the sculptures had been sold at auction.”

  7

  Still groggy, Marion turned over in her bed and felt around for the phone.

  “One of your sculptures—the woman with disproportionately sized ear lobes…”

  It was Chris.

  “What about it?” she replied softly, glancing at the clock.

  “It was analyzed at our lab in July, right after your dad got rid of it. See, I was right to insist—”

  “Are you calling from your office?”

  “Where else would I be?”

  “Do you know what time it is?”

  “Seven thirty. I’ve been here all night—just for you.”

  “Or maybe just to avoid going home?”

  “Marion, this isn’t about me, okay? I’m telling you that I just found an owner. This is a lead—our only lead at the moment. I thought you’d be jumping for joy.”

  “Who does it belong to?” she finally asked.

  Chris shuffled some papers. “Oh good, so you’re awake now?”

  “I’m awake.”

  “I thought you had more fight in you.”

  “Are you done lecturing me?”

  “Alain Ozenberg. He’s one of our best clients.”

  Marion was sitting up now. He was another one of the guests at the party.

  “A big shot in pre-Columbian art. There’s no way of knowing if he still has the sculpture, but at least we have something to work with. You should also know that he has a reputation. He’s pushed through some questionable deals, and rumor has it he’s stolen pieces from small Latin American museums. Some people even say he has a network of tomb raiders in Peru.”

  “Sounds like a solid lead. Maybe this one will pan out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Marion told him about her call to Gaudin the night before.

  “Well, now we have Ozenberg, and I’ve got more on him. He’s a player. Good looking. Before he became an art dealer he was a model and cover boy for Vogue. Take down this address: 64 Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. You could probably stop by his gallery today. It’s open.”

  “I don’t have time.”

  “I wouldn’t wait too long if I were you. The Munich Biennial Show starts in seven days, and you won’t be able to reach him for two weeks.”

  Marion didn’t say anything. She didn’t feel brave enough or strong enough to deal with a stranger today.

  “Hellooooo, is anyone there?”

  “I was thinking.”

  “And?”

  “I was planning to go to my dad’s place today. I want to see if Duverger’s sculpture is there.”

  A lie. She had nothing planned. She wanted to stay in her apartment behind a securely locked door, padding from the bed to the kitchenette and then to the sofa.

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll go to your dad’s with you. I want to see the collection.”

  “But I thought your boss wanted you at the office.”

  “I’ll make something up to get out of here.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” She needed to backtrack. “It might be a little tricky if we both go. What if we run into Gaudin?”

  “I hope we do.”

  “I don’t. I’m only going if he’s not there.”

  “I know you, Marion. You’ve already figured out what time he leaves the house.”

  Marion felt trapped, and yet if she was going to make a decision it had to be now. Deep down she didn’t hate the idea of having him by her side at her father’s house. Even though her Gaudin-is-a-bad-guy theory was apparently a no-go, she was sure the man cared about his life’s work being taken away from him.

  She knew that Gaudin would be at the flea market, where once a week he spent the morning. He had told her this the first time they spoke, when she had asked him when it was best to call.

  “I’ll call you back,” she finally said.

  “No need. Let’s just say we’ll meet at your dad’s in two hours. I’ll keep my cell on in case there are any problems with Gaudin.”

  “Okay—but what about Ozenberg?” she blurted out.

  “Why don’t you do both t
oday?”

  “Can you come with me to see him too?”

  “That’s stretching it a bit. But I’ll meet up with you afterward if you want.”

  ~ ~ ~

  From a bench in a small park, Marion was observing Magni’s mansion just across the street. Where was Chris? Ever since leaving her place, she was sure she was being followed. Was it just stress? Marion had done a thorough survey of her surroundings. There was nothing suspicious or troubling. If anyone appeared borderline sketchy, it was she. A woman sweeping the sidewalk in front of the post-Haussmann-style building was staring at her. Here in Passy—a neighborhood of luxury apartments, few shops, public gardens, and no movie theaters—the slightest sign of something unusual could seem shady.

  Bothered by the pair of eyes directed at her, Marion finally opted to get off the bench. She purposefully walked across the street and dashed toward the building, her head spinning from the split-second decision.

  She unlocked the door with the key Gaudin had given her and slipped into the apartment. She leaned against a wall of the large parlor to regain her bearings. As her composure returned, she let the beauty of the space wash over her. Stucco and wood—very popular in the nineteenth century. She hadn’t noticed it during her first visit, but from where she was standing now, she admired every chair, the big parquet table, the paintings—each angled toward a single vanishing point—and an ebony cabinet perched on Corinthian columns. It was a remarkable piece inlaid with baskets and birds of amethyst, agate, and mottled jasper.

  There were no magazines, books, files, or pieces of mail. The parlor’s sole purpose was displaying the antiques and art the owner of the mansion had collected, especially the cabinet. As she examined the space more closely, she saw that each object had been given a specific and permanent place. No room for nonessentials, whims, or fancies. She was about to go into the office when the abrasively loud doorbell interrupted her. Chris, smiling wildly—devilishly even—swept in and kissed her on the cheeks.

  “Nice outfit,” he said with a wink. “You’re not really going to wear old jeans, a baggy top, and flats when you hit on Ozenberg, are you?”

  “Don’t start,” she said, turning her back to him.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this,” Chris said. “He arranged his furniture and everything else perfectly. I’m getting chills. Everything’s so beautiful.”

  “Magni surrounded himself with priceless objects as though they were a sort of shield. Wait till you see the cellar.”

  “Are you going to inherit all this too?” Chris caressed the wood of a Mazarin bureau and then carefully opened a drawer.

  “Chris! You shouldn’t—”

  “There’re aren’t any papers anywhere,” he said, ignoring her. “I wonder where he kept all his mail. Come on. Let’s go upstairs. We have time, don’t we? When will Gaudin be back?”

  “Normally he spends the morning at the flea market, so I can’t imagine he’ll be back right away. I don’t want to loiter too long, though.”

  “So we have five minutes to spare. Let’s go!”

  Chris grabbed her hand, clearly giddy.

  One floor up, they roamed from room to room. As Marion went from one space to the next, she realized something: there were no clocks of any kind.

  She walked over to one of the double-pane windows flanked by drapes as heavy as Doric columns. The window was wide and tall, a feature that made the building look larger from the outside. She glanced at the street, then turned back around. There was no tick-tocking, or any other noise, for that matter. No swoosh of a passing car, no creaky floorboards, no click of a furnace turning on.

  “It’s crazy,” she said, sitting on the edge of a lit à la polonaise. “This place is a real tomb. Have you seen one TV or radio? Have you even spotted a CD player?”

  “Silence is a luxury these days, like that bed you’re sitting on was way back when. You know they call it a Polish bed because of King Louis XV’s Polish queen, right? Of course you do,” Chris said. He was opening and closing armoire doors and bureau drawers. “Check this out. Shirts, shirts, and more shirts. He had enough to wear a different one every day of the year. They’re folded by color between sheets of tissue paper. Maybe I could hire his housekeeper. She’d do wonders for my place.”

  Marion started bouncing on the mattress—slowly at first, then more vigorously. “The mattress doesn’t even make noise. Listen. Nothing.” She looked under the box spring. Magni had reinforced the bed to keep it from squeaking. As she straightened up, a white splotch near the headboard caught her eye. She knelt next to the bedside table and reached for it. It was a crumpled piece of paper covered with a thin layer of dust. She smoothed it out. On it was a handwritten list of five items, with the first four crossed out:

  Woman with Child

  Warrior

  Crouched Figure Carrying the World

  Jaguar

  Tattooed Man

  It was a list of sculptures, including the three she had to find. But why were some crossed out? Did it mean they had been auctioned off? Or donated? And what were the crouched figure and the tattooed man? What were they doing on the list?

  “Look at this.” She held the paper in front of Chris, who was now sitting beside her.

  “Where’d you find that?”

  “Under the bed.”

  He ran his fingers over the dark blue ink. “This is the first piece of paper we’ve come across. And it’s woven—classy stuff.”

  “It looks like someone meant to throw it out, then changed his mind.”

  “Gaudin?”

  “Or Magni…”

  “But if either of them wanted it, why was it lying crumpled next to the bed?”

  Marion glanced around. “Who’s room is this, anyway?” Like every other room in the house, the furniture was a barrier to any display of individuality. No pictures, no books—nothing that would give the space a unique identity.

  “Chris, what size are the shirts?”

  “XL. All of them. Too big for me. Otherwise I would’ve totally taken one. These threads are excellent.”

  “Gaudin looks like he’s an XL. But for all I know, so was Magni.” Marion sighed. “I was only three when my mother told me he was dead.”

  A loud slam disrupted the supernatural silence of the house. Marion and Chris looked at each other before the latter leaped up to close the bedroom door. They’d never make it as gumshoes. They scared too easily.

  The apartment was quiet again. Without waiting any longer, Marion headed into the hallway, followed by Chris, and crept down the stairs. At the bottom, she peeked into the parlor. Seeing no one, the two of them hurried to the reinforced cellar door.

  “There must be a draft somewhere in this place,” Chris whispered.

  Marion tried not to tremble as she fished out the two keys that opened the door. “I hope he gave me the real keys,” she whispered. To her great relief, they fit the locks. After opening the door, Marion took a moment to absorb the darkness before fiddling with the lights.

  At the bottom of the steps Marion pulled the photo of Laurent Duverger’s shaman out of her bag. She handed the image to Chris, who stood motionless as he cast his eyes over the hundreds of other-worldly figures.

  After a few minutes, he walked over to the closest display and started inspecting the figures. Marion thought he was the very picture of a Roman general inspecting the elite members of his Praetorian Guard. But despite the rigorous review, Chris found no match. The stone shaman in the image was upright, with crossed arms, a triangular face, and dark shadows where his eyes should have been. It had the alien look of a monumental Easter Island sculpture.

  They moved on to another display. Chris hadn’t opened his mouth or let out a single whistle of admiration. He looked overwhelmed. They moved from one exhibit to another. Still nothing. Then, just as she was about to give up, Marion glimpsed a spot that she hadn’t seen before. And there he was, staring back at her. He was a bit off to the side, isolated from th
e others, radiating a sense of piousness and mystery.

  “I was right,” she said, reaching out to it.

  “You’ve got a good eye. That’s definitely it. What a beautiful piece.”

  Chris clapped with delight and spun around, almost losing his balance. Then he gasped. Marion looked to see what was the matter and stopped her hand mid-air when she saw Gaudin standing in the doorway, with his hands in his pockets and a scowl on his face.

  “What are you doing here?”

  The sound of Marion’s voice seemed to get lost in the walls. It was Gaudin who had slammed the door and then crept up on them in this soundproofed vault.

  “I could ask you the same thing. We don’t have an appointment, as I recall.”

  Marion was determined not to let any of her trepidation show.

  “We wanted to take a quick look at the collection by ourselves,” she shot back with a smile. “This is my friend, Chris. Chris, Mr. Gaudin…”

  Faced with his stubborn and suspicious silence, she continued. “There are so many pieces. Initially you don’t see them as individual works, but instead as a collection. Then you begin to appreciate each one individually. This shaman, for example. I didn’t notice it the other day. And yet it’s so different from the others. Magni probably saw its unique features too, and that’s why it was displayed a bit differently.”

  “If you look closely, there are similar shamans.”

  Marion searched for them. “Oh, there’s an androgynous one.” She approached the shelf where it was displayed. “You’re right. I wasn’t paying close enough attention.”

  “There are many more. Fifty-some in total. All made with impeccable craftsmanship,” the assistant said at last. “It’s a spectacular collection.”

  “Collection?”

  Gaudin seemed to hesitate, and for a second Marion thought he would close up completely.

  “A good number of years ago, your father met an old scholar, a former biology professor, Joseph Ernsen. The man was crazy about pre-Columbian art. But he had debts to pay off. Magni bought his collection cash on the barrel and preserved it until he died.”

  “What a nice gesture.”

  “A nice transaction,” Gaudin corrected. “Your father was no philanthropist. He was betting on the man’s addiction to gambling. He knew the fellow wouldn’t give the cash to the people he owed money to. In fact, he gambled the money away and took on even more debt. He spent his final years chasing other pieces that he then sold to your father for a song—just to keep the loan sharks off his back. Your father did very well. He made a handsome profit on that man’s vices.”