Marion nodded distractedly. A typical dirty venture in capitalism. If he was telling the truth, what was Laurent Duverger’s sculpture doing here? Because it no doubt belonged to him.
“But I know that shaman was stolen,” she fired, fully prepared to grab the sculpture.
“Hands off!” Gaudin shouted, springing toward her.
Marion started and stepped back.
“Where did you hear that nonsense?” Gaudin asked.
“I have in my possession a perfectly legitimate declaration of theft.”
“You have the wrong piece, then.”
“The description is a perfect match. The photo too,” Chris said, handing Gaudin the picture. “That shaman belongs to Laurent Duverger. He’s the one who reported it stolen.”
Marion hadn’t taken her eyes off Gaudin, and the expression on his face was a perfect example of simultaneous dejection and anger. But he snapped out of it quickly, and Marion thought he might regain the upper hand.
“It’s a setup,” he muttered. “Duverger wants to get in the game by letting you know that you’ll have to go though him if you intend to sell.”
“Hold on. So Duverger knows that I’m Magni’s daughter?”
“Your father’s estate attorney isn’t the kind to accept bribes. But Duverger is a very powerful man.”
“I knew it. So he may know the specifics of the will too?”
“Most likely. But that’s not the problem here. What he’s trying to do is slow you down and secure his role as middleman so that you can’t try anything without him.”
“That’s a convoluted plan,” Chris intervened. “What makes him think Marion is going to sell? And even if she is, why didn’t he just talk to her directly? That would have been way easier!”
“Would Marion have agreed to talk with him if he had taken your direct approach?”
“No more than she would now.”
“Ah, but she will now. Because the message was also intended for me. He sent her in search of this figure knowing full well that I would be here. Blackmail—because that’s what it’s all about—involves two people who know.”
“Blackmail?”
“He’s aware that any accusation of thievery would tarnish Magni’s reputation and possibly make potential buyers suspicious of his collection as a whole.”
Marion looked at Chris, and frowned. She was having a difficult time making sense of everything. Was Gaudin telling the truth? What complex trickery were they all fabricating? She turned to the assistant again when she heard him sigh.
“All right,” he said. “I can see that it’s time to fill you in. Duverger was the one who introduced your father to the collector I mentioned earlier—Ernsen. Duverger couldn’t buy the entire collection on his own, so he asked Magni to go in on it. When Magni laid eyes on the collection, he was mortified. His own collection couldn’t hold a candle to those exceptional works of art. Ernsen had breathtaking Olmec pieces purchased in a golden era when objects could be brought out of Mexico. Magni had spent his whole life collecting pre-Columbian artworks, and in his eyes they now amounted to nothing. The next day he purchased the whole lot without telling Duverger. Ernsen made it clear to Ernsen he would never buy another piece from him if he told Duverger. Then Magni fed Duverger a line about Ernsen selling the collection to an anonymous buyer. Duverger didn’t learn who it was until the old guy died. He swore to Magni that he’d make him pay one day.”
“But Duverger admires Magni.”
“Enemies can respect each other, even spend time together. Magni was surrounded by puppets and he pulled the strings. But Duverger was different. He is dangerously clever and, more important, very talented. Your father liked him. He was a worthy opponent. He was pretty much his only competition. And Magni liked their games, even if he thought Duverger was a bit too… How should I put it? Unstable.”
“Still, I don’t buy your blackmail theory. I’m not Magni, after all. I’m Magni’s daughter. We are two entirely different people. I didn’t even know my father. Why would he have it in for me?”
Gaudin’s tone turned condescending again. “I’m going to tell you something that you need to plant deep in your brain. It’s best to use caution when you flirt with the past. You never know what may rise to the surface.”
“I still don’t understand. Why am I in danger? Why does Duverger care about me? And what’s the deal with this sculpture? Who does it belong to—Duverger or Magni?”
“Of all the pieces in Ernsen’s collection, it’s the only one that eluded your father. It shouldn’t be here, and yet…”
“What are you trying to say?”
“By now you know enough to determine the extent of Duverger’s power.”
“Why are you so secretive? Be clear. How can I defend myself against him if I don’t have the information I need?”
Gaudin gave her a cold look.
“You’re not going to help me,” she said, feeling her anger rise. “That’s it, isn’t it? You want to stay in control of the collection.”
“It’s a bit more complicated than that.”
“Maybe Duverger will prove to be more talkative than you if I meet with him today and declare my intentions to negotiate a deal.” Marion was ready to say anything to get more out of this man.
“You can always try,” Gaudin sneered. “But why would he talk if he’s not confident that you’re in a position to sell? I doubt he’ll show his cards as long as you’re unable to guarantee anything.”
Gaudin kept sending her back to square one. She would have preferred it if he had declared war. She could have assessed what she was up against. But instead, he gave her the impression that he was neither with her nor against her. What if he knew for sure that she didn’t pose an imminent threat? That might explain his attitude. He could easily control her moves and protect himself. At any rate, she was becoming convinced that he wasn’t scared of her, but rather scared of what she might learn.
This would certainly explain why he was divulging his information with such caution. Maybe he was willing to do anything to preserve Magni’s standing in the art world. It was also possible that he feared for himself. Was he scared of Duverger? Apparently Duverger knew Magni’s life story by heart. That could make him a dangerous enemy. Or an accomplice…
8
With a heap of discarded clothes at her feet, Marion flirted with her image in the mirror. She had slipped gray silk stockings on her toned legs and wiggled into a form-fitting suit the color of eggplant. She wanted to look businesslike. But she had chose a blouse with a low neckline that offered a glimpse of her décolletage.
“Just a little bit daring,” she said to herself. “It might help.”
Yesterday she had decided against going to Alain Ozenberg’s gallery. After her meeting with Gaudin, she had only enough strength to stop at the office to check on her calls and emails and make an appointment or two. This morning, however, she was taking action. The message was clear: Duverger was capable of putting his money where his mouth was. Poker game or not, Marion would have to deal with him. As for Gaudin, he was still an enigma, more prepared to act defensively than offensively. Or was it the reverse?
Marion stepped back from the mirror and re-evaluated her image. She hadn’t felt this sexy in a long time—not since Peter. She dug through her jewelry, clasped a cameo necklace at the back of her neck, and pulled her most expensive pumps out of the closet. Was it overkill? She sat down on her bed.
“Come on, no second-guessing,” she told herself. She got up and left the apartment.
She got of the metro at the Miromesnil stop and headed south, not noticing the few galleries on Avenue Matignon. She turned left on the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. Nearing the address, she stopped at a storefront window to readjust her skirt. It was too short. That color on her lips: too dark. And how she’d like a pair of those Christian Louboutin shoes that were staring back at her. What was happening to her?
Reaching Ozenberg’s gallery, she took a d
eep breath, raised her chin, put all doubts out of her mind, and opened the door.
She saw no one inside, just a few cameras pointed toward the sculptures, rendered more human-like by the honey-colored lighting. The room wasn’t big, but the mirrored walls created an illusion of space.
“He’s watching me from upstairs,” she told herself after spotting a spiral staircase. Marion did her best to focus on a terra-cotta with stumpy arms and legs in the middle of the room. The figure, brandishing a dog-headed stick, looked ready to pounce on the enemy at any moment.
“What do you think?”
She turned around, surprised not by the sound of his voice, which was oddly soft and deep at the same time, but by the question itself. Most art and antiques dealers in this district wore a cloak of arrogance. They bragged about their pieces rather than eliciting comments. Nonchalantly leaning against the staircase railing, Alain Ozenberg was looking at her thoughtfully.
“It seems both petrified and aggressive at the same time. I certainly wouldn’t want him for an opponent.” Marion had practiced her approach. She intended to present herself as a broker, and this would require choosing her words with care.
“I’m familiar with the effect this figure has on people. I’ve felt it myself,” he said, descending the stairs and walking over to her with a welcoming smile. “Of all the terra-cotta figures I’ve ever owned, this is one of the most difficult ones to understand. It certainly has a uniqueness, along with a powerful energy.” Marion felt his eyes on her.
“You can only imagine what this man went through to carry so much fear into the afterlife,” Marion said, still staring at the sculpture.
“Death in those days was often very cruel.”
“I admit I’d prefer a peaceful death,” she said, surprised by the course the conversation was taking.
“I guess living a well-ordered life is conducive to that kind of end.”
“No, I just prefer to confront issues in a civil and rational way.”
“Hmm, that sounds like it’s coming from someone who’s trying to avoid pain at all costs.”
She wanted to change the conversation and steer it in a direction that wasn’t so personal. But she couldn’t resist responding.
“What makes you think we’re obligated to endure pain?”
“We’re human, aren’t we? Pain is inevitable, especially once your soul is on the line.”
“I’m more the measured type.”
The art dealer fixed his gray eyes on hers. “Something makes me wonder about that.”
The silence lingered as they stared at each other. Marion couldn’t get a make on him. His questions and opinions were probing, and she should have felt uncomfortable. But she didn’t. He was listening to her. She almost felt like she was back in school, debating a fellow student. This could be fun, she thought.
The telephone rang.
“My business associate. She always checks in about now. Please excuse me.”
Marion wanted to focus, but she couldn’t. Feeling awkward in her heels, she wandered from one sculpture to the next while stealthily eyeing Ozenberg, who was standing at a writing desk nestled beneath the stairs. His back was turned to her. She figured he was around forty-five. He wasn’t especially good-looking. Well, at least not as good-looking as Chris had led her to believe. But he gave the impression of being kind and strong. Poised. Seductive.
“Yes, yes. Wildly attractive.”
Ozenberg turned toward her, making eye contact. Marion immediately looked away.
“Calm down,” Marion told herself. “He’s not talking about you.” Or was he?
“She’s here… No, no, that hasn’t happened to me in a very long time,” he said to the caller.
The sound of his voice was making Marion tremble. She was deeply confused—in a way that both puzzled and excited her.
Ozenberg hung up the phone. He didn’t move for a moment and seemed lost in thought. Then he slicked his hair back and headed over to her.
“Well, it seems that we’ve covered quite a bit of ground, but I still haven’t asked why you’re here.”
Marion figured she was looking bewildered, because he took another stab.
“Perhaps you stumbled upon my gallery by accident?”
“No, I came for this sculpture…”
Marion rummaged through her bag and took out a picture.
“You acquired it at an auction. It belonged to Edmond Magni.”
“That’s correct,” he said, examining the image before giving it back to her. “It’s an outstanding piece—it has such grace. It’s rare to find female figurines from the Gran Pajatén area, but the ones you do find are usually pregnant, like this one. So you’re interested in the sculpture?”
“Yes, I’m looking for it.”
“Who are you working for?”
“I’m not authorized to tell you.”
“In that case, I’m not authorized to sell.”
“So it’s for sale?”
He grinned. “You’re quick on the uptake, aren’t you? I’m sorry for giving you the wrong idea. The person who owns that sculpture would never part with it.”
“The right proposition could change a person’s mind,” she answered.
“This object is priceless. At least that’s how the owner feels.”
“Let me try to persuade him.”
“You’ll never do that.”
“How can you be so sure?”
The businessman walked back to his desk and began going through the messages on his cell phone. Had she gone too far too fast? Had she offended him? She stepped over to him, shifted her weight from one foot to the other as she waited for a response. Her feet, squeezed into the pumps, were throbbing. He finally looked up from his phone.
“Trust me. This client clings to her past. And this sculpture is part of it. Forget about it. You’re wasting your time.”
She wasn’t going to give up. She tried another approach.
“Get that sculpture, and sell it to me,” she said in the sweetest voice she could muster.
He laughed. Marion hadn’t expected that kind of reaction.
“I like your style,” he said at last. “I don’t know if I should attribute it to inexperience or excitement. You certainly have a childlike enthusiasm. I love it.” He hesitated before whispering, as if speaking to himself, “We’ll see how much you really care about this sculpture.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“The lady won’t quit! Look, you don’t have a lot of options here. Either you give up on this, or you turn a blind eye to ethics…” He observed her for a moment. “You probably haven’t been in the business long enough to have dealt with this kind of choice. But if you stick with it, you will.” He stepped closer. She could feel his breath on her face.
Marion’s breathing quickened. Was it because of Ozenberg? Or because she was so close to her goal?
“Forget about what we just discussed. Put it out of your mind. I have another proposition. This one is much more realistic,” he said with such natural ease, he didn’t seem to doubt her response for a second. “It’s a sculpture from the same civilization. It also belonged to Magni. Another masterpiece. An emerald-encrusted warrior.”
Marion barely held back a gasp. She quickly looked down at her feet so her eyes wouldn’t give her away.
“Don’t get too excited,” the art dealer let out with friendly sarcasm after a few moments of silence.
“I was thinking,” she said, forcing a smile. “Unfortunately, I’m not the only one involved in this decision.”
“At least have a look at the piece. Call me tomorrow morning. I’ll set up a meeting. And we’ll be able to see each other again…”
~ ~ ~
Marion was out of his sight by now. Her feet were barely touching the ground. Chris would never believe she managed to stifle her interest in the warrior while staying unflustered by Ozenberg’s charm. It made her almost as giddy as the idea of getting her hands on one of Ma
gni’s sculptures.
Marion slowed down and reviewed her final moments with Ozenberg. Something was bothering her. Didier Combes was investigating Chartier’s warrior, and another one had popped up at the exact same time. What if it was the same one? She dismissed the thought. Hadn’t she told Chris a few hours earlier that thousands of them had been made? The antiques dealer did appear questionable, offering her a not-so-orthodox deal. What had prompted him to do that? Her determination, her excitement, her gullibility? Marion stopped cold in the middle of the sidewalk. What if she were deluding herself? What if the dealer knew nothing about her or the clauses in the will?
Feeling distraught, Marion looked around. She had ended up on a dark and hemmed-in side street. But at the end of the street was the Louvre, enshrouded in a luminous mist.
Marion headed toward the museum. What if she just assumed that everyone was in the know? Wouldn’t that make life a whole lot easier?
9
Slouched on a bench in the middle of the Meso-American exhibit, Marion felt like one of those amateur art lovers who eagerly tried to devour the entire Louvre in a single morning. She was now suffering the effects of overdose—a dumbstruck expression on her face and shoeless feet planted in front of her.
She had elbowed her way through the crowds in the lobby under the museum’s pyramid—cursing, recalling the “good old days” when there were fewer visitors and I.M. Pei’s pyramid entrance had actually made it easier to get in. After taking a ticket from a machine and making it through the turnstyle, she had called Chris and told him to meet her there—for moral support. Too late, she realized should have taken the Porte des Lions entrance. Instead, she’d been forced to make her way through the Grande Galerie. When she reached the Spanish collection, she took the stairs down to the Department of Arts of Africa, Asia, Oceania, and the Americas.
The Collector Page 7
