~ ~ ~
Marion walked across the octagonal Place Vendôme, a masterpiece of eighteenth-century architecture, her kind of place, one would think. But she found it a little over the top, and she didn’t care for the less-than-aesthetically pleasing Vendôme Column right smack in the center.
She pushed open the doors of the Ritz’s arched entrance, nearly slamming into the bellboy. The wall clock read ten thirty-five. She was late. Indifferent to the brass, the wall hangings, the shiny mahogany, and the polished leather, she darted toward the nearest stairwell and took the steps two at a time. When she arrived on the second floor, she leaned against the bronze banister to catch her breath and focus her thoughts: here she was, just steps away from her sculpture.
In the hallway, she caught a glimpse of herself in an Italian baroque mirror. Coco Chanel had lived in this hotel for thirty years, and the legendary designer certainly wouldn’t have approved of Marion’s getup today. She was wearing black Nikes—all that her feet could tolerate after yesterday’s adventures—and she had coordinated the rest of her ensemble with the shoes: baggy gray pants and a sky-blue leotard. She looked like a New Yorker ready for a jog in Central Park. Not very professional. Oh well, there was nothing to be done about it now. And someone who was willing to pay millions for art could wear whatever she wanted. Marion smoothed a pesky cowlick and gave herself another application of lipstick. She threw her shoulders back, took a deep breath, and headed down the hall.
Two bodyguards built like sumo wrestlers were manning the entry to room 207. The one squeezed into a blazer with a gun-shaped bulge asked for her ID, while his associate rummaged through her calf-leather bag. What was this about? How ridiculous.
Marion stopped in her tracks when she entered the room. It was practically empty. No furniture, no paintings, no bed. The walls were white. The starkness underscored the beauty of the terra-cotta figure atop a plaster column. There was nothing to detract from it.
Helen D stepped away from one of the windows to greet her. Marion extended a hand without opening her mouth. Her heart was beating too fiercely. The object her father had sent her chasing after, the object that she herself longed to have in her possession—was right there, in the middle of the room. This was the warrior she had been looking for.
Surely the broker was used to seeing prospective buyers grapple with their emotions and ignore common courtesy. She looked unoffended. Without another word, she returned to her place by the window. Her phone was resting on the sill.
The woman was a professional. Of that Marion was certain. She could tell from her stance, even though her hands, with nails painted crimson, trembled just slightly. Why did she keep picking up her phone? Marion approached the sculpture. Was this really the discovery of a lifetime, one that all art collectors dreamed of?
The figure was weeping. Under each almond-shaped eye was a single stream of emeralds. He had a thin and elegant face with a prominent nose, and the right half of his body was covered with geometric designs. He looked noble. It was hard to imagine that this sorrowful Incan was a warrior. And yet, in his right hand he held a deadly looking club.
Marion swallowed hard. She had never experienced anything like this before. The figure seemed alive. Unconsciously she assumed the same pose: head tilted a bit and arms crossed. Her connection with the artifact was so strong, she almost felt merged with it.
“My client is asking three hundred fifty thousand euros.”
How long had she been lost in her reverie? Like Sleeping Beauty awakened from her slumber, Marion looked at Helen D as though seeing her for the first time.
Three hundred fifty thousand euros. Should she haggle? She wasn’t prepared for that. On what basis, what principles? She wanted this statue. She didn’t care about anything else.
“Let me make a call,” she said plainly.
Marion pulled her cell phone out of her bag and contacted her bank. She ended the call, dropped the phone back in her bag, and looked at the woman.
“Done.”
~ ~ ~
They exchanged no more than four sentences. Marion had never engaged in such a succinct transaction, devoid as it was of all customary niceties. A desire to own that sculpture had engulfed her in a bubble that would have been impossible to penetrate. She had barely even noticed Helen D. If Marion had to describe her right there on the spot, she wouldn’t have been able to.
As she walked slowly through the hotel lobby, Marion clutched the beggar’s bag holding her treasure. She didn’t know what to do with it. Should she stash it at her place?
She glanced at the wall clock above the concierge’s head. No time. It was ten past twelve. Didier Combes would be waiting. He was annoyingly punctual. She would have to keep the sculpture with her. Marion took a deep breath and headed toward the Trocodéro Gardens.
11
Spotting Combes alone at a table at the back of the Café de l’Homme, Marion relaxed a bit. From afar, he looked anemic and slightly stooped in this grand dining room, but his welcoming smile was a comfort.
“Marion, how are you? I was afraid you weren’t going to make it,” he said, wiping his mouth with his napkin and standing up to greet her.
As usual, his gray mustache needed a trim. It was hanging over his upper lip. His silver hair was an inch too long, and his jacket smelled of tobacco.
“I’m so late. I really am sorry.”
“I started without you.” He waved an arm toward another chair at the table. “Have a seat. We got our usual spot.”
Across from her, an expansive window provided a view of the Eiffel Tower, its elegant silhouette overpowered by the massive white-stone Palais de Chaillot.
“Wouldn’t you like to take off your coat?”
Marion shook her head. She felt chilled. Her hands, in fact, felt half-frozen. She rubbed them together.
“You look a little pale,” he said.
“It’s been a rough morning. I just have to snap out of it. I’ll be fine,” she told him, making sure her bag was still in her lap.
“Can I get you something to drink? A glass of wine?”
“Thanks, but you know me. No alcohol at lunch. Otherwise, I’d have to take a nap. But I am hungry. Starving, in fact. What did you order?”
“Rump steak with tagliatelle. It’s the daily special. And it’s excellent.”
“Okay, rump steak it is. Sounds perfect.”
Combes was into his fifties, and his color was sallow from smoking too many Gitanes cigarettes. He wore the same blue or gray-striped suits, regardless of the weather. His slip-on shoes had soles as weathered as a mountain slope. Marion waited for him to start the conversation. They were like two old friends feeling awkward after a prolonged separation.
He played with his fork for a while, and then, without losing his cool demeanor, he started talking. “I need a favor from you, Marion. It’s off the record, of course.”
“A favor?” she asked, forcing herself to act normal. “Usually I’m the one asking you. How many cases have you solved now? Can anyone come close to matching your record? I with I had your eye for detail and your photographic memory. You could do my job without spending a minute on the computer.”
In fact, Didier Combes was a walking photo library. Art dealers feared him. Some people called him the Man with the Golden Eye—as much because he came from a privileged background as because he could spot an item in a boutique that had been stolen from a residence twenty years earlier. Marion preferred Mr. Nobility because he had the ease of someone with nothing to prove.
“How can I possibly help you?”
“I’d like you to get a lead on this sculpture—maybe Chris mentioned it,” he said, handing her a drawing. “It was stolen.”
Marion held her breath. She didn’t even have to look at it. She knew. She looked anyway.
“Unfortunately, this is all I have. I want to know everything about this sculpture. Where is it from? It’s pre-Columbian, but from what region? Was it sold at auction? When? By wh
om? For how much? It might be recorded in your system. Since cases in this area are rare, we don’t automatically get the catalogs. Or some could have slipped by me. Whatever you can find would be helpful.”
Marion stared hard at the drawing of the warrior with emerald tears. If only he knew—it was sitting in her lap just inches away from him. Unable to speak, she pretended to take in the details. Finally she looked up at him.
“You should call Bruno. He knows more about this kind of artifact than I do,” she managed to say.
“Definitely not. He’s not the most discreet guy. No one else should know about this.”
“Why not?”
“Eat first,” he said, nodding toward the plate that the waiter had just brought over. “Your food will get cold.”
She looked at her meal with little interest. The promised tagliatelle weren’t the noodles she’d hoped for, but rather multi-colored peels of zucchini and carrots. Nouvelle cuisine in a carb-conscious world.
“I’m still listening,” she said after a few unenthused bites.
Combes gave her a kind smile, then toyed with the pack of cigarettes on the table.
“The owner, Joseph Chartier, was taken out.”
Marion nearly coughed up her meat. She put her fork down and looked at Combes.
“He was murdered. Four days ago, around five in the afternoon. At his place—a duplex in the Marais.”
Marion’s head was spinning and her heart was leaping out of her chest.
“That sculpture was stolen from him,” Combes continued as he pointed to the photo. “The district attorney put me on the case because of the theft. That warrior is our only means of finding the murderer. No information will be revealed about it. You won’t hear or see anything on the news until further notice. Not about the murder, not about the theft. They’ll just say that Chartier died—not how. Have you heard of him? He wrote An Apology for Idleness. Apparently everyone has a thing for him. And the order to find the murderer came from very high up.”
Distractedly chewing her meat, Marion tried to size up her situation. “I should just confess,” she thought. “I’m taking too big a risk, and it’s not worth it. One person has already been murdered. I could be next. I escaped by the skin of my teeth when they tried the first time. I might not be so lucky in the future. I should have come clean when Combes started talking.”
She continued to act as though she knew nothing.
“Do you have any clues? Or suspects?”
“Are you feeling all right, Marion?” Combes pushed his plate aside. “You’re as white as a ghost.”
“It’s gotten very hot in here, don’t you think? And it was freezing just a few minutes ago. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure? They told me at your office that you had been out sick. Was it serious?”
“No, no. It was nothing.” She thought her voice sounded more defensive than it should have.
The detective stared at her for a while.
There was no way she’d mention the incident at the pool. That would just bring on a slew of unwanted questions. She hadn’t told anyone at work the real reason she had taken time off, and she didn’t think Combes would know—unless he had found out that she was in the hospital. It was possible that he had made some progress in his investigation and was now aware that she was the daughter of the infamous Edmond Magni. But considering their friendship, he would have been more direct. Nonetheless, she wasn’t taking his cunning nature for granted.
“So have you made any progress?”
“No, nothing. I met with a few experts to find out if the sculpture had passed through their hands. I hit brick walls. It seems as if the little masterpiece has no history.”
“You didn’t find a sales receipt at Chartier’s place?” she asked, surprised to have regained her composure so quickly. She had never been a good liar.
“Nothing. No sales receipt. No certificate of authenticity. I’m sure everything related to this sculpture was stolen along with the figure itself. Chartier was diligent about his paperwork. There’s not a chair or a rug at his place that doesn’t have a detailed record and accompanying picture. But as far as this sculpture’s concerned, some X-rays and an analysis from an authentication lab were all that we could dig up. And no luck when we asked to see the file—they couldn’t find it. It’s been like that from the start. We’re not getting anywhere. Nothing but dead ends.”
“Did you look into an insurance policy?”
“No insurance. Insuring these things can cost too much, and you need impeccable documentation.”
Combes grabbed the salt shaker and rolled it between his hands. Marion focused on his nicotine-stained fingers.
“My wife wants me to quit smoking. It’s a sign of love, I suppose.”
Marion forced a smile. But it wasn’t Combes’s cigarette habit that she had on her mind. She was thinking about her trip to the Ritz. Thank God no one knew. She went back over her meeting with Ozenberg. The figure had become available for purchase as soon as it was stolen. She couldn’t picture the art dealer as a murderer. Why had he taken such a risk with her? Marion could easily report him to the police. What made him think she’d retreat into silence?
“Are you having coffee or dessert?”
“I’d love some coffee.”
Didier Combes gave her another smile. She wasn’t fooled, though. She knew in her bones that not a single detail got by him—a movement in the room, a facial expression, a squirm, a gesture. He mentally recorded everything.
“Nothing else was stolen?” she asked to break the silence.
“Nope, and that’s another mystery. He had enough at his place to feed every antique shop on the planet. Masterpieces galore. This made it very hard for the maid. It took her a whole day to figure out what was stolen. We’re lucky we have the drawing. Chartier let her dust the piece, but she hadn’t committed all the details to memory.” The detective let out a phlegmy cough. “I think we finally wound up with a good-enough composite. The sculpture won’t be confused with another piece.”
“The decaf?”
The waiter’s voice was so soft, Marion couldn’t tell whether he was asking them or the people at the next table.
“That’s for me.” Didier Combes pushed aside his half-full glass of red wine. He dropped three cubes of sugar into his coffee and stirred it slowly.
“Where was I?”
“Nothing else was stolen.”
“Ah, yes. Anyway, it’s a total disaster. We don’t have any fingerprints, either. Our guy covered his tracks.”
Combes stopped talking. Marion wondered if he was expecting her to jump in.
“It wasn’t a break-in?”
“Chartier answered his intercom. The man—or woman, I’m not making any assumptions—was expected. He had prepared a tea tray.”
Ozenberg, Chartier… Marion knew the two men could easily have crossed paths.
“Was there anything in his datebook? Any mention of friends or family?”
Combes shook his head. “I’m really counting on you to shed some light on this.”
Marion found his tone peremptory. Did he, in fact, know more than he was letting on? She took a good look at his face, but it wasn’t revealing any ulterior motives.
“I’ll do my best,” she said in a voice that she hoped sounded detached. “But you know how our computers work. Without a photo, don’t expect any miracles. And I’m really not the best person to handle this. Bruno would be a much bigger help. He’s got a lot of connections.”
“That’s exactly why I don’t want you saying anything to him. He’s too much of a gossip.”
“And you think we’ll be able to find it without any extra back-up?”
“We might not need it. This was no ordinary theft. This may have been a special request. A collector perhaps. Or an act of revenge. If either is the case, the ordinary channels may be of no use.”
A heavy silence sank in. The detective stared at her without blinking. Fi
nally he spoke. “I wonder what’s so important about that damned warrior that people would kill for it.”
~ ~ ~
Her head pressed against the window, Marion slumped into the seat of the taxi that was taking her to SearchArt. She was relieved to be alone. Combes had been concerned and had offered to drive her to the office, but she had refused. He didn’t insist.
She wanted to clear her mind, but a thousand questions were tormenting her. How could Ozenberg act so fast? Art amateur—yeah right! What a fake. She had to face facts. While some people were trying to scare her into giving up, others—she didn’t know who—seemed to have a lot to gain from helping her. Enough to commit murder? There was a likely pot of gold at the end of this rainbow if she sold the collection. It would be a bonanza for dealers. But Ozenberg a killer? She didn’t buy it. His scandalous reputation didn’t make him a murderer.
And what about her? She had crucial evidence. She could be charged with possession of stolen property, perhaps even implicated in a murder. And why? For wanting something so badly she’d do anything for it? She had become another person overnight, and it had happened so naturally. She had thought of herself as conscientious, always wanting to do the right thing. But now she felt no remorse. And after spending what seemed like a lifetime constructing a protective wall around herself, she had barged across a moral barrier without giving it a second thought. Yes, she was a nervous wreck, but who wouldn’t be in the same situation?
“Seriously, do you still want me to go along the Seine?”
The driver turned around and looked at Marion. She sat up and glanced at the traffic. It was bumper-to-bumper.
“Go whichever way you want, but definitely not along the Seine,” she instructed, suddenly fixated on the steering wheel. A copy of the Torah was fastened to it with the help of two thick rubber bands. There was something comical about the way the book tilted left or right, depending on where the taxi was heading.
“How can you read and drive at the same time?”
“Only at red lights,” the man replied.
The Collector Page 9
