The Collector

by Anne-Laure Thiblemont

  “Turn around. I changed my mind. Take me to 64 Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré.”

  12

  Didier Combes followed Marion’s taxi with his eyes for several minutes, until he heard someone calling his name. Combes grumbled and turned toward the voice. René Joseph, homicide’s star player was yelling from the window of his Peugeot.

  “You’re such a curmudgeon, Combes. At least say hello.”

  “If you’re planning to look over my shoulder every minute of this investigation, it won’t be long before I have a big bang-sized headache,” Combes said. He was a lone wolf. He worked his cases by himself and as he saw fit. But his unit tracked stolen artworks, not murderers, so the brass had paired him with Joseph on this one.

  “Will she be able to help?” Joseph asked.

  “Hard to say. She looked worried—and tired. Apparently she was sick. I thought she was going to faint right at our table. I didn’t tell her about the mutilations. They made me gag with all my years on the force.”

  Combes couldn’t get the images of the man’s body out of his head: the thumb of the right hand crudely chopped off, with only a purplish and puffy stump remaining. Both eyes removed with surgical precision. And under each bloody socket, a row of little circles cut with a scalpel.

  This bat-shit murderer had also practiced his artistry on Chartier’s torso. Once again using a scalpel, he had covered the entire right side with geometric figures. A compass couldn’t have achieved better results. The incisions were perfect. The culprit was exacting, diligent, and smart. He had dabbed vinegar on the wounds to staunch the bleeding. And when he was done with his work, he had thoroughly scrubbed the bathroom tiles. They were pristine and shiny against the maimed body.

  “Yeah, he left a real piece of art,” Joseph said, laughing at his own joke.

  Combes looked at the man. He wasn’t the kind of guy who’d be comfortable in an art gallery, but he had a sixth sense when it came to police work.

  “I should have told her. I’m sure they had something to do with the sculpture. I was thinking about what you said when we examined the body: ‘Our eyes and hands—our biological identity.’”

  In fact, he had fixated on this thought. “In the past two days, I’ve read a lot on the symbolism of body markings and engravings. It seems that in many civilizations, camouflage, tattoos, scarring, and mutilation are signs of your membership in a group. You could prove your bravery by undergoing symbolic scarring. In the Americas and in Africa, the human body was considered a kind of artistic medium. Disfiguring the head or ears and painting or scarring your body enhanced your beauty. You’d become living art.”

  “Only this time, it’s dead art.” Joseph said, and then thought for a minute. “Funny isn’t it. It seems that everyone has tatoos and piercing theses days. Body art. What goes around, comes around.”

  “Yeah, well, Chartier didn’t volunteer for his body engravings. In fact, he was dead when the artist began wielding his scalpel. So what was the killer’s intent? Did he want to make Chartier his life-size sculpture, create an ideal body, distinguish him from a community of like-minded people, or, rather, initiate him into it?”

  “That’s where the girl could help.”

  “I’ll call her later. Anyway, I’m heading back to the office.”

  “Want a ride?”

  “No, I’ll walk,” he said, reaching into his pocket and taking out a navy blue wool cap. With it came a magnifying glass.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Joseph said. “I was told you were old school, but that’s last century. What else have you got in your pockets?”

  “You really want to know?”

  Combes pulled out the items one by one: a knife, a toothbrush, a disposable razor, a needle, thread, two packs of cigarettes, a lighter, and four books of matches. “When I started in this job, we used to actually travel—I would hop on a train or plane to Brussels, Milan, or Geneva at a moment’s notice. Nowadays, you guys just search the Internet, but I’m always ready to go. You never know.”

  Grinning, René Joseph whipped out his smart phone and took a picture of Combes stuffing his paraphernalia back in his pockets.

  “There you go, sending more data out into the technological universe. Whatever happened to paper and pens? I’m wondering if you’ll even know how to turn the pages of a book ten years from now. You’re just like the kids in my department, always running to their databases. They don’t trust their memories anymore. You’re becoming mechanized men.”

  “That said, I hear you’re the best they’ve got, as old-fashioned as you are.”

  “My time may have come and gone. The days of visiting auction houses and schmoozing with art dealers are numbered. Now you can pull-up high-definition images of artworks in minutes without even leaving the office. It’s not the way I work. I have to admit that I’ve been giving more thought to leaving the force. But don’t get your hopes up. We’ve got a particularly gruesome murder to solve.”

  “And if you just stand there, you’re going to catch a cold, old man. So get in or get going.”

  “Catch you later.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Combes walked along the river at a steady clip, his collar up and his head down to shield himself from the bitter wind. He was thinking about Marion. She definitely wasn’t the same Marion he usually met for lunch. She was deathly pale, practically translucent. But she seemed more feminine too, sexier… It was actually crazy how much she reminded him of Josephia, a Georgian woman he had fallen in love with while on a mission to retrieve a stolen icon in Tbilisi. Her thin face, gray and stormy eyes, and proud bearing… He had never made the connection before.

  But seriously, he had never seen Marion so distracted. She was usually in a good mood, poised and happy to see him. Kind of like a kid, actually. Of course, he was no fool. She flattered his ego by giving him the impression that she was his student. It was her way of getting him to confide.

  Maybe she really was sick.

  Why hadn’t he told her about the lacerations on Chartier’s body? Ritual slayings were so out of his league.

  “I should have,” he muttered as he moved along the river.

  The detective stopped in front of the metro station by the Alma Bridge. He weighed taking the subway back to the office. He’d get there faster. But what was the rush? The computers weren’t going to help him. No, he needed to do this his way. He needed to talk to someone on the inside. And he knew just the man to see: his pal Pierre, a stylish gentleman who was always in the know.

  Pierre Roux had known early on that he wanted his life to be all about works of art, particularly the pursuit of them. He had gotten his start at the age of sixteen at the Drouot auction house. He was one of Drouot’s commissionaires, an elite group composed primarily of men from Savoie and Haute-Savoie. Easily identifiable because of the black suits they wore, the commissionaires transported items to the Drouot site, set them up, presented them for sale, and then took them to the buyers’ homes. This is how Pierre had developed relationships with all the merchants, auctioneers, and collectors. Now he was an antique dealer. If there was something to be known, he would know it.

  Combes looked at his watch. Perfect. Roux would be finishing off his lunch.

  The first words out of his friend’s mouth were as good as a mirror: “Didier! What a surprise, but all I need is another wet blanket. Don’t tell me you’re coming here with a pile of your own problems, or I’ll have to send you back to that bleak police station of yours.”

  “Do I look that bad?” Combes said, smiling.

  “That’s better,” Roux said, opening his arms to his friend. “You should smile more. Makes you look younger. He playfully pinched the detective’s cheeks. “Am I happy to see you. Let me get a look at you. It’s been forever. Come on, we’ll start cocktail hour a little early.” He closed the door. “I could use a break from my problems right now.”

  Didier Combes had forgotten just how portly the second-hand art dealer was. He marveled
at the man’s ability to make his way through his space, as big as he was and as stuffed as it was. Combes glanced around the room and saw oriental screens, a Louis XIII stool, a baroque statue of Jesus, ship replicas, an Arman sculpture, a Vladimir Velickovic painting, ciboriums, china, crystal, and piles of old books. Roux had eclectic tastes. Roux liked all beautiful works, regardless of when they were made. His finances rarely allowed him to keep the objects long before selling them. But in a way, they all stayed with him, because he remembered every detail, every curve, every anecdote.

  “Look at these,” the dealer said, pointing to a pair of Louis XV chairs in the corner. Someone had brutally slashed the upholstery. “I’ve just brought them home. They’re battered, but they’re not ready for the cemetery yet. I’ll disassemble them. Who knows? A little old man may have stashed a wad of bills inside one. Not everyone trusts the banks.”

  At the back of the room, lit by a beautiful Murano glass chandelier, a small Louis XVI roll-top bureau served as a worktable. On it lay a magnifying glass, gold dust, sanding paper, pieces of glass, semiprecious stones, and clock movements. Roux brushed aside his tools to make room for two wine glasses and a bottle of white, one of his many indulgences. The fifties-era fridge stuck out like a sore thumb in this room full of classy collectibles, but the dealer needed a place to keep his wine chilled.

  “Let’s get down to business,” Roux joked. “We’re gonna destroy this guy. It’s a wonderful wine—a 2005 Saint-Péray that I came across in Tain l’Hermitage.”

  “Sounds good. So tell me about all these problems of yours,” Combes said after Roux had settled into his bergère armchair.

  “My father passed away last month. It’s complicated, not easy for me to talk about,” The antiques dealer plunged his nose into his glass, took a noisy gulp, and continued. “When you lose a parent, you start thinking about your own mortality. I’m sixty years old, and it hit me that I have more years behind me than in front. I confess I’ve been dwelling on this.” Roux gave his friend a faint smile. “You could say I’m depressed. Yep, me. Depressed. And Nicole’s no help. She keeps nagging me to get out of my funk and change my lifestyle. You know: lose weight, quit drinking. Like it’s all that easy. Thirty-five years of living together and not an ounce of sympathy! Can you believe it?”

  Didier Combes sipped his wine without saying anything for a while.

  “What about the shop? You’re not planning to give it up, are you?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t seem to have the passion for it these days. For the first time in my life, I don’t know what I want to do. I should be scared, but oddly, I’m not. I just don’t care. The EEG is flat.”

  What a strange day this had become. First Marion, now Pierre Roux. He had always been so driven, so confident, with a set of sophisticated interpersonal skills developed in his twenty years as a commissionaire.

  “Anyway, enough about me,” Roux said. “What’s up with you, old pal? You’re not visiting on a whim, are you?”

  “I haven’t seen you in quite awhile, and I always value our visits, my friend,” Combes said. “But I’m also here for a reason. I’m investigating the theft of a pre-Columbian sculpture.”

  “Stolen from Chartier?”

  Combes raised an eyebrow. He knew Pierre Roux was well connected and an expert in gathering information, but this case was highly confidential. And Roux was clearly pleased with himself. Combes did his best to look impassive, handing the dealer his empty glass.

  “Could I have a refill? I’m a fan.”

  “I’m glad you like it. It may be a bit too chilled. It has—”

  Combes cut him off. “Just let me drink the wine, won’t you? So, did you know Chartier?”

  “Just by name. I would have loved bargaining with him. The guy was a real art aficionado. But he only rubbed elbows with the most elite decorators and the dealers who owned the fanciest mansions. He was the kind of guy who bragged about where an object came from and who it belonged to. He hardly ever relied on his own judgment. And yet he didn’t miss a thing. Did you check out the stash at his place? I heard it was full of masterpieces. Is that true?”

  “Yes, there are some very lovely pieces in his home,” Combes replied. “What about the stolen sculpture?”

  Pierre Roux adjusted his red-and-black silk tie, which always accessorized his black suit. Even though he had long ago given up his job as a commissionaire, he had never changed the way he dressed. Combes wondered if Roux wanted to remind people of his humble beginnings.

  “I don’t know what it looks like. Just that it loosens lips.” Roux seemed less depressed now. In fact, he had a mischievous look on his face, as though he were thrilled to be playing the role of informant.

  “It’s like royal families. Everyone thinks they know what’s going on, but really nobody knows a thing. Everyone has a theory about that sculpture,” Roux continued. “Some people swear it’s a fake. Others claim it was bought from Magni. You know who I’m talking about—the pope of pre-Columbian art who died not too long ago. There’ve actually been a lot of deaths recently. All big names in the art world too.”

  Combes tapped a cigarette on the worktable to pack the tobacco. There was no hiding his irritation. He was mad at himself for failing to find even the smallest lead. Had he really lost his touch? He was annoyed with Roux, too, for being so much in the know. He understood that the dealer was a fount of information, but he had underestimated the extent of the man’s relationships. One thing was certain: they had to do a better job of keeping the investigation under wraps. Leaks were unacceptable.

  “A fake. To kill for a fake… That seems so ridiculous to me,” Roux continued. “But anyhow, what I’ve told you is strictly gossip, and the part about Magni doesn’t make sense either. He never sold anything to anyone.”

  Despite his weight, Pierre Roux stood up with tiger-like agility, as if he had just spotted someone stealing one of his artworks. “I’m just talking bullshit,” he said, heading toward an area of the shop where books lined the wall.

  Combes sipped his wine and allowed the dealer to continue talking. Roux pulled a book off a shelf and started walking back to him.

  “Here we go. Take a look at this catalog. It’s a collector’s item.” Roux held it out to Combes but didn’t let go. “There are less than two hundred of these—a very limited edition with a crocodile-skin cover. Rare and expensive. A little museum in itself. It’s from an extraordinary pre-Columbian art auction. For security reasons—allegedly—you were let in only if you had an official invitation. I think there was even a president in attendance—from either Guatemala or Venezuela. I can’t remember exactly.”

  The dealer pulled his chair closer to Combes and sat down.

  “This auction caused one hell of a ruckus.”

  “Not around our office, apparently.” Combes blurted this out more vehemently than he intended.

  “You’ll have to clue in your higher-ups at the cop shop. They need to let you guys out more.”

  Pierre Roux flipped through the catalog, finally pointing to a picture.

  “Magni,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Heavy stuff, right?”

  His eyes glued to the page in question, Didier Combes was speechless. He had poured over dozens of auction catalogs, and now, by pure chance, he had stumbled upon the warrior. This picture didn’t exactly match the composite, whose features weren’t as sharp, but this was definitely the sculpture.

  There was something else the composite hadn’t shown, and now it was as clear as day. The lesions on Chartier’s body were identical to the markings on the warrior. The small circles carved under Chartier’s eye sockets matched up with the emerald teardrops beneath he warrior’s. The same geometric designs were on Chartier’s body. And the mutilated thumb. Chartier had been stripped, shaved, and done up, all for the purpose of serving as a human replica.

  “So is that it?” Pierre Roux asked.

  Combes ignored the question. He leafed through the pages, try
ing his best to look calm. “Let me ask you something. Is Duverger the best appraiser when it comes to this era?”

  Two similar sculptures were displayed majestically against a dark and shiny backdrop. They also had emeralds, and the same owner was listed. Combes finally had something to go on. Something big.

  Roux gave him a knowing look before responding.

  “Yes, he’s the go-to guy. But good luck trying to squeeze any information out of him. The man is very tight-lipped. The only way he’ll talk is if it serves his own interests.”

  Combes had already approached Duverger and hadn’t met with any success. According to his informant, the appraiser had only a rough drawing of the warrior and had never seen Chartier’s collection. Combes felt lighter now. He’d jump back into the fray tomorrow. With photos.

  “Who are the other heavyweights in this market?”

  “Ruiz, Dallon, Jaine… Ozenberg too… Yeah, Ozenberg, even though he’s not as recognized as the others. I think that’s about it for the antiques dealers. But I’m sure I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”

  Indeed, they were all on the detective’s list, but he hadn’t gotten anywhere with any of them either.

  “Can I borrow this?” he asked, closing the catalog.

  Roux hesitated.

  “Wouldn’t you rather make copies? My scanner’s right over there. It makes very good prints.”

  “Could I buy it from you then?”

  “This catalog’s not for sale.”

  “Can’t you help me out here?” Didier Combes gave Roux an earnest look. He knew his friend wasn’t going to part easily with the catalog. Like everything else crammed inside his shop, it was a treasure. Pierre Roux would have to be charmed and convinced that Combes simply had to have the catalog. That was his way. Roux needed to start a back-and-forth, create a bond, build excitement, and finally strike a deal. It didn’t matter if it was with an acquaintance or an old friend.

  “I’m almost certain that the sculpture in this catalog is a match with what I’m looking for. But I need to make sure, and to do that, I need the catalog.”