“Of course he will,” Fournier said, “but what will it do? The museum will just make their usual excuses. Not enough money, no one to fix the cameras, blah blah blah.” He waved his hand.
“The police think it might be an inside job. Jacques told me,” Aurore said in a hushed tone. “That’s why they kept everyone for questioning so long.”
“Did they find out anything?” Marc asked.
“Nothing yet.”
Marc gathered up the mail and held out the letter opener for Aurore.
“I’ll be in my office if anyone needs me.”
“Oui, monsieur. Would you like an espresso?” Aurore inquired.
“Merci, Aurore, I would.” Marc glanced at Fournier. “What is your schedule for today, Guillaume?”
Fournier took an exaggerated look at his watch. Marc had ceased to care that Fournier liked to flash his expensive new toy—the watch was garishly gilded with gems; small diamonds around the face, and a different colored stone for each of the cardinal points—but it did suit him, especially with today’s striped waistcoat.
“I have an appointment with Rousseau the bookseller in half an hour at his shop on the rue de Tournon. He said he’s met an old widower who wants to sell some of his library for a bit of extra cash.”
“I’m sure Monsieur Rousseau will be looking to expand his own collection as well,” Marc replied. “Just don’t pay too much, Fournier.”
Fournier laughed. “Of course not, Monsieur Perron.” He gave them a jaunty wave. “À bientôt!”
Marc and Aurore watched him go.
“Do you think he gets dressed in the dark?” Aurore asked, trying to stifle her laughter.
Marc chuckled. “Sometimes I think he must be colour-blind, except that he has an eye for decorating, so he can’t be. As long as he brings in the clients, I can overlook that striped waistcoat.” He turned to head to his office. “I’ll be catching up on paperwork, Aurore, so no calls for the next while, s’il vous plaît.”
Marc’s office was tucked into the far corner of the firm, as far from the reception as possible. He preferred to work without interruption and Aurore respected his wishes, running interference for him with clients and Fournier, who tended to let his gregarious personality flood the office.
He opened the door. Unlike the rest of the firm’s offices, his was done in a more dramatic style, with dark floors and stark walls. Behind his desk, which had been his uncle’s, and before that, his grandfather’s, and so on back to the beginning of Perron et fils, hung a large tapestry. It had been one of his uncle’s favourites and its age and quality always impressed clients sitting across from him. The far wall was covered with glass-fronted shelves. Most held books on art, architecture, design, and history related to the business, but two recesses held some of his most recent finds—an Edvard Munch lithograph and an impressive copy of Degas’s work ‘L’Absinthe’, a painting he’d always admired for its composition of café tables creating a dynamic diagonal movement.
Though the office was done up to his personal taste, Marc didn’t spend much time here. He far preferred to be off traveling and attending auctions, searching out that one item a client would pay thousands for. Little held him here in Paris; he had no family left, and few close friends. Only work. This would be the last time he’d fall in with Royale’s company, he thought, before shaking his head. No, it wouldn’t be. Once in, he would never be out.
Marc sat in his chair and tossed the stack of mail down next to a pile of invoices waiting for his approval.
His uncle had shown him, his nephew and heir, how to do it—how to get the contacts, to arrange the theft, to sell on the goods. The old reprobate had considered it a side benefit to the legitimate business, a way for him to afford to indulge in his other vices. It wasn’t cheap to keep a string of mistresses happy. Eventually one of them had been the death of him; his uncle had a heart attack while in bed with Blanche, a lithe girl almost forty years his junior.
If Marc’s parents had been alive, they would have been horrified at the possible scandal, though his mother might have laughed. In private, for she never would have let on to her husband that she was more amused than furious. For Marc, it meant the firm was his alone, a consolation prize since the Sorbonne and a musician’s career were out of his reach. Hardly worth it.
He gritted his teeth and stared at the tapestry. He was too old to go back, to make it his life’s work. His uncle’s contacts were now his, and they demanded their due. Leaving the firm to Fournier might be the best thing he could do, but not just yet. He would see this through and then decide. He could travel the world, live out of a suitcase. Or he could search out a school that didn’t mind his age, perhaps attain the degree, even if he couldn’t go further. But why bother if he couldn’t follow that dream to its conclusion? He sighed and pulled the stack of invoices to the centre of the desk, where the blotter hid the worn varnish. He had work to do.
Marc’s mobile phone buzzed against the desk, interrupting his perusal of the final invoice to be sent out. He placed it on the pile and picked up the phone.
“Monsieur Perron?” It was Royale’s secretary.
“Oui.”
“Monsieur Royale will see you in one hour at Le Chat Rouge.”
“I’ll be there. Merci.” Marc hung up and slipped the phone into his jacket pocket. He stopped at Aurore’s desk on the way out.
“I have a meeting.” He checked his watch. “I doubt I’ll be back this afternoon, but the invoices are on my desk.”
“I’ll send them out today.” Aurore smiled. “Have a good afternoon, Monsieur Perron.”
“À bientôt, Aurore.” He gave her a wink and she blushed. Sometimes he considered breaking his rule of no personal relationships at the office, but he knew he’d tire of Aurore as he had tired of all the others. Still, it was too easy to picture Aurore bent over her desk with her skirt piled around her waist, her blonde hair strewn across her papers, watching him as he took her from behind.
He took a quick turn to the left before he exited the office, walking down the hallway to the door at the end. He let himself in to the bathroom facilities, locking the door securely behind him. At this moment he was glad he had insisted on a full renovation; the new powder room, as Aurore called it, had a comfortable yet sleek leather chair in one corner, a smaller version of the ones in the reception area.
He sank into the chair and opened his pants, imagining Aurore cheerfully bending over her desk and spreading her legs. His breath hitched and he closed his eyes. Aurore looked back at him from her exposed position, but her hair wasn’t blonde anymore, and her smile had become the look of anticipation that Sera always wore when he was about to enter her. In his vision, he thrust into her and she gave that gasp of pleasure. He closed his eyes more tightly, but Aurore had been replaced by Sera, crying out his name as he came inside her.
Marc spilled over his hand and onto the leather chair. Even when she wasn’t there, Sera wasn’t far away.
Jean stood on the step at Le Chat Rouge, his waistcoat unbuttoned and his tie draped around his neck.
“Bonjour, monsieur.” He held the door open for Marc and followed him into the club. The lights were on and an older woman with a dented metal bucket and a mop slowly washed the floor. Except for a small patch, the floor gleamed. Marc heard a muffled coughing. “Royale has company.”
“As I expected.” Marc drew out his cigarette case, tapping a cigarette against the silver lid idly before putting it to his lips. He lit it and strolled across to the rail, looking out into the club while he waited. At night, the place had a simple and almost elegant look, but under the harsh lights it was tawdry, worn and dirty, no matter how many times the floor was mopped. His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he let it ring as Royale came into view, rounding the side of the bar with a lumbering slowness. Compared to the man following him, Royale was unkempt and classless in his rumpled brown suit. Marc suppressed his disgust. Showing any aberrant thoughts to Royale was dangerous. As
they drew closer, he recognized the other man. Sera had singled him out as her admirer. He dressed well, in a smart grey suit and crisp shirt, and was tall, a few inches more than himself. He had no idea what Sera saw in this man, and had no desire to spend time with someone who’d been with her. The man didn’t deserve her.
“Perron, this is Jeremy Gordon.”
Marc held out a hand and he and Jeremy shook briefly. He noticed the purposeful firmness of Jeremy’s handshake and the quick once-over. So be it. This might very well turn into a pissing contest.
“He’s the artist you mentioned?” Marc asked.
The remark brought a smirking grin to Jeremy’s mouth before his expression faded back into a studied calm.
Royale grunted. “As I said. A pity those two did so poorly, Perron. Gordon should be able to assist you.” The jangling ring of his mobile phone interrupted his next words and he fumbled in his pocket, digging it out. “Oui? Merci, Françoise.” He snapped his phone shut. “You’ll have to excuse me—I have another engagement. Gordon, I’ll speak to you later.” He turned to Marc. “And if you can work something out for the wife...”
“Of course,” Marc agreed.
“Good.” Royale returned to his office. Jean followed, and Marc and Jeremy were left alone.
After a short silence, Jeremy remarked, “What are you needing done?”
“Royale didn’t tell you?”
“No.” Jeremy leaned against the rail, his fingers tapping the wood.
“I need you to find someone for me. Two someones.” Marc pulled a folded sheet of A4 from the inner pocket of his jacket and passed it to Jeremy.
Jeremy scanned the sheet. “And then?”
The last time he’d dealt with incompetence on this scale, Marc had the thief run out of Paris. It worked, but not for long. The man had ended up dead in one of the seedier parts of the city after a fight gone wrong. Or so the police had thought.
“If they leave Paris, that would be enough.”
“Really?” Jeremy laughed. “That’s a waste of my abilities. I shouldn’t even bother.”
“If they won’t go, then by all means, use other methods,” Marc continued. Murder would never be his first choice, no matter Jeremy’s opinion. He wouldn’t stoop to that level; his hands were dirty enough.
“That’s more like it.” Jeremy folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket. “I’ll take €2000 up front and another €2000 if I have to kill them.”
Marc’s profit on the sketches shrank with every misstep the Girards had made. He knew he’d be lucky to break even. “Fine.”
“You can send the money to my hotel if you don’t have it on you.” Jeremy’s smirk returned. He stood casually, but he took Marc’s measure.
“Why not here?”
“I don’t need Royale trying to take a cut. He already thinks everything belongs to him.” Jeremy’s expression changed, becoming more of a grimace. Marc watched with a newfound wariness. Jeremy was starting to embody the temperament of an artist. And what Marc didn’t need was a hit-man with the emotional instability of Toulouse-Lautrec.
“How do you know Royale?” Marc knew he should have asked Royale the same question about Jeremy before the meeting.
“Mutual friends,” Jeremy said vaguely. “I don’t need to ask the same of you—Royale’s already been singing your praises. You’re his favourite dealer.”
“How flattering.” He didn’t think of Royale in such terms. Rather, the man was an unfortunate side effect of his uncle’s legacy.
Jeremy looked as if he would say something more, but thought better of it. “I’ll be in touch,” he said instead.
“How long will it take you?”
“That depends on the targets. They won’t get a chance to rat you out, if that’s what you’re worried about. You know, given how protective you French are of your art, I’m surprised you do what you do.”
Marc didn’t bother answering the patronizing remark, though he would have liked to reply with a fist. A man like Jeremy Gordon wouldn’t understand family loyalty. He lit another cigarette.
“A bit glamorous though, isn’t it?” Jeremy continued, as if he hadn’t noticed Marc’s reticence. “Probably attracts the ladies—the big, bad art dealer.”
Marc shrugged. “If you say so.” He moved towards the door, pushing it open. “Let me know when it’s done.” He stepped out into the late afternoon sunshine. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He drew it out and listened to his voicemail. It was Sera. His heart stopped. He didn’t even bother to listen to the rest of the message, he rang her straight back.
“Marc—I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. So will you come?”
“Where?”
He heard her laugh.
“To dinner, of course. Didn’t you get my message?”
“I didn’t listen to it, I just noticed you had called.” He turned off the boulevard St. Germain and onto a quieter side street.
“Dinner at my place tomorrow. Since I have the evening off, I wanted to invite a few people.”
“Who else?” He hoped it would have been an intimate dinner.
“The usual crowd.”
“Only them?” He wondered if she’d invite her new flirtation. Did she have any idea about him? “If Colette is going to be there, I won’t be,” Marc told her. “That woman never ceases to be irritating.” Sera’s best friend had judged him lacking, and she never let him forget it.
“Jerome, Anna, Edouard, and Colette. But that’s too bad then. You’ll miss Sophie.”
“I will?” The likelihood of getting Sophie alone in such a gathering would be almost impossible, but he ought to be there. “I suppose I could tolerate Colette for the length of a meal.”
“Don’t get your hopes up about Sophie. I still don’t think you’ll manage.”
“You never know.”
“D’accord. Can you bring wine? If you can be there around seven, that will be perfect,” Sera said.
“Bien sûr, ma chère. I wouldn’t miss it.”
Chapter 7
At six-thirty sharp, Colette bustled in, all perfume and scarves, her gold bracelets tinkling. She embraced Sera heartily, her curly red hair brushing Sera’s cheek.
“Something in your bag is pricking me,” Sera said, moving away. Colette laughed.
“It’s the artichokes,” she replied, opening the tie to show Sera eight of the dark green vegetables. “They were on special at the market today and I couldn’t resist.”
“They’ll be a perfect appetizer.” Sera took the bag from Colette and went into her small kitchen. She upended the bag onto the counter. “I hope I have a pot big enough.” Already a large pot of savory stew sat simmering on the tiny stove.
Colette leaned on the door frame and took a deep breath. “It smells wonderful,” she said as Sera prepped the artichokes for the pot, cutting off stems and clipping the spiky tops from the leaves. “Is there wine?”
“On the table,” Sera replied. “And pour me one as well, s’il vous plaît.”
Colette returned with two tumblers of wine. “That bottle won’t last long.”
“Marc’s bringing more, don’t worry.” Sera didn’t need to look up to know that Colette wore a moue of distaste.
“For someone you broke up with years ago, he’s still around an awful lot.”
“We’re friends,” Sera said. More than friends, she amended silently, though she didn’t know how she would define their relationship.
“I can’t imagine being friends with my exes,” Colette replied.
“I can’t imagine it of you either. Once the thrill is gone…”
“I can’t stand a bore. But enough about me. You’re looking well,” Colette remarked. “So obviously he hasn’t been bothering you too much. When I saw you last, you looked exhausted.”
“I’ve been feeling better.” She didn’t have to worry about Royale’s demands for several weeks—that alone was enough to let her relax.
“Any particular reas
on?”
“I did meet someone,” Sera replied. Colette cackled.
“You’re so coy. Details, details.”
She couldn’t tell Colette everything. The less she knew, the better. They were friends, but this was different. Colette would be furious that she hadn’t come to her for help. “I met him at the club; he’s tall, rather handsome, well-dressed...”
“Sounds promising. Is he coming tonight?”
“I only just met him—it’s a little soon, don’t you think?”
“I suppose. I wanted to see Marc’s face when you were all lovey with a man that wasn’t him.” Colette’s amusement had no bounds.
“Maybe next time.” Sera pulled a large pot from the lower cupboard and set it in the sink, turning on the tap. What would Jeremy have done if she’d invited him? It would have been awkward at the very least. But she’d see him tomorrow after work, as he’d promised, and he’d give her the first payment. She set the pot of water on the stove to boil.
“Does Marc know?” Colette looked smug. “I’d love to be the one to tell him.”
“No, and you won’t mention it,” Sera said. She took her tumbler and they went into the other room. She’d readied her old Formica table for dinner, but couldn’t help adjusting the dishes again, just so.
“Well, I’m glad for you,” Colette said, ensconcing herself on the divan. “Now if only Lise were in town. Did you invite anyone new tonight, someone I can flirt with while I miss my lovely Lise?”
Sera settled on the divan across from Colette. “Edouard is coming with a new girl I introduced him to.” She related her first meeting with Sophie and Sophie’s reaction to Edouard, but she didn’t say a word about her wager with Marc. Colette wouldn’t approve. Not of Marc, not of the wager, and certainly not of playing with someone’s emotions.
“She sounds lovely. And he’d do well to be with someone as little like Paula as possible.”
“Unfortunately Marc’s taken a bit of a liking to her as well,” Sera replied, her tone low, as if she were telling Colette a secret. She might not tell Colette everything, but Colette’s enmity of Marc would come in handy. “We’ll need to keep some space between them so Edouard isn’t upstaged.”
The Paris Game Page 8
