Peter almost smiled. ‘Well, this is the best hotel.’
Before he could go on, Sam had picked up the house phone. ‘H’lo, this is Sam Houston. I’m lookin’ for one of your other guests, name of Grant. David Grant. Which room – oh. Yeah, okay. I’ll do that. Thanks.’ He scowled and turned back to us. ‘Not here. Never been here, ’cordin’ to the guy at the desk.’ I opened my mouth, and he put up a hand. ‘Afore you ask, the guy said ever’body ’ceptin me come in couples, or families. I’m the only single for the past month.’
‘Scratch that, then. Okay, Peter, what are the other possibilities? The most likely places, I mean.’
Peter shrugged. ‘If he has a car, almost anywhere. Caen isn’t all that far away, even Cherbourg or Rouen.’
‘And there would be plenty of deluxe hotels in any of those big cities, and an American tourist wouldn’t be noticeable. But wait a minute! I’d forgotten! The first time I saw him, that first day I visited the Mont, he had a wife and two kids with him. Real little brats,’ I added.
Peter shook his head. ‘He isn’t married. I know that for certain. Laurence once called him … er … well, he hinted that the fellow had a good deal of success with women, and wasn’t hampered with a wife.’
‘Peter, I saw him with a wife and children. Two boys, one in a stroller and one about five, and both having temper tantrums. And the two adults were arguing, too. Something about … oh, I remember now. No, you’re right, Peter. At least the children aren’t his, because he was complaining that she had brought them, and she said something about not wanting to leave them with their father.’
‘D’you reckon he met up with the woman somewhere when she didn’t have the kids with her, and they hooked up, and then he dumped her when he found out about the kids?’
‘Well, that could be. I’ve seen him two or three times since, but he was always alone.’
‘’Cause if we could find her and the kids, she might be mad enough to rat on him. And a couple little monsters that age should be easier to track down than one man. I’ll bet they made themselves unpopular enough to be remembered.’
‘You’re right. I’m going to call Alan. That’s a police job; they have the manpower for it.’
Alan, when I reached him, was at the police station in Avranches, talking with some pretty exalted officials from Caen. ‘No, they haven’t tracked him down yet,’ said Alan wearily. ‘Unfortunately there’s nothing really distinctive about his appearance.’
I told him about the kids. ‘We thought that might help. And the older boy has a shock of really red hair; I just remembered that. Pure carrots, long and unruly. Maybe that would be useful?’
‘Indeed, love! They might not still be around, but any hotelier would remember children like that. Thank you, my dear.’
‘When will I see you?’
‘No knowing. I’ll phone when we leave here.’
When I clicked off, Peter was looking – not excited, exactly – less apathetic than before. At least some spark of something stirred in his eyes. ‘You didn’t say that before,’ he said. ‘About the kid’s red hair.’
‘No, I just thought of it.’
‘Because I think maybe I’ve seen him.’
‘Where? When?’ Sam and I spoke in chorus.
Peter held his hands up. ‘Wait! I have to think. It was when I was cycling to the Abbey one day. Not today. Yesterday, maybe? Or the day before? I was trying to get past l’Auberge de la Baie – that hotel there on the corner – but they were taking the sheep to pasture and I had to wait. And a redheaded boy was trying to catch one of the sheep and causing general chaos. Someone finally caught him and he started screaming. But by then the sheep had passed and I could go on.’
‘Definitely the same boy,’ I said. ‘Appearance and behaviour. Who caught him? Man or woman?’
‘A man. Not Grant. He’s tall, and this chap was short and sturdy. Oh, and he was speaking French. I think. There was a good deal of noise, what with the sheep and the dogs and the shepherds and all.’
‘So musta been one of the farmers, or somebody from the hotel.’
‘Or a tourist,’ I said.
‘Don’t think so,’ said Sam. ‘“Don’t want to get involved”, y’know. No, pretty sure it was somebody local.’
‘So maybe they were staying at—what did you say the hotel’s called?’
‘L’Auberge de la Baie.’
‘And maybe they’re still there.’
‘Better tell the police,’ said Sam.
‘No! No, they have enough to do without chasing any wild geese, and this is something I can easily do myself. After all, I know what these people look like, and they don’t. Sam, you’ll come with me, of course. I guess I’m still your guard dog. Peter, are you in?’
‘Might as well.’
He was back to the hangdog expression and attitude. A little hunting expedition would be good for him. And for me, as well. I no longer wanted that nap.
‘Right. Let’s go.’
We headed out of the room, and nearly collided with the man who was about to knock on the door.
‘Sorry, folks. Looks like you’re leaving.’
‘A.T.! Yes, we’re on our way to … um …’ How much did I want to tell this man who just might be involved, somehow? It was unlikely, but still …
Sam had another idea. ‘We’re off to chase an idea, and we could use your car, if it’s okay with you. Save us having to call a cab.’
‘Sure, sure, anything! I was just coming to see if you’d learned anything lately.’
‘It’s been quite a morning, A.T. We’ll tell you all about it on the way.’ Sam winked at me and murmured, ‘And we’ll have him under our eye, just in case.’
So the four of us squeezed into A.T.’s small rental car. Peter told A.T. where we were going, and off we went.
I sat in back, leaving the front passenger seat for Peter, who had the longest legs. I was behind A.T. in a good position to give him a brief recap of the morning’s activities. ‘So we’re helping the police look for this guy Grant,’ I concluded. ‘They can’t be everywhere at once, and we think we may have found some people who were with him a couple of weeks ago, and might know where he is.’
‘Count me in,’ said A.T. ‘He’s not only a murderer and thief, but he’s spoiled this place for me forever. I know that’s petty, but it matters to me. I’d like to have a minute or two alone with him before the cops close in.’
On a warm, sleepy summer afternoon, very few people were around the hotel when we got there. That made sense. The locals were going about their business; the tourists were at the Mont or headed for it. Very few would yet be coming back. I gave myself a mental slap on the forehead. This was a poor time for a visit. Our little family would probably be elsewhere.
But we were in luck. A.T. parked the car and, as we walked toward the front door, we heard a well-remembered scream.
‘Ah! That’s Red. I’d know that pitch and volume anywhere.’
We went in, and there was the miniature monster, with his mother and brother, apparently checking out. The look on the face of the desk clerk told me how he felt about the situation.
There seemed to be some trouble about the credit card. The woman was raising her voice to be heard over her son, who screamed louder than ever. Peter stepped in.
‘You,’ he said to the child. His voice was quietly menacing. ‘Stop that right now.’ He gave the boy a basilisk stare, and the child was so surprised at being disciplined that he choked in mid-scream.
‘And what seems to be the difficulty?’ he asked the woman. She began to rant in English. The clerk chimed in in French. Peter quieted her as he had the child and dealt with the clerk in fluent French. The problem was solved in minutes.
‘Now, then,’ he said to the woman. ‘Are you taking the train from Pontorson?’
‘Yes, but this stupid man says I can’t get a taxi from here, and I don’t know how—’
‘We’ll take you. Or rather, this gentl
eman will. He has a car. When does your train leave?’
‘Not for an hour, but I want to leave now. I have lots of luggage.’
‘Right. Not to worry. We’d like a word, first. Shall we go out to the terrace?’ He said a few words to the clerk, who lifted one eyebrow, but apparently agreed.
‘I’ve ordered ice cream for the kids,’ he said to me as we moved outside. ‘I hope somebody can pay. I haven’t a sou.’
I grinned. ‘Cheap at half the price if it keeps them quiet.’
The desk clerk was efficient. He desired peace at least as much as we did. The ice cream appeared even before we had settled at one of the pleasant, shaded tables. Red (whatever his name was) dug in messily at once, and the baby began eating with his fingers. It was chocolate; they would both soon look like Uncle Remus’s Tar Baby. Never mind. Their manners were their mother’s problem, not ours.
‘Well, what do you want? I’ve got a train to catch!’
‘Yes. You won’t miss it, I promise.’ I tried an encouraging smile, which had no effect whatsoever. I soldiered on. ‘What we want is very simple. You visited the Mont, a couple of weeks ago, with a man named David Grant. We’re eager to talk to him. Do you know where he’s staying?’
Her face hardened, bringing the angry woman to life in my memory. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘That may not be his real name. I’m talking about the man who was with you when your little boy pushed the stroller over my foot, up in one of the shops.’
‘Oh. Him. No. We hardly knew each other. He’d offered to help with the boys. Fat lot of help he was! I never heard his name, and I haven’t seen him since.’
‘You spoke as though you knew each other quite well and had been together for some time.’
‘You need your ears cleaned out, lady. I didn’t know the guy.’
Red’s ice cream was all gone, much of it transferred to his person. He snatched at the baby’s. The baby set up a howl and threw the dish to the ground; Red screamed in fury. The mother stood and glared at all of us. ‘Okay, where’s that car of yours? It’s time to get going. Shut up, brats!’
I shrugged. She was lying, but there didn’t seem to be much point in pursuing the issue. She wasn’t going to say any more. I picked up one of her suitcases to carry it to the car, hoping to get a glimpse of the ID tag.
‘What the hell are you doing with that?’ A harsh voice sounded behind me. I turned around and gasped.
It was Grant, and he was trying to grab the suitcase out of my hand.
‘Do you mind!’ I was hopping mad, and the schoolteacher in me came out. ‘I am assisting this lady with her luggage. Keep your hands to yourself!’
‘Oh, it’s you! I might have known. You keep turning up where you’re not wanted, don’t you! That case happens to be mine!’
He tugged. I held on. He pulled harder. Sam and Peter joined the fray. A.T. was shouting something. The children screamed.
I’m not sure how it happened, but somehow my feet slid out from under me and I fell, landing on the suitcase. It was stuffed full to bursting, and with my added weight on top, it burst. The zipper gave, and clothing scattered over the terrace.
‘Damn it to hell, woman, if you’ve destroyed …’ Grant pushed me roughly away and rummaged frantically in the suitcase. He pulled aside the last of the contents, a large, flat package, and began to pull at the fabric of the case itself.
‘What’s this, then?’ said Peter, picking up the package.
‘You leave that alone! I – it – you could damage – but where—’ Grant was incoherent with rage, trying to take the package from Peter while still doing something to the suitcase.
The children still screamed, and now their mother screamed with them. I sat on the stone floor of the terrace and watched as the desk clerk and a couple of other people came out of the hotel. The clerk was positively dancing with anger. His cries were in French and were almost inaudible over the rest of the confusion, but I could guess he was deploring such behaviour at his hotel.
Peter moved away and began, slowly, carefully, to unwrap the package. Grant let him go, concentrating on the empty suitcase, for no reason I could imagine.
‘Oh, dear God!’ The exclamation from Peter was almost reverent.
The action at that point seemed to me to go into slow motion. Peter let the loosened paper slip from the package to reveal a large sheet of paper wrapped in clear plastic. He held it up so we could see the brilliant colours, the ruled lines, the black circles and squares marching up and down on the lines, the closely-written text beneath.
Grant gave a cry of anger and despair, made a move to snatch the paper from Peter’s grasp, and then seemed to change his mind. He stood, battered suitcase in hand, and ran toward the parking lot.
There were shouts, sounds of a struggle, and then, distinguishable to me even over the mass confusion, the most welcome sound I’ve ever heard: my husband’s voice.
THIRTY-ONE
Hours later, we sat around the table in the bar at l’Hermitage, glasses in front of us. After disposing of Grant, children, mistress, and the police, we’d eaten an excellent meal at what we’d been assured was the best restaurant in Avranches, and returned to our hotel for a post-mortem.
‘I don’t know what we would have done if you hadn’t thought to call Alan,’ I said to A.T. ‘That was brilliant.’
He spread his hands in disclaimer. ‘Looked to me like the situation was getting out of hand. Seemed to be the thing to do. We’re just lucky they were already on their way here.’
‘They nearly got away with it,’ said Alan, who was still a bit shaken. ‘Why didn’t you call me at once when you thought of talking to the woman?’
‘We thought you were busy tracking down other leads, and this one might not pan out anyway. And what trouble could we get into, four of us against one woman?’
‘We didn’t expect Grant to make an appearance, sir,’ said Peter. ‘We’d never have let Dorothy—’
‘Son,’ said Alan heavily, ‘when my wife makes up her mind to something, she’s approximately as stoppable as a force-ten gale. She sweeps all before her.’
‘Anyway, we got him,’ I said with satisfaction.
‘And we got this,’ said Peter. The piece of music was resting in honour on the next table. The police had let him borrow it for the evening. ‘Of course it’s a fake, but I still don’t want drinks spilled on it. It’s so beautifully done!’
After his moment of sheer elation, Peter had realized that the music couldn’t be a medieval manuscript. Something about the Latin text – I couldn’t follow it. ‘He got everything else right, though. The parchment is old, the style is right, the inks are right, even the music would sound authentic. He probably copied the text from something of about the right period and didn’t realize that there were various dialects. Abelard wouldn’t have used this one. Grant was an artist, not a scholar.’ He spoke as though David Grant were dead.
‘There isn’t a death penalty in France, is there?’ I asked.
‘No,’ Alan answered. ‘Nor in New York, Grant’s residence, nor of course in England, Laurence’s residence. There will no doubt be endless bickering about where the case will be tried, but in any event, Grant will not be executed.’
I tried not to think that was a pity.
‘And what about the painting?’ Sam changed the subject. ‘What d’you s’pose he was plannin’ to do with that?’
For the police had found a false lining in the suitcase, and behind it, a small but exquisite Renoir.
‘Oh, didn’t I tell you?’ Alan polished off the last of the wine in his glass. An attentive waiter appeared with a refill. ‘He wouldn’t say a thing about where he got it or what his plans were, but when the police found a description of it on a list of looted Nazi art, his girlfriend was only too eager to talk. Apparently he had bragged about finding it deep in the cellars of the Abbey, when he was looking for lost Abelard manuscripts. As an art dealer, of course he
knew what it was, and knew that it should be turned over to the commission entrusted with restoring such things to their rightful owners, when possible. But you can guess that Grant was more interested in the fortune he could make from it. He told Mary Anne—’
‘Oh, is that her name?’
‘No idea. She wouldn’t say, but until the police find her passport, we have to call her something. Grant told her he had a private buyer waiting in the States, ready to pay him a king’s ransom for the thing. By that time she wasn’t so keen on him anymore, so she told him he was a fool to think he could smuggle a thing like that out of the country.’
‘So that’s when he came up with the idea of using the faked manuscript to hide the real thing?’ I suggested.
‘More or less.’ That was Peter. ‘He told me a few things while he was waiting for the police to interrogate him. He’d done the fake ages ago, in New York, and brought it into the country to use in Laurence’s scheme, if necessary. He didn’t even have to smuggle it. As a fake it’s of little interest to the customs people. But when he found the Renoir, he realized he could hide it in the suitcase, keep it stiff and safe with the wrapped manuscript, and let his luggage be searched by anyone who wanted to. They’d see the manuscript, he’d tell them he painted it and was selling it – as a reproduction, of course – and show them the purchase order from a Paris gallery. That was real, too, incidentally. Some art dealer in Paris is going to be quite upset when the piece doesn’t turn up.’
‘Who knows, they might get it yet,’ said Alan. ‘Once the police have finished with it as a piece of evidence, they may put it up for sale. Hard to know what they’d do with it at the station.’
‘I wish I had the money to buy it. Ah, well.’ Peter gave a long sigh.
‘What about that genuine manuscript he “found”?’ asked A.T. ‘The one he gave to the Scriptorial. That doesn’t seem to fit anything.’
‘He told me about that, too,’ said Peter. ‘He was gloating, almost as if I should be awed by his cleverness. It was his. He’d found it years ago in somebody’s attic and paid them for it. Probably not what it was worth, but he didn’t steal it. He brought it with him to … I can’t remember the expression. Something about salt.’
The Missing Masterpiece Page 24
