Etruscan Chimera

by Lyn Hamilton

  "Really?" I said, squinting at the clock. It was only seven in the morning. "I'm not sure I can put off the Amsterdam people. They're expecting me this evening." Despite the fact that I'd emerged victorious, I wasn't giving him any satisfaction.

  There was a pause. "It's up to you, of course," Boucher said. "But Godard is a difficult man to get an appointment with, as you already know, and he'll see us later today or tomorrow morning if we can't get there today."

  "And there is?"

  "Vichy. He has a chateau in Vichy. Didn't I mention that?" Of course he hadn't. He hadn't given me even the smallest clue as to Godard's location. "I've managed to get us an invitation to his chateau."

  "Okay," I said. "I'll see what I can do. I can't get in touch with the agent in Amsterdam for an hour or two. His office won't be open yet. I'll call you back as soon as I make contact and let you know either way."

  "We'll need a car," Boucher said. "Mine's unexpectedly in for repairs."

  Just like your wallet, I was tempted to say, but didn't. This would have to be all sweetness and light until I'd actually met Godard. "Let's worry about that if I can reschedule Amsterdam," I said. "I can always rent one if necessary."

  I left Boucher to cool his heels for a couple of hours, the same way he'd been making me wait, while I found a car to rent and checked out of the hotel.

  "You should have joined forces with Leclerc," Boucher said as we headed down the highway. "He's got really good connections."

  "So, did he get this appointment with Godard, or did you?" I asked through clenched teeth. Boucher was definitely getting on my nerves, chattering away as the miles rolled past.

  "I did, of course," he replied, sounding wounded. I couldn't see, given I had my eyes glued on the road ahead but also on the rearview mirror, looking in vain for some sign that Antonio had picked up my trail, but I knew Boucher had his hand on his heart again. "But it's not a good idea to get on Leclerc's bad side. I wouldn't be surprised if he's already in Vichy. He knows Godard really well, you know, can get in to see him easily. I'll bet he's there right now negotiating the purchase of the horse."

  "Why would he do that? Does he have a buyer for it?"

  "He may do," Boucher said, after a pause.

  "What are you trying to tell me, Yves?" I snapped, but I knew the answer before the words were out of my mouth.

  "You," he said sadly. "I'm afraid he'll get it and resell it to you at a much higher price. Most unfortunate."

  There was no sign of Leclerc, nor of Antonio, as I turned off onto a country road. It had been a long, hot summer in Europe, but it was coming to an end. The trees were yellow now, with only brief patches of green, and the fields had all been harvested. The sun was still' warm, but there was an edge to it, and dark clouds on the horizon signaled the arrival of autumn rains. It was beautiful, though, and I wished I was there with someone other than Boucher, and for a purpose other than business.

  After several miles of driving through the countryside, we turned onto a long drive lined with tall poplars that, in the late afternoon sun, cast stunning shadows across the road and beyond. At the end of the drive, past two large stone sphinxes that stood guard, was a storybook castle, a gorgeous chateau, all turrets and crenellations. A silver Renault was pulling away as I parked and got out of the car. It stopped abruptly, the door opened, and I heard my name.

  "What are you doing here, Dottie?" I said as soon as I saw the driver.

  "Looking for treasure, of course," she said, air kissing me on both cheeks. I found myself enveloped in a cloud of expensive perfume.

  "You haven't met Kyle, have you?" she said, gesturing to a rather attractive young man at least ten, maybe fifteen years her junior. He smiled prettily and shook my hand, saying nothing, and all the while gazing adoringly at Dottie, who did look rather smashing in a short, tight leather skirt over toned and tanned— Dottie knew how to look after herself, I thought enviously—legs and a leopard print scoop-neck top that showed a fair amount of cleavage. "The boy toy," she mouthed at me. "Isn't he gorgeous?" she said, sotto voce. "Lovely pecs," she added.

  He was lovely, no doubt about it. He was built like a football player, or maybe a bouncer—very broad shoulders and slim waist—with heavily moussed blond hair that failed to control a rather adorable cowlick. Mind you, Rob had reasonably good pecs, too, and he had the advantage of being smart, well-read, a reasonably good conversationalist as guys go, and just about my age. I suddenly wished more than anything that he were there.

  "Gorgeous," I murmured.

  "I saw Clive a few months back," she said. "At the Winter Antiques Show in New York, if I remember correctly. I hear you're back in business together. How ..." She paused for a moment, searching for the right word.

  "Risky?" I said. "Or maybe foolhardy?"

  "No, darling," she said. "I was thinking something more like sophisticated, civilized, something like that. So unlike my awful divorce from Hughie. He's still being quite horrid about everything. But who cares? I'm having much more fun than he is, the old turnip." She linked her arm through Kyle's and smiled engagingly. Kyle gave me a lovely lopsided grin. My, he was cute.

  "And this is?" she said turning in Boucher's direction.

  "Oh, sorry," I said. For a pleasant second or two, I'd forgotten he was there. "Yves Boucher, a dealer from Paris. This is Dorothea Beach. She specializes in French antiques. She has a wonderful shop in New Orleans."

  "Delighted, I'm sure," she said.

  Boucher bowed and kissed her hand. "Enchante," he said. Dorothea had that effect on most men.

  "Boyfriend?" she mouthed at me as Boucher bent over her hand. I shook my head vehemently. "That's good," she whispered.

  "You're here to see Godard, obviously," she said aloud, inclining her head in the general direction of the chateau. "Regular parade through the place. Pierre Le-clerc was leaving just as I arrived. You know him, don't you? Paris dealer? I can't stand the man. He kept pressing himself against me in the most revolting way." The lovely Kyle looked vaguely peeved. I wondered if he could speak, and then decided it didn't matter. "Oh dear," she said. "I shouldn't have said that. I hope he isn't your best friend or anything." I indicated she would get no argument from me on the subject of Pierre Leclerc.

  "Strange bird, that one," Dottie said. "Godard, I mean. It doesn't take a genius to see he has to sell, I offer him a fair price, but then he says he'll think about it. I don't think he likes me. Oh, I hope you're not after the same thing I am," she said suddenly. "Are you?"

  "I doubt it," I said. "I'm not in the market for furniture right now."

  "That's a relief, sweetie," she said. "I'd hate to have to fight you for it, but fight you for it I would. I'd rather lose to you than Leclerc, of course, but I just desperately want it. Gorgeous dining set. Solid wood. Not even a whiff of veneer. And sixteen—sixteen!— chairs. Late eighteenth-, early nineteenth-century. Stunning. I was just drooling over it, trying not to let on, of course. Maybe I should have been more effusive. Maybe he's one of those types who only sells to people he thinks love the stuff as much as he does. Although if he sells it to me," she said, pausing for breath, "he'll be eating dinner off a TV table, poor thing." She shrugged. "I'll come back tomorrow as he's suggested and try to be more ingratiating. I hope I don't have to kill him to get it. What did you say you were looking for?"

  "Equestrian statue," I said. "Pegasus. Bronze."

  "I saw that," she said. "It's ... well, big. Probably very good, too, but I don't know anything about bronze statues. If you want it, I hope you get it. If I were you, as a strategy, I'd gush all over that horse. The coy approach doesn't seem to work with Godard. If you're staying in town, perhaps we can get together for a bite. Right now, Kyle and I have to find something to do to pass the time, don't we, sweetheart?" She put her arm around his waist and grinned at me. "Hope to see you later, Lara. Clive told me you have a new boyfriend, and I want to hear all about him."

  As she got into the car, she turned back one more time
. "Nobody answers the door, by the way. It's open. You just go right in. Hang a left at my dining set, and keep going straight on. He was in his study when I last saw him. You'll pass your horse on the way."

  I turned back to Godard's place as the tires on Dorothea's car spun in her haste to get to whatever activity she and Kyle had in mind. The chateau was spectacular, but close up, it had an air of neglect. The hedges needed pruning rather badly, and the gardens were overrun with vines and weeds. Over to one side, a sheep and a couple of lambs were tethered to stakes, and a few chickens were scratching in the dirt. If it was a fairy tale castle, then perhaps it was Sleeping Beauty's, waiting for her prince, as the forest grew up around her.

  Still, it was a chateau. While I had no idea what kind of fortune it took to keep a place like this up, no doubt it was a considerable sum. Perhaps that explained the troop of antique dealers through the place that day, one of whom, to my extreme annoyance, was Leclerc.

  Despite Dottie's advice, I did try knocking. As predicted, this elicited no response, so after a minute or two, I pushed open the door. It creaked, just like in the movies. I would not have been surprised to see some aged retainer shuffling his way to the door, but there was no one. The door had been cut into one of the round turrets, and so I found myself in a quite pleasant circular vestibule tiled in white and black marble, with a very old brass chandelier. From there one went directly into the dining room, with rounded walls and leaded glass windows up very high. Dottie's table and chairs were, as she said, gorgeous. I found myself wishing I hadn't told her I wasn't interested in the furniture. This table and chairs would make quite a statement in the main showroom at McClintoch & Swain, of that there was no doubt. At the far end of the table lay the remains of a meal, a half-drunk glass of red wine, some crusts of bread, and a plate. All the chairs, sixteen of them, were lined up against the walls rather than around the table, including the chair one would have expected at the set place. Presumably they'd been placed that way so that potential buyers could get a good look at the table, but it all seemed rather forlorn.

  The next room was the living room, I suppose, although it could have been anything. Dottie had said Godard would be eating off a TV table if she bought the dining suite, and she was right about that. While the markings on two very large but threadbare carpets on the floor hinted that the room had once been well furnished, now there was only a small and rather homely settee under the window and across the room from it, in front of a magnificent stone fireplace, one chair and a little side table and lamp not beside the chair, as one would expect, but across from it. Marks on the wall over the mantel indicated that something, a mirror perhaps or a large painting, had once hung there. On top of the side table and piled up beside it were several books. It was a peculiar arrangement, with the chair to one side of the fireplace and the lamp and the books and the table on the other. All of a sudden I knew what the explanation was, and knew too, with certainty, that Boucher had been stringing me along with tales of Godard's travels.

  Saying nothing to him but promising myself I would at the earliest opportunity, I stepped into the gloom of the next room. It was very dark and rather damp. It was undoubtedly the oldest part of the chateau, the fortified tower, several stories high, with slits for weapons rather than windows. Fourteenth century, I'd guess, although it took me a minute to take it all in. This was where Godard kept his treasures, or at least some of them. A number of glass shelving units were lined up in rows on one side, and in here rested a large number of terra-cotta pots.

  A large sculptural piece had been clamped to one of the stone walls, and over to one side, in all its glory was Bellerophon. The winged horse was rearing up, and the rider, leaning forward, was aiming his weapon at something below. Far above me, a couple of birds were flitting about, and I realized that the slits in the walls had not been glassed in, and that the tower was very much in its original state. I started toward the horse but heard a voice from the next room speaking in a low murmur. "We'd better go and talk to Godard first," Boucher said.

  A man much younger than I expected, about thirty or so, sat at a desk talking on the telephone. He had a thin face, its pallor accented by dark, long hair, pulled back in a ponytail. He wore a white, collarless shirt, open slightly at the neck, and a black, loose fitting jacket. In front of him on the desk were several large tomes, one of them open in front of him. Behind him was a computer turned on. I turned to Boucher. "Travels all over the world, does he?" I said, looking him right in the eyes.

  "I didn't know. I've never actually met him," Boucher said, looking away. "I've only talked to him on the telephone."

  The sound of our voices, however low, made Godard look up. "Not you again," he said rudely, looking right at Boucher. Boucher shifted nervously. "I thought I told you not to come back."

  "Never met?" I said under my breath. "Perhaps he's mistaken you for someone else."

  "Are you with him?" Godard said, looking at me with some hostility.

  "No," I replied. I would have plenty of time later to count the lies I'd told the week or so since I'd met Lake, but at the time, I barely noticed what I'd done. "I believe I was here first," I said to Boucher, as if I'd just met him. "So perhaps you wouldn't mind waiting your turn outside." Boucher, slimy liar that he was, beat a hasty retreat.

  "What do you want?" Godard said to me, his hand over the phone. He wasn't exactly welcoming, but the hostility in his tone dropped perceptibly as soon as Boucher left the room.

  "I understand you may have some antiquities that you are willing to sell," I said. "I wondered if that is the case, if I might have a look at them. I'm an antique dealer from Toronto," I added, placing my card on the desk in front of him.

  Godard stared at my card for a few seconds. "Give me a minute," he said at last, gesturing to a chair nearby. "I'll be finished this call in a minute. You were saying ... ?" he said into the phone. "No, there's nothing I want to sell right now."

  That didn't sound too promising. I didn't take the proffered chair which, like the rest of the room, was piled high with books. The study was lined with shelves, each crammed with books, some new, some old, some very old and probably valuable. The world's great literature was represented here, from Shakespeare to Victor Hugo, in several languages. Judging from the volumes nearest me, however, Godard's primary interest was in the occult. Dolores Chapman's Conversations with Nostradamus sat next to Nostradamus' s own writings, Centuries and Prognostications. There were several tomes on astrology and foretelling the future, another one that, if I remembered correctly, promised to explain all the mysteries of Revelations. Over by the window was a telescope, which tied in rather nicely with the astrology books. I didn't care what he read nor what he believed in, but with the dark gloom of the tower behind me and this pale and rather sickly young man and all these books around me, I was beginning to wish I was outside catching the last few rays of the late afternoon sun, even if it meant dealing with Boucher. Still, I was going to have to establish some rapport with him if I hoped to get the Bellerophon.

  The call went on for only a minute or two longer, but Godard was not yet ready to talk about the collection. "I need another minute here. Alone. Go and have a look, why don't you? Pull the cord by the door."

  The cord by the door turned out to be a long string that, when pulled, turned on a few lightbulbs that had been strung about the room. It felt a little bit like being in a dungeon, with the poor light and the cold stone of the walls. But while you might take issue with the ambiance, the collection was well worth a closer look. There was terra-cotta in abundance: kraters, bowls, jugs, amphorae. There was plenty of the black bucchero and painted pottery of different styles: red figures on black, white figures on red, and black figures on red, just about every permutation and combination in Greek- or Etruscan-style pottery one could ever hope to see. There were also bronze hand mirrors, incised on the back with scenes of gods and animals. All were top notch, as far as I could see, and a few definitely museum quality.

/>   The very large sculptural piece on the wall I decided was a temple frieze, in terra-cotta. On closer examination, it showed a man on a winged horse, spearing a creature with two heads and the tail of a snake.

  Lake had said he thought that perhaps Godard didn't know what he had in the Bellerophon, but seeing this collection, I was convinced that wasn't so. The clincher was a small case toward the back of the room, which held a single object only. It was a black figure hydria, a ceramic water jug, beautifully painted. It was smaller than average, maybe fifteen inches high, round on the bottom and tapering to a slim neck and the flaring out again, with three handles, one on each side for carrying it, and a third for pouring. Almost every inch of the neck and lip was covered in decoration, swirls, and so on, and on the rounded part was a scene showing a man on a winged horse battling a creature that was part lion, part goat, and part snake. Godard collected Bel-lerophon and the chimera.

  "Sorry to keep you waiting," Godard said, maneuvering his wheelchair between the glass cases carefully. "Have you seen anything here that interests you?" He looked different, but I couldn't put my finger on why.