Murder Below Montparnasse

by Cara Black

  “What kind of rumors?”

  “Le Parisien reporters discovered—or so they said—an old madam who counted Lenin as a client at her bordello across from the Archives Nationales. Seems he would stop by after a long day of research. Contradicts the Lenin myth, the ascetic father of the people. Why shouldn’t Lenin go for the fruit of the flesh elsewhere, since his wife’s mother had their bedroom and lived with them for years?” He shrugged. “But morality aside, another item came up. More serious.”

  Aimée realized she’d been holding her breath. She pulled her coat tighter in the damp chill.

  “Twelve years ago, a descendent of Cortot, Modigliani’s first dealer—that relationship was short-lived—brought papers for me to appraise and make sense of. He’d found them in the family château’s attic. A job I do with annoying frequency.” Huppert gave a sigh. His breath fogged in the chilly evening air. “Old collectors die and the family hopes there’s a treasure stashed.” He paused. “I’m straying. An entry marked ‘unpaid’ in Cortot’s ledger lists a portrait commissioned by Lenin.”

  “Would that be in 1910?” Aimée asked.

  Huppert thought. Rocked on his heels. Studied her for a moment. “That or 1911. Cortot couldn’t collect the commission. Not surprising since Modi hated painting commissions. He refused, to all his dealers’ despair. But maybe Lenin paid him with a bottle. Who knows? Cortot heard the buzz from the café crowd and sniffed money.”

  A couple entered the courtyard. Huppert waited for them to pass. Their laughter echoed off the stone and frightened the cat from the bushes. With the dark-blue smear of sky above the damp foliage, this once-artisanal backwater felt timeless.

  When the couple was gone, Aimée asked, “Was there an exhibition of Lenin’s portrait?”

  “None documented. The trail dried up,” he said. “Until Pauline. She posed for Modi, fourteen years old at the time, at his second dealer’s. Alas, she’s dead. But fifteen years ago she told me that Lenin and Modi had a known rivalry. But that could be said of all his friends at one time or another—call Modi charming and infuriating at the best of times. Cadged his meals and drinks from drawings, slept at friends’.”

  “All for art, you mean?” Aimée asked.

  “Forget the tragic romantic,” Huppert said. “Modi produced an incredible body of work. We know so much got lost—drugging and drinking to anesthetize the pain from rampant TB. He was so anxious to hide it, he’d drink even more.”

  Where did this lead? “You mean Pauline knew of the painting?”

  Huppert expelled air from his lips. Shrugged. “Apparently Modi complained to her about Lenin. Called him a fanatic who covered up his own doubts to convince himself.”

  “Doubts over what?”

  “Fanatics must prove something to themselves and others,” Huppert said. “He challenged Lenin at la Rotonde one night, burned Lenin’s newspaper—that we know from documents.”

  “Some kind of duel?”

  “Pauline heard him say, ‘I will show the real you. I only paint truth.’ And he did, she said. Lenin hated the portrait.”

  Again, Huppert studied the Polaroid. “He’s holding what could be a booklet. At the time, an infamous manifesto against Marx’s ideology circulated among the Bolsheviks. It refuted everything Lenin stood for. Who’s to say he’s not holding it here? Or agreed with parts of it, suffered doubts, ideological turmoil? That would have created a scandal. Maybe he recovered his zeal or had to later take power. Lead the Revolution. But here Modi slammed it in his face.”

  “What difference does it make today?” Aimée said. “The USSR doesn’t even exist anymore.”

  Huppert checked his watch. As if he needed to leave but couldn’t tear himself away from this Polaroid.

  “Communists in Russia venerate Lenin, keep his reputation unsullied—the government pays lip service to Marxism. No poster boys left after Stalin,” he said. “What’s embalmed in the Red Square mausoleum isn’t just waxed fruit to the older generation, or to the government who want to keep the ideology alive. The French Communists and trade unions take pride in the fact that Lenin lived and formulated his theories here. The cradle of the Revolution.”

  This put a new spin on things. Still, she wasn’t sure how it could matter now.

  “You’re saying Modigliani’s painting of Lenin could have had political implications?” Dombasle asked, stepping closer. “Rippling through the Kremlin, debunking the Lenin myth, tossing the textbooks or something?”

  Huppert shrugged. “In 1910, Lenin was one among many exiles, no one special, banished to the edges of Paris, living on scraps among a small Russian community. Back then, Trotsky had more followers.”

  “So you’re saying …?”

  “Lenin hated Trotsky. Thought he’d clawed his way to prominence, used whatever means he had to recruit followers.”

  Aimée still didn’t buy it. “Who cares now?”

  “What if this painting’s implications threaten an ideology?” Huppert insisted. “Think who stands to lose if Lenin’s unmasked. That’s sacrilege. Of course, that’s the infamous diatribe against Marx. But to know, I need to see the painting.”

  “You mean Modigliani sabotaged Lenin?”

  “Modigliani painted the truth he saw in people. He never compromised. Wealthy patrons came out ugly and fat. To him, Lenin was a pedantic Russian nursing one drink all night. Just one man among many exiles.”

  Dombasle’s phone trilled. He turned away to answer it. Now or never. Aimée forced herself to speak.

  “Do you know the fixer?”

  Huppert’s brows rose. “She’s involved?”

  Her mouth went dry. “It’s not clear,” she managed. “But do you know her?”

  “Very connected and out of my league,” he said. “That’s all I know. Ask Dombasle.”

  Maiwen, his daughter, appeared at his side. “Did you watch me, Papa?”

  “Bien sûr, ma puce,” he said, now the adoring father.

  Maiwen skipped ahead and Huppert hesitated. “The art world’s a deep sea: currents, whirlpools, sucking tides. Amateurs navigate at their peril.”

  Like she didn’t know that?

  “In over my head, I know. Not my choice,” Aimée said, “but you’re salivating even contemplating this.”

  His shoulders stiffened.

  She’d hit home.

  “You think it’s real, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Branches grow the way the tree leans,” Huppert said. “Even in this bad Polaroid, such recognizable brushstrokes, the bold colors … it is prototypical of work from the period when he shared the studio with Soutine, in 1910. Yet this painting is so … so personal, unique, unlike anything else.” Huppert stared at her.

  “Papa, we’re late,” called Maiwen from the entrance.

  “When you find the Modigliani, as I sense you will, may I see it? Just once?”

  Aimée slipped her card in his jacket pocket.

  “Connect me to the fixer,” she said. “Then we’ll talk.”

  She didn’t know if they would talk. But she did know he’d scored right on one thing. She would find the Modigliani.

  It didn’t ride on money or prestige; it was a way to find her mother. And save her own life.

  “THE ANTIQUAIRE SAYS tonight,” Dombasle said. He lingered at his red Fiat, a two-seater that reminded her of a large insect. A sixties classic and the size of a closet. “BRB’s handling logistics.”

  “And your role?” Aimée asked, surprised. Didn’t he mastermind this?

  “Let me set you straight,” he said. “I’m a recovered academic, an art historian, herded into the police academy, then right into administration of the art recovery unit. Our unit assembles evidence and decides whether there’s a case. I’m not often in the field.”

  “So chatting up art dealers and crooks at the flea market—”

  “A sideline,” he interrupted. “But I met you.” Grinned.

  “Bottom line, you’re a flic,” she said.
r />   “Job requirement. Dinner?”

  “I’m late.” Her phone showed two calls from Svetla the Russian bodyguard. Her date. “Thought you had a vernissage to go to.”

  “True. Hors d’oeuvres tonight by a three-star chef.”

  “Enjoy.”

  “The buy’s at ten P.M. Where can I pick you up?”

  Good question. “Call me.”

  She could have sworn disappointment crossed Dombasle’s face.

  Aimée checked her messages. Svetla had left the name of a bar and the time for their rendez-vous. It was the last thing she wanted, but when she called Svetla back, her phone went to voice mail. Great. She hoped it wasn’t a leather bar. But first she had a stop to make.

  MAREVNA—AN APRON tied around her waist over a T-shirt with IT’S BETTER IN THE UKRAINE—nodded to Aimée. She set down a bowl of maroon borscht with a dollop of cream topped by dill in front of an old man, the only diner at Le Zakouski, then jerked her thumb to the back. Aimée followed her into a narrow galley kitchen where an old woman wearing a babushka chopped onions.

  “Cigarette break,” Marevna said.

  The woman, her eyes tearing, nodded without looking up.

  Marevna lit a Sobranie from a black box and offered Aimée one. Tempted, she glanced at the gold band, the pink paper. She figured she deserved it. One drag wouldn’t kill her.

  Marevna took a long drag then passed it to Aimée. “Finish it.”

  The jolt hit her lungs and her brain at the same time. A moment of clarity. Then she wished she hadn’t.

  “So important but you forget last night?” Marevna’s pink-lipsticked mouth turned down.

  Like she could have helped it?

  “Bad men, Marevna. Better you don’t know.”

  Marevna took one look at her and nodded. “Right. I don’t want to. But what’s this so urgent?”

  Aimée stubbed out the Sobranie and handed her the sealed envelope. “First we need to steam it open.”

  Back in the kitchen, Aimée held the envelope over the steaming pot of borscht on the stove. She wondered if it was worth using this short time she had for Marevna to listen to the recording she’d made of the diva and Tatyana. Probably just champagne-fueled ramblings. She decided against it.

  The old babushka kept slicing onions, tears trailing down her wrinkled cheeks. The smell of dill and alcohol emanated from a gray-haired man snoring on a stool by the pantry.

  “Who’s he?” Aimée asked.

  “Lana’s uncle. Never called you, did he?”

  Aimée shook her head, careful to keep her fingers away from the steam as she moved the envelope flap back and forth over it. “The old Trotskyist. Guess he didn’t have much to say.”

  “But he did,” Marevna said. “He knew that Yuri. Kept saying old Trotskyists never die, they just go underground. Or into the government.”

  What did that mean? “Care to enlighten me?”

  Marevna reached above the ledge near a set of dusty red Russian nesting dolls. Pulled out a newspaper, Socialist Daily, dated November of last year.

  “He never sober very long, but he want to show you this,” Marevna said. “Said Trotsky group met underground at Saint Anne’s hospital during the war.”

  That wouldn’t help her. “I’m interested in the seventies.”

  “The operating room functioned in the bomb shelter then. One of the orderlies was a Trotskyist and a Jew. He hid there—many others, too. Trotskyists kept meeting there after liberation. Still do, as far as he knows. Said to tell you.”

  Taped to the back of the envelope with yellowed cellophane tape was a note.

  “What’s this note say, Marevna?”

  “Lenin left in 1912 in hurry to Zurich. Entrust—that’s how you say?—to him, Piotr. Made him swear on his mother’s life never open or show this to anyone. Lenin say keep for me.” The edges of the envelope flap curled up and Aimée pulled it away from the steam. Everything smelled like borscht here; no doubt her jacket would reek.

  “Can you read this and give me the gist of it?”

  “Gist?”

  “A quick summary.” Aimée slipped two hundred francs in Marevna’s apron pocket. “I’m in a hurry.”

  “Da.” Marevna read and nodded. “On envelope say, ‘In case I die.’ ”

  Inside was a single sheet of blue paper. Marevna held the page to the light above the stove. Paused. “November 14, 1910. Very old-fashion Cyrillic. Words we don’t use anymore.”

  Marevna read, then reread, her brow furrowed. Two long minutes. “Letter, how you say, intime? Private between man to a woman.”

  “A love letter?”

  A blush spread over Marevna’s face. This modern girl was embarrassed by an ancient love letter?

  “Go ahead, Marevna.”

  “Much passion. Full of longing, wants to smell her on his fingers, feel her skin on his skin.… He aches that he won’t see her again. Not sure he’s doing right thing … but.…” Marevna’s breath caught. “He loves this woman. Begs her to understand. He’s consumed, thinks of her every minute. But he must do what he said. No other choice but forget his … how you say? Doubts. Forget his doubts.”

  “Doubts?” Aimée said. Huppert’s words came back to her.

  “This part—it’s not clear.” Marevna bit her lip. “Something how his beliefs, the lies, worth the price, the sacrifice. Nothing holds him back now.” Marevna’s voice quivered. “She’s left him.”

  And by this hot stove in the back kitchen, Aimée sensed a presence. A spirit. As if the soul released from this missive after eighty years now hovered and breathed in their midst.

  “We say a passion that shakes the tree roots,” Marevna said, “happens once in a life. Makes the pain worthwhile.”

  Aimée knew there was an equivalent expression in French but couldn’t remember it.

  Marevna’s hand shook. She pointed to the signature on the letter. “Vladimir.”

  Aimée gasped. “You mean … Vladimir Lenin wrote this? That’s his handwriting?”

  Shaken, Marevna leaned against the dishes.

  Proof of what Huppert had intimated. Modigliani painted Lenin in love, a man caught between his lover, his comrade-wife, his political aspirations, his theories, his doubts before he sacrificed ideals to fanaticism.

  “But who was this woman?” Marevna patted the letter, which she now held like a precious object away from the pot of borscht. “There’s no name.”

  “A Russian woman whose role faded long ago,” Aimée said. “Does it matter? She played her part in history and left. He led the Revolution, changed the world.”

  “No one will believe this,” Marevna said, her eyes wide.

  “I thought Russians were romantics, souls as deep as Lake Baikal, wide as the steppes,” Aimée said. “All those things from Tolstoy. He wrote in French, Marevna. We read him in school.”

  “No one wants to believe this. This is dangerous, Aimée.” Marevna glanced at the babushka. “Stone deaf. She refuses hearing aid. But him.…” She jerked her thumb at the snoring old Trotskyist. “Trouble.” Her mouth pursed. “Lenin’s still an icon. Old people, tourists line up all day in snow in Red Square … hours to see his mummy. He is myth, but they still must believe in myth.”

  Aimée watched Marevna. “Does it bother you knowing he’s not the Lenin you thought he was?”

  “Phfft.” She handed the letter back to Aimée. Stirred the borscht with a wooden spoon. “In every school we saw big letters: ‘Lenin lived, Lenin lives, Lenin will live.’ ” But Marevna’s eyes brimmed. “Okay. Inside, romantic me think it’s like Casablanca, give up great love. But Lenin was no Rick, no hero. But it would devastate my grandma.”

  Thursday Evening

  RENÉ WIPED HIS damp temples with his handkerchief and took a deep breath. Then another. He’d spent hours circumnavigating the firewall, disabling his safeguards, the alarm triggers he’d installed. But thank God for the thumb-drive containing his backup and the cloned token to override part of
the system. Then recoding the disabler with Saj’s help. Tradelert’s mainframe, as designed, only allowed modification in twenty-four-hour cycles and the clock was ticking.

  Now it all came down to these few seconds to stop them.

  But if Tradelert had re-keyed the code, had time to install new passwords, it wouldn’t work. He prayed they hadn’t. Prayed they had kept the system up to show off and impress the investors who were due today, California time.

  “I can keep the connection and the back doors open for two more minutes,” Saj said. “Ready, René?”

  Now or never.

  René entered the last code. Hit the keys. Nothing.

  Sweat broke out on his upper lip.

  “Connection’s gone, Saj!”

  “Keep your sombrero on.” René heard the furious clicking of keys. “One minute thirty seconds,” Saj said. “Should reestablish connection within fifteen seconds.” When nothing happened, he muttered, “Relay’s temperamental. Weather issues cause havoc with the satellite transmission.”

  Please God, René thought. He was hunched over, his eyeballs glued to the screen, his fingers poised.

  “Connection. Go, René.”

  René’s fingers flew over the keyboard. He hit send.

  “Done.”

  “We’re still up. Connected. It’s out of our hands now.”

  Wednesday Evening

  LENIN IN LOVE. All the more reason for the Russian oligarch to want the painting—either to legitimize his museum or hold it over the old guard and threaten exposure.

  Ten minutes later, Aimée found the bar’s address behind bustling rue de la Gaîtié, studded with theaters and concert halls famous for Piaf and Georges Brassens. She’d followed rue d’Odessa past the old bains toward Place Joséphine Baker. It was indeed a leather bar. And she wasn’t dressed for it.