Murder Below Montparnasse (24 page)

Dombasle’s cell phone vibrated on the table. He glanced at the number.

“Museums shy away, since the authentication process would eat up a good portion of their funds. Modigliani is one of the world’s most forged artists. Not worth the connoisseur’s effort, to be blunt. Your Yuri Volodya might have had a fake.”

Luebet hadn’t thought so.

“Sounds like you’re chasing smoke.”

Little did he know. She hadn’t learned much from this conversation. Frustrated, she fingered the cardboard drink coaster.

“My office investigates robbery claims,” Dombasle said. “Where’s the robbery? There was no report made.”

“To investigate, you need a dead man to make a claim?”

“Why do I think you want my help, yet aren’t telling me the real story?”

Time to give him something. Figure out how to work an exchange. Use him.

She brushed back guilt. Less than twelve hours remained and so far she’d come up clueless. If he was smart—and there was no doubt on that score—he’d use her too.

“Say an old man found a forgotten Modigliani in his father’s cellar,” Aimée said, glancing around for listeners. Only at a far table, a woman talking into her phone, a bulldog at her feet. “He’s unsophisticated and runs his mouth. He contacts a renowned art dealer—you might know him, his name is Luebet—for an appraisal. But before the appointment, the painting’s stolen. The old man, Yuri, is found tortured and dead the next morning. Later, Luebet ‘falls’ on the Métro tracks. I can’t prove any of this except they are both dead.”

“Then it’s the
Brigade Criminelle
’s territory. Not mine.”

Didn’t the forces work together? Collaborate? “People don’t murder for fakes, do they?”

“You’d be surprised.” Dombasle shrugged. She noticed the gold flecks in his dark-brown eyes.

“Then time for show-and-tell. I show and you tell,
d’accord?
”

“Depends on if you’ll accompany me to a reception tonight. A vernissage.”

Was he flirting with her?

“An art opening, that’s your tell? Would I find it interesting?”

“You might learn something.”

“Meaning?”

“A respected world authority on Modigliani will attend,” he said.

“That’s all?” she said, disappointed.

“Then you’re afraid this supposed Modigliani will crumble under an expert’s scrutiny?”

Smart-ass
, she almost said.

Instead she placed the Polaroid over the Stella Artois cardboard coaster.

Dombasle pulled out an eyepiece like a jeweler’s loop. Adjusted the magnification and added a small lens. Like an optician.

He read out loud. “ ‘For Piotr, a keepsake of your friend Vladimir. Modigliani.’ ”

“Still think it’s fake?”

“Where did you get this?” He leaned forward and covered her hand with his.

Aimée grinned. “With your hair poking out like that and your eyepiece, you remind me of a mad scientist.” She pointed to the Polaroid. “You know one of those men, don’t you?”

He nodded. “Luebet.” He stared closer. “Taken when?”

She took a guess. “Sunday.”

“How are you involved?”

She had her story—a version of the truth—ready. She showed him the message written on Luebet’s envelope.

“So Luebet wanted the Modigliani,” he said, glancing at his insistent vibrating phone. “He’d contacted some person or persons to steal the painting for him before he performed a professional appraisal.”

Her thoughts, too. Brought it back to the theory that there were two teams on the playing field. But the ball had already been stolen.

“But a respected art dealer.…”

“Seen it before. No surprise. He’d contact someone who’s ripped him off before—a thief who knows his métier—say ‘Let bygones be bygones, I’ve got a job for you.’ ” He lifted the photo to look at the painting again. “Any idea who stole it?”

“Would I be meeting with you if I did?”

Dombasle’s phone rang again, and he excused himself to answer the call outside. She counted on him, as a member of the art squad charged with recovering stolen national art treasures, to investigate. She knew Michel’s team kept more irons in the fire than she could imagine. Contacts, information, a network she hoped to access. Right now, with no leads, she didn’t see another option.

Doubt gnawed her insides, raw and festering. It would never be completely gone until she located the painting. And she didn’t have much time. The painting was the only key to her mother.

And to finding out if her mother had tortured Yuri.

She tried to keep those thoughts at bay and had almost drained her Perroquet by the time Dombasle slid back onto the rattan café chair.

“I’ve got a proposition,” he said.

She saw excitement in his gold-flecked eyes. Whoever had contacted him on the phone had changed his mind.

“Twenty minutes ago, an
antiquaire
at the flea market showed my colleague the same photo,” he said.

“So you believe me now?” she said.

“We propose to stage a buy. Use you as the client. Interested?”

“Moi?”
She sat back, her leather leggings rubbing on the rattan chair rungs. “You trust this
antiquaire?
”

“They’re all crooks at Marché Sainte-Ouen, but this one’s my informer,” Dombasle said, downing his drink.

“He gives you a little info and you look the other way?”

“Works for both of us.”

She’d heard of the pipeline, how antique dealers moved stolen paintings, furniture, and jewelry for thieves in a hurry. Wished she’d thought of it herself.

“But fencing a Modigliani in the flea market? Sounds unprofessional.”

“Two years ago, I nailed a Velázquez there by the
frites
stand,” Dombasle said. “Still in the eighteenth-century frame. Idiots, thank God. They didn’t know what they had. Didn’t much care either, after the quick cash.”

Aimée’s mind clicked over everything she knew. What about Oleg’s buyer?

“Has your
antiquaire
sparked any interest?”

“My colleague intimated as much,” he said. “First I need to check the painting against our database of stolen art.”

She doubted he’d find it.

“Modigliani’s daughter inherited nothing,” he said. “Not a single painting.”

Aimée shook her head. So unfair, when her father’s work fetched millions today.

“A sad, broken woman.” He paused. “I met her once before she died. You’d never have known she’d run a Maquis network during the war.”

“Part of the Resistance?”

“In the South. Then a long affair and children with a married man who kept a double life. In the end, too much of the bottle, forgotten by her last lover. Her body was found days after she died. Tragic. Like her father.”

But what about the Serb? All kinds of questions rose in Aimée’s mind; the blood smeared on Yuri’s wall, his Levi’s jacket button—all evidence of a fight. Who was this phantom
thief who supposedly stole the painting first and somehow murdered the Serb in Yuri’s house? The Serb’s “brother”? But then why would he pursue Saj? To tie up loose ends? Or, less likely, a flunky of Luebet’s? But that didn’t make sense, according to what Luebet wrote on the envelope.

Dombasle’s buy complicated things.

“I’m confused,” she said, “too many threads. You haven’t told me the plan.”

He explained over another round of Perroquets. “We’re organizing a buy. Setting the wheels in motion. All the more reason for you to attend the reception tonight. I’ll know more details. The drop schedule.”

She’d bartered her info for what … a Modigliani expert? That was it? And now she was a pawn in a buy? “This could work?”

“If the thief’s desperate, and thieves usually are, it works nine times out of ten. A hot piece for quick cash, that’s what they want.” He paused. “Worried?”

“I’m guessing you involved
la Crim
and the art cops at BRB.”

“You know I can’t say.”

“But you’re asking me to stick my neck out, wanting to use me as a patsy?”

Had word of her involvement in Morbier’s sting gotten around the
préfecture?
She couldn’t fathom Morbier compromising his case or talking when he’d promised “no leaks.” But she still wanted to kick him.

Dombasle looked down at his drink. “Let’s just say all law enforcement involved would appreciate your assistance. That do it for you?”

All frothing at the mouth, too.

She needed to think how to use this to her advantage. No matter what happened with the painting, she needed to make sure Saj was safe, and learn the truth about her mother. But showing Dombasle the Polaroid had at least gotten her on the
inside of the formal investigation, or some layer of it. Like an onion, her father said of cases involving more than one jurisdictional branch, keep peeling and try not to cry.

She took the Polaroid back and stuck it in her pocket. “So in return I want the fixer.”

“Who?”

“When you find out, Raphael, let me know.”

She put down her card and threw twenty francs on the table. Stood, waved at Louis, and slipped onto the quai.

M
ORGANE RAN ACROSS
the cobbles into the rainy courtyard. Shivering and wet, she glanced up at their curtained window. Untouched since she’d left.

Just as she feared, Flèche had gone out to locate the painting
his
way. Intimidation, his usual métier. Now she’d insist they do it her way or she’d let him loose.

“The new phone books arrived,” said the agoraphobe, peeking out from her ground-floor window. “Every tenant takes their own. Not my responsibility, as I told your husband on his way out.”

Always observant, this one. Morgane leaned down and picked up the heavy plastic-wrapped directory. “I’ll take it,
merci
.”

Water ran from the roof tiles, splashed in silver eruptions, missing the rusted drain. On the damp landing she shifted the directory under her arm to unlock the door, and a blow hit her in the middle of her back. The air was knocked out of her. She stumbled forward, the directory falling on her foot. But not before her wrists were grabbed behind her and a bag pulled over her head.

Stupid. Phone books wouldn’t be out for a few months. Such an old trick and she’d fallen for it. No doubt the attacker had bribed the agoraphobe.

Hands pressed her shoulders down and plunked her on the floor.

“You
salaud
,” she said, “this won’t get you anywhere, you.…”

No answer. Only the systematic sounds of drawers opening, the few pieces of furniture being turned upside down, taut mattress fabric ripping. Professional. Her neck stiffened.

“What the hell do you think you’ll find?”

“The unexpected,” a voice said. “Looks like you’re in the dark in more ways than one. No clue to the painting,
n’est-ce pas?
”

“Who are you?”

Objects rained on her lap. Something damp leaked on her leg. The familiar smell of Miss Dior flooded her nostrils. Whoever this was had emptied her bag. She heard papers rustling, the jingle of coins, keys … her wallet?

Clicking. “I thought so. Two calls to Luebet, your boss.”

“Who are you?”

“He can’t answer anymore,” the voice said. “They scooped what’s left of him from the Métro tracks.”

Panic filled her. “You mean you …? Listen, he gave me orders by phone.”

“Liar.”

“Told me if we didn’t find the painting, he wouldn’t pay.”

Sigh. “Tell me why I shouldn’t shoot you right now.”

Morgane’s chest heaved. “Shoot me now and you get what? The painting’s disappeared.”

“So you’re just a hired hand?”

“Luebet didn’t hire me for my looks.” Her thoughts raced. “You’re some rogue
flic?
”

A short laugh. “Worse. I think you need to convince me, Morgane.”

Nothing for it but to tell the whole story. “
Alors
, five years ago, I worked in his gallery, lifted a series of Chagall lithographs from him. Long story. After I got out of prison, my son was diagnosed with leukemia. Then Luebet called me a week ago, told me we’re good now but he needs help. A job. He couldn’t
do it, but I could. Like I’d refuse?” The cold floor against her legs chilled her.

“This photo in your wallet,” the voice said, “your son?”

A sob rose in her throat. “Please don’t touch him … he’s sick, please.”

More rustling paper. “There’s a Swiss Clinic bill …?”

“My son needs a bone marrow transplant.” Her throat caught. “I need money. I’ll do anything.”

“How did you plan to transport the painting?”

“But our man got there too late, there was no painting.”

“Answer the question.”

“My cargo freight contact at Orly.”

A cough. “So, mother of the year, why threaten the private detective?”

“Who?”

“Don’t play innocent.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

The key turned in the door.

“That’s Flèche,” Morgane whispered. “An amateur. He went off half-cocked last night. Wouldn’t listen, uncontrollable … I don’t know what he’s done.”

“Hope you’re telling the truth,” the voice hissed in her ear, “for your son’s sake.”

“Who the hell are you?” Flèche’s words hung in the air. “Look, put the gun down, we’ll talk about the painting. We don’t have it, but I’ve got a lead … just calm down.”

“What lead?”

“Plenty in the pot for everyone,” he said. “The bitch will lead us to the fixer.”

A short laugh. The door closed. Morgane heard footsteps. The rustle of fabric. Flèche kept a knife strapped to his calf under his jeans. If only she could get out of the way … but she couldn’t see. Couldn’t move.

“Why’s the fixer important?”

“The old geezer hid the painting,” Flèche said. “The bitch told me everything. We stuck her head under water like they did to the old geezer.…”

Morgane struggled but her wrists didn’t budge. “Idiot,” she said. “You won’t find the painting that way.”

As she’d feared, Flèche had rushed in headlong and now half the world would know. He’d brought attention and trouble to the door. If only she could cut her losses. Run.

“She’s right,” the voice said. Morgane realized now it was a woman’s voice. Low, rasping, a foreign accent. “So that was you. Are you going to do that again?”