The Good Thief's Guide to Paris (19 page)

Well I never. Perhaps stealing was more common than I realised. Maybe everyone was at it. Enough people seemed to be happy to dupe me into doing their dirty work for them. First Bruno, then Paige had worked the same trick. You had to wonder who might be next. Was everyone into this thieving racket?

“The books weren’t the worst of it, of course. She also used my telephone to place some international calls. That’s expressly forbidden, you understand.” She bunched her shoulders and cast her lit cigarette around in a circular motion. “So, you can see why I had to ask her to leave.”

Francesca paused and returned her attention to the papers and photographs in her hand. She leafed through them and her face took on an affectionate expression, almost as though she had found a collection of pleasing mementoes from her past. I didn’t interrupt. I just took the opportunity to gulp down some tea and try to think straight. I felt certain there were important questions to be asked. I just wasn’t sure what they were yet.

“I assume you have the keycard,” Francesca said, not looking up from the photograph she was studying.

“Keycard?”

“To Catherine’s deposit box. It doesn’t appear to be here.”

“I haven’t seen any keycard.”

“It was in the painting with these papers. She told me so herself.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. There was no keycard inside the painting.”

Francesca fixed me in the eyes, trying to gauge whether I was telling her the truth. She could try all she liked. I wasn’t giving anything away.

“You have gout, I see,” she said, from nowhere.

“Sorry?”

“Your fingers.” She gestured at her own knuckles with the fingers that held the lit cigarette. “I’ve known many writers suffer from it.”

“It’s under control.”

“Hmm. Mike?” she said, motioning to the Mancunian.

Before I could react, he had stepped behind me and wrapped one arm around my chest, clamping my left arm alongside my body. I bucked against him, trying to loosen his grip and meanwhile he reached for my right wrist, aiming to steady it. His red jumper smelled like a toxicologist’s worst nightmare. I fought against him, grasping for his dreadlocks, then his face, but it had no effect. I was just about to push backwards on the chair and try to topple us both over when I heard a clicking noise and looked up to find the Italian had cocked the trigger on the bulky revolver and was pointing it at my kneecap. I stopped resisting, though my body was still tense. The Mancunian regripped my right forearm and held it out to Francesca. She took my hand, ran her fingers lightly over my swollen knuckles and cooed reassuringly. She raised my knuckles to her lips and gave them a smoky kiss. Then she slipped my middle finger inside her mouth and bit down as hard as she was able.

I screamed. I didn’t care how loud or how wildly. I tried to snatch my hand back, pulling her rotten old teeth with it if I had to, but the Mancunian held my arm firm. I stamped my foot into the ground, meanwhile staring with wild eyes into Francesca’s deathly grimace. She was gnawing fiercely, shaking her head from side to side and growling too. God, I wanted to kick her in the crotch, but just as I was about to try the Italian sensed it and pressed the gun muzzle into my thigh. The pain from my finger was a searing white light in my head. I thought I might black out but just then Francesca released my bloody digit from her teeth and raised the lit cigarette in her hand. She held the burning end above my mashed knuckle.

“The keycard,” she said, pus smeared across her lips.

“I don’t have it.”

The pain was instant and excruciating. I could feel the heat in the very bone of my finger. I squealed, bracing my feet behind the legs of my chair. The smell of my burning flesh came up at me.

“Alright,” I said, through gritted teeth. “I don’t have it any more. I have the Picasso forgery instead. The Guitar Player.”

Francesca pulled the cigarette away, looking deep into my eyes. I guess she believed what she saw because she released me and the three of them stepped clear. I clutched my hand to my chest and pivoted forwards from my hips, trying to smother the pain. My entire hand seemed to be throbbing. I glanced down; my knuckle looked like roadkill.

“You took it from her bank? How?”

“It was easier than you might imagine,” I gasped. “Problem is, I don’t have it any more.”

Francesca glared at me. “Where is it?”

“Someplace safe. But I can get you it. Really.”

“When?”

I thought about the pendant in my stomach, working its way through my intestines. I’d swallowed it more than an hour ago now, though I couldn’t imagine it had progressed very far. And I was certain I’d need the pendant in order to retrieve the forgery. The left-luggage counter at the Pompidou Centre was permanently manned and constantly busy. Short of breaking into the entire complex after hours, using the pendant was my only option.

“Twenty-four hours,” I said. “Assuming everything works in the regular way.”

Francesca squinted at me, as though mistrusting my answer. “One day?”

I nodded, gingerly shaking my hand out. Electric pulses shot up my forearm and I scrunched my face against the pain.

“Then you may have your twenty-four hours. But I want that painting, Charlie.”

“Right,” I said, burying my hand in the crook of my armpit. “Because you’re going to try and steal the original.”

Francesca straightened. She didn’t answer me but she didn’t really need to.

“Just the three of you?” I went on.

She pouted, weighing her response. “Plus the others.”

“Others? You mean from the bookshop?”

Francesca nodded and I laughed. I just couldn’t help myself. The absurdity of what she was saying was more than I could take.

“You’re kidding. You have to be. Who do you think you’re up against here, the Keystone Cops?”

“My staff have skills.”

“Oh really?” I said, gesturing with my healthy hand towards the Mancunian. “What are you going to tell me? This guy grew up in the circus so he’s your wire man? And the girl working the till downstairs, she’s ex-SAS?”

“We have a plan.”

“No,” I said. “You have papers, photographs, a circuit diagram. It’s madness. You’re booksellers.”

“To the outside world.”

“Oh right, but you each have a secret identity?”

Francesca sighed, as if I was exhausting her. She handed the brown envelope and the loose sheaf of papers to the Italian, meanwhile taking the revolver from him and emptying it of bullets. Once she’d removed all of the bullets, she showed me the chambers. Then she tossed the gun away across the room and reached into her pocket for a crumpled handkerchief. She stepped over and signalled for me to pass her my hand. Reluctantly, I held my hand out to her and she clamped the handkerchief against my bloody knuckle.

“Pablo was a friend,” she went on. “When he lived in Paris. He wouldn’t have wanted me to lose everything.”

“Why would you?”

“Books,” she said in a wistful tone, raising the handkerchief and looking at the pulped mess beneath it. “There’s no money in books any more.”

“So get a bank loan,” I said, gritting my teeth. “You don’t need to steal a Picasso.”

Francesca gave me a sly grin, as if I’d caught her in a deliberate lie.

“Have you been to Cuba, Charlie?”

“What?”

“A wonderful place for a new bookshop. Paris isn’t what it was any more.”

“You have to be kidding me.”

A change passed across Francesca’s features and I swiftly removed my hand from her grip. She backed away from me and shook her head. I got the impression she was about to deliver a misjudged speech but before she had a chance the Mancunian interrupted her. He was holding out my wallet and my spectacles case. On top of the wallet was Nathan Farmer’s business card.

“This worm,” Francesca said, after scanning the name. “When did he get to you?”

“Earlier today. He wants the painting too.”

“And did you agree to help him?” she asked, her voice rising.

“He didn’t leave me much choice.”

“No,” she said, returning my things to me. “That’s not the way he operates.”

“You’ve met him then?”

“I know of him. He was in touch with Catherine too.”

“And Catherine was what, getting you to bid against each other?”

“Not in the slightest,” Francesca said, as though I’d proposed something altogether more sordid. “She wanted me to have the painting. She wanted to help the bookshop.”

“Which is how come you sent Fido and Rover here to break into her place and take it.”

“Things became complicated.”

“Tell me about it.”

Francesca took a deep breath and crossed her arms in front of her chest. She tapped her callused lips with her fingertip, thinking.

“You’re a born thief,” she said. “Surely you must want to be part of all this?”

“What, the biggest farce in the history of crime?”

Francesca gave me a cool stare.

“Now that you mention it,” I said, “I think I probably do.”

TWENTY-THREE

“Perhaps when I’ve explained the background, you may become a little more confident in our chances,” Francesca said.

“I’m all for that,” I told her.

We were on the roof terrace at the top of the townhouse that contained the bookshop, just the two of us. There were no climbing plants or painted trellises or homely touches of any description, but there was a set of cracked plastic patio furniture to sit on. A dented ashtray, branded with the name of a Belgian beer, was positioned on the table between our seats. I was holding a cigarette in my healthy left hand and found that I was smoking faster than normal, affected by Francesca’s pace. Her habit was never to smoke her cigarettes close to the filter and it struck me as an odd quirk because as soon as she’d stubbed one out she would light a replacement. It made me think she probably got through half a packet a day more than she needed to.

“I’m trying to think of the best place to begin. It’s not a straightforward tale,” Francesca said.

“Just pick a point and go for it. We can jump back in time if needs be.”

“Flashbacks.” She screwed her face up. “Such a crude device.”

“Best friend of the mystery novelist.”

“Some, perhaps.”

She took a long draw on her latest cigarette and vented the smoke through her nostrils. I spread the fingers on my right hand beneath the table, testing the pain. Yep, it was still there, like glass splinters were being ground into my knuckle.

“Lucky I’m not the sensitive type,” I told her, trying not to grimace.

Francesca said, “You’ll have heard of Catherine’s husband, naturally.”

I squinted at her, then shook my head. Francesca toked so hard on her cigarette it lit up like a stop sign.

“Gerard Ames.”

I shook my head again, then rested the fingers of my right hand on my thigh. Better not to move them for the time being. That way, maybe the pain would begin to recede.

“Dear God,” Francesca said. “And you class yourself as a professional?”

“I take it he’s one of my competitors.”

“No, he’s quite out of your league. You’re aware of the Group of Three, one assumes.”

“Didn’t they cover an old Stones’ number?”

This time Francesca sighed and stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray, which was vastly more preferable to my knuckle. She reached for a replacement with her spare hand, triggered her lighter and raised it to her face in an automatic gesture, waving the flame at the business end of the cigarette.

“May 1966,” she went on. “Three Parisian security vans, all robbed at different points in the city at the exact same time on the exact same day. Almost one million francs in all. It became known as the Group of Three.”

“Catchy.”

“The man behind it was Gerard.”

“Right. And this Gerard was Catherine’s husband.”

“Not at that time,” Francesca said, pointedly. “Catherine would have barely been a teenager in 1966. Gerard, though, was already making quite a name for himself.”

In the back of my mind I recalled the photograph in Catherine’s apartment – the one of her and the older man with the pony-tail.

“A real Jack the Lad,” I said.

“A genius, actually.” Francesca held up her palm, as if she expected me to protest. “Oh I know, it’s a word that gets used far too casually. But that’s what he was. Imagine the technology he had at his disposal. Imagine the planning and the organisation it took. No mobile phones; everything done according to the time on a wristwatch and the co-ordinates on a map.”

“Stop it. I’m welling up.”

“He was handsome too. In Paris at that time, he became something of a celebrity. At least, he was prominent in the social circle I moved in.”

“The art scene?”

Francesca scrunched up her nose, as though she’d just smelled something unpleasant. “I suppose one could call it that. It was really just a collection of like-minded people. Liberal, anti-establishment, Left Bank, avant-garde, call it what you like. But I met Gerard and,” she hitched her shoulders, “we were a couple for a time.”

I backed away from her and blew some smoke out of the side of my mouth. “Oh?”

“It wasn’t the love affair of the century,” she told me, flapping her hand. “But he was a very charming man. Dangerous too.”

“So he floated your boat.”

Francesca gave me a weary look. “We remained friends afterwards. He often came here to confide in me. He liked to talk through some of the jobs he was planning. I didn’t mind that. It was fascinating to me. Alas,” she said, with a shrug, “I wasn’t the only one he was talking to.”

“You mean he drew attention to himself?”

“Oh yes. And of course, there’s nothing wrong with that, until one says the wrong thing to the wrong person.”

“So what happened?”

Francesca took a sharp intake of breath and I heard a rattle of catarrh in her throat. “He was caught. The mid-seventies. Another strike on a group of security vans.”

“Only this one didn’t end up with a catchy title.”

“They were waiting for him, you see. His whole gang went to prison, though Gerard received the longest sentence.”

“I get it,” I said, drawing in some more smoke from my cigarette and exhaling over Francesca’s shoulder. My finger was still throbbing, I noticed, emitting regular pulses of pain. “So where does Catherine fit into all this?”

“Oh, that was much later. Five, six years ago. Gerard had been out a decent spell by then. The two of them met and found they were attracted to one another.”

“Despite the age difference.”

“Because of it, I imagine. I was the one who put them together, you see.”

“You?”

Francesca gave me a devilish smile and tucked some of her hair behind her ear. She smoothed her fingers across the dried skin of her forehead.

“I was friendly with Catherine. I’d even acquired one or two of her paintings for the bookshop.”

“Really?” I said, thinking how I’d never seen anything other than books lining the walls.

“I had to sell them,” she explained, with a shiver.

“Right. But you knew her and you knew him and you played matchmaker.”

“Indeed.”

“And they had the kind of relationship Shakespeare could have written a sonnet about. And you had a wonderful feeling of fulfilment. And meanwhile cheeky old Gerard planned to knock off the Pompidou Gallery.”

Francesca threw her head back with a gasp and then she showed me her nicotine-stained teeth once again. “Oh, I do like you,” she said.

“Of course you do. It’s love’s young dream – the two of us discussing armed robbery together. So why don’t you tell me the rest?”

“The rest?” Francesca pursed her lips. “Well, let me see. Catherine’s a very talented artist.”

“Was. But no argument here. I saw the paintings in her apartment.”

Francesca nodded. She extinguished her cigarette and lit another. I stubbed my cigarette out in the ashtray too – it was filling up rapidly.

“And I saw the Picasso forgery she produced,” I went on. “At least, I’m assuming it was her.”

Francesca nodded again, though with a shade more caution this time.

“I imagine that was Gerard’s idea.”

“Oh no,” she said, puffing away. “I think it may have been Catherine’s. She’d hinted along similar lines to me in the past.”

“She had? Why you?”

“As I said, I moved in the same circles as Gerard. My ambitions tended to be more modest but from time to time I found the people who worked here had certain abilities.”

“Like your Italian lock man, you mean?”

“Precisely.” She circled her lit cigarette, as if it were a thinking aid. “Or they could learn, given sufficient encouragement. On a few occasions each year, once I felt confident in the people around me, we might carry out a small theft.”

I felt my forehead crease. “I don’t get it. Don’t the people who work here come to you because of the whole bookshop vibe?”

“Ah, but I only say yes to the select few. I’m a very good judge of character.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“There’s no need. I trust you, yes?”

She gave me a sideways smile and her eyes lit up. I got the distinct impression she was flirting with me.

“Back to Catherine,” I said. “Why the Picasso?”

“Because of her job. She worked as an archivist for the Pompidou.”

“Oh.” I frowned. “But I heard she worked near Orléans?”

“But come Charlie, you must know how the major galleries operate.”

I shrugged.

“Honestly.” She ingested more smoke. “Well, let me see, they generally have far too much material to keep in one building, you understand. They don’t have enough space, for starters, and it’s also a fire hazard. Take the Pompidou. I imagine they have perhaps a quarter of their collection on display at any one time. The rest has to be rotated and stored.”

“In Orléans?”

“All over France. The idea is to spread the risk. I know of at least three locations. There may be more.”

“And Catherine worked at one of them?”

“Quite.”

I raised my hand to my chin and stroked the stubble I found there. “But what difference does that make if the painting she was aiming to forge was hanging in the gallery?”

“Come now, a gallery doesn’t simply acquire the painting when they buy a piece of art, Charlie.”

Her eyes narrowed and she made the end of her cigarette flare once more.

“Go on.”

“There may also be sketches, notes, pigment charts. It varies depending upon the artist concerned.”

“Ah, but Picasso sketched, right?”

“Not always,” she said. “But with The Guitar Player, he did.”

“Okay. So Catherine was able to pay a lot of attention to his preparatory work.”

Francesca nodded enthusiastically. “She copied his sketches, over and over again. The truth is, someone with Catherine’s level of skill can soon adopt another artist’s style.”

“Even Picasso?”

“Cubism,” Francesca said, turning up her nose. “It looks complicated, I grant you. It’s certainly beyond you and me. But think of it as a series of lines. If you’re a talented artist you really just need to break down each facet of the painting, one after the other, until you can build it back up again.”

“That simple, huh?”

“After enough time practising the same painting, it could be.”

“And you’re saying it was for Catherine.”

“You saw what she produced.”

“I guess I did. So what happened next?”

Francesca was all set to answer when something appeared to catch in her throat. She swallowed, eyes blinking, and then she began to cough. She produced a dry, rasping sound – like a saw-blade cutting through dead timber. She hacked and she convulsed and she spluttered and still the blockage wouldn’t clear.

“You want me to smack you on the back?”

She waved her hands no, her face reddening. Then she coughed with renewed fervour. Her lips bulged outwards. She turned her face away from me and spat a globule of God-knows-what onto the tar roof. Probably more tar.

“Excuse me,” she said, placing her hand on her heaving chest and taking a restorative draw from her cigarette. If I didn’t know any better, I could have believed I was in the middle of an antismoking campaign. “Where were we?” she asked, her voice an octave higher than before.

I smiled benevolently, as though charmed by her manners. “You told me about Catherine’s forgery and I asked what happened next.”

“Yes, of course,” she said, swallowing a little phlegm. “Well, you may have noticed, the security at the Pompidou is not what it might be.”

“I don’t know about that. There are cameras, alarm sensors, attendants. Plus there are crowds.”

“That’s where Gerard came in,” Francesca said, removing her handkerchief from beneath the elasticated sleeve of her vest and dabbing at her lips.

“Let me guess – he devised a cunning plan.”

“There’s no need to be so sceptical. I told you he was a genius. But I think even he was surprised at how easy it could be.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. By the time he’d worked it all out, he was quite cock-a-hoop.”

“And you know this because he told you?”

“Me. Other people he knew. Too many people.”

“Ah,” I held up a finger. “Because Gerard liked to talk.”

“Precisely.”

“You mean he hadn’t learned his lesson from when he got caught before?”

Francesca grinned. “In more ways than you might imagine. Right now, he happens to be back in custody.”

I frowned. “Just for shooting his mouth off?”

“No, no,” she said, shaking her head. “Temptation got the better of him, I’m afraid. Just as he was planning to put the Picasso theft into action, he became distracted by another opportunity. A contact was planning to hijack a security van. Just one this time. Gerard couldn’t resist.”

“You’re kidding me. He got arrested?”

She nodded, a self-satisfied smile playing about her lips. “He’s awaiting trial. Apparently the police are seeking eight years, though Gerard’s lawyer is confident he’ll be out in eighteen months. And he’s served close to two months already.”

“Eight years? For a robbery that didn’t even happen?”

“Like I said, he’s quite the celebrity. A serial offender. But he has the best lawyer in all of Paris.”

“That may be so. But his plans for the Pompidou heist are ruined.”

Francesca hummed uncertainly, displacing the cigarette fog that had enveloped her. “Gerard was prevented from carrying out the job, you’re right. But his plans still exist.”

“Ah. And a lot of people know about them.”

“Precisely.”

“So what, Catherine tried to get these other people involved?”

“I understand it was Gerard’s suggestion. He knew he’d missed his chance but he told her they could still profit from it. She just had to find somebody to buy into the scheme.”

“Someone like you.”

Francesca shrugged and extinguished her cigarette. This time she didn’t reach for another.

“What about Nathan Farmer?”

She shook her head. “Farmer is more of a gatekeeper.”

“You mean he works for the gallery?”

“Insurance firms, generally. Not that any of them would admit as much. His approach is hardly something they’d care to be associated with.”