by Mark Pryor
“Thank you. I just did what any law enforcement officer would have done, nothing special about it.”
“Nonsense. I hear you shot the gun right out of his hand.”
“By chance, I assure you.” Hugo looked around the room, and changed the subject. “This is a beautiful house.”
“Isn’t it?” Sipiora agreed. “Dripping with history, too.”
“Absolutely. And maybe we can start there.”
“Meaning?”
“The four paintings that were taken. Your mother said two were family portraits.”
“Yes, Nissim and Béatrice. My great-grandparents.”
“Taken from this very room.”
“Yes.” She walked to the fireplace and gestured to a blank area of wall. “Right here.”
“And the other two?”
“Also from in here.” She pointed to either side of the French doors that led onto a long balcony, overlooking the back gardens and, beyond them, Parc Monceau.
“What were they?”
“It’s funny, when someone told me they’d been stolen I actually had a hard time remembering. Picturing them. You can look at something every day and not really see it.” She laughed and shook her head sadly. “Makes me think that those paintings watch us more than we see them. Anyway, one was by Piero Sansalvadore, of a square in Florence, and the other was a country scene of some sort.”
“Valuable?”
“The ones of my grandparents aren’t, no. Just sentimental value. The other two, I have no idea. They’re old but that’s about all I can tell you.” She walked back over to the sofa that Hugo had been sitting on. “Shall we?”
“Yes, of course.” Hugo shifted down to one end, as it didn’t look like Sipiora was about to find anywhere else to sit. Once settled, he put his recorder on the table in front of them.
“Your French is very good, but my English is better,” she said, matter-of-factly.
“I think since this is a French investigation we should probably stick to—”
“Nonsense. English it is, and if they don’t like it, well, too bad.” Her smile matched her words: short, sharp, and unmoving.
“Okay, fine by me,” Hugo said. “Do you mind telling me a little about yourself and your place in the family?”
“My place in the family . . . I think that’s a novel, not a police statement, but I know what you’re asking so will do my best. I am the firstborn of Charlotte and Alfred Lambourd . . . Ah, your face, Mr. Marston. You don’t play poker, do you?”
“A little Texas Hold’em, from time to time, why?”
“Then I suspect you lose. Your face will give you away every time.”
“It’s just that someone said your brother Marc was the firstborn, nothing major.”
Sipiora clapped her hands together, and laughed. “Nothing major? Oh, dear, Mr. Marston, you don’t know much about French nobility, do you?”
“Enlighten me.”
“Well, that’s another tangent but suffice it to say, and so we’re being completely accurate, that Marc and I are both firstborn.”
“Ah, twins.”
“You are a good detective, well done.” She gave him a wink. “Yes, that’s correct. He preceded me by one whole minute, but we’re both the firstborn.”
“Got it. And you now live in Luxembourg?”
“I do. Most of the time. My late husband was from there, so I have the house, but it’s quite large and I rather rattle about in it, so I tend to travel a lot. I can afford to, and have no real ties binding me there, so why not?”
“And when did you get to Paris?”
“Yesterday. By train. I don’t fly anymore if I don’t have to. None of us do.”
“None of you?”
“The family. It sounds silly but you might call it the Lambourd phobia. Ever since our uncle died in a plane crash, we don’t fly.” She laughed. “That was in the war in 1943, so I know how silly it seems. I sometimes wonder if it’s more of a control thing coming from my mother than a result of that plane crash. Anyway, I’m rambling, sorry.”
“That’s quite all right,” Hugo said. “Every family has its foibles. So do you have anyone left in Luxembourg?”
“As I said, no ties binding me there.” She looked down, and clasped her hands on her lap. “I did have a daughter, but unfortunately she passed away when she was three. Kidney disease.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. And your husband?”
She looked up and smiled. “He was a little older than three when he died. He lasted until he was ninety.”
“Oh, so quite a lot older than you.”
“I’m not sure if you’re trying to flatter me, or judge me, Mr. Marston.”
Hugo held up an apologetic hand. “I’m sorry, that terrible poker face sometimes extends to my words. I’m sorry if I offended you.”
“You didn’t. But at the risk of offending you, I would like to get to the point of this. Lunch plans, you know, and I have a dress to pick up for tonight’s event. Will you be attending?”
“Possibly, I think so. Ambassador’s orders.”
“Oh, it’ll be fun, I promise. When the house is filled with people drinking champagne, you can almost feel its past looking down on you, admiring the incredible guests and their ridiculously expensive finery. This place was made to be shown off, and not just as some musty old museum.”
“Then I shall try to adjust my attitude,” Hugo said gamely. “So, getting to the point, how well do you know Tammy Fotinos?”
“Poor girl. Barely at all. She worked for us last year, did a fine job but, and I know how bad this sounds, but part of doing a good job as a servant means not making your presence known. She did what she was supposed to, and did it well. I’m sure that’s why we hired her back this year.” She smiled conspiratorially. “You’ve met my mother. You can imagine she’s not easy to please, so when someone meets her standards, well, she hangs onto them.”
“Makes good sense,” Hugo said. “So as far as you know, no one had anything against her, any reason to hurt her?”
“Good heavens, no. Certainly not within the family. We may be an odd group, Mr. Marston, but in my experience we tend to reserve our antipathy for each other, not outsiders.”
“Was anyone having a . . . dalliance with her?”
“Dalliance?” Sipiora snorted with laughter. “I didn’t know people still used that word. But no, not that I’m aware of.” She frowned in thought. “That said, my nephew Fabien was paying her a lot of attention with his eyes last night. And he’s at that age where anything in a skirt . . . well, you know.”
“It’s been a few years, but yes,” Hugo said. “So you don’t know of anything definitely happening between them?”
“Why don’t you ask him? Or her, for that matter?”
“We will. And, for the record, you didn’t see or hear anything last night at the time she was attacked?”
“I don’t know what time that was. But no, I’m sure I didn’t. I was in bed by eleven, asleep soon after. I didn’t see or hear anything unusual at all.”
“Well, thank you for your time. If there’s anything you can think of that might be helpful, please let us know.”
They both stood, and Sipiora said, “You’re welcome. And if you have more questions yourself, maybe you can ask them with a glass of champagne in your hand this evening.” She put out her hand, and her grip again was firm, dry, and fleeting, as if they’d finished a drab business meeting. “Oh, my little brother, Édouard, is nervous about talking to your colleague—mind if he comes to see you?”
“Not at all,” Hugo said. “Please send him my way.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Édouard Lambourd looked like he was scared of Hugo, too. Dressed in a light gray suit, with waistcoat even, he all but tiptoed into the drawing room of his own house. He swept back floppy, sandy hair from a high forehead and didn’t offer to shake hands.
“My sister says to do this in English. Do you mind if I sit here?” He gest
ured to the chair opposite the sofa Hugo had been sitting on.
“Not at all. And why did she tell you that, do you know?”
“Because . . .” He dropped his gaze to the floor. “I probably shouldn’t . . . Please, forget I said that.”
Hugo thought for a moment, and then smiled. “So that if we use your statement against you later, you can claim you didn’t understand the question properly?”
“I didn’t . . . that’s not exactly what . . . I meant. No.”
“Monsieur Lambourd,” Hugo said, switching to French, “we can conduct this interview in French or English, whichever you choose. But whichever it is, I will ask that, should you not understand me or have even the slightest bit of doubt about what I’m asking, you speak up. Otherwise I will assume you do understand. Are we clear on that?”
“Yes, yes. Of course.”
“Would you like to do this in French or English?”
“I don’t suppose you speak German?” Lambourd said, with a weak smile.
“Not enough, no.”
“Well, me neither. Be a nice short interview, wouldn’t it?” Lambourd sighed. “English, I suppose.”
Hugo leaned forward. “Is there some reason you’re so nervous to talk to me and my colleague, Monsieur Lambourd?”
“Well, I mean, your colleague, yes. For obvious reasons.”
“They’re not obvious to me. Can you explain?”
“I’m just not comfortable with that sort of thing. Nothing wrong with it, I’m sure, it’s just not something I’m used to.”
“What sort of thing?” Hugo pressed, enjoying Lambourd’s discomfort.
“Well, I mean, what would I call her?”
“I’d suggest Lieutenant Lerens.”
“Yes, of course, but I mean . . .” Lambourd looked around helplessly. “I suppose I don’t really know what I mean.”
Hugo sighed, hoping that Lambourd would notice the heavy dose of disapproval it contained. “Perhaps we should get to the point. How well did you know Tammy Fotinos?”
“Not at all. Pretty girl, but I only saw her a few times. Here at the house.”
“She slept here, did she not?”
“Yes. In the serv . . . downstairs. Ground floor.”
“Servants’ quarters, I’m well aware. When did you get into town?”
“Yesterday. I took the train in from Nice—that’s where I live.”
“A long ride?”
“No one in our family flies, unless we have to.”
“Your sister mentioned that, the family phobia,” Hugo said.
“Quite ridiculous, I expect, especially as it stems from my uncle being shot down in the Second World War more than seventy years ago.”
“I prefer trains myself. What do you do in Nice?”
“I’m an art dealer. And an art consultant.”
“What’s an art consultant?”
“When people buy art I go into their home and recommend where they hang it. Or maybe how they frame it, if that’s not already done.”
“You tell people where to hang paintings? In their own homes.” For a slight man, Édouard had surprisingly large hands, Hugo noticed.
“Yes. Believe me, it’s a valuable service and a lot of people have more money than sense, art sense that is, and so need the help. And are very grateful for it.”
“Can I assume you’re familiar with the paintings that were stolen last night?”
“You can.” Lambourd nodded. “And you’re probably wondering if they’re valuable, if they were worth stealing.”
“I am,” Hugo said.
“The pair of my grandparents is not at all valuable.” He pointed to the left side of the large French doors. “The Sansalvadore, possibly worth a couple of thousand euros. But probably not.”
“And the fourth?”
“That was by Charles-Émile Jacques. A French painter who was part of the Barbizon School, lived and worked in the mid-1800s. It was called Sheep and Shepherd, or something equally unimaginative.” He sat looking at Hugo for a moment. “As for whether it was worth anything . . .” He thought for a moment. “Maybe ten thousand euros? Something like that, I would guess.”
“Thank you, that’s good to know.” Hugo looked around. “Do you have other paintings or pieces of art that are more valuable than that?”
Lambourd smiled. “God, yes. A lot. I’ll tell you this—whoever stole those pieces was either very unlucky or very stupid.”
“Or they didn’t finish.”
“Maybe, but I don’t know why they’d even start with those pieces.”
“If you’re right about their value, me neither,” Hugo agreed. “So, if you don’t mind, what time did you go to bed last night?”
“Oh, I would say around ten. I watched television in my room for an hour or so, and was asleep by midnight.”
“Is that your normal routine?”
Lambourd hesitated. “Nothing’s normal when I come here.”
“Meaning?”
“My family is an odd collection of people. I’m sure we’d have nothing to do with each other if it weren’t for the blood ties.”
Hugo nodded his understanding. “Which of them are you closest to?”
“My mother, probably.” That weak smile again. “But I wouldn’t use the word ‘close.’”
“What about Erika?”
“You know, I’m actually curious what you thought of her.”
“Why?”
“She’s very good at . . . putting on a front. She’s an extrovert. Like Marc—he is too. They are both charming and funny and convincing.”
“That’s an odd word choice. Convincing?”
“Convaincants. I said it right, yes?”
“Yes, that’s the word. But tell me what you meant by it.”
Lambourd shrugged. “Just that. When they say something, people believe it. They have . . . confidence.”
“And you don’t?”
“Perhaps not.”
“I see. Well, tell me this. Is there anyone in the family, or in the house, who might have a reason to harm Tammy?”
“Not that I know of. I assume she was having an affair with someone, and either that person did it or someone who was jealous.”
“Who might she be having an affair with?”
“You should ask her.”
“I’m asking you.”
“I don’t know.”
“Was it with you?”
Lambourd snorted. “No. Not possible.”
“You’re not married, so why not?”
“You think married people can’t have lovers? This is France—we invented affairs.”
“You know what I mean,” Hugo said sternly.
“I am not interested in . . .” He waved a hand in front of him.
“In women?”
“In sex. In relationships. I am asexual, I suppose one would say. I have interests but none of them involve being with other people. Of either gender.”
“Is it possible your brother was seeing her?”
“He is engaged.” Lambourd laughed gently. “He may have sown his wild oats in the past, but those days are gone. And while discretion was never important to him, I would be very surprised.”
“His son?”
“Fabien is Marc all over again, two peas in a pod I think the expression goes. But I wouldn’t know about anything between him and the American girl.”
“Marc and Fabien are close?”
“Very. If Fabien is a little wild from time to time, it is Marc’s fault. He dotes on the boy and, in my opinion, hasn’t gotten serious with a woman in years not because they’re not good enough for him, but because they’re not good enough for Fabien.”
“So Marc thinks very highly of his fiancée.”
“We all do. Fabien included, from what I can tell.” He looked at his watch. “Now, if we’re about done . . .”
“May I speak frankly, Monsieur Lambourd?”
“I suppose so.”
“I’m no
t understanding something about this family, this household, and I was hoping you could explain it to me.” Hugo cleared his throat, more for dramatic effect than anything. “You see, a young woman was almost murdered here last night. Garrotted. A horrific crime. And it just seems to me that no one here really gives a damn. No one wants to help, everyone has plans for lunch or afternoon tea or whatever other thing, and the only thing that really seems to matter is that you all clam up and say as little as possible until you can successfully stage your annual party.” Hugo sat back and spread his hands wide. “Did I get any of that wrong?”
Édouard Lambourd sat staring at Hugo for a moment, but when he spoke his voice carried more anger and, perhaps, strength than Hugo had expected.
“You come in here, a foreigner, and you start picking at a noble French family, start poking around our home on the day of the most important event, historical event, any of us have ever known. You try to get us to tell tales on each other, to drive us apart, and for what? Because some silly girl got herself into a bad situation?”
“Oh, so you think it’s her fault someone garroted her?”
“And how do you know that someone didn’t come in from the outside? We don’t have alarms or cameras in here. The locks are as old as the rest of the house, which means an imbecile could pick them, I’m sure. There are no guards, no dogs, so I’m wondering why you’re so intent on blaming someone in the family.”
“I’m not intent on—”
“Maybe it’s for the headlines, is that it? It certainly seems like you enjoy being in the newspapers, maybe this little heroic act of yours has given you the taste for it.”
“That’s ridiculous, I’m just—”
“From where I sit, it’s no more ridiculous than accusing one of my family of attempting murder. Not by a long shot. No one here is capable of anything like that, so I suggest you look elsewhere, Mr. Marston. You and your complicated friend from the Brigade Criminelle.” Lambourd stood up and swept past Hugo, leaving the drawing room door to close behind him of its own accord.
When Hugo looked up he saw Camille Lerens standing in the door to the smaller parlor. “What was that about?” she asked.
“Someone was a little huffy that I was asking too many questions about the family. Sensitive fellow, our Édouard Lambourd, and quite a temper.”