The Paris Secret

by Karen Swan

  What?

  She couldn’t help but give a little snort of amusement at the sight of it.

  ‘What?’ Noah asked, pulling a box file from an invisible drawer than ran along the base of the unit, and straightening up.

  ‘Nothing,’ she replied. ‘Just a frog in my throat.’

  But Noah, unconvinced, looked back to where she must have been staring and after a moment, he chuckled too. ‘Oh. That. My girlfriend. Well, ex-girlfriend.’ He glanced at her. ‘Don’t worry, I haven’t read it.’

  ‘Oh. No. I didn’t assume . . .’

  ‘Have you?’

  The question took her by surprise. ‘What?’

  ‘Have you read it?’

  ‘Oh God, no. No.’

  He watched her protest too much and laughed, taking the box file over to the dining table which looked as though it seated sixteen. She could only imagine the size of the dinner parties he must hold here. How many friends did this man have?

  She looked at him more closely as he opened up the file. He was certainly attractive – not as urbane or hipster as Stefan, nor as raffish as Xavier Vermeil (not that she thought about what he looked like – she didn’t know why he’d even popped into her mind), but he had deep-set blue eyes and a prominent brow that gave a strong masculine impression. He wasn’t overly tall but he was in good shape – she thought he looked like a rackets man – and she could imagine he was competitive; judging by the top-spec apartment, a minimalist, possibly a control freak too. Late thirties, perhaps?

  He glanced up as if aware of her scrutiny, catching her staring at him, and she gave a smile.

  He smiled back as though amused. ‘Right,’ he said, flicking past some red inner card files. She caught a glimpse of the names written on some of the tabs: Bank; Cars; Charities; Gold . . . ‘OK,’ he murmured, lifting out one tabbed Art.

  He opened it and Flora had to force herself not to reach forward and handle the papers herself. Many of them were yellowed with age, feint lines grown almost indistinct over time, ink mellowing to shadows on the page. She saw that most of the paperwork had been arranged into slim piles, fastened with paper clips and a fly-sheet on the front with the artist’s name. They were seemingly arranged alphabetically and as he flicked through – Angrand, Bazille, Derain – she knew she couldn’t leave here without giving him her card. There was a prize private collection here and if not here, in this apartment – she let her eyes wander the space again, finding what she guessed to be a Seurat on one wall – then certainly somewhere in his possession. New York? Angus would have to make a visit when Noah returned to the city next month.

  ‘Right, Auguste Renoir,’ he said, pulling the sheaf from the file and unclipping the fastening, spreading the papers over the table.

  This time Flora did reach forward, seeing an ink copy of the ledger detailing the sale from the artist to his dealer Ambroise Vollard dated May 1908.

  She put it down carefully and reached for the next papers on the table – one, a black-and-white photograph showing both Renoirs hanging together as part of a galleried display on a drawing-room wall, the other a photocopy of a black-and-white photograph in a magazine that clearly showed Yellow Dress, Walking, exhibited in a gallery somewhere. She read the small print.

  ‘Grafton Galleries?’ she asked, looking at him in surprise. ‘It was shown in the Manet and post-Impressionist exhibition in 1910?’

  Noah looked impressed. ‘You know your stuff, Miss Sykes.’

  ‘Flora,’ she corrected him, pleased he was impressed. ‘And I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I didn’t know these things.’

  ‘Well, Vollard lent both paintings for the exhibition and they were sold, as a consequence, to my great-grandfather Fritz, who was in London on business at the time,’ he said, picking up a fragile handwritten receipt that showed: ‘Lady walking, yellow dress’, 1908, Auguste Renoir. To Fritz Haas, 10th November 1910 £38.

  ‘Do you know why your great-aunt sold her Renoir?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  Flora waited a moment, glancing up at him when he didn’t reply immediately.

  ‘It was the Second World War and they needed money. Flight tax.’

  ‘She was Jewish?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Did they escape?’

  He shook his head. ‘My great-uncle had some connections which bought them time but they refused to leave Austria, their homeland. They didn’t see it was hopeless until it was too late.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she murmured.

  Noah nodded, grateful for her sympathy, and she carefully replaced the receipt on the pile and examined the others, trying not to feel a growing disappointment with the step-perfect provenance laid out before her. Everything here was original, every paper transaction that had been recorded over the past hundred years to bring the painting from Auguste Renoir’s own studio to this contemporary penthouse apartment in Vienna, was in this file.

  She, meanwhile, was stuck with a dusty apartment and a Nazi. Contrary to Angus’s wild hopes, there was nothing here that could help them with the search for filling the hole in their paper trail. There had been a war raging, the family trying to flee for their lives and Noah’s grandfather was already safe in America – of course he wouldn’t have known to whom Von Taschelt had sold the painting or when. It hadn’t been anyone’s immediate priority at the time.

  And she couldn’t ask Noah if he knew anything about Jacques Vermeil’s father François or his link with Franz Von Taschelt – not without identifying the Vermeils as the current possessors, and with both such a shaky claim to ownership at the moment and Von Taschelt’s notoriety for forcing sales, she didn’t dare risk opening up any counterclaims.

  This had been a wasted trip.

  ‘Does this help you with your search?’ he asked, as if reading her mind while she carefully sifted through the papers in a neat file.

  She glanced at him apologetically. ‘Sadly not. We have provenance up until the same point as you found, but I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you there’s a gap where the final sale should be. We’re looking for something that can tell us when and where the painting was sold on after 1943 and when and how it came into our clients’ possession.’

  ‘Which is going to be tricky when you’re smack bang in the middle of the war,’ he said carefully. ‘You know, I’d still be interested in buying, even without a full provenance. That painting was in my family’s ownership for many years. I’d just like to put the pair back together again.’ He shrugged, as though doing her a favour. ‘No one else has the same emotional investment in this as my family. I’d be prepared to accept it under terms most others wouldn’t.’

  Flora smiled, knowing full well this wasn’t a favour. He’d spotted an opportunity to get it at a knock-down price. Maybe his offer wouldn’t be so ‘serious’ after all. ‘You’re very generous. I will be sure to pass that on to my clients,’ she smiled. ‘And it’s been so kind of you to try to help us. We really appreciate it.’

  He looked irked by her faultless rebuff but was too polite to say so. ‘It’s no problem. I’ve done my own share of art-history research over the years for our family collection. I find it fascinating. It’s almost a hobby for me.’

  ‘Well, you’re very lucky,’ she said. ‘And if ever you should want to—’

  She had been about to offer her professional services, the business card already in her hand, but her eyes had snagged on the black-and-white photograph now on the top of the pile of papers. She had only glanced at it previously, a woman sitting centre stage on a chaise in evening dress, the two Renoirs clearly visible and prominent on the wall behind her. But not only that . . .

  Flora’s mouth opened in surprise as questions flooded her mind. It couldn’t be the same painting of course – that was with the Vermeils in Paris. She had seen it with her own eyes just a few days ago . . . . And yet why was there a photograph of it in a file here, along with the other artworks supposedly in Noah Haas’s collection?r />
  ‘Everything OK?’ Noah asked, seeing the sudden intensity on her face.

  ‘Uh . . . yes,’ she said, struggling to recover, unable to tear her eyes away from the photograph.

  He glanced down at it, trying to identify the source of her discomfiture. ‘Oh. That’s my great-aunt Natalya, my grandfather’s sister,’ he said, pointing to the woman in the photo. ‘You can see the Renoirs behind her there, on the wall. I keep this as further evidence of our family’s ownership of the title. The more documentation, the better with these things.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Flora murmured, not in the least bit interested in the Renoirs now. ‘She was very beautiful, your great-aunt.’

  ‘Yes, she was,’ he agreed. ‘A great beauty by all accounts. In fact, she had her portrait painted by a very fashionable artist when she was just eighteen. You can just see it over her left shoulder.’

  ‘That’s her?’ Flora asked as he pointed out the very portrait that had just caught her attention. She pretended to be surprised, taking full opportunity to scrutinize the woman in both the photo and the portrait. Her head was reeling. The woman in the portrait was his great-aunt?

  ‘Yes, although she looks quite different in this photo. She’s thirty-two here and fashions had changed from when she was painted – war was coming.’

  ‘Of course.’ Her voice was a whisper, alarm bells sounding in her mind. Something wasn’t right. Coincidences like this didn’t happen. ‘Do you still have it? The portrait, I mean.’

  She knew he didn’t, of course, but she wanted to know what he knew.

  ‘Sadly not, though, again, I’ve been trying to trace it for years. I have a similar file to this one, full of photos and papers, but no painting at the end to show for it all.’ He shuffled the papers back into the folder and replaced it – in alphabetical order – in the box file. ‘As I said, it’s quite a hobby.’

  ‘Can you tell me anything about the painting? Perhaps I could help?’

  ‘Maybe you could,’ he said consideringly, a thoughtful smile beginning to play on his lips. ‘How about I tell you over dinner?’

  ‘Sorry?’ She was wrong-footed by the question. She hadn’t anticipated it. At least, not now she hadn’t, too distracted by the sudden appearance of the portrait.

  He smiled. ‘Would you like to go for dinner? Tonight?’

  ‘Oh.’ She met his gaze and could see quite clearly his interest in her, in spite of – or perhaps because of – the age gap. Could he see her interest in him too? Could he tell that it wasn’t the same kind? She swallowed, her mind racing. She had to know what he knew about this portrait that was currently in her care. Why did she have it and he didn’t? Had François Vermeil known Noah’s great-aunt? Were the two families connected by more than the matching Renoirs?

  She had to tread carefully. This man had information she needed but he wasn’t obliged to help her; he didn’t need to tell her a single thing about it. She had arrived here looking for answers and was leaving with only more questions. ‘I’m afraid I make it a policy not to go for dinner with my clients.’

  ‘But I’m not your client,’ he replied, quick as a flash. ‘Besides, where’s the harm? I’ll trade you a story for your company and some good wine,’ he said, walking her slowly towards the door.

  ‘OK,’ she smiled, stopping and offering him her hand. ‘It’s a deal.’

  He grinned as he took her hand in his. ‘No, Miss Sykes. It’s a date.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Vienna glittered like an electrical circuit board, the city’s grand imperial palaces and baroque museums laced with thousands of lights, their verdigris roofs obscured by the darkness for now, the Danube silkily winding its way out to sea.

  Flora stood on the small balcony that gave over the busy streets, watching the trams gliding past in an electric whoosh, shoppers and office workers below making their way home from another hot, dusty day. She stared down, already dressed and primped and trying to drum up some kind of appetite for tonight. She had spent the afternoon shopping – she hadn’t packed for dinner at one of the best restaurants in the city – finally settling on a Saint Laurent black silk tuxedo and a simple pair of Gianvito Rossi heels.

  She pressed redial on the phone and tried Freddie’s number again. He had called her earlier when she’d been on the plane. She couldn’t bear it, the irony. The one time her phone was switched off! He hadn’t left a message of course and that had only worried her more. She couldn’t help it. She felt the physical distance between them more keenly from this city, perhaps because it was her first time here and she felt disorientated and small. She had always wanted to visit Vienna. It was Europe’s cultural capital, once home to radical thinkers like Sigmund Freud, great artists like Egon Schiele and Klimt. When she was a little girl, her father had thrilled her with stories of the cascading fountains at the Belvedere Palace and the 850-year-old tower of St Stephen’s cathedral which had, for centuries, been the tallest building in Europe. For years she had promised herself she would visit and see all these things when she finally had the opportunity, but now that she did, would she? How could she value art and beauty when there was no regard for the truth? When her family was being dismantled with lies?

  ‘Batty.’

  ‘. . . F-Freds?’ she stammered, taken aback that he’d picked up.

  ‘No need to sound so stunned,’ he quipped. ‘You did call me.’

  ‘Yes, but . . . you never pick up!’ she cried, turning her back on the city to focus on his voice.

  ‘Law of averages means I will sometimes.’ It was a typically pithy response. She tried to take it as a good sign.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You don’t sound fine. Are you eating? Even your voice sounds thin.’

  ‘Have you been talking to Mum?’

  ‘Not since I left England. Why?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Freds! What would she tell me? Why did you ring?’

  There was a pause at the other end of the line. ‘. . . Work’s found out.’

  She bit her lip, squeezing her eyes shut as she heard the tremor marble his voice. ‘But how? Who would’ve said? I mean, who would—’

  ‘It wasn’t anyone. It was circumstance. We’ve finished the scenes at Elstree and we’re moving to location now. Morocco . . .’ He sighed. ‘Except I can’t. Bail conditions – I can’t leave the country. The police have got my passport.’

  ‘Oh shit,’ she whispered.

  ‘Yeah. The one time we’re ahead of schedule . . .’

  It was intended as another wisecrack but he couldn’t deliver it and she didn’t care. She raked her hands through her hair, her mind whirring. Then she sank down into a ball behind the balustrade, crouching on her high heels, her elbows resting on her knees. ‘So . . . so what happened? What did they say?’

  She heard him take in a deep breath. ‘That I’m suspended on full pay, pending the outcome of the court case.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘But . . . well, that’s probably bullshit. I don’t know if I’ll be able to go back, regardless of the verdict. Mud sticks, right?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ she said defiantly. ‘It washes off. All of this is going to go away, I promise you.’

  There was a pause. Then: ‘You’re sweet, Bats.’

  She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to be sweet. She wanted to be right. ‘Where are Mum and Dad anyway? They never pick up when I call home.’

  ‘No. They’ve moved back into the flat for the foreseeable.’

  ‘Well, that’s great!’ she said, trying to sound cheery. Their parents’ first home together, a pied-à-terre in Cadogan Gardens, was only a ten-minute bus ride from Freddie’s place in Fulham.

  ‘Is it? Bolly’s walking along the pavements like a man in heels. And you should see Dad’s face when he has to poo-pick after him. They’re not used to city living any more. They shouldn’t b
e here – it’s only adding to the stress for them. They should be at home.’

  ‘So should you.’

  ‘I’m better here. Normal’s good.’

  ‘Freds, I’m serious – are you eating?’

  ‘You’re kidding, right? Every time I get back to the flat, there’s another pot of chilli in the fridge or a pie in the oven or the ironing’s been done. It’s like I’ve got elves.’

  Flora chuckled, grateful for both her mother’s fussiness and this hint of her brother’s old humour. He’d never had to try too hard to make people smile, laugh, like him. If she had breezed through life thus far, popular and well liked, Freddie had blasted through, universally loved. People were drawn to him – old, young, male, female – and she was so proud to call him her brother; to have a blood claim on someone like him felt special and rare.

  There was a natural pause and she inhaled deeply, gathering courage. ‘Freddie, look, I know you said you don’t want anyone outside the family knowing but . . . I really think you should speak to Aggie. She is family. You guys were together for six years. You broke up a month ago. You can’t pretend—’

  ‘I’m not pretending anything! But she’s not in my life any more,’ Freddie said, his voice suddenly brittle and hard. ‘I don’t want her getting involved with this. She’s better off . . . she’s better off staying out of it.’

  ‘But she still loves you. I know she does.’

  ‘She’s moved on.’ His voice was flat.

  ‘Because she’s been on a few dates? Don’t be daft! She wanted to marry you, Freds. The week before you guys broke up, she told me she thought you were going to propose.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘She still loves you,’ she said, emboldened. ‘I just know that if you told her, she’d be there for you. It’ll be so much worse if she hears it from someone else. I mean, what if she reads it in the papers? Wouldn’t you be—’

  ‘Enough!’ His voice was a general’s roar, stunning her into silence. Freddie never raised his voice. He was Mr Mild. ‘We’re not talking about her any more, do you understand? I don’t want to hear her name. No exceptions. It’s over. And if you call her, if you tell her anything, I swear I’ll never speak to you again either.’