The Paris Secret

by Karen Swan

  Flora couldn’t reply. She’d never heard him so angry, she’d never encountered this rage in him before.

  His voice cracked. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Flora, but that’s just how it has to be. Look, I’ll call you soon, OK?’

  And he hung up, leaving her alone in the City of Dreams, trapped in a nightmare.

  ‘You look beautiful.’

  Noah’s eyes, bluer than she’d recalled, gazed at her across the table. She smiled her thanks but didn’t believe a word of it. Reception had called up to her room only minutes after Freddie had hung up on her and – shocked, frustrated, despairing – she hadn’t had time for her colour to go down.

  Not that she cared about how she looked.

  All she’d wanted to do was have a hot shower, curl up in a towel and go to sleep for a week but she couldn’t; she was here, working again, a fake smile plastered on her face and she felt rushed, stretched, spasmodic, feral. She didn’t quite trust herself; she wasn’t sure she could be relied upon to make small talk all night, to care about art when her family life was in ruins, to eat with a stranger when she needed the company of friends.

  She closed her eyes momentarily, wishing she was back in Paris. Ines would know what to do.

  Noah was still staring at her when she opened her eyes again and she took another sip of wine. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Tired?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘I know how you feel. I have to travel a lot in my line of work too.’ His hand hovered at the base of his glass. ‘Listen, if you’d rather not do this—’

  ‘No. Not at all,’ she said quickly, remembering herself. Even the company of a stranger was better than being alone in that hotel room right now. ‘I’m so happy to be here. I can’t believe you were able to get a table at such short notice.’

  He looked pleased. ‘Well, my family has been coming for many years. They’re usually able to oblige me.’

  Flora smiled, noticing how good he looked in his indigo hopsack suit that was so lean it seemed to leave no room for a wallet or mobile phone in the pockets.

  She fiddled with her glass too, glancing around at the other diners – all finely dressed and bedecked in summer jewels, white tablecloths hanging to the floor on the round tables, tobacco-smoked mirrors lining the walls and reflecting their images like shadows.

  ‘Actually, my great-grandparents were patrons here when it first opened in 1907,’ he continued, filling the silence.

  ‘Really?’ She feigned interest, willing herself to get into the game.

  ‘Yes.’ He paused for a moment. ‘And my great-aunt sang here for a season. You remember? It was her portrait you were interested in earlier.’

  ‘Oh, yes. What was her name?’

  ‘Natalya Spiegel; Haas before she married.’

  She lifted her glass slowly, trying not to look too interested whilst simultaneously absorbing every last detail. ‘And who painted the portrait, do you know?’

  ‘An artist called Gustav Huber.’

  Flora swallowed the wine and frowned. ‘Huber? I’ve not come across him before.’

  Noah blinked, studying her concentration and the way she wrinkled her brow. ‘No. By all accounts he came to art late, picking up a brush in his late thirties and finding he had a talent for it. He only painted Natalya and a few other society figures before he was commissioned. He died on the Eastern Front.’

  ‘What a terrible waste. It looks like he had a great talent.’

  ‘I agree.’

  She replaced her glass on the table. ‘And you said your family doesn’t have the portrait any more.’

  ‘That’s right. Again, it was sold by my great-aunt during the war.’ He hesitated. ‘Well, I say sold. What I really mean is stolen – signed away with a Nazi’s gun pointed at her head.’ The bitterness in his voice was palpable and Flora sat in silence as he reached for the wine and took a sip; she knew exactly where this conversation was heading. He caught sight of her subdued expression. ‘Sorry. I . . . I shouldn’t get onto the subject. It doesn’t make for good manners or polite conversation.’

  ‘No, I understand,’ Flora said quickly. ‘The Nazis’ looting of fine art is an issue that still plagues the industry today. It’s a complex and painful path to navigate with no easy answers.’ She looked down, knowing she’d given him a stock professional response to a highly personal revelation, panicking as she found herself bound by client confidentiality on the one hand and basic human compassion on the other.

  He looked at her. ‘Did you lose any family in the war?’

  ‘My grandfather was a Halifax bomber pilot. He survived. Somehow.’

  ‘Well, that’s good to hear.’ He paused. ‘My family weren’t so lucky. They were double-crossed and sent to their deaths.’ His words were hard, thrown out there like grenades.

  Flora didn’t know what to say. ‘. . . Double-crossed?’

  ‘Yes. They made a deal to break up and sell their estate in exchange for safe passage to Switzerland. Three days later, expecting their passes for the border, they were packed by the SS on a one-way train to Dachau.’ He took another gulp of his drink.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Flora gasped. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Almost my entire family wiped out in a stroke – my great-aunt, her husband and their four children.’

  Flora covered her mouth – knowing the theory of the horrors and coming face to face with them were two entirely different things. Four children? ‘I don’t know what to say,’ she whispered.

  Noah inhaled and shook his head, his tone apologetic. ‘There’s nothing to say. Sadly this is a story shared by millions of people. Like I told you earlier, my grandfather – Natalya’s brother – had already emigrated to America before the outbreak of war, otherwise I guess I wouldn’t be sitting here now either. My grandfather never forgave himself for not making his sister go too – it affected the rest of his life. Survivor’s guilt.’ He glanced at Flora’s aghast expression and dropped his head a little. ‘I’m sorry, forgive me. As I said, it doesn’t make for good conversation.’

  ‘No, I . . . it’s so sad.’ She let a beat pass as the waiter came over with the menus. ‘. . . Do you know who owns it now? The portrait, I mean.’ She was sure he must be able to hear the lies coming from her mouth, to see the duplicity in her eyes.

  ‘Yes and no.’

  He didn’t elaborate and she gave a hesitant laugh. ‘I’m confused.’

  ‘I know to whom it was last sold, back in 1943 – the guy who double-crossed them, the same guy who bought your Renoir.’ Flora swallowed, not remotely surprised. All roads, it seemed, led back to Von Taschelt. ‘But he died the same year himself, leaving no apparent heirs. I have no idea where or with whom it is now. Like the Renoir, it’s vanished. No trace.’ He cast her a look. ‘Of course, if the Renoir’s showed up with your clients, perhaps you have the portrait too?’

  Flora’s mouth dropped open and he laughed. ‘I’m just messing with you.’

  ‘Oh!’ She swallowed, so sure he’d been able to see the truth in her face. ‘Well . . .’ she said, trying to recover. ‘If ever . . . if ever you should want—’

  His hand reached across the table and clasped hers. ‘Is this where you offer me your services and try to find it for me?’ he asked, his voice lower suddenly. ‘Because if what you said earlier is true, about not dating your clients, then I’m really not feeling incentivized to become one of them.’

  Flora felt the floor drop an inch. ‘I . . . I . . .’ she stammered, feeling the blood rush up her cheeks like a tide as he held her stare, his pupils opening like black tulips, his cards on the table now.

  For the second time in as many minutes, she didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked, his thumb pressing slightly on the veins on her inner wrist, feeling how her pulse raced.

  She shook her head. Between the argument with Freddie and this conversation, she had been well and truly robbed of her appetite. ‘No, not really,’ she admitted.<
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  ‘Want to get out of here?’

  He stared at her, unafraid of the silence his question brought, unafraid of the rejection she might yet give, unafraid of everything. He was bold, brave, vital, here.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered, even as he raised his arm to get the bill.

  The moon fell in great sabre-flashes of lambent light across the dark glossed floor, the cadmium yellow of the painted dress glowing like a miniature sun on the opposite wall. She couldn’t take her eyes off it. It had felt as though another person had been in the room with them, its presence so fully fleshed and defined.

  Beside her, Noah slept and she wondered again at the events that had led to them lying here together. There were so many reasons why, ordinarily, it would never have happened – she wasn’t looking for this, he wasn’t her type, she was here to work . . . Good reasons, all of them. But events of the past few weeks had converged inside her to create a perfect storm of insecurity and lies, tipping her off-balance just enough to send her running for the escape he offered, if only for a night.

  She watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, his skin tanned and dark beneath light sweeps of hair, his muscles relaxed, mouth parted slightly. He had been a skilled lover and she had clung to him, hungry and grateful for the hiatus he brought as she allowed her body to take over from her mind for a while. How long had it been since she’d shared a bed with someone? Two months? Nearly three? Too long, anyway, for a young single woman, that was for sure. Was it any wonder Ines kept trying to get her to give things another go with Stefan?

  She stared at the Renoir, knowing precisely what a privilege it was to even stand in a room and be witness to it, much less to sleep there. There wasn’t much else to look at, anyway, possibly for that very reason. What else could compete? There wasn’t anything more to see in there than she had clocked on her fleeting, polite visit this afternoon. (Had it really only been this afternoon that she’d first come here? She’d had no inkling then that she’d be sleeping here the same night.) The wardrobes were flush and push-touch; the shimmery silk rug, delicious to the touch of her bare feet, a plain grey rising to silver; the stovepipe-dark walls free of a single fingerprint. There were no chests of drawers or radiators to break up the lines of the room, no other photographs or even a cufflink tray to betray human occupancy of the almost gallery-like space. There was just the painting, the bed and them.

  She lay there a while longer, listening to the sound of his slow, sleeping breaths, her legs beginning to twitch as she replayed in her mind the conversation with Freddie. He wouldn’t really cut her off. Would he? She had no doubt her instincts were right about Aggie. If she only knew what was happening . . . But could she take the risk?

  She jerked suddenly, a bolt of anger barrelling through her that they were even in this position – hiding from friends, living with secrets and lies. Noah stirred slightly, shifting onto his side, away from her. Flora lay still for a moment, restless, heart pounding, before she silently lifted the duvet off her and got up. She couldn’t lie here next to him.

  She padded over the rug, slipping on a cotton dressing gown that had been hanging on the hook in the bathroom. It swamped her and she rolled back the sleeves, tiptoeing out of the bedroom and into the vast acreage of the main living area.

  At the kitchen sink, she ran herself a glass of water – it took several minutes of pushing against dummy walls before she located the glasses. As she sipped the water, she dispassionately surveyed the trail of clothes that stretched along the floor, these traces of passion marring the otherwise pristine minimalism of the apartment. She winced and looked away, walking over to the windows and looking down on Vienna as it slept. There wasn’t a light on in any of the opposing apartment blocks and the trams were still at last. It was after three in the morning – ‘the witching hour’, her father had always said – and she felt as though she was the only person in Europe awake right now.

  She turned away from the peaceful scene, gazing back into the apartment, her eyes scanning it with an outsider’s scrutiny. She took in the expensive Italian sofa, the Seurat above the fireplace, the marble wall, the industrial kitchen, the bank of impressive books and sculptures making a considered statement about the refined cultural tastes of the owner of the apartment – Fifty Shades of Grey notwithstanding.

  It felt wrong being here. She knew she ought to go to bed, try to sleep and then make a polite but hasty retreat in the morning. If she could escape before he suggested breakfast, she’d be doing well—

  Her eyes fell to the drawer, the almost-invisible drawer that lined the bottom of the bookcase like a plinth. Instantly, her mind went back to work. The portrait.

  There was a file in there, he’d told her that, detailing the provenance of the portrait with the same meticulous attention to detail as he’d compiled on the Renoir. Yes, at the restaurant he’d given her the name of the artist and the name of the subject, both of which would be helpful in establishing the title and kicking off that provenance research. On the other hand, if the information was all just sitting there, already collated . . .

  She looked over to the bedroom door. It remained ajar, not a sound suggesting Noah had stirred or noticed her missing. Quickly she put down her glass and scurried to the drawer, pushing on it and pulling out the box file. Inside, she looked for the red folder tabbed Art. Then she flicked the sub-files for the artist Gustav Huber.

  She found it quickly thanks to his alphabetized system and, kneeling on the floor, her eyes darting every few seconds towards the bedroom, she hurriedly took off the paper clip. Topmost was a colour photocopy of the painting and stapled to it, the same photo she’d seen in the Renoir file earlier.

  She put the photos down and looked at the next sheet of paper. To her surprise it wasn’t a receipt or copy of a ledger but a letter – she scanned it quickly but as it was in German she was unable to understand anything it said, only that it was addressed to Herr Haas and signed Gustav Huber. There were no numerals that she could make out suggesting a transfer of money between them, not unless it was written in longhand. Had it been a gift, perhaps? Or was this just an acceptance of the commission? A chase for payment maybe? There were so many possibilities and yet again she was locked out of understanding what they might be.

  Remembering her phone in her bag, she thought she could photograph the letter and get someone else to translate it later, but it was in the bedroom, beside the bed. Dare she go in there and risk waking Noah? She couldn’t afford to leave this paperwork lying around in case he did wake up.

  Frustrated, she set it aside and studied the final sheet. It was an original copy of a ledger, the ink now bleeding rusty yellow onto the paper, that familiar trademark oval around the letter-heading at the top of the page and she took in the dates, that dreaded name again.

  But she felt the hairs rise on the backs of her arms as a sudden sound – the one she’d feared – in the bedroom caught her attention. She heard the creak of the bed, the rustle of the duvet being thrown back. With a gasp, she shuffled the papers into a neat pile and paper-clipped them together, but there wasn’t time to find the exact spot in the alphabetized order and she slid them randomly into the red file before placing it in the box file and depositing it all back in the drawer.

  When Noah emerged a moment later, she was standing by the window, a glass of water in her hand and her back to him. Silently he walked over, slipping a hand inside the gown and closing it around one breast, his lips on her neck. She closed her eyes and groaned lightly, pushing her body back against the length of his, nuzzling into his touch. If he did feel the quickened thud of her heart against his palm, he would put it down to sexual excitement. Nothing more.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘We have a big problem.’ Flora was pacing the tiny office, having waited all day for New York to wake up and then – thanks to a golfing day with clients at the Maidstone in East Hampton – for Angus to actually get near a Wi-Fi connection. It was Sunday but she had come straight from
the airport and it was getting dark outside now. She was feeling almost hysterical at the thought of a shower, a meal and a sleep, and Angus’s candy-pink golfing jumper wasn’t helping matters.

  Angus kept his poker face on. ‘I’m listening.’ This was what he always said when he meant, ‘You’re scaring me.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘You know the portrait I found in the downstairs apartment?’

  There was a pause. ‘The untitled, unsigned – ergo worthless – one?’ he asked after a moment, visibly relaxing that it wasn’t anything to do with the Renoir and leaning on his nine iron.

  ‘Exactly.’

  He arched an eyebrow. ‘What about it?’

  ‘I’ve got an artist’s name and a title for it.’

  Angus looked baffled and Flora could see he was trying to link why she was telling him about this when she had travelled out to investigate the Renoir. ‘Uh . . . OK. So?’

  ‘No. The question you have to ask me is, how? How do I know all this?’

  ‘OK, Flora, how do you know all this?’

  ‘Noah Haas told me . . . The woman in the painting is his great-aunt.’

  There was a silence. ‘You’re kidding?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Well, that’s a bit of a big fucking coincidence,’ he exclaimed.

  She took a deep breath again. ‘Yes and no.’

  Angus looked back at her suspiciously. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s a big coincidence that I happened to end up in the apartment of the great-nephew of the woman whose portrait we currently have warehoused in Paris. Less so when you learn that it was sold to a certain dealer in 1943.’

  Angus’s face fell instantly. ‘Oh Jesus, don’t tell me—’

  ‘Franz Von Taschelt. Yes, I’m afraid so,’ she finished for him.

  ‘Shit!’ he hissed, getting up from his chair and beginning to pace too. He disappeared out of sight briefly but she sat still, knowing he’d reappear shortly. ‘So that’s two paintings, now, in the Vermeils’ apartment that were sold to Von Taschelt?’