The Pearl Thief

by Fiona McIntosh

  There was a collective gasp from her colleagues.

  ‘And what I want to know – need to know from you, please – is precisely who has brought this piece to the British Museum?’

  3

  JARDIN DU LUXEMBOURG, PARIS

  Katerina drew back on the cigarette, watching absently as the tip of the Pall Mall Long burnt orange while she inhaled. It felt odd to have released her name again in public after so long being known as someone else. She held the smoke in her lungs for a moment longer than was usual for her and gradually exhaled while she pondered her situation. She was addicted neither to the nicotine nor to the so-called ‘sophisticated look’ that many of her female colleagues believed cigarettes provided. Instead she lit one only when she needed its calming drug and the soothing action that lifting the cigarette to her lips brought.

  ‘I didn’t know you smoked,’ remarked a gentleman who had sat down nearby perhaps two minutes earlier to share the bench she’d chosen on this icy day. He had read his newspaper in silence, not so much as clearing his throat while she smoked.

  She had been deep in thought, recalling that morning of just over a week ago in London, and become lost in her musings over its dramatic revelation that had led her to return to Paris disappointingly ahead of her planned return. It was the phone call with the solicitor that had spooked her, causing her to run away from the Pearls and take some time to think through her next step.

  At first she hadn’t realised the man was addressing her; it took a moment to register that there was no one else nearby he was speaking to. She turned to regard him properly now. The overall impression was of an indeterminate man whose most obvious feature was being dark of hair and eye. Beyond that he was neither tall nor stocky, not thin or paunchy. He was hard to age, too. She guessed late thirties, possibly into his forties, although unwrinkled skin belied that. He regarded her steadily, did not dip his gaze with the embarrassment she hoped she could prompt with a morose, cat-eyed stare at being interrupted. ‘That’s a coincidence,’ she replied in her best sardonic tone, ‘because I didn’t know something either.’

  His expression turned into a quizzical frown.

  ‘That we’ve even been introduced,’ she finished. She looked away once more and inhaled on her cigarette again; it was meant to be smooth but it was tasting bitter, and matching her mood.

  ‘Forgive me, mademoiselle,’ he said, not sounding injured but clearly hearing her warning.

  She plucked a piece of tobacco from the tip of her tongue, accepting belatedly that she’d heard no intention in his approach; no flirtatious agenda, anyway. Now that she concentrated on it, he had merely stated a fact rather than trying to inject charm or win a smile. She’d looked away, irritated, but now she returned her gaze with a frown. ‘Do we know each other?’

  He shook his head briefly and the smile, though not much more than a crease at the corners of his mouth, felt genuine to her, and in that heartbeat she glimpsed humility. It had taken courage for him to speak to her, she decided, and Katerina felt the guilt turned on her when he dipped his head. ‘Not formally, no.’

  She pulled back on the wariness that had become so much a part of her that every new face was a potential foe. ‘And how do we connect informally?’

  He folded up his paper, tucking it beneath his arm. ‘You slipped on the ice over by the pond a couple of winters ago. You were not the only one unsteady. I lent you an arm to the nearby railings. It was all very amusing for everyone.’ He blinked. ‘I’m sorry,’ he added, as if realising that she likely never spoke to strangers or that he’d intruded. ‘You’ve probably forgotten.’

  ‘I don’t forget much.’

  ‘Barely registered it, then.’ He grinned. ‘It was of no consequence.’

  She gave her Pall Mall a final chance to impress, watching him carefully through the smoke she blew upwards. No, still astringent. Blimey! – she liked that English saying – what she needed was coffee on this frigid day. It was true, she couldn’t bring to mind the encounter he spoke of, but she didn’t want to be deliberately rude again. ‘And why didn’t you need help?’ she asked, glad it didn’t come out in English.

  He lifted a shoulder. ‘I suppose because I don’t make a habit of wearing high heels,’ he said in the same soft tone.

  ‘Maybe you should try it,’ she continued. ‘It is the true mark of control to navigate Paris on heels.’

  ‘Perhaps I will in private,’ he replied.

  She lightened her tone. ‘Your wife may not approve.’

  They both found awkward smiles. ‘Well, fortunately, I’m not married.’ He lifted his fedora from the thick, blue-black thatch that revealed a precision parting, combed to one side like a schoolboy’s. ‘Daniel Horowitz.’

  ‘I hope I thanked you properly back then?’

  ‘You were in a hurry, but your smile was enough.’

  ‘Then allow me to thank you now, Mr Horowitz.’

  ‘Daniel, please.’

  She nodded. ‘So … you’re right, I don’t normally smoke, hardly ever in recent times. I discovered these extra-long cigarettes in London recently. They are good for at least three, maybe four, full minutes of deep thought when there is a problem to sort through.’

  Her companion nodded. ‘Then I hope you will untangle it successfully.’

  Her gaze narrowed; she was impressed he hadn’t pried, especially when she’d inadvertently given an opening.

  He surprised her further by standing to make his departure. ‘Enjoy your contemplative Sunday, mademoiselle. Again, forgive me for interrupting you.’

  She was unused to men taking their leave of her; most liked to hang around and forge a pathway into conversation. She realised she was staring and he seemed eager to leave. ‘You didn’t.’

  ‘Didn’t what, mademoiselle?’

  ‘You didn’t interrupt me.’ His expression said he would argue that. She gave a nod. ‘Or, if you did, I am glad of it.’ She lifted a shoulder. ‘It gave me an opportunity to thank you for your kindness of the past.’

  ‘A trifle,’ he dismissed gently. Horowitz gave a small bow. His gaze was serious and it was as though the other two dozen or so people she could see, just in her peripheral vision alone, were not in the Luxembourg Gardens today, as far as he was concerned. He was oblivious to all but her. ‘I hope you can navigate your dilemma,’ he said.

  Dilemma? What a lovely, mild word to describe the fresh trauma that had come at her without warning in London. She could hardly believe it was she inviting companionship. ‘I’m Severine Kassel,’ she said, the lie still coming easily. She swapped the smouldering cigarette to her left hand and her right was still ungloved from smoking. She extended it.

  He kissed it. ‘Enchanted.’

  It was a feather’s touch, gone so fast she could believe it hadn’t happened. ‘You walk in the gardens often?’

  ‘Daily.’

  ‘Ah, so we must pass regularly.’

  ‘Daily.’ He grinned.

  ‘Are you watching me, Mr Horowitz?’ Again, no embarrassment at the truth that stared out from behind eyes the colour of a depthless umber, like those Rembrandt used to create the back-grounds of complex browns on his masterpieces. ‘You are,’ she said, with dawning. She was the one who sounded unsure now. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Why does any man watch any woman?’ As she startled, he held up a hand. ‘You have nothing to fear from me, mademoiselle. I have lived in Paris since the end of the war and I have moved through this park each day since I shifted to the 6th.’

  Sixth arrondissement? Katerina was impressed: arguably the most coveted of neighbourhoods on the Left Bank, perhaps in all of Paris. He was either wealthy or served a wealthy family.

  He smiled. ‘I notice your arrival and departure from the park every day, and while I have no idea where you live and no idea where you head – or even what time of the day you may retrace your steps, because it varies – I admit to looking out for you when I’m here.’ He sighed. ‘It’s simply a pers
onal ritual. Your walking through is another safe day.’

  ‘Safe?’ She blinked, intrigued.

  He shrugged. ‘After the insanity of war, I like my world to remain the same these days, mademoiselle. The repetition of daily rituals – including your passage through the gardens – is reassurance that all remains unchanged and well. I make time now to sit in the gardens each morning and late afternoon, sometimes into the early evening; I like to watch people walking around with life on their minds rather than death.’

  Nevertheless, she thought, Left Bank, attired so smartly? It snagged in her mind but then he seemed to eavesdrop her thought and answer it.

  ‘I was left money by family so I could choose to do anything I wanted.’

  ‘How fortunate.’ She tried to keep the disbelief out of her tone but chose not to pry.

  If he noticed her scepticism, he didn’t show it. He continued talking in an even voice. ‘I like the peacefulness here. I am reassured by gardens that flourish with a little care – they can be depended upon too; they can come back from the dead, they can reinvent themselves, they can be young and flirty again or they can be majestic.’ He paused. ‘That was a long speech to explain how it is I am able to look for you at the beginning and end of most days.’

  She half smiled, half frowned. ‘I’m not sure whether to feel confused by you, Daniel, or charmed by your simple routine. Why me?’

  ‘I suppose I noticed you because you are always – how shall I say – distracted, not part of this world, in a way. I’m enchanted by your mystery and where your mind is when you stride with your tall, elegant gait past here. You don’t notice anyone, it seems, and the only indication that you’re aware of the changes around you is by the clothing that you shift into, depending on the season.’

  ‘Is there a word for what you do? Should I be talking to the police?’ She was only half jesting.

  He shrugged. ‘Let me buy you a coffee to warm you. You can ask me any question you like and I shall answer with only the truth.’

  She showed she believed him by nodding; she didn’t imagine he was capable of a secret. ‘All right,’ she agreed, her body needing the caffeine. This was a day of surprises: smoking again, and now agreeing to have coffee with a stranger. But then, this was a month of drama and change, so as she had nearly two decades ago, she followed her instincts.

  They didn’t have far to move to. The café had only a few hardy drinkers seated outside, and even indoors it was barely one quarter full. She sensed that he was taking careful stock, intrigued that he gestured to an outdoor table at the furthest edge. She obliged as she was dressed for the cold and preferred being outside anyway. He held the seat out for her before removing his hat and placing it on the table.

  ‘Do I have soot on my nose?’

  ‘Forgive me.’ He smiled. It was a crooked gesture, as though his muscles weren’t used to operating all the ropes and pulleys that delivered an easy grin. His forehead seemed to dip in sympathetic synchrony as though to him a smile was a creasing of the features, rather than a lifting of them. She was yet to see his teeth and momentarily wondered if they were black, or missing, or false. Is that why he found it hard to smile with ease? ‘I was staring, my apologies. Your right eye is helplessly intriguing.’

  She shrugged. ‘So they say. It’s a flaw I’ve lived with all my life and so these days I neither care about it, nor do I share the fascination.’

  ‘It only adds to your …’ Katerina decided if he used the word ‘beauty’ she would make an excuse to leave; she had no time for men trying to charm her. ‘Dislocation from the rest of us.’

  Her turn to smile. He hadn’t disappointed. ‘You make me sound like an alien.’

  ‘I’d prefer to say ethereal. It’s as though you walk a different plane, mademoiselle, and I do mean that as a compliment. People who are different are far more interesting than the rest of us who appear pressed from a mould.’

  ‘Well, I like symmetry, Mr Horowitz. So in childhood the curiosity of my eye was a burden; I like perfection.’

  ‘There is no perfection in humankind, I’m afraid. War has taught us that.’

  ‘Ah, but there is perfection in the natural world. Take a perfectly round pearl from an oyster, for instance, or a flawless, dazzling white diamond; a conch shell, a lion, an oak, a rainbow, lightning …’ She watched him nod. ‘But worry not, the burden I speak of eased as I matured, and I must admit by the time my little brother came along with an identical mote in his eye, I realised it was not a flaw but an inherited mark. My father said it proved unequivocally who I was and the same went for my brother. We bore our family’s signature.’ She smiled at the memory. ‘He said our job was to carry it forward into new generations. He had a way of viewing problems from their most favourable angle – at the very least, as opportunities.’

  ‘That’s a rare quality.’ He paused. ‘I must admit I’m finding it hard to imagine that the woman I’ve watched from a distance as my little touchstone of security is taking coffee with me.’ At this moment a waiter sidled up. He possessed the typical harried air of all French waiters, she noted, that suggested they couldn’t care if you ordered or didn’t, but be quick about your decision.

  ‘Mademoiselle? Monsieur?’ He had a notebook but didn’t bother with it. She could see he’d already sized them up as a couple who would not be ordering food.

  ‘Coffee, short, no sugar. Thank you.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I’ll have mine with milk and sugar, please.’

  The man reacted with little more than a flare of his nostrils before he turned on his heel to disappear inside the café.

  ‘I think we French are rude,’ she remarked. ‘Waiters in London are far chattier.’

  ‘That’s where you’ve been recently?’

  She nodded. ‘A short sabbatical … it was work. But then, you would know I’ve been away, surely?’

  He tried his smile again; it worked a little easier this time. ‘Yes, I noticed. I’m glad you’ve returned. My world is ordered again.’ This made her grin with genuine warmth; she wondered if he was thinking similar thoughts about how awkward she found the gesture too. ‘May I ask what it is you do?’ he enquired.

  ‘I work for the Louvre and I was on loan to the British Museum.’

  He nodded. ‘How exciting.’

  ‘It has its moments but essentially it’s quiet, often tedious, highly detailed work. I liken it to being a spy, working in the dark, trying to unlock secrets.’

  She watched him hesitate momentarily, as if she’d caught him off guard. He recovered quickly; perhaps she’d imagined it. ‘History is exciting, though,’ he ventured. ‘From fashion to habits, we’re forever changing, aren’t we?’

  ‘That is true,’ she replied.

  Their coffees arrived. ‘And a black coffee for the lady,’ the waiter said, placing down the cups and saucers from his tray. He slipped the bill under the sugar bowl and moved away as briskly as he’d arrived.

  She returned her gaze to Daniel. ‘I feel history simply repeats. We don’t learn from it.’

  ‘The wars?’ He nodded, understanding her point. ‘Nevertheless, I feel sure most would envy you your place of work and your type of work. What is your specialty, if that’s not intrusive?’

  He had her measure already, it seemed. ‘Jewellery of the antiquities, but I have a particular homegrown expertise in Jewish ritual objects.’

  Daniel’s giveaway to her was not in a flicker in his eye, not so much as a twitch in his features, but in a stillness that appeared to become absolute.

  ‘Mmm, I thought that might interest you. Jewish, am I correct?’

  ‘You are, although you wouldn’t make much of a spy, Mademoiselle Kassel. I think my name alone is a clue.’

  She chuckled over her first sip of the hot, tarry coffee. ‘How would you know what it takes to become a spy?’

  He gusted a self-conscious laugh and sipped his coffee as well. ‘You say homegrown. What do you mean by that?’ />
  She hadn’t intended to elaborate; she was usually adroit at throwing people off any scent of the secrets of her life that she wasn’t interested in sharing. But Horowitz had caught her amidst thinking on the very core of the topic she had learned to avoid. Her mind had become like a Lydian stone against which the Pearls had been dashed to leave their lustrous mark, and at present she could think of nothing else. The visible trace was upon her – had always been – and she had to follow its trail; it was the reason she’d fled from London several days ago, citing family issues.

  Her response to the Pearls had been so visceral she couldn’t bear to be close to them. She had waved away all offers to study them, handle them, even keep them at her work desk for the afternoon. Mr Partridge, still in shock from her revelation, had acted swiftly. Several hours later she had been summoned to his office and she had been addressed by her correct name, which had felt suddenly awkward. More composed by then, she had tapped at the door, prepared to explain more to him about that morning, or to answer any queries about the Pearls, avoiding discussions about her family with a steady voice.

  ‘Come in.’

  What she had not been ready for was the phone call.

  ‘Ah, she’s here. Could you hold on for just a moment, please? Thank you.’ He’d covered the phone’s receiver. ‘Mademoiselle Kassowicz, thank you for coming so swiftly. I have a Mr Summerbee on the telephone. He is the solicitor acting for the party that delivered the Pearls – er, your Pearls …’ He’d frowned, confused, before sending her a reassuring smile. ‘The Ottoman Pearls … and I’ve told him the situation we find ourselves in. He would like to speak with you.’

  Thoughts had collided. She couldn’t be impolite to Mr Partridge, who was clearly trying to help. But she did not wish to speak to anyone formally about the Pearls – not yet, anyway – and she did not dare yet meet with the solicitor who had been engaged to handle the exchange. For all she knew, Ruda Mayek might come along to that meeting as well.