The Collector

by Anne-Laure Thiblemont

  Gaudin slowly straightened up, and she caught a not-so-reassuring glimmer in his eyes.

  “What?” she insisted.

  “I didn’t know he was looking for them,” he finally said.

  Marion got up from her chair and moved to a closer one.

  “Do you recognize them?”

  He nodded.

  “They’re exceptional pieces from northern Peru.” Gaudin cleared his throat before adding, “Very rare, from the Piura region. And they still have their emerald ornamentation. Tomb raiders usually sell the gems separately.”

  “So you’ve seen them before? Do you know where they are?”

  “They were put up for auction three years ago. It was in June.”

  “Why didn’t Magni acquire them then?”

  “He’s the one who sold them.”

  “I don’t understand.” Marion stood up and started pacing in front of the couch. “I was told that I needed to lay my hands on three sculptures. The attorney didn’t say that Magni once owned them. I thought you said he saved everything, that he never let go of a single sculpture.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Except for these three. He could have sold others without you knowing.”

  “Those were the only ones.”

  “So why’d he sell them?”

  Gaudin didn’t respond. Avoiding eye contact, he crossed and uncrossed his legs.

  “Who was the auctioneer that handled the sale?” Marion finally asked, her voice rising.

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Of course you don’t.”

  Marion sat down again and thought for a few moments.

  “Do you happen to know who bought them?”

  “The buyers remained anonymous. They can do that at auctions.”

  “Do you think I’m new to this? Of course they can, but when you want something, you find it,” she said, staring at the personal assistant until he look at her.

  “You have no idea who bought them?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “When did Magni initially purchase them?”

  “In January of the same year.”

  “What? He didn’t keep them very long—barely six months. That’s strange, isn’t it, for someone so attached to his artifacts?”

  Obviously, Magni wasn’t exactly the man Gaudin was making him out to be.

  “And who sold them to him?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Good God, you were his personal assistant.”

  “Do you think that made me privy to all his secrets?” he answered in a voice so sharp, Marion was forced to release her glare and look away.

  I’ll never get anywhere with this dude, she thought. And I still don’t know anything about my father. Where did his money come from? Did he work? Did he have any friends? The estate attorney had mentioned a stormy relationship with a woman that had lasted ten years. That’s all he could say. And this assistant wasn’t going to be of any help—he was more of a clam, and maybe even a scared clam.

  Gaudin was withholding information. She was sure of it. This was going to be a tough match. He had good reason to keep his mouth shut. As long as those three sculptures remained at large, he would be master of the house and owner of everything in it. That was the second provision of the will. Evidently, this collection was also his. After thirty years of serving Magni, Gaudin would not back down so easily. And yet Edmond Magni didn’t designate him as the legatee so the collection could live on. How strange.

  2

  Marion stepped out of the mansion onto a quiet side street in the sixteenth arrondissement of Paris, one of the city’s most exclusive residential neighborhoods, foreign to her, despite the concentration of museums in the area. Her life is so much more ordinary than this, she thought as she headed to metro station. Like the dull clouds crowding the morning sky. Yet Paris had a way of making even gray beautiful.

  Needing to clear her head, Marion changed directions, and instead of turning right toward the Passy station, she veered left and headed to the Place du Trocadéro. There, she crossed the gardens, taking in the Dame de Fer—France’s Iron Lady, the Eiffel Tower—before turning left and following the Seine River to the Parisian Golden Triangle: Avenue Montaigne, with Dior, Chanel, Nina Ricci, wealthy clients, and prestigious auctions.

  Finally, Marion Spicer marched into SearchArt. She had barely taken two steps into her office when her boss flagged her down. As usual, she wasn’t in a good mood.

  “I’ve been waiting for you. I want you in my office,” Françoise Vigan demanded, then slammed the door behind her.

  After her mind-boggling visit with Gaudin, Marion was unfazed by her employer’s order, a first. Her natural inclination was to jump at the head honcho’s command.

  Françoise Vigan was a woman who only grudgingly greeted her employees with a “hello” in the morning. She made her money on the victims of theft—collectors, patrons, bankers, government officials, and lawyers. Investigating stolen art was the firm’s specialty.

  SearchArt also did business with Christie’s, Sotheby’s, and a few French auctioneers that didn’t have the time or money to thoroughly research the origins of objects they intended to present for bidding. The firm inspected artwork with a fine-tooth comb before reviewing the channels the items had gone through: the antiques dealers, bric-a-brac traders, and appraisers who frequently supplied auctions with stolen goods. SearchArt employees did hands-on investigation and used a vast, inter-agency photo library of stolen objects—two hundred thousand paintings, knickknacks, and pieces of furniture. The database aggregated information on stolen goods from insurance companies, Interpol, the FBI, and the French Banditry Repression Brigade, which had an elite white-collar crime unit dedicated to art theft.

  Those who preferred not to declare the theft of an artwork—for whatever reason—were treated in a much more confidential manner. Françoise Vigan profited greatly from well-known names in the art world who didn’t want their vulnerabilities exposed. In fact, she was often their last hope. Marion specialized in eighteenth-century furniture, jewelry, silverware, and other objects. In five years, she had succeeded in having twenty-some pieces withdrawn from public auction. Compared with the seven thousand pieces of art stolen in France every year, this was nothing. But in the world of art, her record was impressive.

  Most of her cases involved expensive but not-so-rare antiques: roll-top desks, majolica pottery, candlesticks, clocks, eighteenth-century ewers, and Cartier brooches and rings. Verifying their authenticity wasn’t always easy. Stolen objects were often doctored before being sold off. The designer markings might be removed or falsified. Clock mechanisms were sometimes altered. Cabinet locks were often changed. Candelabras were refurbished. An antique could quickly become unidentifiable.

  Marion could already hear Françoise Vigan’s heels clicking just above her head. Her boss, whose office was one floor up, was losing patience. Françoise always stomped whenever she wanted to speak with someone. SearchArt was her personal banana republic.

  She’ll just have to wait, Marion huffed while scanning in her father’s photos to see if the sculptures were in the system. She entered the characteristics in the search engine: “warrior, woman with child, jaguar, pre-Columbian, terra-cotta, emerald,” and the recognition feature worked its magic. Twelve pieces appeared on the screen. None of them could be confused with hers. At least hers were not stolen.

  Deep in thought, Marion stared at the computer. She had presumed that she had gotten her interest in art—she wouldn’t exactly call it a passion—from her mother, who spent much of her time in museums. Her mother had always had a greater connection with the creative world than the real one. She would visit a museum whenever she was feeling blue, and she’d drag Marion along. Eventually, Marion didn’t need to be dragged. Now she knew that art also connected her to her father.

  As she reviewed Magni’s images on the computer screen, it dawned on her that the photos were of an exceptional
quality. Zooming in, she was even able to make out the flaws in the stones. The work of a pro, she thought as she turned over the photos one by one. A small label was on the back of each: “Studio 6.” Collectors didn’t usually have documents that were this good. Theirs tended to be blurry or overexposed, too dark or too bright to make out the details. And often that didn’t matter to them. Most collectors thought their objects were unique. In reality, though, one decorated clock looked like many others. One commode could be mistaken for another.

  Françoise was still stomping. Marion headed to the stairs.

  ~ ~ ~

  As Marion took a seat in front of her boss’s desk, Françoise pretended not to notice and continued signing papers. A few minutes went by before she finally looked up.

  Marion sighed. This woman became more ridiculous with each passing day. Françoise had flaxen hair and was tall and scrawny, like a Giacometti sculpture. Over her wiry build she piled layers of loose black tops, which she paired with pencil skirts, also black. And her neck! It was always covered with a thick coiled necklace of pearls or jade, depending on her mood. Masking the many folds and wrinkles, her fine jewelry was like a Medici collar, hence the name her staff had given her behind her back.

  “Marion, where are we with the Jeanson file?” La Medici fired.

  “We have a problem.”

  “What is it?” she groaned while giving Marion’s ensemble—jeans, sneakers, and a V-neck sweater—a disapproving look. With those clothes, plus her boyish haircut, Marion stuck out in La Medici’s staunchly formal setting. The woman surrounded herself with Jean-Michel Franck influences: white walls, Parsons tables, and cube chairs that hurt Marion’s back. The room was as stiff as the woman working in it.

  “Sotheby’s has agreed to withdraw Jeanson’s teapot from their sale,” Marion explained. “It is easily identifiable with the ‘Mons’ inscription, the 1743 date, and the animal-shaped spout. Clearly it’s his. But the seller’s clean. He didn’t steal it or buy it from someone who did. He purchased the teapot from an antiques dealer in Amsterdam. There’s no way we can implicate him.”

  “Does he have a receipt?”

  “Yes. He’s bulletproof. Even though he knows now that the teapot was stolen, he has made it clear that he will not return it. And the law’s on his side. Legally, possession is as good as the title. He’s the legitimate owner. If Jeanson wants to retrieve his property, he’ll have to buy it back.”

  “How ironic. The law’s supposed to protect the victim. In this case it hurts him. So what has Jeanson decided to do? Is he willing to pay?”

  “Forty-five thousand euros for an object that belongs to him? He’s having a hard time accepting that.”

  “He can always go after the merchant.”

  “I don’t think he wants to. I think he’d rather believe the object is still his but just living at another man’s house.”

  “All right.” Françoise was quiet for a few seconds. “Let it go.”

  Marion looked at her, stunned. Not even two weeks earlier, the Jeanson case was a top priority. For the first time ever, Françoise had asked Marion to meet with the client and handle negotiations with his lawyer. Françoise never asked staff members to represent the firm. She wanted outsiders to think of SearchArt as hers alone.

  With a smile, she handed Marion a red folder.

  “I know this is a bit out of your realm, but…”

  Marion opened the file and closed it immediately.

  “This is way out of my realm,” she said. “Bruno handles these pieces.”

  “This is too delicate a case for him. Don’t argue. Just study the file.”

  “I’m behind on my other work. You’ll have to assign this to someone else,” Marion responded without losing her cool.

  “You’re not following me. I want you to take care of it and no one else. It’s time to familiarize yourself with pre-Columbian art. Since last winter’s theft, we’re getting more cases like this one. I advise getting over your qualms, if you want to stay with this firm.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Back in her office, Marion threw the red file on her desk. What a bitch! Staff members specialized in certain eras and regions for a reason. What was the woman planning to do? Did she intend to hire another eighteenth-century expert? Maybe she was about to fire Bruno.

  Marion had no particular attachment to SearchArt. She had wanted to leave for some time but hadn’t gotten up the nerve. Marion wasn’t a rash or reckless person. She liked order in her life, and the slightest change could throw her off. Maybe once she had her inheritance and was rich, she’d be more daring. Only she wasn’t rich yet. Yes, an account with two million euros had been opened in her name, but it could only be used to buy the three pieces of art. If the bank noticed even a modest withdrawal for a designer purse—not that she wanted one—her whole inheritance would be taken away.

  “First the inheritance, now this case… What a strange coincidence,” she muttered before dismissing the idea altogether. La Medici couldn’t possibly know. The estate attorney had assured her everything would be kept confidential.

  She looked at the stacks of files on her shelves, the floor, and her desk. They were everywhere. That was one good reason she always met clients elsewhere.

  Still obsessing over her meeting with La Medici, Marion stepped over and around the papers to reach her desk.

  Bruno, who specialized in primitive art and archeological objects, was no novice. He could have easily taken care of this case. Why had it been given to her when she was already drowning in assignments? The eighteenth-century pieces she worked on were the firm’s most lucrative. And she excelled in her work. She couldn’t remember faces, books, or movie titles, but she could describe in detail the interior of a château ten years after seeing it in a magazine—a clear advantage when so-called owners couldn’t even draw up an inventory of the objects they were protecting.

  The phone jolted her from her musings.

  “Yes, Sophie. Who called? Mr. Rambert. What? He’s called three times already? Give me his number. Anyone else? Okay. Do me a favor. Take down all my messages, and say I’m in a meeting. I can’t have any more distractions. No, don’t worry. Everything’s fine.”

  She hung up. Then, as she collected the papers that had spilled out of the file when she threw it on her desk, a photo caught her eye.

  Same size, same sharp focus, same lighting. She turned the picture over: “Studio 6.”

  The stone shaman’s face drew her in. There was something familiar about it. Had she seen it at her father’s mansion? She stared at the image, trying to remember the details of the figure in Magni’s collection. No luck. Marion cursed her memory’s unfortunate habit of disregarding things she wasn’t interested in. She leafed through the pages of the file, noting there was no certificate of authenticity.

  She did, however, find the client: Laurent Duverger, a certified appraiser for the Paris Court of Appeals. She was aware of the man’s reputation. Bruno had told her about him. In the world of pre-Columbian art, Duverger was the go-to guy for expert appraisals. He practically had a monopoly on it.

  This file was too sparse. Marion headed over to Bruno’s office, which was just across from hers, and opened the door without knocking. Sitting behind his computer, Bruno yelped.

  “Shit, Marion. Warn me next time. I thought you were La Medici.”

  “Are you hiding something?” she teased.

  “What do you want?” he mock-pouted in return. “You were late this morning, leaving me all alone with my coffee and the crazy lady upstairs.”

  “I’m sure you’ve recovered from the trauma. Hey, I like your tie today. Wide red-and-blue stripes instead of the narrow ones.”

  “You know me, Marion, always the professional. Don’t you think I look stylishly conservative in my gray suit and Oxford tie?”

  “Yes, you’re a handsome one, Bruno. No doubt about it. I’ve got a question for you. Have you ever dealt with Laurent Duverger?”

  “Sur
e. Whenever I’ve got an ID problem, he’s the guy I call. He can spot the smallest crack or sign of restoration on any terra-cotta. It’s like he’s had his hands on every one of them at some point or another.”

  “That’s not what I mean. Have any of his pieces ever been stolen?”

  “Maybe. But he’s never come to us for help.”

  “Does he have any special ties with La Medici?”

  “Why don’t you sit down? You’re making me dizzy with all your pacing. And that thing you do with your hands—you know, like you’re writing on your palm—that doesn’t help.”

  “Okay, enough with your analyzing all my annoying little habits—I know you really think they’re charming. I need your help.”

  “With what?”

  “La Medici just made me take a case from Duverger. It’s pre-Columbian. I have a vague idea why she wants me on it.”

  Bruno gave her a questioning look.

  “Don’t worry. It has nothing to do with you.”

  “I’m not worried, just curious. That’s usually my department, but there’s never any telling with La Medici. Anyway, are you okay? You seem a little tense.”

  “I’m tired, that’s all.”

  Bruno studied her for a while. “I don’t know if they have a special relationship. I’ve never seen them together. All I know is that Duverger refers his clients to SearchArt when their pieces have been stolen. Sometimes he serves as a go-between.”

  “So he generates business for us.”

  “You could say that.”

  Marion stared out the window for a few seconds and then looked at her colleague. “Do you keep all the auction catalogs?”

  “Yeah, I try to.” Bruno pointed to the shelves on a wall.

  “Can I check them out?”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “A pre-Columbian art auction from three years ago, in June.”

  Bruno stood up and walked over to a row of catalogs, which he skimmed with his fingers.

  “Are you sure of the year? I’ve got nothing from then. Maybe it was a no-catalog auction. Do you know who organized it?”