The Collector

by Anne-Laure Thiblemont

  “No. And I’d be surprised if there wasn’t a catalog. Edmond Magni sold a few pieces at that auction.”

  Bruno threw her a sharp look. “Magni? What does he have to do with this?”

  “I can’t tell you. Not right now.”

  “You’re being very mysterious.”

  Bruno’s predictable display of interest amused her. She could usually confide in him, even though he was always bragging that he knew everything about everyone. But the estate attorney had warned her. For now, it would be best to keep quiet. Giving away her identity could attract all sorts of treasure seekers, and that could mess with her investigation.

  Bruno broke the silence. “It could definitely be this one auction, but I don’t have the catalog. It was super confidential. Invitation only. I think Mr. Tanglas put it on. I can check if you want.”

  “Could you send me a copy of the catalog if you find it?”

  If it was that auction, and her sculptures were sold there, she’d need the lot numbers. Even with this information, she’d have a hard time getting the buyer’s name. She’d have to be sneaky.

  “Mind if I pick your brain a few more minutes? I need to know more about Magni.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “More than just what’s been written about him.”

  “I’ve only picked up rumors here and there. It’s all speculation.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “They say the truth about a man can be determined by what he’s hiding,” Bruno began once he had settled into his chair again. “Magni was a master when it came to keeping his professional secrets hidden. He had a great fortune, and no one knows where it came from. He was invisible outside the auction houses and a few art galleries. He avoided private viewings, galas, tennis tournaments, and golf competitions where informal transactions are made. Still, he assembled pre-Columbian art collections for the Louvre, the president, and big manufacturers—and that’s just the tip of the iceberg. We know this for sure: he was a guru of his genre, and he created and conquered the market.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Consider this. Why do we rarely see Chorrera, Veracruz, or Huari pieces in collections? Magni showed very little interest in them. When he bought certain pieces or seemed fascinated with a group or culture, buyers and collectors followed his lead.”

  “There must have been people who disagreed with him. No one ever questioned him?”

  “Up until three or four years ago, no. Now things are different. Duverger’s the only one who could have stood up to Magni. He’s in cahoots with all these archeologists, and he hangs out with journalists who write about him. To boot, Duverger has great intuition. He can tell a major piece at first sight.”

  “I’d really like to believe that novice collectors relied on Magni’s opinion, but museum curators, with all their expertise, would be able to form their own judgments,” Marion said.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that. They tend to follow what other curators do in case any of their superiors question their acquisitions. And curators are all buddy buddy with buyers and collectors who do appraisals for museums. Then the curators organize big shows with pieces that belong to these same buyers and collectors. If the pieces are sold at auction later, they have the pedigree of a prestigious exhibit. See how entangled their worlds are? Their ties are shady, and their networks are so interlinked that if one of them messes up, they’re all screwed. It’s something they avoid at all costs.”

  “Okay, so Magni didn’t play the game, right?”

  “Yeah, and you know the craziest part? He was able to become one of the art world’s most recognized and respected collectors without a single soul ever laying eyes on his collection.”

  “I read that in the paper. I couldn’t believe it.”

  “Ask the appraisers, researchers, and art critics. Some were able to schedule appointments with him, but he never showed up. No explanations provided. Others got even ruder treatment. Duverger was telling me…”

  “They knew each other?”

  “Duverger and Magni? Yeah, of course. Duverger sold him a bunch of pieces.” Bruno paused. “Listen to this: Duverger told me that one time Magni refused to meet a curator just because the letter requesting the visit arrived with postage due. Magni looked down on everyone. He loved to humiliate people, and he was ruthless. But as much as he kept his professional side hidden, he had quite a reputation. His love of exhibitionism and carnival sideshows was legendary. His little soirées made a lot of noise.”

  “There must have been something more substantial written about his collection somewhere.”

  “Magni did just one interview. It was for an American magazine. He insisted that the reporter give him prior approval, and he wouldn’t allow any photos. Because no other reporter had been given this kind of opportunity, he agreed to let Magni read the article before it went into print. When the article did appear, it had been thoroughly revised—by Magni, of course.”

  “Then everything they say about him is true.”

  “Or false. It’s impossible to get an accurate depiction of the guy. Everyone’s view of him is skewed. People either admired him or hated him. But nobody really knew him. What’s left of him—his collection—that’s his only truth. I can’t wait to see it!”

  Marion diverted her eyes. She couldn’t look Bruno in the face for fear she’d give herself away. She forced a smile.

  “Thanks for your help.”

  She got up and started for the door, then turned around.

  “I almost forgot! Have you received photos from Studio 6 for any of your cases?”

  “Yeah. They’re the only good ones I ever get. They all come from Duverger’s clients.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Marion’s brain was in overdrive as she walked across the hall to her office. Her father’s sculptures could have been purchased by this appraiser. Maybe her inheritance and the file she had just been given were, indeed, connected. She had barely opened the door when the phone started ringing. It was the internal line.

  “Yes, Sophie. I told you. I’ll call him back later. Okay, okay, put him through.”

  She heard a click and then a raspy voice.

  “Marion Spicer? This is Mr. Rambert. I’m an auctioneer. I tried calling several times.”

  “Yes, I got your messages. How may I help you?”

  “I heard about your father. My sincerest condolences.”

  Marion felt her face flush. She tightened her grip on the receiver. The auctioneer continued.

  “Edmond Magni was one of our most loyal clients. So if you need an appraiser or an advisor, we’re here for you.”

  Her head was pounding. Her throat was bone dry. She couldn’t speak.

  “Miss Spicer, are you still there?”

  “Yes…”

  “It would be my pleasure to…”

  She slammed down the phone and pounded the desk with her fist.

  “Bunch of vultures,” she seethed at the phone. “Jesus, who told them? I should have known.”

  Marion was too familiar with this world. There was no way she could have kept her inheritance a secret. Of course a collection this important would excite all the treasure-seekers. Unaware of the stipulations in the will, they would be expecting hundreds of sculptures to come onto a market weakened by tighter export restrictions. And Duverger would be the first in line.

  She sighed and glanced at the red file again. The appraiser had probably used La Medici. The stolen shaman was an excuse to meet with her and test her intentions.

  So it was a fucking trap. The questions coursed through her brain. “What do I do?” she asked herself. “Should I wait? Forget about Duverger’s file? I’ve got more important things to do—that’s for sure. But who can help me investigate the sculptures? I’ve overestimated Gaudin. No point in turning to Mom. Should I even tell her about Magni’s death? What about his ex-mistress? No, she disappeared without leaving an address. Duverger is my only lead.”

>   3

  “Ninety thousand… Ninety-five… One hundred… One hundred twenty… Who can top that?” The auctioneer, in a formal black gown, waved her gavel at the crowd. The bidding room with red walls was filled to capacity and dead quiet. “I see a bid at the back of the room. A hundred thirty thousand euros… Do I have one hundred forty?”

  The crowd’s attention was focused on two people. Who would win the coveted prize? Who would opt out? In this shadow play, the participants masked their intentions and motives.

  In the front row, Laurent Duverger, wearing jeans and a brown leather jacket that accentuated his broad shoulders and overall air of power, was coolly annotating his catalog.

  The slightest misstep could work against him. Buyers and brokers were observing him, and that was certainly what he wanted. He’d made an unenthusiastic bid, let it bounce around, and then watched it get snatched up by the others. Clearly, he was a pro and enjoyed messing with his contenders and playing off their nerves. They may have been in the oldest public auction house in the world—Hôtel Drouot was founded in 1852—but the room was full of the usual pretenders, more aware of their weaknesses than their expertise. They’d want his official seal of approval. When Laurent Duverger nodded, ten others followed suit. Like sheep.

  “One hundred thirty thousand euros. Sold!”

  The gavel thudded against the wood.

  At that moment, Laurent Duverger nudged his briefcase with his foot. It smacked the floor, causing a bit of confusion and throat-clearing. The auctioneer brought the focus back to herself as she announced the next item: a serpentine green and brown mask from the fourth century. A rare beauty.

  “For this exceptional piece from Veracruz, we’ll start the bidding at a hundred twenty thousand euros. Who bids higher? A hundred forty thousand on the phone… A hundred fifty on my left. One hundred sixty on the phone. One hundred seventy from the first row.”

  The tension was rising in the room.

  “I still have one hundred seventy thousand from the man in the front row. The phone bidder is out,” the auctioneer continued.

  Laurent Duverger stood and swiftly scooped up his belongings, his face expressionless. Then he walked to the back of the room. Whispers rose as he passed. The other buyers were fidgeting in their chairs. A man off to the left with a sweaty brow was twitching—perhaps he was the collector who hired Duverger.

  “One hundred seventy thousand… Going once, going twice…” The auctioneer raised her gavel. “This is a rare piece. Don’t let it slip away. Come on! A hundred seventy thousand, I’m practically giving it away.”

  No one bit. Duverger had worried the amateurs by making them think he was unwilling to go any higher. Maybe there was something wrong with the piece—perhaps restorations that no one else had noticed. The other bidders were paralyzed, and before they could pull themselves together, the gavel dropped.

  The room was buzzing now. The auctioneer carried the precious mask to the back of the room. The appraiser, his arms crossed, was leaning against the wall. He towered over everyone around him. With a subtle nod, he accepted the piece.

  “Congratulations. That was an impressive win.” Marion held out her hand and introduced herself.

  She had been sitting not too far from him the whole time and watching him work his magic. The night before, she had started to pick up the phone several times before finally making the call. His file was missing the receipt and certificate of authenticity for the stolen shaman, so she had a valid reason to meet with him. Without even asking why she was calling, he proposed that they meet at the auction house. He gave her a detailed description of himself so she would be able to observe him. “It should be very suspenseful,” he had told her.

  The appraiser had gray eyes flecked with green. He looked her over for a moment, as if he needed time to place who she was, and then he leaned in and whispered, “Did you see that? So easy, right? You just slip a bit of doubt into the minds of your opponents, and they forfeit the game.”

  “Sure, but play that trick one too many times, and everyone will be wise to you,” Marion answered. “I’m curious. Why did you reveal yourself? You could have done your bidding anonymously.”

  “It’s Marion, right? Look at them…” Duverger directed her attention to the new round of bidding. “I could play them a hundred times, and they’d waver every time. Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  Indifferent to the many eyes on him, he took Marion’s elbow and led her out of the room, down two flights of stairs, through a crowd of walk-ins, curiosity seekers and potential bidders, and out of the building. A Bentley, its engine running, was waiting on the Rue de Drouot. Duverger opened the back door.

  “Where are we going?” Marion asked, stopping cold.

  “My office.”

  She hesitated, looked around the busy street, jumped at a car honking, and slipped into the backseat.

  Sitting next to her, Duverger propped his elbow on the armrest. His eyes were fixed on the back of the chauffeur’s head. Marion thought he looked tense and distracted. The man also looked tired. He had a five o’clock shadow.

  She watched as Duverger took out a sterling silver cigarette case with emerald cabochons. A leather jacket, gems, jeans, an expensive limo… He clearly stood out in the prissy and uptight world of art collectors and appraisers.

  He lit a cigarette without asking if it bothered her. She searched the back of the limo for something to focus on. Her eyes landed on the mask. The piece that Duverger had just paid nearly two hundred thousand euros for was lying next to his foot. One careless move, and it would be as worthless as a kid’s party mask. She couldn’t believe his indifference. He stretched out his legs and turned toward her with feline flexibility.

  “So, you wanted to speak with me?”

  “You’re the one who contacted us.”

  “I’m all ears,” he replied, amused. “What would you like to know?”

  “There’s no certificate of authenticity in the file you gave us.”

  “You didn’t ask for it.”

  “Do you have it?”

  “I bought that shaman sculpture for an American collector. At two hundred thirty thousand euros you’re allowed to call the shots.”

  “There’s no receipt in your file either.”

  “That’s not surprising. I don’t have one. It was an off-the-books transaction.”

  She thought for a moment.

  “Is that a problem?” he asked.

  “With the receipt? No. But I’m a little confused.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I’ve seen a piece that’s pretty similar to this one…” She hesitated before going for it. She didn’t know where it would lead, but she couldn’t think of a better way. “I saw it at Edmond Magni’s estate.”

  “At Edmond Magni’s estate,” the appraiser repeated. He observed her for a few seconds.

  He could have expressed his surprise and said something about the strange coincidence. But instead he responded, “You’re lucky you got to visit his home. Very few have been invited into his pantheon. I only got as far as his parlor and didn’t get to see any of his sculptures. How did you—”

  “But you’re familiar with some of them,” she interrupted to avoid further explanation. “He was one of your clients.”

  “Yes… Until about four years ago, when he cut all ties. It was right after a dinner party at his place. Probably the only one he hosted in his life. A hard thing to forget! I never saw him after that.”

  That meant Duverger couldn’t have sold the pieces to her father, and there was no Studio 6 connection. So what about the stolen shaman? Maybe the case wasn’t a ruse. And yet something bothered her. This appraiser wasn’t someone who would waste his time with a lowly employee of an outfit like SearchArt. He could have dealt with her and the missing documents back at the auction house. What did he want?

  “We’re here. Are you coming?” he asked, opening the door of the limo.

  The car ride had
lasted only a few minutes. They were just a few blocks from Hôtel Drouot, in front of a decrepit building with a chipped wrought-iron door and a façade streaked with pigeon droppings. What a cliché. Marion knew many appraisers and collectors who had offices in worse-for-the-wear buildings, as if the contrast highlighted the prestige of the professions.

  Marion followed Duverger past the out-of-commission elevator and up an old staircase with a wobbly railing. Arriving on the right floor, Duverger ushered her to a heavy door that led to another heavy door, neither of which had a working security pad. The second door opened to a pathetic room that appeared to serve as a reception area. There was a melamine table with two chairs, and on it were auction catalogs. They were chained to the wall. Look but don’t touch. Cheapskates.

  “This way,” Duverger said, directing her toward a larger room. “Let’s have a drink here. It’s nice and quiet. No one comes in on Saturday. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

  Marion didn’t know if she should be relieved or worried by his informality. She sat down on a bar stool that he had pulled from under a large oak workbench, which was strewn with optical instruments.

  This strange space was a cross between an artist’s studio and an Arab market. She was surrounded by rolled-up carpets, ewers, bronze statues, warrior vases, and terra-cotta religious figures. Most of them were lying on the floor—priceless pieces treated like so much junk. Only a buyer could commit such sacrilege.

  Against the walls, large display cabinets stretched from the floor to the ceiling. They were filled with precious objects. She noted Fabergé eggs, quartz axes, jade bowls, and emerald necklaces, none of which she would have expected from an expert in pre-Columbian art.

  Just as she was about to get up and examine the treasures, Marion heard a loud clatter. She looked toward the noise and saw Duverger shutting the blinds. The room turned pitch-black. Not a single trace of light was able to seep through.

  Startled, Marion was trying to get her bearings when she heard the appraiser walking toward her. She froze, not daring to turn around. He slowly brushed her back, then moved away. Was he holding something? Scissors, a knife, keys? The room was so silent, she could hear the ringing in her ears. Then she heard a click, and Duverger’s face was lit in the beam of an anglepoise lamp, which made his five o’clock shadow look criminal-like and his eyes beady. He adjusted the angle of the lamp.