What was most obvious to Marion was that Mr. Rambert didn’t seem to be aware of Chartier’s death. He was also trying to maintain his connection with her. Nonetheless, she had her information now and was seething at Duverger. If he still owned the sculpture, he had what he needed to be an unavoidable obstacle.
“Which piece did Laurent Duverger buy? Do you remember?” she asked.
“Yes, it was a jaguar. A magnificent piece.”
“One more question, and I won’t take up any more of your time.”
“I’ve got plenty of time.”
“Did my father know the buyers’ names?”
“He was in the room with me, and when it comes to gamesmanship, your father was a master. I got the impression that he intuitively knew who would buy the pieces. He looked happier about the buyers than the prices the items fetched.”
“That seems strange, doesn’t it?”
“The word ‘strange’ was used a lot with your father.”
Marion arranged a meeting for the following week and hung up. She was furious.
“That son of a bitch!” she yelled. “Duverger was screwing with me! Sending me cryptic messages through Gaudin! If he thinks he’s going to steer me off course by playing puppet master, he’s got another thing coming, They’re all twisted, incapable of going through life without lying and manipulating. My father was exactly like the others—hiding the owners’ names from me when he knew them all! What was the point? If it’s because he liked scavenger hunts—damn, I’m too old for this!”
She was flipping through the articles left by Bruno, when Sophie put her head through the door. “Combes is here to see you.”
“We don’t have an appointment. Tell him I’m busy,” she said, looking up to see the detective taking Sophie’s place in the doorway.
“Marion, when were you going to tell me?”
Marion glanced at her bag by the door, which still had the sculpture in it, then looked back at Combes and put on a gracious smile.
“Tell you what, Didier?”
“About Magni. I’m investigating a major pre-Columbian piece of artwork that once belonged to the man, and you don’t think it would interest me to know that you’ve just inherited his entire collection? Now I understand why you were so tense. What else aren’t you telling me?”
Marion was at a loss for words. “I should have just assumed that everyone knows,” she told herself. “What do I do now? I can’t possibly tell him I also have the figure he’s looking for.”
“Well?”
“Listen, Didier, it’s been a lot for me to take in. The man abandoned me as a child.”
They looked at each other for a minute. Then Marion started shuffling through the papers on the desk. “I was just going through some articles about his death. Want to look them over with me?”
He made a face, stepped into the office, pulled up a chair, and picked up a newspaper.
“Look at this, from La Prensa. A daily Peruvian newspaper, I assume. A short death notice. ‘A Frenchman by the name of Edmond Magni has died in Pacaipampa,’” Combes said after a few minutes.
“Didier, I didn’t know you could speak Spanish.”
“There are quite a few things that you don’t know about me, Marion.”
“Pacaipampa, Pacaipampa,” Marion repeated. “It’s got a melodious ring to it.” It sounded light and ethereal. What a strange place to die.
This was the first time she had seen the precise location of her father’s death. The French journalists and her attorney had only mentioned some remote town in the Andes, probably because it sounded mysterious and in keeping with his image as pope of the art world.
Marion woke up the computer and typed in Pacaipampa. It took a few seconds for the map to come up on the screen.
“It’s in northern Peru, bordering Ecuador, some fifty miles from the Piura region,” she said, thinking that was where the sculptures had been found. It wasn’t far from Las Lomas, either, and its necropolis, the one Chris had talked about.
Questions raced through Marion’s brain. Was Chris right? Had the sculptures come from Las Lomas? Why hadn’t Pacaipampa shown up anywhere else? Had the name of the village been covered up to avoid any association with the pillaging of the necropolis?
Marion grabbed the newspaper out of the detective’s hands and anxiously flipped through the rest of it. Its yellowed pages made it look older than it actually was. According to the date, it had been printed barely three years earlier.
Meanwhile, Combes started reading the famous American interview with Magni out loud.
“All collectors experience the high of acquisition, whether it’s unexpected or longed-for. But the thrilling acquisition—the acquisition that electrifies the mind and body—is rare. It might happen just once in a lifetime. Perhaps the item is too expensive, or it’s too hard to obtain. Very few men are willing to risk it all on an object they believe in, despite the consequences.”
Marion struggled to control her breathing. She had accused her father of being calculating and Machiavellian. She had judged him for his ridiculous and distrustful behavior. But after concealing a sculpture from the police and sleeping with their scapegoat, that statement sounded frightfully relatable.
She watched Combes as he continued to read, hoping her discomfort didn’t show, while questions bounced around in her head: “I’m risking it all, but for what? Money? A challenge? To find out about my father and his past? To recognize myself as Magni’s daughter, envied and desired, no longer a scared and lonely little creature who thought she’d never measure up?”
There was so much elation and intoxication in this realization, Marion let herself run with it. But what about Magni? Had he ever questioned it all: his reputation, his beliefs, his lifestyle?
Marion understood now that he had been capable of doing anything. Organizing grave-robbing networks? So what? This illicit trade had been justified for many years. Why couldn’t she do the same? The raids allowed thousands of impoverished families to stay alive. Few works of pre-Columbian art were acquired in a legitimate way. Museums were full of objects from Egyptian, Greek, Roman, and Etruscan civilizations. They needed to be preserved. And Peru certainly didn’t have the means to preserve its heritage. Just a day ago, she would have rebelled against this kind of litany. But now the situation had changed. She saw the big picture. If she wanted the inheritance and was willing to accept the consequences, she would have to be swift and cynical. Avoiding culpability seemed so simple, she wondered whether the real problem with these sculptures was the fact that they had been plundered. Maybe that wasn’t why people were killing each other. The question posed by Didier Combes remained unanswered: what was so important about the warrior and its companion pieces that people were willing to kill for them?
Instinctively, Marion glanced at her bag. It was sitting by the door of Bruno’s office, and the sculpture was still in it. She didn’t know what to do with it. She didn’t want to leave it at SearchArt or at her place. But she couldn’t keep carrying it around. She did have one idea—Chris. His lab had tons of boxes that nobody ever opened.
Combes had looked up from his reading and was watching her tap the desk with her pen.
“They all say the same thing,” she said. “It seems he died of a heart attack. There are no details other than what the Peruvian paper printed: the name of the town where he died.”
“Why don’t you Google it?” Combes said.
Marion focused on him for a minute. “Didier, what’s happening to you? Suggesting I actually use technology for something.”
“Yeah, you have to go with the times.”
Bruno’s computer was still on. Marion typed the words “Prensa,” “Magni,” and “Pacaipampa.” Only two articles came up, each one no more than a few lines.
“It’s hard to believe that no reporters ever looked into Magni’s death. A wealthy white Frenchman hungry for pre-Columbian treasures had died under mysterious circumstances in a remote Peruvian town. N
ow that’s a story.”
Spotting the name of the mayor in one of the items, she changed her search, replacing the name of the Peruvian paper with “Julio Gomez,” followed by “Pacaipampa” and “Magni.” A single entry corresponded. It had been published by an even smaller publication. The date of the article was October 10 of the previous year. She started reading.
“Well, what do you know. A reporter interviewed the mayor. Edmond Magni had been known throughout the village for his sexual activities with young indigenous women. He had bought a house near a cemetery, where he lived a depraved life with total impunity. It was said that he paid the families handsomely in exchange for their daughters and their silence.”
“He just gets better and better, doesn’t he?”
“What a sick bastard. What made him such a monster?”
“Is there more in the article?
“It says he died in the arms of one of the women. The authorities hushed up the death and said it was just a heart attack. But the woman claimed that an emerald-encrusted figure found beside the bed had cast a curse.”
“How interesting,” Combes said. “Those emerald-encrusted figures seem to be popping up all over the place.
“No trace of the sculpture was ever found. Do you think he was murdered because of this other sculpture?”
“Why didn’t the story traveled further and make it to other papers or investigating authorities?”
“Do you think there were political or diplomatic reasons to keep the circumstances of his death hushed up? Or influential people trying to keep his vices a secret to protect his name?”
“I don’t know, but in any case, it does bring us full circle,” Didier said, placing a catalog in front of her, open to the warrior. “There’s the figure I’m looking for. Have you learned anything else about it?”
Marion had all but stopped breathing as she took the catalog in her hands and focused on the artifact. She couldn’t look at Combes. She couldn’t speak.
“Marion? Are you there? Do you know anything about the warrior?”
She looked up at him just as the phone rang.
“It’s for you,” Sophie curtly informed her before hanging up.
No sooner had she taken the call than Chris started blurting out words she had trouble understanding—he was almost shrieking. He had left a dozen messages on her cell phone. Had she turned it off? He was very worried. Someone was following him. He was sure of it. He had called the cops, bought a burner phone. Combes had gotten back to him. He seemed to be putting the pieces together.
“Come to the office,” she said to cut him short. Then she turned to the detective. “Didier, I have work to do now.”
Combes took the catalog back, watching her closely. “Yes, of course. Let me remind you that this is a homicide investigation, and I need whatever you can find on that sculpture as soon as possible.” He turned and left.
Marion didn’t even have time to let out a sigh of relief before the door opened again and Sophie came storming in.
“There’s a man out there for you,” she sputtered. “He’s weird-looking. Dressed like a bellhop and as big as the Hulk. He stopped by early this morning, and he’s here again now. He says he’s not leaving until he speaks with you. What do I do? He’s creeping me out.”
Sophie looked at her and then the mess of documents in front of her. Marion sighed and got up.
“Bring him in.”
On her way out, Sophie stopped just short of the door. She turned around. “You’re all going to make me go crazy,” she said. She returned a few seconds later to introduce a man in a dark-gray suit. Marion thought he had the bearing of a servant, but considering his size, it was possible that he was in a more dangerous line of work.
“Mrs. Romarel would like to meet with you,” he said.
Romarel… The name didn’t ring a bell. She motioned to Sophie to leave.
“She could have called to arrange an appointment. That would have saved you the trouble of coming here for nothing,” Marion responded.
“Mrs. Romarel would like to meet with you,” he repeated. “I’m to drive you to her.”
“Right this second? I can’t. Give me her number. I’ll call her when I can.”
“I’ll wait as long as you’d like.”
The chauffeur seemed nailed to the floor, determined not to budge an inch. Marion stared at him. She didn’t know what to think. Was the guy crazy? Was he in the wrong place?
Eventually she said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t know this woman.”
The man’s eyes widened, and for a second, Marion had the impression that he, too, wondered if he was in the middle of a poorly scripted play.
“You are Marion Spicer, aren’t you?”
She nodded.
“You didn’t receive a call from the estate attorney?”
“What attorney?”
“You are Edmond Magni’s daughter, aren’t you?” he continued with a hint of concern in his voice.
“Yes.”
“The attorney didn’t tell you anything?”
“About what?” she asked, growing tired of his game-playing.
“Mrs. Romarel was your father’s mistress,” he whispered, looking down and apparently hesitant to disclose other people’s business.
Her father’s mistress? Marion had totally forgotten about the woman. Yes, the attorney had mentioned her. She had left Paris without giving anyone a forwarding address. He thought the chances of finding her were slim to none. This was exactly what she needed on what was already the world’s weirdest day.
“I can’t leave work right now.”
“I’ll wait.”
“I have at least two hours of work to do, probably more. I’d prefer to meet with her another day.”
“I’ll wait.”
This guy wasn’t going to give up. Whatever Mrs. Romarel wanted to talk about, it had to be pretty important.
“By all means, if you’ve got time to kill,” she finally conceded. ”Make yourself comfortable in the waiting area. Sophie will get you a cup of coffee.”
16
“Thank God you’re here, Chris. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced a messier, more chaotic, confusing, and out-of-control day in my life,” Marion said. She proceeded to explain to him about Mrs. Romarel and her chauffeur, Didier Combes, and La Medici expecting a full report. Then she mentioned the warrior.
Leaning against a wall in Bruno’s office, Chris looked her up and down. “Have you gone completely insane?”
Marion was standing in front of him, stone-faced.
“Someone’s been murdered, Marion. You have to hand the sculpture over to the police.”
“No way. If I do that, I can say good-bye to my inheritance.”
“Your inheritance? What the hell are you talking about? You could be facing a prison sentence.”
“I’m just borrowing it for a week or two.”
“It’s stolen goods, Marion. You’ll be sentenced to jail time and charged with a fine so big, you’ll be paying it off for the rest of your life. But I’m wasting my breath. You already know all of this. What you may not be aware of is this: that cop—Didier Combes—is chasing after you, and he’s gaining ground fast, very fast. Just yesterday he faxed me pictures of your sculptures. Photocopies from a fancy catalog with handwritten annotations of the buyers’ names. Apparently he didn’t tell you everything.”
“What do you think he’s after?”
“An analysis of authentication.”
“That’s not what I’m asking. What do you think his motives are?”
“I’m not a psychic, Marion.”
“Do you plan to help him?”
“There’s no point in resisting. The analysis won’t tell him anything new. But it won’t be long before he uncovers even more information. You know the reputation he’s got. He’s a bloodhound. A bloodhound with a pit bull trap.”
“Let’s not get carried away, Chris. Didier and I work together. You know that. In fact,
he was just here. He knows I’m Magni’s daughter, but that’s all. I’ll tell him the truth eventually, but not until I find all the sculptures. Just hear me out, please. Magni knew who bought them. Why would he keep that from me? That’s what I need to know.”
“You can’t try to justify the unjustifiable.”
“I’m convinced he wants me to crack this mystery.”
“That’s ridiculous! What the hell’s gotten into you?”
“I wish I knew! This is bigger than me.” Marion paused before continuing. “I’m not going to abandon this collection or my inheritance. Weren’t you the one who was just telling me the other day that millions of euros were worth a few sacrifices?”
“Finally. At least you’re admitting the truth. It all comes down to money. It’s changed the honest woman I knew.”
“You’re oversimplifying. It’s more than the money. For the first time in my life, I feel like I’m actually living. Years ago I chose a quiet life for myself. That’s what I wanted. And I stuck with my decision until last week. After what happened at the pool, I could have given up completely. But again, you were the one who told me that people who don’t go after their dreams are cowards. And well, I don’t know exactly what dream I’m pursuing, but it’s there, and it’s powerful.”
“You’re twisting my words.”
Chris had planted himself next to a window. He was staring at the silhouette of a distant construction crane. The fog made it look iridescent.
“You’ll help me, right?” Marion threw out.
There was silence for a moment. “I’m on your side,” he finally said. “But I’m having some serious misgivings. I don’t like it that you’ve gotten us into this mess.”
“You can stop here and now if that’s what you want.”
Chris folded his arms and shot her an angry look. Marion realized that she could be losing her best friend.
“You win, Marion. I can’t let you handle this thing all by yourself. I just can’t. Call it loyalty, or pride, or stupidity. I’m in. What would you like me to do?”
“We have to find a place to stash the warrior.”
“What? You have the warrior on you? What else don’t I know, Marion? Okay—forget I asked. Just give the thing to me.”
The Collector Page 12