“But there’s more.”
Romarel’s voice shook Marion from her thoughts. The eyes of her host suddenly sparkled, and her cheeks flushed with excitement.
“That’s right. I also have my box of secrets.”
Marion was silent, eager to find out where this woman was leading her now.
“Four sculptures.”
“Four…”
“The ones I took from him, plus one more.”
“It’s one that I’m looking for, isn’t it?” Marion said.
“Yes, shortly after our breakup I read in The Drouot Gazette that Magni would be putting some pieces from his collection up for auction. It was so unexpected. I couldn’t miss out on such an event. I asked a merchant friend to buy everything for me. It would be like bringing a piece of Edmond back home. And it was my little attempt to exert a bit of control again. Unfortunately, I was able to buy just one piece. The others were too expensive.”
With the authority of a confident matron she told Marion to get her trophies. “They’re in the other room, in a chest to the left and toward the back. You can’t miss it. It’s a studded leather chest.”
Marion rushed into the room and brought it back to Romarel. She started to open it. “No, don’t do that,” the old woman ordered. “I don’t want to see them. Take them. One of those dreadful sculptures could be more valuable than Edmond let on. There are a lot of people who’d like me to sell them.”
“Who?” Marion asked worriedly.
“Ozenberg, for one. He worked as a broker for me. He called my house just the other day. He wanted to know if I was ready to part with them. I was surprised. He usually he sends his muscleman—once a year. The man always asks if I want to sell, but not with much conviction. It’s more like he’s just checking to make sure they were still here. But this call from Ozenberg was more...well, insistent.”
A thousand and one thoughts raced through Marion’s mind. Romarel was the person Alain Ozenberg had mentioned—the person clinging to her past. The infamous Woman with Child had to be inside that chest.
“Marion? Are you listening? You look so alarmed.”
The touch of the old woman’s cold fingers on her cheek was like an electric shock.
“Why would Alain need a muscleman?”
Romarel raised an eyebrow when Marion used Ozenberg’s first name. “Don’t let yourself get taken by the man’s charm. He’s not who you think he is.”
Marion just looked at her. After a long silence, she asked, “What did the man he sent look like?”
“He’s a skinny suit-wearing type, with intense blue-green eyes and a crooked nose.”
Marion immediately made the connection. The man at the Louvre. The guy who was watching her.
“Have you noticed anything suspicious?”
“Fabien is here twenty-four-seven.” Jacqueline de Romarel sank deeper into her chair. “And what more could happen to me now? My days are numbered.”
18
“Whatever it takes, try to get some sleep. Cleanse your mind. No need to worry until tomorrow.” Marion’s inner mother wasn’t working. She threw back the sheets and got up again.
Her own steam of words replaced her mother’s. “Two of the three sculptures. I’ve got two of the three. In just two days.”
Of the four objects Jacqueline de Romarel had given her, one of them was, indeed, a figurine she had been seeking: a woman with large emerald earrings. Her eyes were gazing into the distance as if she were more interested in some invisible spectacle than the child in her belly.
Marion was especially nervous when Jacqueline de Romarel’s chauffeur dropped her off in front of the building where Chris’s mother lived. With her sculptures under her arm and her thoughts battling one another, the tension had drained from her when she saw her friend.
“I’m so glad you’re here.” She wanted to tell him all about Romarel. She’d skip over the old woman’s suspicions about Ozenberg. What was he about anyway?
“I’m glad I’m here too” Chris had answered, a little too quickly.
“Oh no, trouble at home?”
“Yeah, my wife and I had a big fight. Let’s just say I’m more welcome here than at home. So I’m here for the night.”
“So tell me about it.” The fact that she could help her friend hash through his problems—instead of hers, for once—made Marion feel better. She really thought she might be able to sleep when she crawled into the extra bed in Beatrice Vallon’s apartment an hour later.
It was a no-go. The room was too hot. She tried to crack open the window, but it wouldn’t budge. She sat down on the bed, wondering if she should try to sleep again or turn on the light and look for something to read. Why had she agreed to spend the night here, anyway?
A door slammed somewhere in the apartment. Someone was opening a closet door and moving furniture around. She heard a chair scraping the floor. Two people were whispering. One of them was Chris. This wasn’t the first night he had spent at his mother’s. He was spending less and less time at his own place.
Marion fumbled in the dark for a good while before finding the switch on the bedside lamp. The bedroom suddenly turned green. Beatrice was obsessed with jewels. She had decorated her apartment in jewel tones, and each room had its own stone. This was the emerald room. Everything, from the fabric in the curtains and bedspread to the vases on the dresser, was green.
Unable to find anything to read and reluctant to disturb anyone in the next room, Marion stared at the sky on the other side of the window. Eventually it grew lighter, and the neon signs of the Montparnasse grew dimmer. The apartment was quiet, and it would have been safe to assume that everyone was sleeping if it weren’t for the aroma of coffee. Marion threw on her jeans and shirt and padded barefoot into the kitchen.
In the semi-darkness, Marion saw that the floor was cluttered with boxes, and the table was covered with strange utensils. A round magnifying mirror with a long neck was attached to the windowsill. The shades were drawn, but a luminous beam was shining on the woman sitting with her back turned and her head tilted. It took Marion a few seconds to recognize Beatrice’s curly hair. With her elbow resting on the table, the gemologist was in deep concentration. Afraid of interrupting her, Marion started backing up just as Chris put a hand on her shoulder. She let out a yelp.
“I couldn’t stop her. She came back from the club an hour ago. And when she saw the emeralds, she just had to study them,” he whispered.
Disoriented and tired, Marion looked from Chris in his T-shirt and boxers to his mother in a slinky gray dress before realizing that the Woman with Child was sitting right there on an improvised operating table.
“Pour me some coffee, please,” she begged. “I won’t survive without it.”
Chris patted her sweetly on the shoulder and headed toward the back of the kitchen.
“I’d love another cup too, honey.”
Beatrice had just lifted her head.
“This is surprising,” she said to her son. “You would think these emeralds would be Colombian, but they’re not.”
Chris paused, coffee mug in mid-air, and shot Marion an inquisitive look, which she returned.
“Come look,” Beatrice said without turning around.
Marion pulled out a chair, while Chris poured the coffee. Bringing the mugs to the table, he pulled out a chair for himself and sat down. Beatrice placed the sculpture in front of Marion. She guided the magnifying mirror over the right earring and then arranged the beam of light so that it shone on the emerald from the back. Marion watched Beatrice handle the instruments.
“Take the stone between your fingers and make it sparkle in the light,” she instructed. “Now look through the magnifying glass to see the flaws in the stone. On the bottom there are fine lines that look like plant roots. Do you see them? Those are the famous jardins. They are actually tiny cracks that the emerald self-repairs through crystallization. Incredible, isn’t it—a stone that can heal itself. And just above them you should
see specks that are more or less brown. Those are flakes of mica.”
All Marion could make out were shapeless dark spots and a jumble of needle-thin lines that looked like bamboo shoots.
“So can you see them?”
Beatrice slipped a hand underneath the thin strap of her dress and rubbed her shoulder while questioning Marion with her sage-green eyes. Marion replied with a skeptical pout.
Beatrice smiled. “Emeralds from Colombia don’t have mica.”
Marion held onto the woman’s every word.
“They might contain pyrite or salt crystals, but no mica, which is rich in chromium. When emeralds are formed, they trap all sorts of elements from surrounding formations. If there’s mica, it means a stone came from Brazil or Africa, most likely Zambia. Not Colombia.”
“But remember, Latin America’s indigenous cultures traded extensively centuries ago,” Chris said.
“I wouldn’t be worried if the stones came from Brazil,” Beatrice said. “However, I would be concerned if they’re from Zambia. And I’m leaning heavily toward that possibility. The blue-green color is as sharp as a Colombian emerald’s, but there’s a slight metallic aspect that’s barely noticeable. Emeralds from Brazil are generally smaller, less than three carats, not like these ones here.”
“You’re absolutely sure about what you’re saying?” Marion asked.
“I look at stones all day, Marion. I could certainly make a mistake. But this device doesn’t.”
Beatrice handed her an instrument equipped with an eyepiece.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a refractometer. It measures the amount of light that’s bent, or refracted, in a gemstone. Every stone has its own refractive index. It’s like a signature. It helps us identify the type of crystal, where it came from, and so on. Some gemstones have a single refractive index, while others have two. Emeralds have two, which means they refract light in two different directions. This often causes them to take on two distinct color patterns. I looked at the warrior’s emeralds earlier, and I can tell you that they also contain mica—and chromium. But I’d suggest doing more tests to get definitive answers.”
“I don’t understand,” Marion said, looking at Chris. “The Woman with Child sculpture went through your lab. And you didn’t see anything?”
“We don’t touch the stones.”
“As I said, people make mistakes.” Beatrice’s magnifying glass was once again glued to an emerald. “Old techniques were used to cut these stones. Some of the work is rough. This all leads me to believe that the stones are ancient.”
“But…”
“Call me if you want to have the stones analyzed at a lab,” she said as she stood up. “I have to go now.” Beatrice looked at her son. “I don’t want to know what’s going on at home, but try to mend things, honey. And get more sleep. You look a little pale.”
She kissed her son’s forehead. Chris rolled his eyes.
“A little pale!” he blurted as soon as she was out of earshot. “If she only knew what was going on. But she’s too wrapped up in her own life. She’s not interested in mine.”
“Can you pour me another cup?” Marion asked, handing Chris her mug. “I’m so confused. I have no idea what all this means.”
Chris didn’t answer. He emptied the last of the coffee into his friend’s mug. Then he sat down in his mother’s spot and started inspecting the stones with the magnifying glass.
“Zambia…” Marion said softly, rubbing her temples.
“They could be from Brazil.”
“Your mother was so sure of herself.”
“Get them analyzed. Then we’ll see.”
“You don’t believe her?”
“I do. But emeralds are tricky. I’ve seen people get fooled by synthetics.”
“That’s one of the things I’m having a hard time with. Why would you replace an authentic stone with another authentic stone? Doesn’t it make more sense to replace an authentic stone with a fake?”
“It would seem that way, but it’s not always the case,” Chris said, still engrossed in his emerald inspection. “Maybe the original stones were missing, and the person who had the sculpture replaced them with another set of real stones to give the piece more value. I’ve seen that done with furniture. Collectors fiddle with furniture all the time by laying on the bronze.”
Marion sipped her coffee and sighed.
“Only one person had his hands on both of these sculptures—my father. If all the emeralds are from the same place that would mean he was the one who switched them.”
“Or someone tricked him.”
Beatrice’s comment about the stones was so spot-on, it was scary. The suspicion surrounding her father’s questionable tactics, added to what she had heard about the unreliability of the lab results… Marion was suddenly struck with horrible doubt.
“What if they’re fakes?”
“We’d be dealing with a real mastermind,” Chris responded. He put down the magnifying glass and turned his chair to face Marion.
“You yourself told me last night that you had a strange feeling about them,” Marion said. “Their stability and weight weren’t right.”
“I also said that I’d never held them before. These pieces speak for themselves, Marion. Look at the motifs on the child. They allude to cosmology—the sun, the moon, the stars, the sea. Not even the most talented forger in the world would venture to create such embellishments. Plus, there’s so much life and character in these figures. An imitation imprisons life and freezes it in place.”
Chris held her gaze. “Also, if they were stolen, they couldn’t be imitations. That would be too big a stretch.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“There’s nothing wrong with these sculptures. The Woman with Child has gone through extensive lab tests already, and we didn’t find anything abnormal. You’re getting all worked up for nothing. At any rate, whether they’re real or fake, what does it matter as far as your inheritance is concerned?”
“Are you really asking me that question?”
“Yes, I’m asking that question. And it’s a perfectly reasonable one. Let’s assume, for the sake of argument, that the sculptures are imitations. Sure, you might not be able to sell those two pieces, but you’d still come into your fortune. Right? The will stipulated that you acquire the pieces. End of story.”
“But the stones.”
“What about the stones? I just told you—they’re not your problem.” Chris was clearly becoming frustrated. “They’ve been handled by dozens of people, and no one’s batted an eye. Take advantage of the situation. Just wing it like everyone else. Magni’s name alone is enough to ensure that the sculptures are authentic. You couldn’t dream of a better guarantee.”
“I wonder! Look at us. You’re trying to convince me that I shouldn’t waste my time examining my suspicions. What if everyone else is thinking like you? What if other people have doubts but haven’t said anything because they’ve been using Magni as their cover?”
“Where are you going with this, Marion?”
“What if he decided he was done? Done with the cheats. What if he wanted to show everyone his inadequacies and say, ‘Figure this shit out for yourself. Don’t count on me to cover your asses anymore.’ He already suggested that at his infamous dinner party. Maybe he was fed up with serving as everyone’s reference.”
“He had an insatiable need for power.”
“Chris—destruction is the ultimate act of power for someone who thinks he’s God.”
“You expect me to believe that he created fakes in the hope that someone would discover and expose his fraud—you, as it happens—as a way of ridiculing the industry and wreaking havoc?”
“Yes. First me, then everyone else. ‘I bestow the shit storm on humanity.’ We’ve been looking at this all wrong, Chris. I thought people were trying to stop me from finding the sculptures because they were little ticking bombs threatening Magni’s reputation. That’s probably
half right. But if the sculptures are fakes, that changes everything. Magni would be like a horseman of the Apocalypse. He died, and the market died with him.”
“Yes, I get it that he was a larger-than-life character, but he wasn’t a man capable of devastating an entire market.”
“All I know is that he scares the crap out of me, Chris. I’ve got a feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. I hear the hooves coming toward us.”
19
Didier Combes leafed through the catalogs on the melamine table, while René Joseph fingered a bronze statue.
“Ah, Mr. Duverger, there you are,” Combes said as the man approached the appraiser walked over to the homicide detective and moved the statue out of his reach.
“Please, sir, don’t touch. What can I do for you?”
“Didier Combes, white-collar crime, and this is René Joseph, with homicide.”
“Homicide? How can I help you gentlemen?”
“Well, you no doubt know about Chartier. Rumors spread faster than the speed of light in your small world,” Combes said.
“Yes, I had heard that he met with a rather unexpected death.”
Joseph moved in closer to the man, crowding his personal space. “‘Rather unexpected death,’ I love it Didier. I’ll remember to use the expression the next time I’m trying to describe a brutal murder and ritual disfigurement. What do you think?”
The two detectives turned and watched the blood drain from Duverger’s face.
“What does this have to do with me?”
“Mr. Duverger, we’d like to know more about that jaguar you purchased at the Magni auction,” Combes said.
Duverger put his hands behind his back and wandered over to one of the large display cabinets, eyeing it as if he were looking for dust. “Yes, a lovely piece. I sold it shortly afterward to an American buyer.”
René Joseph smiled at the man. “Yep. That’s what your secretary said too. She even emailed us the receipt. Funny, though, we couldn’t find any trace of the buyer.”
The Collector Page 14