Verlaque saw that the old man’s meal had been delivered, and he ate with gusto, smacking his lips. He had finished all of his Bordeaux and was now digging into the chocolate mousse, which he ate with even more enthusiasm than he had the sandwich. The little boy watched, fascinated.
Verlaque’s stomach began to growl. The old man—slowly, this time—sipped a Cognac, pulled out his newspaper, and began to read. It was almost 8:30 p.m. They still had an hour and a half until Paris, and Verlaque decided that a hot meal, red wine, and a Cognac would help to sedate him in preparation for his arrival chez les parents. His brother, Sébastien, was away, at some resort in Morocco, so when Verlaque’s father had told him of his mother’s illness, it seemed appropriate that he stay at their house. M. Verlaque Senior had made the tiniest hesitation before saying, “Yes, do come. I suppose you’ll eat on the train?” With that comment, or hint, in mind, Verlaque made his way to the bar car.
By the time Verlaque got back to his seat, carrying a miniature Cognac bottle and a plastic cup, the boy was fidgeting even more. His mother hissed, “Arrêt-toi!” Verlaque reached into his briefcase, which was in the compartment over the seat, and fished through it until he found an extra pen and some paper. He put the paper on the table between him and the boy and drew the horizontal and vertical lines for a game of Xs and Os. The boy slowly picked up the pen and looked curiously at Verlaque. “You go first,” Verlaque said.
“If you don’t mind,” the boy’s mother said, giving him a half smile, “I’ll take this opportunity to visit the toilets.”
“Go right ahead,” Verlaque said. He smiled and poured himself a glass of Cognac.
They were playing their twelfth game as the train rolled into the Gare de Lyon and stopped on the quay. The boy smiled as Verlaque put away the paper and pens. His mother had jumped up and was fussing with their bags. “Voilà, Mamy et Papy,” she said, motioning to an elderly couple who stood outside their window, frantically waving. The boy clapped his hands and pressed his nose against the window. The scene immediately reminded Verlaque of Emmeline and Charles, his grandparents, and he became the young boy.
“Enjoy Paris,” Verlaque said.
“Merci, monsieur,” the mother said as she tugged at her son. “Hurry up!”
Verlaque put on his coat and pulled his briefcase down from the rack above, letting the other passengers shuffle past him. He wanted to be the last person to disembark. He could no longer see his leather bag on the luggage racks by the door and assumed that someone’s big suitcase was blocking it. As if played out in slow motion, he watched in dismay as each passenger tugged at his or her suitcase, pulling it off the rack, and with each suitcase gone his was nowhere in sight. His mouth became dry and his heart began to beat faster and faster. And all for a mediocre hot meal. The next-to-last person to get off was a tall blond businesswoman. He had seen her get on in Avignon, and she grabbed a small silver overnight bag and almost skipped off, revealing an empty luggage rack.
Chapter Twenty-two
At Home, on the Rue des Petits Pères
You what?” Marine yelled down the phone. “Ce n’est pas vrai!”
“You don’t have to yell,” Verlaque whispered. He wanted to say, “It happens all the time,” but Marine knew that. They had both heard a report on the radio of a Chinese businessman on his way to Geneva who left a priceless Ming vase on the train. They had both made fun of the poor man, too. Verlaque felt more sympathetic now. He sat in his boxer shorts on the edge of the twin bed, looking down at his bare knees. His mother, now in the hospital, would normally be asleep in the next room, and his father’s room, he thought, was across the hall. Or at least Verlaque assumed his father was there; surely at seventy years of age his father had stopped his philandering. Or perhaps at seventy it would be at its worst?
“And you saw no one who could be—”
“A Mafia thug?” Verlaque asked. “Or an art thief? No.” What was I supposed to be looking for? Verlaque almost asked. Grace Kelly dressed in black, wearing a cute little mask?
“But you could see the luggage rack from your seat, right?”
“Yes.”
“So you would have seen someone grab your bag.”
“Well—”
Marine sighed. “Unless you got up from your seat without taking your suitcase with you.”
“You have to go to the bar car now if you want a hot meal—” He stopped explaining, realizing how pathetic he sounded. What he didn’t tell Marine was that he had been distracted by the young boy, and the thought of seeing his parents, and so had forgotten to take the leather bag with him to the bar car.
Marine couldn’t help from snickering and Verlaque held the phone away from his ear. “The old man beside me was drinking a Cognac,” he went on. “It smelled so good—”
She said, “You lost what might be a Cézanne painting, worth millions, because you wanted a cheap miniature bottle of Cognac? You don’t even like Cognac!”
“It’s true that, given the choice, I prefer Armagnac.”
“Antoine! Be serious!”
Verlaque began to laugh.
“The bloody thing’s probably a fake anyway,” Verlaque said, taking a Kleenex and blowing his nose.
“That’s not what my father thinks,” Marine said. “And if it’s a fake, why are people so desperate to get it?”
“I feel numb, really, which is very odd. I should be worried, or angry at myself, but I just feel numb. Here I am sleeping in my parents’ house, after all these years. You know, the last time I was here I spent an hour with them, in one of their stuffy drawing rooms, and I don’t think they said one word to each other. They asked me a few perfunctory questions, I answered them but without giving them too much information, and then we all yawned, as if on cue, and went to bed. Tonight I saw my father just long enough to say hello. And he loaned me some clothes.”
“I’m sorry, Antoine.”
“You know, there was a little boy on the train,” he said. Marine could hear the urgency in his voice. “And his mother didn’t say one word to him, except to tell him to shut up and stop moving. The poor kid didn’t have any games or activities to do. And then when we pulled in to Paris, his grandparents were there, waiting for him. I watched him jump off the train and fly into their arms.”
Marine saw the parallel to Verlaque’s own grandparents. “Will you be able to visit your mother tomorrow?”
“I hope so,” Verlaque said.
“Go to bed, sleep well, and in the morning you’ll be able to start looking for the painting. It can’t have disappeared into thin air.” She paused and then added, “There’s something that’s bothering me—”
“Me, too,” Verlaque said. “I was followed onto the train.”
“Yes,” Marine answered. “It’s as if you’ve been followed all around Aix. I wonder if we were even followed into the Luberon.”
Verlaque got up and looked out the window down onto the rue des Petits Pères. He watched a young couple walking arm-in-arm, and in the opposite direction, an old man walked a tiny dog. He pulled the drapes shut.
He said, “But the officer who drove me to the TGV station drives like a total maniac. No one could have kept up with us.”
Marine thought for a moment, sipping her herbal tea. “A motorcycle could have.”
“Merde!” Verlaque said, getting into bed and pulling up the down-filled quilt. He was suddenly cold, and he missed Marine. “You’re good, Professor Bonnet.”
“Plus, motorcycles have primo parking at the station, don’t they?”
“Yep. Right in front of the doors.”
• • •
Verlaque awoke the next morning refreshed but with a knot in his stomach. He had twice taken the canvas away from its safe room at the Palais de Justice and now it was lost. He showered, thankful that someone, probably a staff member, kept the guest bath well stocked
with expensive soaps and shampoos.
His father had laid out a clean shirt for him to wear—they were roughly the same size, although with age his father had lost the middle-age paunch that Verlaque was now growing. On the twin bed opposite was also an unopened pack of boxer shorts . . . a gift? Or his father didn’t care for the striped pattern? “You can keep the socks if you like,” his father had said, handing Verlaque a pair of colorful, silk-knit Missoni socks that probably cost more than the shirt. “I’ve only worn them once and they’re a little too big,” his father said. “They were a gift—” From an Italian mistress? Verlaque pulled on the socks—they fit—and he thought of Rebecca Schultz’s Missoni coat.
He finished dressing and made his way downstairs, taking in for the first time in years the medieval- and Renaissance-inspired furnishings that his mother had installed throughout their Parisian home. The colors, he realized, weren’t displeasing—reds, gold, and greens—but were probably out of fashion. The wooden staircase had been restored at great expense; that he remembered. The wood was elaborately carved with gothic-style arches, and the apartment’s original owner—an opera singer—used to perform at the top of the balcony while her dinner guests watched down below.
His breakfast was laid out in the dining room and a maid appeared with a pot of coffee and freshly squeezed orange juice. He smiled at her—a not-quite-elderly kind-looking woman with bright eyes and rosy cheeks. “Thank you—”
“Hortense,” she answered.
“I don’t come here often. Have we met before?”
“Yes, Judge Verlaque,” she answered. “A few times.”
Verlaque was embarrassed. He should have remembered her. He knew, now, that before he met Marine he had been a self-obsessed egomaniac. Hortense would have served him, and he wouldn’t have paid her the time of day. He took a sip of coffee—it was hot, and strong—and said, “Le café est délicieux. Merci, Hortense.”
She smiled, did a slight bow, and left, leaving him alone in the dining room, where he ate a fresh, buttery croissant beneath a colossal Louis XIV crystal chandelier. Had Hortense remembered that he preferred croissants to pains au chocolat? Probably.
He finished eating, wiped his hands off on a large green linen napkin—he only liked white linens, perhaps a direct result of his mother’s taste—and picked up his cell phone. He was relieved when Hippolyte Thébaud answered on the first ring. Thébaud sounded disappointed when Verlaque canceled their meeting—he didn’t tell Thébaud that he had lost the painting—but instead suggested that they reschedule. That would buy him some time. The next call was to Bruno Paulik, who listened patiently while Verlaque went over the TGV story.
“Bon,” Paulik finally said. “It’s just after eight a.m., so whoever followed you to Paris isn’t back in Aix yet; the first morning train leaves Paris at six nineteen a.m. and arrives in Aix at nine nineteen a.m.—I know because I’ve taken it before. I’ll have an officer drive out right away to the TGV station, note down all of the motorcycle license plates, and run a check. Just a minute while I call Flamant over.”
Verlaque waited while Paulik explained the situation and sent Flamant off to the TGV station. Paulik came back on the phone and Verlaque said, “I don’t suppose it would help to have an officer watch the motorcycles?”
“I imagine that the thief has gotten rid of your bag,” Paulik said, remembering the expensive-looking leather duffel. “And most people, even motorcycle drivers, will be getting off the TGV with some kind of small bag. They’ve just been traveling, after all. No, I think it best that Flamant calls in the license plates and we look for owners’ names. Lydgate, for example. Schultz could have rented one; we can check the moto rental places in Aix; there aren’t very many.”
“I can’t imagine either of them riding a moto,” Verlaque said. “And the name of a mafioso isn’t going to ring a bell.”
“Unless he’s been here before,” Paulik said, meaning the Palais de Justice. “Besides, motorcycle enthusiasts come in all shapes and sizes,” he went on, speaking as a former motorcycle owner. “They’re not necessarily young, virile men with a death wish. Although I agree he or she would have to be an experienced rider to keep up with Caromb.”
Verlaque wasn’t convinced. He pictured just that: a young, virile, male rider. He said, “I’ve canceled my appointment with Hippolyte Thébaud, but I’m still going to see an officer named Commendante Barrès. She’s a specialist on stolen art.”
“Good luck,” Paulik said.
“Thank you,” Verlaque said, setting down his cell phone. He looked at his hand and saw that it was shaking. He felt useless; he’d lost a precious piece of evidence, and his own clothes to boot. He now had to rely on other people, which always stripped away a bit of his ego and self-confidence. The day began with saying thank you—to his father, then Hortense, and now Bruno Paulik—and he knew that he would continue to thank people all day long until he went to bed that evening.
Chapter Twenty-three
Alain Flamant’s Frustration
Daube au vin blanc! Can you imagine?” Alain said as they walked up the rue Mistral. “My mother always makes beef stew with red wine. Lisa does, too.” He was telling Jules of the amazing (though overpriced) meal he and Lisa had recently shared for their anniversary.
“Sounds like you’re a convert,” Jules said.
“Eh, I still think I prefer my mother’s recipe. But don’t tell Lisa.”
“My lips are sealed.”
“So why the sudden interest in Bar Zola? Doesn’t seem like your type of place.”
“I met the bartender the other night, with Verlaque. If no one else in this town is talking, he might,” Jules said.
They crossed the Cours Mirabeau, busy despite the fact that it was after 11:00 p.m., and a Monday night. “What do you make of Verlaque?” Alain asked.
Jules shrugged. “I hadn’t given it much thought, until the other night when we ran into each other and went out for a drink. But you know, he’s just like anyone else—”
“Except he’s rich,” Alain offered.
“Yeah, but he also has the same worries, and hopes, and dreams that the rest of us have.”
“Hyperphilosophique,” Alain said, nudging Jules on the shoulder.
“I’ll try to tone it down,” Jules said, laughing. “Especially at the Bar Zola.”
They walked up the rue Clemenceau in silence, Alain trying to guess how much per square meter a downtown apartment cost, Jules perplexed that the shop owners had to pile flattened cardboard boxes outside their storefronts every evening, waiting for garbage pickup, instead of being able to recycle them, as they did in Colmar.
As they approached the Bar Zola, Jules heard the same Rolling Stones song that had been playing the night he came with Verlaque. “After you,” he said, opening the door.
Flamant made his way to the bar, and Schoelcher could see that, here, his colleague was at ease. Flamant walked slowly and purposefully, smiling slightly as he passed pretty young women. They got to the bar and Jules was relieved to see the same barman, wearing a different Harley-Davidson T-shirt. “Hey, Patrick,” Jules said. “Good evening. How are you?”
“Excuse me?” Patrick said.
“It’s me,” Jules said, poking his thumb to his chest. “I was here the other night—”
“What will you have?” Patrick asked.
Jules looked at Alain, who pretended to be interested in studying the collection of bottles behind Patrick’s head.
“A rum,” Jules said.
“And a lager for me,” Alain said.
“I guess you don’t know me anymore,” Jules said.
“That will be nine fifty,” Patrick said, staring over Jules’s head at a poster on the wall.
Jules paid and he and Alain took their drinks to a small round table that had just been cleared. “Wow,” Alain said. “He’s been told not to t
alk.”
“Obviously,” Jules said. “And I only wanted to say hi.”
Chapter Twenty-four
A Meeting in a Japanese Garden
Verlaque stared at the small Japanese house and thought of Fabrizio Orsani. Dedans/dehors. Inside/outside. He regretted never having visited Japan as he looked at the features the best 1960s Western architects had borrowed from the Japanese: sliding wood and parchment doors that could be opened to their fullest capacity, letting the garden come inside; no furnishings save a low wooden table, cushions, and a shelf or two where Verlaque knew the inhabitant would have displayed small porcelain bowls. The opposite of his parents’ stuffy, closed-windowed, well-appointed home. Would his parents’ relationship have been different if they had lived in a house like this one? Can architecture influence people’s happiness? Yes, he thought. He imagined a series of color photographs of his parents—part of an exhibition in a modern-art museum—an artist’s sociological experiment: M. et Mme Verlaque in their Japanese-inspired home. Mme Verlaque pours out the tea. M. Verlaque prunes bonsai in the garden.
“Right,” Verlaque mumbled in English and he walked on, listening to the crunching noise his shoes made on along the pebbled path. Even in winter the garden was delicious; the path meandered around Japanese plants and led up over small arched footbridges painted red. The traffic noise reminded him that he was in a museum on the edge of Paris, and not in the Japanese countryside. He followed the path up a small hill; from there he could see the conservatory and a rose garden before it. A woman appeared at the edge of the rose garden, pushing a baby buggy, and Verlaque walked down the hill and made his way toward her.
The Mystery of the Lost Cezanne Page 17