Thomas—an inveterate intellectual snob, which was one of the reasons I loved him—claimed that most criminals did not have the intelligence to think their crimes through, or get the global view of their actions, and so ultimately were unable to keep themselves away from the scenes of their crimes. Which I feel obligated to point out was one reason I’d been so successful: I never looked back and except for that one exceptional bracelet—the Queen’s Pet, which was so extraordinary it would have been a crime to take it apart—I never held on to my loot. I broke it all down immediately, melting the metal, and selling or banking the stones. But as Thomas had also pointed out: There was no one else like me. But that’s neither here nor there, is it.
The point is, I was banking on the fact that he was right, that this new incarnation of Shamrock Burglar was of the common variety and would be unable to resist admiring his achievement and people’s reactions to it. In which instance, I would apprehend the person and solve the case. After all, even though it had only been for six months, I’d been married to one of Scotland Yard’s most famous detectives and I’d picked up a few pointers along the way. It wasn’t going to be that hard.
The waiter brought a plate of tiny, chewy macaroons with my check. Oh, my God. The macaroons alone made the trip worth it. Thomas would love … no. I wasn’t going to think about what Thomas would or would not love. Thomas was gone.
I would take it from here.
T E N
It rained hard during the night and I slept in. When I woke up at nine-thirty and opened my windows the air was beautiful and clean.
“Bonjour, Madame Pennington,” the room-service waiter said, handing me the morning paper. “Votre petit déjeuner.” He rolled in a table covered by a shell-pink Portault linen cloth with a bouquet of white roses in the center. The table was laden with silver pots and domes, a pink and white Limoges morning breakfast cup as large as a cereal bowl, a carafe of freshly squeezed grapefruit juice buried in a bowl of chipped ice, an empty glass, and a pink napkin as big as an Hermès scarf. So much to-do over a glass of juice, cafe au lait and toast.
There was only a small follow-up article in the morning paper about the burglary from the Musée Montpensier, stating that the police had a number of leads they were following up, which I assumed meant they had no clue.
I took my time. I’d decided not to get to the museum until after lunch because if security was tight, I wouldn’t be able to go and spend the whole day without raising some sort of suspicion and drawing attention to myself, which was the last thing I wanted to do. So, after a leisurely breakfast, I bathed and dressed for the afternoon—lacy lingerie, a peridot Chanel suit with sugary silver-pink braid, several strings of pearls, two old-fashioned jangly charm bracelets, and comfortable pumps, good for walking. Bijou and I left for a brisk constitutional through the Jardin des Tuileries in the sparkling noonday sun.
There is nothing on the earth like springtime in Paris. Nothing. It is heartbreakingly beautiful. If you’re a romantic or a sentimentalist, or if your heart isn’t broken already, it will be by the beauty of Paris. Paris can fill you with such a powerful longing for love, that if you aren’t careful, it will knock you to your knees. It was that kind of day
I felt no such longing. I’d been down the love road and it was over, thank you very much. I didn’t need it. I had experience. Maturity. And my dog. I was relaxed and happy. Really, I was. What was done, was done. I’d take care of my business, clear my name, and move back to my comfortable life on the farm. A life—I reminded myself again—that had been as comfortable without Thomas as with him.
Flowers were everywhere. Everywhere. The rain had washed the city and left everything shining and glistening. As we circled the garden, the ornate gold trim on the Pont Royal glinted in the sunlight and children bounced on the teeter-totters and swung on the swings. I circled the garden twice, ending up at the Place du Carrousel, where I passed through the arched gateway beneath the Louvre out to the Rue de Rivoli.
Rue de Rivoli boasts a unique and disconcerting combination of elements. Great hotels such as the Meurice and the Intercontinental, exclusive boutiques, unfriendly and dirty little cafes, and lots of junky shops filled with overpriced tourist-related paraphernalia, all the latest things. Today, the sidewalk stands and racks were full of copies of the purloined emerald necklace, Josephine’s l’Empresse, in all its possible incarnations: key rings, earrings, full-sized copies, dog collars, and leashes. I couldn’t resist. I bought one for Bijou. The diamonds, emeralds, pearls, and giant emerald pendant looked precious on her snow white fur. We all oohed and ahhed over how cute she looked. Frankly, I don’t think she was too crazy about the 255-carat fake cabochon pendant that was as large as a good-sized hen’s egg and banged her little knees, but she was a good sport about it.
We strolled through Place André Malraux, with its famous splashing dolphin fountains. Theatre patrons milled about, enjoying the sunny intermission of the matinee at the Comédie Française, home of France’s classics, mostly Molière. The marquee said Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme. It was always either that or Cyrano de Bergerac. On the far side of the square, I cut over to Rue de Montpensier, address of the Musée Montpensier.
The museum occupied a classic old palace, its limestone walls and black balustrades in dire need of cleaning and fresh paint. The entrance was an arched carriage gate in an ornate, overly wrought wrought-iron fence that ran along the street. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the robbery was probably the best thing that had ever happened to this obscure little private niche institution. I imagined they’d scarcely had more than fifty visitors a month before the Shamrock Burglar’s attack. But this afternoon, a line of people, waiting their turn to see the empty display where l’Empresse had once reigned, snaked back and forth, filling the good-sized, cobblestone courtyard. The atmosphere was that of a cocktail party.
I waited for over an hour before paying my fifteen-euro admission. According to the guidebook at the hotel, it was five euros, but it had tripled overnight. I purchased a small brochure about the collection and filed into the grubby establishment.
Paris, arguably the most beautiful, stylish city in the world, has dozens of private museums celebrating practically every aspect of civilization, from fashion to horses to public health. However, France, being a primarily socialist country, has little cash left over for restoration of its minor public institutions—and the private ones are completely on their own. Philanthropic practices—the solicitation of large and small-scale funds from corporations, individuals, and foundations for restoration, renovation, new construction, acquisition, endowment, and so forth of both private and public institutions—as they exist uniquely in the United States, and now fledglingly in England, are unknown. And with the exception of major institutions with thriving gift-shop operations such as the British Museum, the V & A, the Metropolitan, the Vatican, and the Louvre, to name a few, museums are not moneymakers. Like all the arts, they’re typically money-losing propositions. There is no way the admission fees can support operations, much less new acquisitions. If there is not a deep-pocketed patron or two committed to upkeep and maintenance, things fall apart. And I’m speaking just of the building and infrastructure. The collection is an entirely other matter requiring lots of expertise, lots of passion, and lots and lots of cash. Often a museum has been the vision of one person and unless the vision is kept vital, it languishes, wilts, and eventually dies due to lack of interest.
Judging by the condition of the physical plant of the Musée Montpensier, I’d say, prior to the burglary, last rites had been administered and the actual dying breath was imminent. The place was falling apart. The obvious question was: Had a member or associate of the Debussy family that owned the museum staged the robbery? I know I’m not a detective, but that would certainly be the first place I’d look, and it was a cunning way to get publicity. But not on my hard-earned impeccable reputation, thank you very much.
I decided to keep my mind open but as the
line passed the weeping owner, Madame DeBussy—a bedraggled sixtyish Parisienne who must have flunked out of crying class at the Comédie Française Academy because she couldn’t resist peeking through her fingers to see if the line was still growing—I saw that she looked the type: canny and shrewd. She grudgingly accepted condolences from sympathetic visitors but became obsequious over their small offers of extra cash. According to a hastily handwritten sign, for an extra fifty euros, she would lead a visitor on a private tour and share unpublicized tidbits about her personal experience of being the one to discover they’d been robbed—not only of their greatest treasure, but also a crucial element in chronicling the entire history of the Empire. The legacy that generations of her family had selflessly worked to protect and preserve was gone. The sign had an annoying, whining sound to it.
The line then passed through the gift shop that offered dusty trinkets and postcards, T-shirts with pictures of a shocked-looking Josephine and the words “I’ve been robbed!” in several languages, and its own version of the missing necklace. I was pleased to see my copy was better.
Bijou, who was short on patience, put one of her paws on the back of a man’s leg and barked. “Oh, excuse me.” I yanked on her leash.
He turned. Oh, my God, he was so good-looking, I almost gasped.
He stooped down. “What a precious little dog,”
He looked and sounded exactly like Cary Grant.
E L E V E N
I picked her up. “Bijou, you come here. I’m so sorry—she has no manners.”
“Bijou? What an apropos name—she’s already wearing the latest collar.” He turned to one of his friends. “Look at this dog, with the collar!”
I laughed. “Isn’t it silly? I couldn’t resist.”
“She’s precious,” said one of the ladies. And then that entire group of friends, all well-dressed and happily tipsy from lunch, circled round and made a big fuss over Bijou, which she loved.
I recognized one of the women—she looked familiar, not like someone I knew but someone whose picture I’d seen—but I couldn’t place her. American. Petite with lots of blond hair, a well-tucked-up face, and a couturier suit, one of those little’ jeweled butterfly pins—a melée of stones and colors—on her shoulder. I realized it was the Texas billionairess, Sissy McNally, and for a moment I was alarmed, afraid she’d recognize me, too. She’d been the houseguest of a wealthy French couple with a country house near Aix and had attended the charity picnic at my farm. But it had been such a crowded, busy occasion, we hadn’t even met, and frankly, I imagined she went to two or three parties every day and seldom had a clue whose house she was in. It was the way that jet-setting world worked … floating from luncheon to tea to dinner, from one change of costume to another. Her eyes took mine in briefly and moved back to her friend. Not surprisingly, there was no hint of recognition in them.
Finally, the line moved forward and entered a vaulted rotunda, the former main salon of the house, where the Empresse had been on display on a pedestal in the center of the room. The air was close and hot, humid from the rain. The windows were filthy, the walls and doorjambs black with smeared fingerprints.
On the slim chance that I was wrong and it was not an inside job—I scanned the crowd for possible suspects. One element that made this robbery unusual was that it exhibited the characteristics of trophy-hunting. No one in his right mind would melt down a piece of the importance of l’Empresse. This thief was a daredevil and a show-off. A hotel-type robber, someone smooth and sophisticated. Good-looking and charming.
I spotted one possibility on the opposite side of the room. A lanky, Latin-looking, sexy man—a slightly older version of Antonio Banderas. Sleek and taut, immaculately dressed and groomed, dark mustache, easy smile, good teeth, intelligent eyes. He was with a woman somewhat older than he who had on a few especially staggering pieces of jewelry, particularly for the afternoon. He whispered to her from behind his hand, making her titter. She swatted at him with her rolled-up guidebook.
I kept looking. Nobody else—male or female—was well-groomed or well-dressed enough. Except Cary Grant, of course, and his gaggle of tipsy ladies. Successful jewel thieves, at least those who rob significant pieces from people’s homes or hotel rooms, are a first-class-looking bunch. We have to be. We have to fit easily into our surroundings, which are by definition first-class, and we’re precise about everything. If you were to put an accomplished cat burglar in a bum’s clothes, his posture, his stance, haircut, manicure and just the way the clothes hung on him would be a dead giveaway. It would be like putting a quarterback in a tutu. We can’t help it—we’re insiders. Culture and refinement are our stock-in-trade.
Antonio Banderas put the woman’s arm through his and patted her hand. I watched them go outside and circle the sculpture garden and leave.
A large sign, in French, English, German, Japanese, Chinese, and Arabic sat on an easel at the entrance:
Exactly as things appeared when the museum was opened on Tuesday morning and the audacious affront was discovered by Mme. DeBussy, herself. Shame, shame on you, Shamrock Burglar.
Which sounded much more excoriating in French: “Fi done! Fi donc à vous, Valeur de Trèfle.”
I could almost see the Gallic lips curling, spitting out the words, and then feel their Parisian disdain burn my neck. I could also almost see Mme. DeBussy sitting at her kitchen table, cigarette smoke curling into her eyes, cat sitting on the table watching her, getting herself all worked up with phony indignation, licking her pencil stub, and composing the scathing indictment.
A very poor replica of the necklace now sat on the pedestal on a smooth black velvet-covered bust of neck, shoulders, and upper chest, similar to a jeweler’s display The concentrated spotlights that must have set the real emeralds and diamonds on fire only served to intensify the deadness of these fakes. At the base of the bust was a mockup—”Exactément as it was found!” announced the sign. A stiff invitation-sized ecru card, with my alleged handwriting on it, and a small bouquet of wilted shamrocks tied with the golden ribbon completed the picture.
The display had two glaring, telltale errors that only the real Shamrock Burglar—the Voleur de Trèfle—and the London police would know and keep to themselves: I never left an actual calling card, per se, feeling that the bouquet was keepsake enough, and as I’ve mentioned before, the ribbon was all wrong.
But it didn’t matter. Even if the police knew it was a fake, which the most rudimentary amount of police work would have revealed to be the case—all it would have taken was one phone call to London, to New Scotland Yard where possibly my estranged husband himself would answer the phone. But now, even if they said it wasn’t the real Shamrock Burglar, no one would believe them.
One last item: The Shamrock Burglar generally replaced stolen pieces with replicas that were indistinguishable from the originals. My replicas, which I crafted myself in my workroom, were of such high quality, only the most experienced eye could tell they were fake. The Shamrock Burglar stood for quality. I would never, ever leave behind a hunk of junk like the one in this second-rate display.
I was starting to loathe Madame DeBussy.
I leaned toward the necklace and squinted like everyone else, and then moved away. I pulled the brochure out of my pocket and pretended to study it while I examined the room itself.
There were five tall archways, approximately fifteen feet high, surrounding the rotunda: the one by which we’d entered. To its left, one led to the garden; another to a gallery and the other exhibits; one was roped off with an ACCES INTERDIT, DO NOT ENTER sign blocking a stairway; and finally one as the exit through what might originally have been a music room. Antiquated video cameras were pointed at the various doorways, and I wondered where the security room was and who monitored the screens. Or even if there were screens at the ends of the cameras. This didn’t look to me like an institution that could afford a high-tech security system and if it did have one, why hadn’t we been shown the robbery in progre
ss on television news? I was certain they had no real video surveillance but instead counted on the observation talents of one or two daytime guards and a nighttime retiree who played pinochle against himself and drank. I strolled from camera to camera, studying them boldly from all angles. There were no wires attached to them.
There were five ways into this room, and I supposed there were ten times that many ways in and out of the building itself. Based on what I’d seen of the security, no fancy planning or heroic acts would be required to rob the place. Frankly, if I were going to do it, I’d just use the front door.
“Have you been to this museum before?” It was Cary Grant. He had the most elegant international accent—possibly Italian but with a little Hungarian or something mixed in. His black hair had lots of silver and was perfectly barbered. His charcoal suit was elegantly cut and his silvery blue tie matched his silvery hair and his silvery blue eyes. He was just plain gorgeous.
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