by Noah Charney
“Je suis comme un mouchoir déjà utilisé.” Lesgourges smiled as he sat down, wiping the rain from his shiny forehead, dripping on the wooden floor. He drank long from the baby bottle, with a slurping sucking sound that made the restaurant turn to see what was the matter. Bottle half drained, he slammed it down on the table, and the diners resumed their own interests.
“You’re always late,” complained Bizot.
“And you’re never on time,” Lesgourges replied, wringing out his sleeves. “That’s why we get along…and one of the many reasons why you never married.”
“It’s sad, but true. The news of today, besides my having ordered for us, is that the man I had planted to survey Galerie Sallenave has intercepted something. Something very interesting.”
“Is it Morinière?”
“Quoi?”
“The man staking out the gallery. Is it François Morinière?”
“Why does that matter? What does that have to do with anything?”
The fondue arrived, a cauldron of bubbling cheese with the perfume of must and cold dark caves emanating from the Emmenthaler, beside a basket of bread, apples, and grapes.
“Nothing, but he’s a very good cardplayer. I like him.”
“Well, it is him. Don’t you want to hear what was found?”
“Mmm.” Lesgourges mumbled through a mouthful of cheese, the tail of which still clung to the edge of the cauldron.
“Since Christien Courtil has been in the south with the ailing Luc Sallenave, there has been no activity, and the gallery has remained closed and dark. The first and second floors of the building, too. Post has been slipped through the mail slot at the gallery entrance. No one has tried to get into the building.”
“You need to make an appointment in advance to shop there,” Lesgourges said, with a dramatic gesture of his fork.
“Quite. So, no one has tried even to approach the building. Until earlier today.”
The waiter arrived with hot oil and a plate of raw meat. Lesgourges looked up at Bizot. “Je t’écoute.”
“I’m glad that someone is listening to me. My man, Moriniére, watched from his car.” Lesgourges gestured as if to interrupt, and Bizot silenced him with a preemptive raised finger. “It’s a Renault…and saw some fellow in a dark blue coat with the collar turned up, and his face shielded with an umbrella. This homme en bleu stood in front of the door for a moment, then walked off. Briskly, I am told.”
Lesgourges plopped some meat into the bubbling oil. “Was it the postman?”
“No, it was not the postman! That’s the point. Only the postman has been to the gallery in the last four days, except for this man in blue. In fact, the salient characteristic of the past four days is that only this one person, other than the postman, has come to the door. And he left something.”
“Wait.” Lesgourges swallowed, without chewing sufficiently. “Was it raining this morning?”
“No.” Bizot harpooned through the oil.
“Then why was the man in blue carrying an open umbrella?”
“That’s a stupi—that’s a good question. Maybe it was preemptive.”
“What do you mean?”
Bizot ate. “Whenever anyone asks, ‘should I bring an umbrella today,’ the inevitable reply is ‘if you bring one, it won’t rain, but if you leave the umbrella at home, it is certain to rain.’”
Lesgourges laughed. “I never say that.”
“Well, then you are un weirdo. Umbrellas are like people in the art world, Jean. Either you always bring one with you, or you never bring one with you.” Bizot stabbed another piece of meat from the oily depths.
“That doesn’t make any sense at all.” Lesgourges looked annoyed. “Did you read that somewhere? You know how bad you are at remembering memorable quotations.”
“The umbrella thing doesn’t matter, does it? I don’t care why he was carrying an open umbrella when it wasn’t raining, and you won’t either, when I tell you what he left.”
“Et alors?”
“So now you want to know…”
“Only if you want to tell me. You don’t have to.”
“Of course I want to tell you! When this man in blue had disappeared around the corner, Moriniére approached the door. At first it didn’t seem like there was anything different. He was about to return to his car, when he saw something.”
“What did he see?”
Two hours later, the doors to the boardroom pushed open, and the trustees filtered out. Shaken, tired, they were relieved, but frustrated by their forced complicity. As they bottlenecked through the door, they shook hands and grasped shoulders with Lord Malcolm Harkness. He nodded sternly in reply.
Wickenden walked into Van Der Mier’s office. Van Der Mier sat behind her desk, facing out the bay window, her back to the door. “So now I do what?” she asked. “Wait for him to call, or…”
“It’s understandable that you’re upset, Ms. Van Der Mier.” Wickenden’s voice was gentle and firm. “But you’ve been promised the money, now. We’ll just have to handle it in a way that ensures the safe return of the painting. And we’re here to help you do that. Men will be posted in your office. In the meantime, I will continue investigations. It’s never too late to nail them, even after the painting is returned. Now, tell me a little something about Lord Harkness.”
Van Der Mier turned around in her chair. “Malcolm’s been a board member since just before I took over. He’s from a very well-respected family, England’s ancien régime. A castle and everything. His father, Lord Gielgud Harkness, was a trustee before him, highly prominent and beloved. They’ve been patrons of the arts for decades. Have quite a collection themselves. Two of his family’s pieces are on permanent loan in the galleries downstairs. The family Bible, a rare printed sixteenth-century number with illuminations, was the centerpiece of an exhibition at the British Library. They’ve an eclectic collection but always make it available to museums for short loan. A family of ideal patrons. Malcolm’s no exception.”
“Does he have this kind of money to throw around?”
“I’ve no idea. But he wouldn’t volunteer it if he didn’t have it. In the past, his family has always been very generous. He’s been a quiet board member while I’ve known him, but generous with his time, anyway…I’ll tell you what I think. I think that Malcolm would like to establish his own presence as a patron of the arts. His family has the reputation, but he’d like to secure himself a spot. Live up to his father’s legacy. Word of what’s happening will circulate among the friends of the trustees, and those are the ones who matter to Malcolm. In offering to pay the ransom out of his own pocket, he secures his position in society, establishes a personal foothold as a great patron. He’s buying social standing. Not like he needed any help, with that last name…but there’s nothing wrong with his motives. He’s doing a very good deed, and one that won’t be publicized, so it is more out of goodness of heart than most.” She paused. “What does he do? Cut a check?”
Wickenden continued his vigilant surveillance of his shoelaces. “I’m sure that the ransomers have a plan. The days of briefcases full of cash are over. I would guess that they want the money deposited in a numbered bank account, and as soon as they have confirmation that the cash is in there, they’ll hand over the painting.”
“I see. Unless they don’t.”
“The question is, Ms. Van Der Mar, do you want to try to ambush, or do you just want to pay the ransom? This is your decision. We can follow you in unmarked vehicles, we can hook you up with microphones. It might work, and it’s what I’m told to recommend to you, in the name of justice. But it does run the strong risk that the deal will turn sour, and you end up without the painting and, the danger is, without the money, too.”
“No. I understand your position, but if Malcolm Harkness is going to pay £6.3 million out of his own pocket to retrieve this painting, there’s no way I’m going to risk it. And you can believe me, once this painting is back in our hands, a guerrilla army couldn�
��t steal it away.” Van Der Mier paused. “I should tell you, Inspector…I’ve spoken to one more source, at the suggestion of Dr. Coffin. I’m happy to yield to authorities greater than myself, in matters of investigation. An expert has agreed to come and advise us. She is a specialist Malevich conservator, and investigator for the Malevich Society, in Paris. Her name is Geneviève Delacloche. She’ll be the best authority to confirm authenticity when we have the painting back, and she also has the best knowledge of collectors and criminals with an interest in Malevich. We, or perhaps I should say I, need all the help I can get.”
Harry stood in silence.
That night, Elizabeth Van Der Mier left her office light on. In the cool watery evening, her window glowed like a ship ablaze on a vast twilight sea.
“So our man, Morinière, at the gallery,” Bizot leaned in, then back quickly, as his beard had floated precariously near to the hot oil fondue. “Alongside the door, he saw…a mezuzah.”
“What?”
“One of those Jewish thingies.”
“What Jewish thingies?”
“You know, those Jewish thingies that you hang in the doorway. It’s a decorative tube that’s supposed to contain parchment with a prayer written on it. Keeps away evil spirits, or something. I know…I had to look it up today.”
“Jean, there is no way that Luc Sallenave is Jewish, I can promise you…”
“I know. Neither is Courtil, neither is…anyone. That’s what is so interesting about it. Morinière realized this, as well, when he was on the scene, which is why he thought to look inside.”
Lesgourges’ eyes betrayed his enthusiasm. “He looked inside the mezuga?”
“Yes. Neither he, nor I, nor anyone who had been on the scene had noticed it, because we had never stepped into the doorway, always just looked at the door from a distance. When the officer touched the mezuzah, he saw that the top was partially unscrewed.”
“This is unbelievable.” Lesgourges shook his head, then raised his hand and called, “Hey, can we get some more wine here?”
“So Morinière unscrewed the top, and there was a piece of paper rolled up inside. Not old and brittle, but new. He took it out and photographed it, before replacing it, so our surveillance would not be…you know, surveyed. The mezuzah is a message conduit. Very clever, really.” Bizot reached into the breast pocket of his tweed jacket and drew out a photograph. He slid it across the table to Lesgourges.
“This is what was found inside. What do you make of it?”
Lesgourges looked down at the photograph. It was of a piece of printed paper. “It looks like a page from the Bible.”
“Tu as raison. It is. Look closer.”
Lesgourges bent over to examine. It was a passage from the book of Isaiah. He began to read aloud: “‘They that make a graven image are all of them vanity; and their delectable things shall not profit; and they are their own witnesses; they see not, nor know; that they may be ashamed. Who hath formed a god, or molten a graven image that is profitable for nothing? Behold, all his fellows shall be ashamed: and the workmen, they are of men: let them all be gathered together, let them stand up; yet they shall fear, and they shall be ashamed together…’”
“Keep reading,” Bizot encouraged.
“‘The smith with the tongs both worketh in the coals, and fashioneth it with hammers, and worketh it with the strength of his arms: yea, he is hungry, and his strength faileth: he drinketh no water, and is faint.’ Ah, this part is circled: ‘The carpenter stretcheth out his rule; he marketh it out with a line; he fitteth it with planes, and he marketh it out with the compass, and maketh it after the figure of a man, according to the beauty of a man; that it may remain in the house.’ What does that…”
“I have no clue. But it’s a clue.”
“I know it’s a clue, but…”
“I haven’t gotten that far. That’s why I need your help.” Bizot smiled and took another sip of wine.
“You do?” Lesgourges sat up. “You do.”
“Look,” Bizot said. “It’s obviously a communication, and we don’t know of what, or from whom. But it’s conspiratorially secretive. Like a spy movie. Which means the communiqué is important to the recipient and the communicator. I think that we need to look around the gallery, and perhaps this message will become clearer.”
“Has the warrant been approved?” Lesgourges asked.
“Just this morning. I’ve been thinking about this all day. What is the nature of this quotation? It’s from a passage about craftsmen who should be ashamed of making an image that will become a false idol. That much sounds familiar. The portion that is circled, Isaiah 44:13: ‘The carpenter stretcheth out his rule; he marketh it out with a line; he fitteth it with planes, and he marketh it out with the compass, and maketh it after the figure of a man, according to the beauty of a man; that it may remain in the house.’ It’s about a carpenter practicing his art…”
“Jesus was a carpenter.” Lesgourges looked pleased with himself.
“That’s true, But so was Jesus’ father figure, Joseph. And, as I mentioned to you, we’ve learned that Luc Sallenave has donated a considerable sum of money to an organization called…”
”…the Brotherhood of Joseph.” Lesgourges’ light turned on.
“The address of which is the same street as Sallenave’s gallery. It’s all rather a snug fit.”
“It certainly is,” Lesgourges echoed. “I’m not even hungry for dessert.”
“Come on.”
“Well, we could at least look at the menu. So, you think we’ll find the stolen painting somewhere in the Galerie Sallenave?”
“Or in the apartment above it,” said Bizot.
“If you were to wager, what would you guess we’ll find?”
“Berries in crème fraîche…” Bizot scanned the menu, then looked up. “Well…let’s think about this. ‘The carpenter stretcheth out his rule. He marketh it out with a line.’ A carpenter is measuring and marking wood to be cut. A woodcut print maybe? That’s if the solution is a pun. What’s the next line? ‘He fitteth it with planes, and he marketh it out with the compass.’ If it’s literal, then perhaps there is some structure made from wood that contains the Malevich painting. Maybe it’s hidden in a garden shed, or in a false wall, but for the word ‘compass.’ It must refer to something measured and made from wood, planed flat, then measured with a circle from a compass.”
“It could be an outhouse.”
“Then, ‘and maketh it after the figure of a man, according to the beauty of a man; that it may remain in the house.’ So the wooden construction is shaped like a man, and this is what allows it to remain in the house.”
“What about the ‘beauty of man’ bit?”
“That I cannot figure out. I’m also not sure what might be made of wood and shaped like a man. I thought of a sarcophagus, but that would be slightly conspicuous.”
“What do you think the communiqué is for?” Lesgourges asked. “Do you think that the thief has hidden the painting somewhere, and is informing the patron of the theft about its location?”
“I haven’t thought that far ahead, Jean. My brain is very small, and I can only solve one puzzle at a time. But the solution to one inevitably lights up clues to the others. In my career, as you’ll want to note one day, when you become Bosworth to my Johnson, the domino effect has been my guiding principle. It makes no sense to speculate too long on things about which one is insufficiently informed. It leads to a lot of mental exercise that may prove fruitless, and I am inherently lazy when it comes to mental exercise.”
“And physical.”
“So I will only tackle the problem at hand, and solve the next one as I come to it. I hope you’re taking notes.”
“Aren’t investigators meant to think moves ahead, like a chess player, to outwit the criminal? Like Sherlock Holmes and Miss Marple?”
“Do I look like Sherlock Holmes?”
Lesgourges looked Bizot up and down and across and back again. �
�You look more like Miss Marple.”
“Ha.” Bizot coughed. “Ha.”
“Maybe if you wore one of those floppy hats with the flaps hanging over your ears….”
“Maybe if you drank a tall glass of shut-the-hell-up…” Bizot grumbled, then noticed that the waiter had been standing beside them for some time, ready to take their dessert order. He seemed somehow entranced by their conversation, his eyes glazed above his coonskin mustache. Bizot continued, “So I don’t know what we’ll find, but I know where we need to go to find it, whatever it is, and then we’ll sort it all out when we get there. So there.”
Lesgourges looked up at the waiter. “Des profiteroles, s’il vous plaît. Do you think it will be hidden? The Malevich?”
“Undoubtedly.” Bizot paused. “Des profiteroles pour moi, aussi.”
“I certainly hope so.”
“It’s all a lot of fun for you, isn’t it, Lesgourges? You realize this is my job, don’t you?”
“Oh, stuff it. You love every minute.”
Bizot crossed his arms above his stomach. “I suppose I do. As long as there is time for dessert, no job is too large.”
Lesgourges grinned his equine grin and leaned back in his chair. “There’s always time for dessert.”
CHAPTER 25
The next morning, Van Der Mier’s office was flooded with bodies. Harry Wickenden directed four officers, who prepared the telephone to receive the ransomer’s call, in hopes of tracking it. Wickenden had enough experience with such matters to know that the best they could hope for was an error. Any criminal worthy of the name would anticipate the phone trace. A fish that knows a lure from prey, knows enough not to bite. But to err is human, and hope is buoyant.
“Do you think they’ll call soon?” Van Der Mier didn’t like all this activity inside her nest.
An officer, who sat in front of a laptop, responded. “We’ll wait as long as it takes, ma’am, not to worry.”
That’s what I was afraid of, she thought.