by Mark Hebden
‘Do they still think it’s a political kidnap?’ Pel asked.
‘Yes.’ Darcy shrugged. ‘But no photograph’s arrived, Patron. And these days there’s a pattern to these things and kidnappers usually send a photograph of their victim holding up a copy of Le Monde or Figaro, with the date prominently displayed, to prove they’ve got him and he’s still alive. But there’s been nothing. Just the usual lunatics who claim they know where he is. There’s always someone willing to join in the fun. Self-importance. Twisted mind. What have you. But we can’t pass them by.’
‘Have you told Lamiel?’
‘I can’t pin him down long enough. He’s flying about like a misdirected rocket.’
‘Have they found out who it was who knew Ennaert’s car would be in the garage?’
‘I’ve got Brochard on that. It could be any of a dozen people round there. I also checked Barclay’s office but nobody could think why he should be kidnapped. I reckon his secretary’s half in love with him. She produced his papers and later the keys to his safe. It contained bearer bonds which could be exchanged anywhere for cash and 500,000 francs in notes.’
‘That’s a lot of money. Have you informed Lamiel?’
‘I’ve made out a report. So far I haven’t heard anything.’
‘Did he usually keep that sort of sum in his safe?’
‘His secretary thought not, but she couldn’t be certain. She’d opened it from time to time but had normally only seen plans and documents. Never large sums of money. She had no idea why there was so much and could only assume it was for some project he had in mind.’ Darcy finished his sandwich and licked his fingers. ‘How about the Arri business?’
Pel shrugged and explained what Leguyader had found. ‘He suggested Arri might be one of those.’
‘I bet he wasn’t.’
‘So do I. I telephoned your friend, the historian of the 179th Regiment, and he also refused to believe it. He admitted that it did happen from time to time with people who’d served in the East, but not with Arri.’
‘Perhaps he’d just come from seeing a poule, Patron. Some woman he knew. You say Leguyader claimed it was an expensive perfume?’
‘That’s what he says.’
‘I have to admit the bastard’s usually right.’ Darcy took a final swig of beer. ‘Well, in that case it suggests a woman rather than another man. Men go in for perfume these days, of course, but they’re not the same perfumes as women use.’
‘You know, of course?’
Darcy grinned. ‘But of course. Women’s perfumes are more subtle. Men’s are like men – lacking in finesse. Arri either had an expensive girl friend or he’d visited an expensive whorehouse.’
‘So how did he afford that on an army pension?’
‘Moonlighting, Patron? He was doing a job somewhere at night. He was getting money from somewhere to add to his pension. How else would he afford to put away all that champagne and pay for all those bottles of expensive wine we found empty at his house? If you ask me, our friend Arri was a bit of a dark horse. Think he was pimping? Think he had a stable of whores he was running? If he had, he’d be visiting them from time to time and, if he did, he probably had an occasional romp between the sheets with the favourite. They do, you know.’
‘Fully clothed?’
Darcy frowned. ‘He could have tossed his clothes down on hers. That would pick up her perfume. Even just clutching her might.’
‘You have experience?’
Darcy grinned. ‘I was once kicked out of a bedroom – that redhead from Normandy – because I’d had a little necking session with somebody else and the perfume was on my clothes. Many a wife’s grown suspicious of her husband because she’s found another woman’s hair on his collar or because she’s smelled perfume.’
Homosexual? Pimp? Brothel owner? Pel frowned. Somehow none of them seemed to fit what they knew of Jules Arri. But they were worth considering all the same, and that afternoon, he collected Lagé and headed out to Valoreille where Jules Arri had lived.
The Ponsardin sisters were in the house hard on their heels to find out what had happened.
‘Have you caught him?’ Yvonne demanded.
‘Not yet, Mademoiselle,’ Pel said. ‘Give us a chance.’
He stared about him, frowning. What sort of man was this ex-Sergeant Jules Arri, of the 179th Regiment of the Line? What sort of man came home smelling of expensive perfume and made a habit of knocking back the finest wines?
‘Did he get drunk much?’ he asked.
Yvonne shook her head. ‘I never saw him the worse for drink.’
‘Did he look as if he drank a lot?’
‘No,’ Yvette said. ‘He looked fit and healthy.’
‘But he ate well. We came across portions of duck à l’orange. Once it was roast sucking pig. That’s what he told us. He didn’t often say much but I remember him saying that. He seemed proud. Do you think he’d come into an inheritance?’
‘It wouldn’t last long if he spent it on fast women and costly wines,’ Pel pointed out. As he spoke, he was fishing in the cupboards and he produced one of the expensive-looking plates they’d found and a cut glass goblet. ‘Or, for that matter,’ he ended, ‘these.’
Holding the goblet in his hand, he ran his finger along the edge. ‘Where did it come from? Not from the pension of an ex-sergeant, I’ll bet. It’s chipped but it must have cost a bit originally.’ Watched by the two old ladies, he had his head in a cupboard now and was examining a small cream jug of bone china. ‘Perhaps he didn’t drink all that wine,’ he said slowly. ‘Perhaps he didn’t even pay for it. Perhaps even he didn’t choose them.’
‘What’s on your mind, Patron?’ Lagé asked.
Pel turned and showed the cream jug to him. ‘Take a look at that. Same standard as the plates. First quality, I’d say. The very best.’ He fished out a small side plate in green and gold. ‘And that. Much the same. Both slightly chipped, though. I dare bet he didn’t inherit them, though I suppose anything’s possible. No, I think these came from a restaurant.’
Lagé looked doubtful. ‘Surely not the sort of restaurant an ex-sergeant could afford to run, Patron? They go in more for routiers – transport cafés. The old red and blue circle. Faux filets and pommes frites. That sort of thing. Good substantial stuff. On good substantial plates. With table wine out of good substantial glasses.’
‘Perhaps he didn’t own it,’ Yvonne Ponsardin suggested.
‘Perhaps he just worked there,’ Yvette agreed.
Pel fished out several of the plates and ran his finger along the edges. ‘All chipped,’ he pointed out. ‘Like the glasses. Only a little, but chipped, all the same. These came from a place where they’re careful to throw out any damaged glasses or plates. Customers paying a lot of money expect perfect chinaware. So, when something gets cracked or chipped, it’s tossed out. Perhaps even smashed. But I dare bet the people who work in places like that help themselves to them when they can. The same sort of thing applies to the booze. People who eat in restaurants of that quality are generous with what they order. “A second bottle, waiter.” You know the stuff. Showing off a bit. And then the lady friend finds she’s had enough and, unlike you and me, the chap who’s paying doesn’t demand the cork and walk out with what’s left. He leaves it, and the waiter puts it on one side and takes it home when he goes off duty.’
Lagé’s frown deepened. ‘Think he worked as a waiter somewhere?’
‘He didn’t work during the day, so our restaurant or whatever it was opened only in the evening. Perhaps we can find it by the day it closed. Most restaurants close on Monday.’ Pel turned to the two old ladies. ‘Did his?’
‘No,’ Yvonne said firmly. ‘He was out seven nights a week.’
Pel frowned. ‘It must be a pretty select restaurant, all the same,’ he said.
‘Well,’ Lagé pointed out, ‘it isn’t one of those in the Rue de Bourg area where I was searching. They mostly serve cheap grub.’
Pel
was deep in thought. ‘Perhaps it wasn’t round there at all,’ he said. ‘Perhaps when he left his car he was picked up. Perhaps several of them were picked up. By minibus. Something like that. If it were in the country, it’s possible. He was probably just adding to his pension with some sort of job in this restaurant. And he didn’t buy food because he ate there, probably brought food home – in those plastic boxes we’ve heard about – and helped himself to the leavings of the wine. And when there were any going and he needed them, he also helped himself to the chipped plates.’
‘I’d say he was the doorkeeper,’ Mademoiselle Yvonne decided. ‘In one of those uniforms like an Albanian field-marshal.’
‘Something of that sort,’ Yvette agreed.
‘The parking attendant perhaps.’
‘Or the handyman.’
Pel studied them. It was a pity, he decided, that he couldn’t recruit the Ponsardin sisters to his team. They seemed to have plenty of bright ideas.
Ten
Nosjean had been frowning hard as he drove away from Solecin’s house. He had a feeling that the old man had acquired his knowledge of art solely through reading and had been committing frauds on people ever since.
Luca’s home turned out to be an old farmhouse in the Forest of Fougerolles, not far to the north. Luca’s wife let Nosjean in and the first thing he saw among the paintings hanging on the wall was a Soldier with Helmet, exactly as Roth had described it to him, exactly like the painting he had sold to Chevrier who had given it to the bank as security for a loan.
Luca was not at home and, in answer to Nosjean’s questioning, his wife claimed he had given up painting.
‘He had a bad car accident’, she said, ‘and he’s never been able to paint since.’
Nosjean stared about him. ‘You’ve got some nice paintings here,’ he said. ‘Do you collect them?’
‘Oh, yes. My husband’s quite wealthy and a painter himself. He’s always enjoyed paintings.’
‘They must be worth a lot of money.’ Nosjean carefully kept his eyes away from the Soldier with Helmet. ‘The one over there. That’s a Van Gogh.’ Nosjean turned slowly. ‘I wouldn’t mind owning so many paintings myself.’
Remembering that Roth, the gallery owner, had said he had seen a Soldier With Helmet at the home of Raoul Riault, the lawyer who dealt in paintings as a sideline, Nosjean set out for Riault’s home.
Riault was on the telephone when he arrived and he could hear him talking as Riault’s wife let him in. As she showed him into a long sitting room, the first thing he noticed was another Soldier With Helmet hanging over the fireplace. The house itself didn’t seem to go with the painting, however. It had no pretensions to grandeur, as if Riault didn’t make a lot of money from law.
Riault himself appeared a few moments later. He was a myopic fat man in a creased suit. He had a large moustache, several chins, and glasses so thick they looked like the bottoms of wine bottles.
‘Sorry to keep you,’ he apologised. ‘Business.’
Nosjean got down to things quickly. He was becoming quite adept at side-stepping extraneous matters.
‘That painting,’ he said gesturing at the Soldier With Helmet. ‘I’m interested in it. I’m investigating another one like it which is obviously a fraud. What do you consider it’s worth?’
Riault looked passably modest. ‘Nearly two million francs,’ he said.
‘That’s a lot of money.’
Riault smiled. ‘My one little indulgence.’
‘It’s genuine, of course?’
‘Oh, mais oui. Of course it is.’
‘Are you a wealthy man, Monsjeur Riault?’
Riault shrugged. ‘No. Not really.’
‘I was thinking it’s a very valuable painting for a man in your circumstances.’
‘The strangest people collect,’ Riault said. ‘I know a plumber who has a Van Gogh. He saved all his life for it. As I did for that.’
‘Do you have any security? Alarms? Anything like that?’
‘Just good locks.’
‘Aren’t you taking a chance?’
Riault smiled. ‘Who’d expect to find a Rembrandt in a house like this?’
Not me, Nosjean thought. ‘We’ve become very concerned about art frauds,’ he went on. ‘Would you mind if we had our experts examine your painting? To confirm that it’s genuine.’
‘It is genuine.’
‘Merely to confirm?’
Riault looked nervous and Nosjean pressed on. ‘There’s a machine that identifies the age of the pigments exactly.’ As far as he knew, there wasn’t such a thing within hundreds of kilometres but Riault didn’t know that. ‘It won’t take long,’ he urged.
Suddenly Riault seemed to lose his affability. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I think I’m going to have to say no. I’ve heard those things damage the paint and ruin the picture.’
‘I’m assured they don’t.’
‘I couldn’t risk it.’
Riault was now in a hurry to get rid of Nosjean and his smile became a grin that was so fixed it looked as if it were wired to his back teeth. ‘Look,’ he said, almost throwing Nosjean out of the house, ‘I’m in a hurry just now. It’s a bit inconvenient, and this needs some thought. You’ll have to forgive me. Some other time. I’ve got an appointment. A man who’s in a bit of trouble over selling his house. A mix-up about the deeds and I’m having to sort it out. It can’t wait.’
Nosjean didn’t worry. Riault wasn’t going far. Returning to the Roth gallery, he found Jean-Philippe Roth still pondering the supposed Steen.
‘Having doubts?’ Nosjean asked with a grin.
Roth managed a smile. ‘Have you come to arrest me?’ he queried. ‘Because, I assure you, you haven’t a case.’
‘I haven’t a case,’ Nosjean agreed. ‘In fact, I’ve come to ask a question or two, that’s all.’
‘Such as?’
‘Have you ever seen two identical paintings?’
‘Never.’ Roth frowned. ‘What’s behind this? Vacchi asked me that question not long ago.’
‘Did Vacchi buy from you?’
‘Occasionally. But this time he was just picking my brains. I know he was.’
‘What about?’
‘He’d seen a painting exactly like one he possessed and it had him worried.’
‘Did he buy it from you?’
‘Not this one.’
‘Had he seen one?’
‘He might have.’
‘Which was genuine?’
‘He said his was. I had a look at it.’ Roth indicated the Steen. ‘In my opinion it was like that. Possible.’
‘A fake?’
Roth shrugged. ‘Is it a fake? I don’t know. I bought it feeling it wasn’t a genuine Steen because there was no provenance, but that it was near enough for someone to take it for a Steen. You saw it happen. Vacchi’s paintings were that kind. He fancies himself – as our fat friend did with the Steen. He bought them thinking they were what he felt they were.’
‘What did he think they were?’
‘One might have passed for a Vermeer.’
‘But it wasn’t?’
‘I wouldn’t have touched it.’
‘What about the rest of Vacchi’s paintings?’
‘Some are sound. But not all. A genuine painting has resonance. A feel. Call it what you like. You can measure things in laboratories and look at things with ultra-violet rays; but really they only confirm what the experts have already decided. Vacchi’s Vermeer wasn’t a Vermeer. He thought it was, though. Or, at least, that it could pass as one.’
‘Would a painter ever paint the same picture twice?’
‘Never. Sometimes he’d paint the same subject. But there would always be a difference. Light, colour, positioning. That sort of thing. I think Vacchi thought someone had copied his. He said he’d seen an exact replica hanging in a gallery. I told him it wasn’t possible. But he wouldn’t agree.’
‘Did he mention who sold him these so-called orig
inals?’
‘Yes, he did. It was a man called Riault.’
Nosjean rubbed his nose. The case was growing more convoluted but, oddly, clearer as it progressed. ‘Do you know whether Riault uses an art restorer?’
‘Yes.’
‘Name?’
‘I don’t know what I’m getting into.’
‘Nothing you need worry about.’
‘It was Ugo Luca.’
Nosjean nodded. ‘I thought it might be,’ he said.
When he returned to Luca’s house, Luca had turned up. A small plump dark-skinned man with spaniel eyes, he was sitting outside in the sunshine drinking coffee with his wife. He was wearing a paint-marked overall and his fingers were stained with colour. As Nosjean stepped from his car, he saw Luca’s wife nudge him. As Luca rose to meet him he seemed nervous.
‘I thought you’d given up painting,’ Nosjean said.
‘Painting,’ Luca said. ‘Not restoring. That’s different. I also repair canvases and frames, sometimes for major art galleries.’
‘Do you know Raoul Riault? He’s a lawyer.’
‘Yes,’ Luca said warily. ‘I know him.’
‘What about a man called Vacchi?’
‘I restored paintings in his collection.’
‘He seems to have what he thinks are original old masters. But some of these seem to be identical with paintings that are hanging elsewhere.’
Luca licked his lips. ‘What are you suggesting?’
‘That somebody made copies. As far as I can make out, Vacchi left his paintings with Riault, who left them with you for cleaning and restoration. Soon afterwards, it seems, identical paintings appeared on the market.’
Luca licked his lips again, glanced at his wife, lit a cigarette and finally gave in.