by Aaron Elkins
Sully paused. "No, this year."
"No, last year. I think I ought to know, don't you?"
"I think I ought to know, monsieur," Sully said, "and I assure you it was January of this year."
"Now look—" Christian began, then stopped abruptly, and flapped his hand. "The hell with it. It's not important enough to argue about." But a vivid, nickel-sized red spot had leaped out on each cheek.
What do you know, Inspector Lefevre had gathered his first piece of information, assuming that was what he was there for. René Vachey had redrafted his will and hadn't told his black-sheep son about it. More than that, the will was in a safe deposit box that his lawyer could get into, but not his son. Interesting.
I frowned. Now why the hell should I find that interesting? Was Vachey's murder beginning to nag at me, now that the initial numbness had passed? Was I looking for conflicts, motives, sources of friction?
Yes, I supposed I was. René Vachey had quickly grown on me. The accusations of Julien Mann had been unsettling, but they hadn't changed the way I'd reacted to the man as a person. I'd genuinely liked Vachey; he'd been a one-of-a-kind. I was sorry he was dead, and I wanted to know who had killed him. What was so strange about that? It hadn't escaped me, either, that in some way—through the blue scrapbook, perhaps, or the gift of the painting—I might be indirectly involved.
I looked over at Lefevre, who watched the exchange between Christian and Sully, observant but noncommittal.
Sully smiled smugly at Christian and went on. "In it he designated a number of bequests to legatees not in this room. The largest such bequest is for equal shares of some two hundred fifty thousand francs for his deceased wife's grandniece Astrid, residing in Switzerland, and his deceased sister's son, Armand, who lives, I believe, in Lille."
He went on in this vein for a while. There were bequests to Vachey's barber, to a bird sanctuary, to various charities. Sounds of fidgeting increased. I was getting a little restless myself.
He moved the top sheet aside. "Now, let us come to those beneficiaries, or their representatives, who are present this morning."
That took care of the fidgeting.
"First, the collected art works. The bulk of René Vachey's personal collection, some thirty-four paintings in oil and tempera, are willed to the Louvre. These are the same paintings now on display in the gallery above us, and which Monsieur Vachey announced as an intended donation last night." He looked up at the man on the end, the one I didn't know. "Do you have any questions, Monsieur Masseline?"
Ah. Jacques Masseline, chief curator of paintings at the Louvre. Silently, he shook his head.
"Congratulations," Christian said. "I'm very happy to see my father's collection go to the nation."
I had my doubts about how delighted he was, but I got the impression that at least he wasn't surprised—which suggested that it had been in the earlier version of Vachey's will too.
Sully fingered a smaller piece of paper that lay among the others. Torn from a spiral-bound pad, it had a few scrawled lines written diagonally across it. For a moment he looked indecisive, then gathered himself together and spoke.
"There is, however, something which I feel must be mentioned here. Last night, quite late, René—Monsieur Vachey— took me aside. He said to me that he had been reminded of an obligation to an old friend, one he should never have forgotten, and he wished to meet it, though it would mean reneging on a more recent one. I was to act on it when I returned to Paris.
Inasmuch as I am not as conversant as I might be with all his paintings, he wrote down the following."
He lifted the torn sheet, cleared his throat, and read aloud: " 'Duchamp's Jeune fille qui chante—remove from Louvre bequest, present to Gisèle.' " He put the slip down. "He was referring, of course, to Madame Grémonde."
Everyone looked at her. She stared blankly back, still wringing her hands. I wondered if she knew where she was.
After a second, Christian spoke through a slack and unconvincing smile. "I don't think I'm hearing right. Are you actually saying we're supposed to treat that scrap of paper as a legal document? I don't mean to spoil the fun here, but can I call to your attention the fact that we're talking about a major work of art, not some sentimental little piece of bric-a-brac? Look, my father had about six drinks too many last night—"
"Pardon me, monsieur, but I don't see that it's your affair," Sully shot back at him. "However, I agree that this paper is not legally binding: It is unsigned and unwitnessed." He looked at Masseline. "But I can assure you, monsieur, and would be happy to so attest, that it was his intent that Madame Grémonde have the painting."
"Madame Grémonde?" Gisèle repeated dully.
"And the Louvre will honor that intent," Masseline said straightforwardly. From his chair he gave her a gallant half-bow. "With great pleasure, madame."
"I . . . the Duchamp?" Gisèle whispered, and when Sully said, "Yes, madame, the Duchamp," her eyes overflowed. Pepin, next to her, commendably extended his clean, folded handkerchief. When she took it and blew her nose into it, he winced.
I settled back in my chair with what is usually referred to as a warm glow, the last thing I'd expected to feel that morning. Well, good for you, René, I thought.
And good for you too, Masseline. And Sully. My feelings toward Christian were less benevolent, but I could understand his reaction. Not many children are generously inclined toward their fathers' paramours.
"Now then," Sully said crisply, getting us back on track. "My client has left the Galerie Vachey, including its inventory, receivables, and furnishings to Clotilde Guyot, in appreciation—"
Beside me, Madame Guyot put her balled handkerchief to her mouth. "No, are you serious? I had no idea—why, I can hardly believe—never once did he cause me to think ..."
"You are surprised?" Inspector Lefevre asked; rather unnecessarily, it seemed to me.
"Why, yes, I'm ... I knew nothing of a new will. I had always understood that the gallery would go to . . ." She blushed and faltered. "That is to say, it was understood from the beginning that Monsieur Vachey had intended the gallery to go to . . ."
Christian bailed her out, lifting his arms and bowing his head in a mocking imitation of someone accepting applause. There was about Vachey's son an unappetizing slickness, the glib smoothness of a Las Vegas lounge performer working the early-bird, senior-citizen show.
Sully picked up the thread again. "In addition, Monsieur Vachey has granted you the continuing use of the gallery's existing premises in this building for a period of up to one year. He also expressed in his will the hope that you would continue to employ Monsieur Marius Pepin in his current capacity. This is not to be construed as legally binding, but only as—"
"Employ Marius?" She laughed. "But of course I will. It's impossible to imagine the Galerie Vachey without dear Marius—" She seemed to realize that she was sounding a bit bubbly for the occasion, and toned things down. "I shall be happy to continue the association of the Galerie Vachey with Monsieur Pepin," she said gravely, but still glowing, "assuming this is agreeable to him."
"I would be honored to continue, madame," Pepin responded primly.
Inspector Lefevre addressed him. "You were Monsieur Vachey's secretary?"
"His secretary, yes. I was also responsible for—for the security of the collections."
A brief, nasty bark of laughter came from Froger. I looked at him, surprised.
So did Lefevre. "Something amuses you, monsieur?"
Froger shook his head and waved him off. Lefevre didn't press it, but I could see him make a mental note. He would press it in his own time, I thought. Pepin, looking resentful, kept his eyes on the floor.
"Let us continue," Sully said. "Except for the bequests mentioned earlier, the residue of Monsieur Vachey's estate is willed to his son, Christian. This includes the residences in Dijon and Paris, and personally owned works of art not otherwise designated."
So Christian was going to do all right, after all, if no
t quite as well as he'd hoped. I looked over at him. He was about as expressive as a slug.
Sully sat back. "And those are the provisions of the will insofar as they are pertinent to those present." He gathered up the papers and put them in an attache case.
"Why was I summoned here?" Froger demanded curtly. He had been looking more and more impatient as the session had gone on, sighing and huffing and twisting in his chair. I hadn't been sighing or huffing, but I was starting to wonder the same thing.
"I'm coming to it," Sully said, ruffled again. From his case he had gotten another set of papers, typed and legal-looking. "In the matter of the paintings by Fernand Léger and Rembrandt van Rijn, we are presented with a somewhat different situation. These are not mentioned in the will, but are the subjects of identical conditional donations, the first to the Musée Barillot and the second to the Art Museum of Seattle. In—"
"What conditions?" Froger said. "I know of no conditions."
Sully frowned at him. "These donations were drawn up—and signed by my client—in readiness for their acceptance by the donees. There are certain stipulations set forth—"
"Stipulations, what stipulations?" Froger asked.
Sully appealed to Lefevre. "Am I to be permitted to continue?"
"Try to control yourself, Monsieur Froger," Lefevre said mildly.
Sully read the conditions aloud. They were what I already knew: no scientific analysis was to be permitted; our decisions were to be made no later than Friday (Vachey, true to his word, had appended a rider extending the time limit), with the paintings remaining open to our visual inspection at any time during normal business hours; Vachey would pay for transportation to the Barillot and to SAM at the end of the two-week invitational showing in the Galerie Vachey, and would provide for their continuing conservation and insurance; the paintings were to be prominently displayed as a Rembrandt and a Léger, at SAM and the Barillot respectively, for a period of not less than five years.
Froger listened keenly. "These stipulations, they also apply to the Seattle Art Museum?"
"I told you," Sully told him, "they are identical."
Christian emitted a patronizing sigh. "Can I just make one point? My father's dead, right? The stipulations haven't been met—these people haven't signed anything, right? So how can the offers be binding on my father's estate?"
Sully looked at him for a long time. "But they are," he said. "These are not contracts, monsieur, they are conditional donations. In effect, they have already been made. If and when the donees accept the conditions, the matter is closed. The death of the donor is immaterial."
"Immaterial?" Christian repeated, then laughed. "He'd love hearing that. Look, Monsieur Sully, I don't accept what you're telling us, and I'm telling you right now that I'm going to be conferring with my own attorney about it."
Sully shrugged his unconcern. "Confer with twenty attorneys. The law is clear."
"In the meantime, I assume I can refuse entry to my own property if I feel like it?"
Sully looked impatiently at him. "Meaning?"
"Meaning I hereby refuse permission to Edmond Froger and to him"—he tilted his head toward me—"to examine the paintings."
"Wait one moment," Froger said, his voice taking on an edge of outrage. "That Léger happens to be in the Galerie Vachey, which is now owned by Madame Guyot, not—"
"But the Galerie Vachey happens to be in a house that I now own, and I refuse you entrance," Christian said with a triumphant smirk. "Him too." That was me again.
Froger started sputtering. "You . . . I . . ." He looked helplessly at Sully. "Can he do that?"
"No," the attorney said. "The will makes it quite clear—"
"No?" Christian said. "No? Listen, Sully, I know a little about the law myself, and as the executor of my father's estate, it's damn well my prerogative—"
Sully cut in. "You are not the executor of your father's estate. I am the executor of your father's estate."
Christian's astonishment was almost comical. His lips came together, then separated with a moist pop, to remain open. The fight had drained out of him as completely as if a plug had been pulled.
"And as executor," Sully continued, "I grant these people free access to the Galerie Vachey for the purpose of evaluating the paintings. You, however, are within your rights to refuse them entrance to the living quarters."
Froger had regained his composure. He looked sleek and confident again. "I would also like to have Monsieur Charpentier examine the painting further."
"You may have whomever you wish to assist you."
"And I may assume his fees will be paid by the estate? Last night René made it clear—"
"I was present," Sully said. "Yes, monsieur, the estate will pay them."
"I bring it up, you understand, because it seems only fair—"
"I have already said the estate will pay them. No further questions?" He looked toward Lefevre. "We are free to leave and to go about our business?"
"Of course. But Monsieur Vachey, Madame Guyot, Madame Grémonde—perhaps you would all remain behind for a little while? I would like to speak with you individually. Monsieur Vachey, is there a more convenient room where we might do this?"
"What?" Christian was still recovering from the last of his several shocks. "Oh—yes, all right. My father's study." Then, as an afterthought: "Clotilde, tell Madame Gaillard to make some coffee."
Clotilde Guyot's sunny features clouded. "Who are you to give me orders? I don't work for you. And I'm a gallery owner, not a servant; why should I fetch coffee?"
No, she didn't say it out loud—she was hardly the type—but the French can put a lot into a quivering eyebrow, a lifted chin, and a frigid stare. I may not have gotten every bit of it right, but you couldn't miss the general message. And I didn't think it was a case of unbridled feminism either. I thought it was simply a case of her not being able to stand Christian's guts. I was starting to feel sorry for the guy. Nobody liked him. Even the good Lorenzo's face had soured when his name had come up.
Nevertheless, Clotilde nodded, raised her soft bulk from the chair, and went out to make arrangements. Lefevre got up too, said he would be back in five minutes, and left.
Chapter 11
I went after him. It was time to let him know about my adventure last night, and to take whatever lumps I had coming. He was on the steps outside, having a cigarette.
"Inspector?"
He turned, blew two thick streams of smoke out of his nostrils and looked down his nose at me. He was taller than I'd realized, about six-three, straight as a ramrod, and with a way of carrying himself that was somewhat austere, to put it kindly. Or embalmed-looking, to put it otherwise.
"Yes? Monsieur Norgren, do I know you?"
"I don't think so."
"Are you sure? Your name is familiar."
I considered asking him if possibly he'd read my recent monograph on Andrea del Sarto and the early Italian Mannerists, but thought he might take it the wrong way.
"Sorry," I said, "I don't know why it would be familiar."
He peered coolly at me. "Weren't you recently involved in an art theft affair in Bologna?"
"Well . . . yes . . . last year. Only incidentally, actually. I happened to be there at the time, you see. About something else entirely. I was able to, er, provide the carabinieri with a little help."
The reason for this abject sniveling was that my encounter with the minions of the law in Bologna had taught me that policemen were not likely to take kindly to amateurs who stuck their noses into police matters without being asked. Even with the best of intentions. Even, in fact, when you wound up solving their case for them.
And, although I hadn't stuck my nose anywhere yet, and didn't intend to, I was in no hurry to get on the wrong side of the steely Inspector Lefevre.
"That's not quite what I recall," he said stiffly. "If memory serves, you seemed to be at the center of a number of misadventures that rather complicated matters for the carabinieri."
/>
"Not on purpose," I said with a grin, hoping a little self-deprecating American humor might soften him. "Colonello Antuono's theory was that someone put an evil eye on me when I was still in the womb."
Lefevre was unsoftened. "Well, I can't speak for the Italian police, but we, here in France, are perfectly capable of solving our crimes without unsolicited assistance. If you have pertinent information, we would like to have it. If we have questions, we would appreciate honest answers. Beyond that, please be kind enough to leave matters to us."
"Absolutely," I said. "Definitely."
His glance shifted to a man in shirt sleeves and a loosened tie who came out of the house, a toothpick jiggling at the corner of his mouth. "Phone call from the public prosecutor, Inspector. Wants to see you right now."
"Moury wants to see me now? This minute? Doesn't he realize how much we have to do?"
The man shrugged. The toothpick wagged. "He has some instructions for you."
I have since learned a little about the French criminal justice system, in which police inspectors are subject to the wishes, not of police superiors, but of public prosecutors. The police, as might be expected, often resent these intrusions.
Lefevre was no exception. "Mon dieu," he murmured fervently. (I leave it in French to provide the authentic Gallic flavor.) His eyes rolled skyward and stayed there for a long time before he brought them down. His cigarette was flung onto the cobblestones and viciously ground out.
"All right, Huvet," he said. "Go inside and tell them it will be half an hour before we start."
Huvet grinned. "You're going to get Moury to shut up in half an hour?"