The Grandfather Clock

by Jonathan Kile

“Well, you know that I was engaged.”

  “Yes.”

  “My job was,” I searched for the right word, “unsatisfying. I wasn’t doing anything. I just needed a change.”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  We got off the train at Notre Dame. The sky was cloudless and a cold gust blew off the Seine. Klara put her arm through mine, as the wind cut through us. She did it without thinking, and then lost her train of thought as she realized that we were now walking arm in arm. She gave me a slight glance and I smiled to let her know I was comfortable.

  “My friend Howard says springtime is the best. It was August last time I was here.”

  “Oh, August! Everything is closed in August! Spring is pretty. Flowers, wine in the gardens, long evenings.”

  “I hope I’m still here.”

  “Me too.”

  A crowd gathered at the door of the bookstore. I spotted Howard and introduced him to Klara. The tiny shop couldn’t have held more than the thirty people who came. Author Dupont Marger’s series of mysteries set in 1930s London had a cult following and he and Howard knew each other. He spoke for a few minutes and took questions. I bought a copy and we lingered outside while Marger signed books.

  “Would you two like to join Dupont and I for dinner tonight? I knew a lovely place for côte de bœuf.”

  We were in the midst of a lively dinner conversation, in which I attempted to translate the action for Klara, although most of the attention was on her to begin with. I couldn’t tell if there was a connection between Howard and Dupont. I told Dupont an abridged story of what brought me to Paris that was unconvincing because I didn’t talk about the blunderbuss.

  Howard shook his head. He couldn’t resist. “I’m sorry, Michael. With your permission, we’ve got to tell Dupont what is so fascinating about the museum piece that brought you from tending bar in New Orleans, to this place in Paris. Surely we can trust the great Dupont Marger.” Dupont stared at me from beneath bushy gray eyebrows.

  “Fine. We can tell him.” I was starting to regret telling Howard.

  “Our boy here has a gun, much like a musket. Two hundred years old. It belonged to Napoleon Bonaparte!”

  “Magnificent!” Dupont gasped.

  “Mon Dieu!” Klara punched me in the arm. “Michael!”

  “You’ve been holding back, my friend,” Howard laughed. “I thought she knew.”

  I shook my head and buried my face in my hands.

  “Are you German?” Dupont asked.

  “No.”

  “Well, that’s good!” he bellowed. “Does anyone know it’s missing?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” I said.

  Dupont checked his phone as another bottle of wine arrived. It was only 7:45.

  “Gentlemen and lady, I’m afraid I have a Chunnel to catch,” he said dropping money on the table.

  “Keep your money,” Howard said. “This is on me.”

  Dupont turned to me. “Michael, if you’re having trouble finding the origin of that weapon, you might look for where it was taken.”

  He was right. I was only looking for where the gun had been displayed, assuming that was in Paris. But if it was taken by the Nazis, it might have been taken to Germany.

  The three of us stayed to finish the wine. We bid Howard goodbye and walked toward the Metro station. Klara peeked at her phone, which had vibrated several times over the last hour.

  “It’s Celeste. Marco is out of town, so she needs someone to be with.”

  “Should you call her?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe not. She’s not going to be happy that we’re out.”

  In French I wasn’t sure whether she was implying that this day had turned into a date.

  “Did she call you?” Klara asked.

  I looked at my phone. “Yes.”

  “We both didn’t answer, and we are together. I think we should keep this quiet. I think she likes you.”

  I laughed. “You must have not seen her kissing someone at the party. She seemed to have found a new gentleman,” I said.

  “Oh, Albert? Please. She’s been toying with Albert for years. He lives in Brussels now anyway.”

  “She was pretty upset about Marco’s trip to Argentina the other day.”

  Klara rolled her eyes. “She just wants all the boys. Always has.”

  Oh boy, I thought. I had a feeling I was already in trouble. Howard’s advice replayed in my mind. There were a lot of reasons to steer clear of Celeste. Her initial indifference, her apparent attachment to Marco, and then her reaching out to me – it was too much of a game.

  Of course it wasn’t the best idea to go with Klara to her place for a drink. But it was still early, and I didn’t want to be confronted by Celeste. At least that’s what I told myself.

  It was one stop back to the Marianne and Celeste’s apartment. My mind couldn’t focus. I didn’t want to go back. I’d woken that morning with Klara’s light brown hair draped on my shoulder. She woke slightly and eased her naked body on top of me and laughed in my ear. She had a small, thin tattoo of a kite on her ribcage. Her olive skin was unusual for Paris in the winter. She wrapped herself in the sheet and warmed me a croissant.

  “So, you have to go back to the Demers’ apartment.”

  “I know. I know.”

  “Don’t be weird and not call me.”

  “I will call you Tuesday,” I said.

  “Tuesday?”

  “That way you will know when I’m going to call. No games.”

  “I like that,” she smiled.

  I walked into the apartment. It was after 9:00. I was startled to find Marianne standing over the open box, holding the card that said, Le Tromblon de Napoleon. Marianne jumped when she saw me, as if she were caught reading my diary.

  “I wanted to get a good look at it,” she said in English.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Soon so many people will know about this, we won’t have to be secretive. But I don’t know the value of that thing and I don’t know who to trust.”

  “We will put it in the safe at the Malmaison. We will use our internal resources. I believe the gun belongs at the Malmaison, within the family property. It is a French National Treasure. Regardless of who may claim ownership, it belongs here.”

  I’d seen that term before. “French National Treasure.” It was a nice way of saying it was important, and France should own it.

  “I think we should meet with Dr. Desjardins again,” I said. Marianne was hurt by the comment and the notion that I didn’t trust her professional opinion. But she had read me correctly. I didn’t want her to get outmaneuvered by a system of museums and government that I didn’t understand.

  “If we put in the safe, we tell no one that it’s there,” she said. She wasn’t going to address the fact that I hadn’t told her about the placard in the muzzle.

  I took a deep breath. I wanted to ease any sign of mistrust. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to doubt you. It’s a lot to process.”

  “I understand,” she closed the box and put it on the coffee table. “Late night?”

  “It was late. I didn’t want to wake you. I went to a book signing at Shakespeare, and then dinner with an American friend. He’s a fashion photographer.”

  “I’m glad to hear you’re getting comfortable with Paris.”

  “I really do like it here. Thank you again for taking me into your home.”

  “Claudette was right about you. You are a good good man.”

  “Trying to be.”

  Marianne put on her coat and said she was meeting a friend for brunch. I took a shower and lay down on the couch. I looked at the wooden box. I didn’t want to put it in a museum that used funding from the French government. I didn’t understand the risks.

  I was startled when I heard Celeste’s door open.

  “Celeste?” I called. I didn’t want to catch her off guard.

  A young man emerged, with dirty jeans, a black sweater and disheveled hair. He offered
me a sheepish wave and left quickly. Moments later Celeste strode out in a sheer black nightgown and leaned against the hall doorway.

  “He was supposed to leave in the night, but we fell asleep.”

  I looked at her, unsure of why she was telling me this.

  “I wanted to see you last night,” she said.

  “A friend of mine, he invited me to a book signing at the English bookstore.”

  She rubbed her eyes and I realized that that she was tearing up.

  “And Klara,” she said.

  “Klara had invited me over yesterday afternoon and I asked her to go with me.”

  I wasn’t sure why I was explaining myself, but I felt sorry for Celeste. She looked so vulnerable, standing there practically naked and crying. Her harsh exterior was entirely gone.

  “But you stayed there with her.”

  “We were out late and I didn’t want to...”

  “It’s okay.” She attempted to smile. “You don’t need to answer to me. I just thought... you know. It’s my fault. Don’t worry about it.”

  I was frustrated. I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

  “Men never do,” she said, and walked out of the room.

  I waited until I knew she was in the bath before I moved. I changed my clothes. I fastened the box shut and set out. Near the Arc de Triomphe was a sporting goods store. I purchased six things with cash: a pair of K-Swiss tennis shoes, two cans of tennis balls, a racket, a slim black tennis bag, a dumbbell bar, and a small combination lock. When I returned mid afternoon, the apartment was empty.

  That evening, Marianne saw the racket and commented. I told her that I had found some courts and was hitting against a wall. I said I needed to get some exercise. She didn’t bat an eye.

  When she drove us to the Malmaison the next morning, I brought the gun box. I had fashioned the lock so that it couldn’t be opened without the combination. Of course, it was a simple wooden box that could be opened with a hammer or a screwdriver. I explained that I didn’t want anyone with access to the safe to be stealing peeks or touching it.

  When we arrived, she walked me to a large wall safe in a locked room that contained items that rotated in and out of display. There were old lamps, sculptures, paintings, Christmas-themed items, and a vast collection of glassware. She opened the safe. Inside were envelopes, a metal moneybox, several jewelry boxes, and a stack of documents. She made a six-inch wide slot that reached the back of the safe and pushed the gun box inside. She pulled a small black book from inside the safe and turned to a page with a form. On it she wrote the date, our names, and the word, “Tromblon.” We both signed it.

  The Château de Malmaison was now in possession of the world’s most securely protected dumbbell bar.

  7

  I worried about my decision to deceive Marianne. It left an uneasy pit in my stomach. I took a walk in the garden and called Vince. I told him that I worried that if I gave up possession of the gun, I would never have it again. I feared that I would never uncover its past without having it in my hands. If I had put it in the safe before Desjardins noticed the placard, I might have never found that key piece of evidence. Vince agreed with my move, but I wasn’t sure if he was just telling me what I wanted to hear.

  My fourth week in Paris was a busy one. After our conversation on Sunday, relations between Celeste and I returned to normal. I couldn’t tell if she was putting on an act, or if she was really doing fine. Our string of weeknight family dinners was something I hadn’t experienced since childhood. Marianne cooked and I helped. Celeste and I cleaned.

  On Tuesday afternoon, I did as I promised. I called Klara.

  “Bonjour!” she answered in song.

  “I told you that I would call on Tuesday. It is Tuesday. How are you, my dear?”

  “I’m well.” I could hear the smile in her voice. Then her tone changed. “I haven’t heard from Celeste. I think she knows.”

  “She knows.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “She was upset. I’m not sure why. A man was leaving her room when I got there. But she’s been fine since.”

  “That’s Celeste. She doesn’t understand how people see her. She can be cold, but then she gets upset if she pushes someone away.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Deep down, she is insecure.”

  “You should call her. Make plans. Don’t include me.”

  “Good idea. When can I see you, Michael?”

  “Tonight? Want to have dinner?”

  “I never have plans on a school night.”

  I arrived at Klara’s apartment just before five o’clock. I liked the French habit of knocking off work at four. With a setting as tempting as Paris, it was a good thing we had a ninety-minute lunch, and holidays all over the calendar. There was simply too much to see to spend every day at work.

  I knocked on Klara’s door.

  “Are we going to play tennis?” she asked in response to my sweatshirt, tennis shoes and bag.

  “Oh. No,” I said. “This is the tromblon.”

  “Oh, a tennis bag? Clever. Are you going to dress like John McEnroe from now on?” She was laughing hard now.

  “Please,” I said shaking my head.

  “We could think of other hobbies to go with it. We could say you are a cellist, or a golfer! We could get your some plaid pants and those spiky shoes.”

  “The box was too bulky. It stood out. This was the best I could come up with. It’s a good way to hide it in plain sight, especially when I leave it at the apartment.” I did not want to tell her about the dumbbell in the safe.

  “Well don’t ever leave it here,” she said. “I don’t need some million Euro relic laying around.”

  “I will find a place for it. I’m meeting with some Americans with Bank USA. I’m just having a hard time knowing who to trust,” I confided.

  “When I think of trustworthy, I always think of big American banks,” she deadpanned.

  “Hey,” I said, “I understand American banks. I used to work for one.”

  “You can trust Marianne, Michael,” she said, turning serious. “I’ve known her forever.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” I sighed, falling into her sofa.

  That next morning brought the first snow since I had arrived. A thin blanket of white dusted everything, and for a few hours Paris was gleaming. By late morning, everything was wet, and all that remained was gray slush that I struggled to avoid as I made my way to the second floor Bank USA office near the Trocadero. I’d expected something more obvious from one of the world’s largest banks, but the office was small and low key. Sam’s friend Jay and a senior officer named Martin Brandt greeted me. We walked down the road to a cafe.

  Jay was about my age, and I knew his type. He was moving up through the ranks, outpost to outpost. He compulsively gave me his résumé as we walked. “First I was in Charlotte. What a dump. Then they sent me to Minneapolis, surprisingly cool. But nothing beats this, even with snow.”

  Martin Brandt had his protégé. “One more stop, maybe a stint in New York and you’ll be over a region,” he said. “Who knows where you’ll end up.”

  Maybe prison, I thought. Bank USA was a punching bag in the international media lately. Blamed for things they did and didn’t do. In the midst of it all, they were busy handing out multimillion-dollar bonuses and naming football stadiums.

  Small French café tables weren’t designed for three American men over six feet tall. Brandt wasn’t fat, but he sat down like he was in a grade school desk. Salt shakers fell as we received annoyed glances from the wait staff. He ordered a diet Coke and twice asked for more ice.

  “Sam tells me that you’re new to Paris, doing some museum work. But you were with Globe Bank?”

  “Yes. I came here under unusual circumstances,” I said, trying to hold back a little.

  “How so?” Brandt asked with a ‘don’t waste my time’ attitude.

  “I’ll tell you what I can,” I said,
to Brandt’s mild approval. “Back home I came across an item hidden in my family’s antique clock. An item that was interesting enough to get the attention of a lesser known museum outside of Paris, the Chateau Malmaison.”

  “Napoleon lived there,” Jay said to Martin Brandt.

  “So I get here, not really sure if the item was authentic. If we could learn more about it, the museum could use its discovery to gain attention and raise money.” I got the feeling that Brandt was the sort of banker who walked into the Louvre, looked at the Mona Lisa and walked out.

  “What is it?” Jay asked.

  “I don’t want to get into that. But a similar item sold for over six million dollars at auction.”

  Now I had Martin Brandt’s attention. “Six million?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Have it appraised at once,” he said.

  “I can’t,” I said. “We don’t know how my family got it, or who may claim to own it.”

  “You think it’s stolen,” Brandt said.

  “Mr. Brandt, have you ever had to handle a client whose fortune might have been made in a nefarious way?”

  He laughed. “Is there any other way?”

  “Yes, but some, even your bank can’t touch.”

  “Terrorists. Drug dealers, maybe.”

  “This isn’t Medellín, Mr. Brandt. Think back.”

  A light of recognition crossed his eyes. Then he lowered his voice, “You are not going to get far trafficking stolen Nazi art these days.”

  “It isn’t art,” I said, matching his low tone. “And we know the original owner isn’t going to come forth.”

  Brandt leaned back in his chair. “So why are we meeting?”

  “American man, cleaning out his grandmother’s old keepsakes, makes a startling discovery. A valuable artifact missing since it was stolen by the Nazis. He returns it to its rightful home in Paris.”

  “I’m intrigued,” Brandt said.

  “I don’t think we have the resources to research and protect this item. It is a huge opportunity for your bank, an American icon, to support this story in closing a chapter in the history pages of World War Two.”