7

Still groggy, Marion turned over in her bed and felt around for the phone.

“One of your sculptures—the woman with disproportionately sized ear lobes…”

It was Chris.

“What about it?” she replied softly, glancing at the clock.

“It was analyzed at our lab in July, right after your dad got rid of it. See, I was right to insist—”

“Are you calling from your office?”

“Where else would I be?”

“Do you know what time it is?”

“Seven thirty. I’ve been here all night—just for you.”

“Or maybe just to avoid going home?”

“Marion, this isn’t about me, okay? I’m telling you that I just found an owner. This is a lead—our only lead at the moment. I thought you’d be jumping for joy.”

“Who does it belong to?” she finally asked.

Chris shuffled some papers. “Oh good, so you’re awake now?”

“I’m awake.”

“I thought you had more fight in you.”

“Are you done lecturing me?”

“Alain Ozenberg. He’s one of our best clients.”

Marion was sitting up now. He was another one of the guests at the party.

“A big shot in pre-Columbian art. There’s no way of knowing if he still has the sculpture, but at least we have something to work with. You should also know that he has a reputation. He’s pushed through some questionable deals, and rumor has it he’s stolen pieces from small Latin American museums. Some people even say he has a network of tomb raiders in Peru.”

“Sounds like a solid lead. Maybe this one will pan out.”

“What do you mean?”

Marion told him about her call to Gaudin the night before.

“Well, now we have Ozenberg, and I’ve got more on him. He’s a player. Good looking. Before he became an art dealer he was a model and cover boy for Vogue. Take down this address: 64 Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. You could probably stop by his gallery today. It’s open.”

“I don’t have time.”

“I wouldn’t wait too long if I were you. The Munich Biennial Show starts in seven days, and you won’t be able to reach him for two weeks.”

Marion didn’t say anything. She didn’t feel brave enough or strong enough to deal with a stranger today.

“Hellooooo, is anyone there?”

“I was thinking.”

“And?”

“I was planning to go to my dad’s place today. I want to see if Duverger’s sculpture is there.”

A lie. She had nothing planned. She wanted to stay in her apartment behind a securely locked door, padding from the bed to the kitchenette and then to the sofa.

“I’ll go with you.”

“What?”

“I’ll go to your dad’s with you. I want to see the collection.”

“But I thought your boss wanted you at the office.”

“I’ll make something up to get out of here.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” She needed to backtrack. “It might be a little tricky if we both go. What if we run into Gaudin?”

“I hope we do.”

“I don’t. I’m only going if he’s not there.”

“I know you, Marion. You’ve already figured out what time he leaves the house.”

Marion felt trapped, and yet if she was going to make a decision it had to be now. Deep down she didn’t hate the idea of having him by her side at her father’s house. Even though her Gaudin-is-a-bad-guy theory was apparently a no-go, she was sure the man cared about his life’s work being taken away from him.

She knew that Gaudin would be at the flea market, where once a week he spent the morning. He had told her this the first time they spoke, when she had asked him when it was best to call.

“I’ll call you back,” she finally said.

“No need. Let’s just say we’ll meet at your dad’s in two hours. I’ll keep my cell on in case there are any problems with Gaudin.”

“Okay—but what about Ozenberg?” she blurted out.

“Why don’t you do both today?”

“Can you come with me to see him too?”

“That’s stretching it a bit. But I’ll meet up with you afterward if you want.”

~ ~ ~

From a bench in a small park, Marion was observing Magni’s mansion just across the street. Where was Chris? Ever since leaving her place, she was sure she was being followed. Was it just stress? Marion had done a thorough survey of her surroundings. There was nothing suspicious or troubling. If anyone appeared borderline sketchy, it was she. A woman sweeping the sidewalk in front of the post-Haussmann-style building was staring at her. Here in Passy—a neighborhood of luxury apartments, few shops, public gardens, and no movie theaters—the slightest sign of something unusual could seem shady.

Bothered by the pair of eyes directed at her, Marion finally opted to get off the bench. She purposefully walked across the street and dashed toward the building, her head spinning from the split-second decision.

She unlocked the door with the key Gaudin had given her and slipped into the apartment. She leaned against a wall of the large parlor to regain her bearings. As her composure returned, she let the beauty of the space wash over her. Stucco and wood—very popular in the nineteenth century. She hadn’t noticed it during her first visit, but from where she was standing now, she admired every chair, the big parquet table, the paintings—each angled toward a single vanishing point—and an ebony cabinet perched on Corinthian columns. It was a remarkable piece inlaid with baskets and birds of amethyst, agate, and mottled jasper.

There were no magazines, books, files, or pieces of mail. The parlor’s sole purpose was displaying the antiques and art the owner of the mansion had collected, especially the cabinet. As she examined the space more closely, she saw that each object had been given a specific and permanent place. No room for nonessentials, whims, or fancies. She was about to go into the office when the abrasively loud doorbell interrupted her. Chris, smiling wildly—devilishly even—swept in and kissed her on the cheeks.

“Nice outfit,” he said with a wink. “You’re not really going to wear old jeans, a baggy top, and flats when you hit on Ozenberg, are you?”

“Don’t start,” she said, turning her back to him.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Chris said. “He arranged his furniture and everything else perfectly. I’m getting chills. Everything’s so beautiful.”

“Magni surrounded himself with priceless objects as though they were a sort of shield. Wait till you see the cellar.”

“Are you going to inherit all this too?” Chris caressed the wood of a Mazarin bureau and then carefully opened a drawer.

“Chris! You shouldn’t—”

“There’re aren’t any papers anywhere,” he said, ignoring her. “I wonder where he kept all his mail. Come on. Let’s go upstairs. We have time, don’t we? When will Gaudin be back?”

“Normally he spends the morning at the flea market, so I can’t imagine he’ll be back right away. I don’t want to loiter too long, though.”

“So we have five minutes to spare. Let’s go!”

Chris grabbed her hand, clearly giddy.

One floor up, they roamed from room to room. As Marion went from one space to the next, she realized something: there were no clocks of any kind.

She walked over to one of the double-pane windows flanked by drapes as heavy as Doric columns. The window was wide and tall, a feature that made the building look larger from the outside. She glanced at the street, then turned back around. There was no tick-tocking, or any other noise, for that matter. No swoosh of a passing car, no creaky floorboards, no click of a furnace turning on.

“It’s crazy,” she said, sitting on the edge of a lit à la polonaise. “This place is a real tomb. Have you seen one TV or radio? Have you even spotted a CD player?”

“Silence is a luxury these days, like that bed you’re sitting on was way back when. You know they call it a Polish bed because of King Louis XV’s Polish queen, right? Of course you do,” Chris said. He was opening and closing armoire doors and bureau drawers. “Check this out. Shirts, shirts, and more shirts. He had enough to wear a different one every day of the year. They’re folded by color between sheets of tissue paper. Maybe I could hire his housekeeper. She’d do wonders for my place.”

Marion started bouncing on the mattress—slowly at first, then more vigorously. “The mattress doesn’t even make noise. Listen. Nothing.” She looked under the box spring. Magni had reinforced the bed to keep it from squeaking. As she straightened up, a white splotch near the headboard caught her eye. She knelt next to the bedside table and reached for it. It was a crumpled piece of paper covered with a thin layer of dust. She smoothed it out. On it was a handwritten list of five items, with the first four crossed out:

Woman with Child

Warrior

Crouched Figure Carrying the World

Jaguar

Tattooed Man

It was a list of sculptures, including the three she had to find. But why were some crossed out? Did it mean they had been auctioned off? Or donated? And what were the crouched figure and the tattooed man? What were they doing on the list?

“Look at this.” She held the paper in front of Chris, who was now sitting beside her.

“Where’d you find that?”

“Under the bed.”

He ran his fingers over the dark blue ink. “This is the first piece of paper we’ve come across. And it’s woven—classy stuff.”

“It looks like someone meant to throw it out, then changed his mind.”

“Gaudin?”

“Or Magni…”

“But if either of them wanted it, why was it lying crumpled next to the bed?”

Marion glanced around. “Who’s room is this, anyway?” Like every other room in the house, the furniture was a barrier to any display of individuality. No pictures, no books—nothing that would give the space a unique identity.

“Chris, what size are the shirts?”

“XL. All of them. Too big for me. Otherwise I would’ve totally taken one. These threads are excellent.”

“Gaudin looks like he’s an XL. But for all I know, so was Magni.” Marion sighed. “I was only three when my mother told me he was dead.”

A loud slam disrupted the supernatural silence of the house. Marion and Chris looked at each other before the latter leaped up to close the bedroom door. They’d never make it as gumshoes. They scared too easily.

The apartment was quiet again. Without waiting any longer, Marion headed into the hallway, followed by Chris, and crept down the stairs. At the bottom, she peeked into the parlor. Seeing no one, the two of them hurried to the reinforced cellar door.

“There must be a draft somewhere in this place,” Chris whispered.

Marion tried not to tremble as she fished out the two keys that opened the door. “I hope he gave me the real keys,” she whispered. To her great relief, they fit the locks. After opening the door, Marion took a moment to absorb the darkness before fiddling with the lights.

At the bottom of the steps Marion pulled the photo of Laurent Duverger’s shaman out of her bag. She handed the image to Chris, who stood motionless as he cast his eyes over the hundreds of other-worldly figures.

After a few minutes, he walked over to the closest display and started inspecting the figures. Marion thought he was the very picture of a Roman general inspecting the elite members of his Praetorian Guard. But despite the rigorous review, Chris found no match. The stone shaman in the image was upright, with crossed arms, a triangular face, and dark shadows where his eyes should have been. It had the alien look of a monumental Easter Island sculpture.

They moved on to another display. Chris hadn’t opened his mouth or let out a single whistle of admiration. He looked overwhelmed. They moved from one exhibit to another. Still nothing. Then, just as she was about to give up, Marion glimpsed a spot that she hadn’t seen before. And there he was, staring back at her. He was a bit off to the side, isolated from the others, radiating a sense of piousness and mystery.

“I was right,” she said, reaching out to it.

“You’ve got a good eye. That’s definitely it. What a beautiful piece.”

Chris clapped with delight and spun around, almost losing his balance. Then he gasped. Marion looked to see what was the matter and stopped her hand mid-air when she saw Gaudin standing in the doorway, with his hands in his pockets and a scowl on his face.

“What are you doing here?”

The sound of Marion’s voice seemed to get lost in the walls. It was Gaudin who had slammed the door and then crept up on them in this soundproofed vault.

“I could ask you the same thing. We don’t have an appointment, as I recall.”

Marion was determined not to let any of her trepidation show.

“We wanted to take a quick look at the collection by ourselves,” she shot back with a smile. “This is my friend, Chris. Chris, Mr. Gaudin…”

Faced with his stubborn and suspicious silence, she continued. “There are so many pieces. Initially you don’t see them as individual works, but instead as a collection. Then you begin to appreciate each one individually. This shaman, for example. I didn’t notice it the other day. And yet it’s so different from the others. Magni probably saw its unique features too, and that’s why it was displayed a bit differently.”

“If you look closely, there are similar shamans.”

Marion searched for them. “Oh, there’s an androgynous one.” She approached the shelf where it was displayed. “You’re right. I wasn’t paying close enough attention.”

“There are many more. Fifty-some in total. All made with impeccable craftsmanship,” the assistant said at last. “It’s a spectacular collection.”

“Collection?”

Gaudin seemed to hesitate, and for a second Marion thought he would close up completely.

“A good number of years ago, your father met an old scholar, a former biology professor, Joseph Ernsen. The man was crazy about pre-Columbian art. But he had debts to pay off. Magni bought his collection cash on the barrel and preserved it until he died.”

“What a nice gesture.”

“A nice transaction,” Gaudin corrected. “Your father was no philanthropist. He was betting on the man’s addiction to gambling. He knew the fellow wouldn’t give the cash to the people he owed money to. In fact, he gambled the money away and took on even more debt. He spent his final years chasing other pieces that he then sold to your father for a song—just to keep the loan sharks off his back. Your father did very well. He made a handsome profit on that man’s vices.”

Marion nodded distractedly. A typical dirty venture in capitalism. If he was telling the truth, what was Laurent Duverger’s sculpture doing here? Because it no doubt belonged to him.

“But I know that shaman was stolen,” she fired, fully prepared to grab the sculpture.

“Hands off!” Gaudin shouted, springing toward her.

Marion started and stepped back.

“Where did you hear that nonsense?” Gaudin asked.

“I have in my possession a perfectly legitimate declaration of theft.”

“You have the wrong piece, then.”

“The description is a perfect match. The photo too,” Chris said, handing Gaudin the picture. “That shaman belongs to Laurent Duverger. He’s the one who reported it stolen.”

Marion hadn’t taken her eyes off Gaudin, and the expression on his face was a perfect example of simultaneous dejection and anger. But he snapped out of it quickly, and Marion thought he might regain the upper hand.

“It’s a setup,” he muttered. “Duverger wants to get in the game by letting you know that you’ll have to go though him if you intend to sell.”

“Hold on. So Duverger knows that I’m Magni’s daughter?”

“Your father’s estate attorney isn’t the kind to accept bribes. But Duverger is a very powerful man.”

“I knew it. So he may know the specifics of the will too?”

“Most likely. But that’s not the problem here. What he’s trying to do is slow you down and secure his role as middleman so that you can’t try anything without him.”

“That’s a convoluted plan,” Chris intervened. “What makes him think Marion is going to sell? And even if she is, why didn’t he just talk to her directly? That would have been way easier!”

“Would Marion have agreed to talk with him if he had taken your direct approach?”

“No more than she would now.”

“Ah, but she will now. Because the message was also intended for me. He sent her in search of this figure knowing full well that I would be here. Blackmail—because that’s what it’s all about—involves two people who know.”

“Blackmail?”

“He’s aware that any accusation of thievery would tarnish Magni’s reputation and possibly make potential buyers suspicious of his collection as a whole.”

Marion looked at Chris, and frowned. She was having a difficult time making sense of everything. Was Gaudin telling the truth? What complex trickery were they all fabricating? She turned to the assistant again when she heard him sigh.

“All right,” he said. “I can see that it’s time to fill you in. Duverger was the one who introduced your father to the collector I mentioned earlier—Ernsen. Duverger couldn’t buy the entire collection on his own, so he asked Magni to go in on it. When Magni laid eyes on the collection, he was mortified. His own collection couldn’t hold a candle to those exceptional works of art. Ernsen had breathtaking Olmec pieces purchased in a golden era when objects could be brought out of Mexico. Magni had spent his whole life collecting pre-Columbian artworks, and in his eyes they now amounted to nothing. The next day he purchased the whole lot without telling Duverger. Ernsen made it clear to Ernsen he would never buy another piece from him if he told Duverger. Then Magni fed Duverger a line about Ernsen selling the collection to an anonymous buyer. Duverger didn’t learn who it was until the old guy died. He swore to Magni that he’d make him pay one day.”

“But Duverger admires Magni.”

“Enemies can respect each other, even spend time together. Magni was surrounded by puppets and he pulled the strings. But Duverger was different. He is dangerously clever and, more important, very talented. Your father liked him. He was a worthy opponent. He was pretty much his only competition. And Magni liked their games, even if he thought Duverger was a bit too… How should I put it? Unstable.”

“Still, I don’t buy your blackmail theory. I’m not Magni, after all. I’m Magni’s daughter. We are two entirely different people. I didn’t even know my father. Why would he have it in for me?”

Gaudin’s tone turned condescending again. “I’m going to tell you something that you need to plant deep in your brain. It’s best to use caution when you flirt with the past. You never know what may rise to the surface.”

“I still don’t understand. Why am I in danger? Why does Duverger care about me? And what’s the deal with this sculpture? Who does it belong to—Duverger or Magni?”

“Of all the pieces in Ernsen’s collection, it’s the only one that eluded your father. It shouldn’t be here, and yet…”

“What are you trying to say?”

“By now you know enough to determine the extent of Duverger’s power.”

“Why are you so secretive? Be clear. How can I defend myself against him if I don’t have the information I need?”

Gaudin gave her a cold look.

“You’re not going to help me,” she said, feeling her anger rise. “That’s it, isn’t it? You want to stay in control of the collection.”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

“Maybe Duverger will prove to be more talkative than you if I meet with him today and declare my intentions to negotiate a deal.” Marion was ready to say anything to get more out of this man.

“You can always try,” Gaudin sneered. “But why would he talk if he’s not confident that you’re in a position to sell? I doubt he’ll show his cards as long as you’re unable to guarantee anything.”

Gaudin kept sending her back to square one. She would have preferred it if he had declared war. She could have assessed what she was up against. But instead, he gave her the impression that he was neither with her nor against her. What if he knew for sure that she didn’t pose an imminent threat? That might explain his attitude. He could easily control her moves and protect himself. At any rate, she was becoming convinced that he wasn’t scared of her, but rather scared of what she might learn.

This would certainly explain why he was divulging his information with such caution. Maybe he was willing to do anything to preserve Magni’s standing in the art world. It was also possible that he feared for himself. Was he scared of Duverger? Apparently Duverger knew Magni’s life story by heart. That could make him a dangerous enemy. Or an accomplice…