46
On Friday morning, Inspector Aliette Nouvelle was watching from her office window, equal parts bemused and cynical. A steady stream of taxis and official-looking vehicles came and went from the courtyard. Quite the crowd was showing up to see their unknown masterpiece. Chief Magistrate Richand and PJ Commissaire Néon took turns coming out to greet and usher in. She did not expect to see a FedPol contingent. Agent Rudi Bucholtz had seen the shoemaker, or a version. Agent Franck Woerli was dead — buried yesterday in Basel. For Franki she had made the effort; so sad to see his greying wife, three early-twenties daughters, a tight family Franki had never even mentioned… She hadn’t seen Gregory Huet arriving for the show and did not expect to. She wondered what she might have done had Gregory attended. She hoped he was at home in Kembs eating kugelhopf and shaking. Or had he run? Where would he run? She didn’t care.
Silence was her best position. Looking down, she felt badly for Claude, a dry scorn mixed with pity for Gérard. The judge’s vaunted love of beauty set his warts in high relief.
As she left for another go-round at Hôtel Dieu, the inspector saw VigiTec security agent Della Kypreosus hurrying up the front steps in rue des Bons Enfants. It was a jolt to suddenly behold the security guard in civvies. She had spent some of her wages on handsome boots and a chic December coat from the boutiques in Claraplatz. Good for Della. But Aliette Nouvelle did not call out — no, she kept moving, there was nothing she wanted to say. All meaningful movement was internal now, toward creating distance between herself and all of this.
In preparation for her leaving.
As expected, she returned in mid-afternoon to learn that while everyone enjoyed the fine baking and an excellent local wine, no one recognized the shoemaker. Some had looked very closely, but not knowing the work or its origins, they had no context, no point of reference, no means for comparison as to value, market-based or otherwise. Most educated guesses thought him likely Dutch — Monique whispered that Gérard Richand had engaged in some almost embarrassing debate on that. Historical aesthetic trends aside, no one from the art crime investigation community had the shoemaker on their missing list. No one amongst the contingent of curious dealers attending had any memos from clients seeking such an item. The shoemaker had his moment, then everyone went home.
Only one disheartened cop knew it was the shoemaker’s stand-in that had stymied all the experts. The actual was still in a totebag leaning against her desk.
Bernadette had probably twigged. Or maybe not.
And Aliette thought, Well, if no one knows him, then he’s worth nothing.
Yes, it seemed that the best revenge on Gregory Huet was to say nothing. He knew the fate of his real client. But he couldn’t know where the bona fide product was. Gregory Huet would worry for a long time about the next knock on his door. The idea of silence pleased her.
At least as much as she was capable of being pleased in those raw days of mid-December.
Drifting snowflakes Friday evening, a drifting Aliette.
Monday, down at the courthouse reporting her non-progress after another weekend of futile visits to Hôtel-Dieu, she smiled as Gérard Richand reprised his lame charade of surprise and dismay (while so tenderly cradling Gregory Huet’s immaculate fake). ‘What a shame…what a sham! All these so-called experts.’
Inspector Nouvelle totally agreed, just as capable of shameless acting.
Gérard sighed. Notices would be posted on boards across France and, as a courtesy, in parts of neighbouring nations. A file would be shared with InterPol. The shoemaker would be carefully stored in a bank vault just down the street — Gérard himself had opened the account. If unclaimed after a year, the lonely artisan would be offered for a nominal price.
Aliette sighed too. She wondered if Gérard Richand could wait that long. Regardless, she knew that in the gentle course of time the shoemaker would appear in Gérard’s home — a home just three blocks from the house in the north end where she had tried and failed to settle. Gérard would dream up some French provenance, turn him into a story that suited his study, if not his salon. We all have our little deceits, because life would be too flat without them, no? Deceits that become reality and turn into family history. So strange to think it, which is why we don’t.
In any event, a dream provenance would fit well with an expert fake.
And a respectful cop would never dream of mentioning it to her judge.