Old Scores (Chris Norgren 3) (14 page)

"I want to know why I was summoned here," Froger said.

Lefevre ignored him. "When I learned that Monsieur Sully planned to meet with the legatees of Monsieur Vachey's will before some of them—that is to say, some of you—found it necessary to leave the area, I asked to attend. I apologize for the necessity of intruding at this sad time."

He crossed his legs and settled back. "Monsieur Sully—if you please?"

Monsieur Sully was seated behind the desk. Plump, capon-breasted and silver-haired, he wore an expression suggestive of feathers that had been severely ruffled.

"That is not quite accurate, Inspector," he said, irritably fingering a few handwritten sheets of lined white paper in front of him. "I would like it to be understood that this gathering was instigated by you. I am complying with your instructions, but I wish it to be known that I consider it premature and highly irregular."

Lefevre gazed impassively back at him. "As you like."

"I also wish you to make it clear that if anyone prefers to leave, he is under no compulsion to remain. I will contact all concerned persons in due time."

"Certainly," Lefevre said. "All who wish to go are free to do so."

No one moved.

Lefevre looked steadily at Sully. "You have done your duty, monsieur. Proceed."

Sully cleared his throat. "As some of you are aware, I am Charles Sully, Monsieur Vachey's attorney of many years. All of you are here because you are concerned in one way or another with the estate of René Vachey."

Calvin and I exchanged surprised glances. What did that mean? Were we in Vachey's will? Was it possible that he had actually
bequeathed
the Rembrandt to us, something I hadn't even considered? From the corner of my eye I saw Froger perk up; apparently his thoughts were running along similar lines. To my surprise, I felt my own attention quicken. Despite everything that had happened, apparently I wasn't as disinterested in the Rembrandt as I'd been telling Calvin—and myself.

"I must tell you," Sully went on, "that at this point I can relate to you only certain of the more significant provisions of Monsieur Vachey's will. The document is complex, and I do not have a copy with me. The original is in a Credit Lyonnais safe deposit box in Paris, for which Monsieur Vachey and I are joint signatories. It was placed there upon its completion in January of this year—"

"January of last year," Christian Vachey said.

The younger Vachey wasn't as young as I'd thought at dinner the previous night, when I'd been fooled by a softly rounded chin, smooth baby-cheeks, and an adolescent smirk. Seen up close he was well into his forties, a husky, laid-back, Hollywood ish kind of man with dark, curly, blow-dried hair that came down almost to his shoulders in back and hung in a Superman forelock in front. He was wearing a sharp double-breasted gray suit with no tie, but with his white shirt buttoned up to the collar. A gold earring in the form of a cross with a loop for its upper arm—the Egyptian
ankh
sign—dangled from his left ear.

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 not 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."