Rachael's Gift (17 page)

‘She has to work hard,’ I said. ‘You know what it takes.’

‘Don’t worry. We’ll work hard.’

‘I don’t want her to be just good.’

‘You can’t force these things,’ he said.

The birds continued to swirl and dive against the shadow of the pointed turrets of the Conciergerie on the Île de la Cité. I felt uneasy – it was seeing Lucien again, I supposed. Would Wolfe have let her do this?

‘What are you two talking about?’ Rachael appeared behind us. Her question was playful but there was an edge of something underneath. Had she heard us?

Francine said from the sofa, ‘Rachelle, Lucien has agreed to mentor you, starting from tomorrow.’

Rachael smiled coyly up at Lucien. ‘I was worried that you didn’t like –’ She stopped. I didn’t believe for a second that she thought he wouldn’t.

We gathered our things, kissed him goodbye and made our way to the door.

‘Camille?’

‘Yes?’

Lucien winked. ‘I know a very good recipe for the artichoke.’

*

The metro screeched into the dark tunnel, sparks flying. I caught Rachael smiling to herself in the glass. The cabin light flickered on and off and our skin was bathed in a dull yellow, but even so, Rachael bloomed. Seated opposite, a man in a business suit stared openly at her. People generally did. As if drawn to a magnet, men would turn their heads and she would gaze straight through them, as if she was oblivious to her power, but really I think she was well aware of it.

Had Lucien felt this too? She had been subtle with him. Cool with a hint of deference.

‘So how was that?’ Rachael asked. It was just the two of us now; she was coming with me to the Galerie Frey-Duval. Francine had other things on.

‘Fine,’ I replied, unsure whether she meant her meeting Lucien for the first time or me seeing him again.

‘I can see why you fell for him.’

I looked away; I didn’t like her probing and felt annoyed that she had found out about the affair.

She continued, sounding pensive, ‘I like that he’s just about his work. Nothing else exists for him. It’s inspiring being around someone so . . . in tune.’

The train pulled into the station. We were squeezed out of the carriage and swept up in a tide of bodies flowing along the platform, through the tunnel, towards the connecting train. She held onto my arm; her hand felt small and cold in spite of the pink flush across her cheeks. We arrived on the next platform to see our train moving off.

‘I think we’ll be a good pair,’ Rachael said. ‘He said that I’m gifted.’

I frowned. When had he said that? Had they been alone together?

We boarded the next train. I could see Rach clearly now, her eyes open and bright, a picture of innocence. She looked happy.

*

Rue de la Boétie and the surrounding area was famous for art dealers and auction houses: Hôtel Drouot, Wildenstein, Charpentier, Cailleux . . . They were all here or had been here once; it was now filled with high-end fashion boutiques and expensive hotels.

Rachael and I came to a shop window displaying a single painting on an easel – an Utrillo. The gallery’s interior was concealed behind thick drapes. The name
Galerie Frey-Duval
was printed in gold lettering above the glass. The door was locked, but there was a bell with instructions to ring. I pressed it.

‘What are we doing here again?’ Rachael asked.

‘It’s for
La Baigneuse
– you know that.’

I didn’t know what I thought would happen by turning up like this – normally I would have at least phoned ahead, but there’d been no time that morning, and since we were out and about anyway I thought I’d take a chance.

‘How long are we going to be here?’

‘Not long.’

A portly man of an indeterminate age opened the door. ‘
Oui?
’ He sounded exasperated. His arms were overflowing with files, glasses swinging on a chain around his neck. He looked from me to Rachael and then his face brightened.

I fumbled, suddenly feeling nervous. ‘Er . . .’

‘Can I ’elp you?’

I’d hardly said a word and he knew we were foreign. I was mesmerised by his shiny crown and plump pink cheeks. ‘Is this the Galerie Frey-Duval?’

Rachael shot me a look that said,
Der
.

‘
Oui.
Yes.’

‘I’m so sorry to turn up like this – I should have called first. My name is Camille Larkin and this is my daughter, Rachael. I’m a provenance researcher and I’d like to ask you a few questions, if possible – if you have the time.’ I took out a business card from a pocket in my bag and gave it to him.

‘You are from Australie,’ he said, reading the card. ‘I ’ave always wanted to go there.
C’est le rêve
.
Nous les français rêvons tous d’y aller un jour
.’

We nodded, smiling, still standing on the pavement. I raised my eyebrows enquiringly, moving towards the door.

He fussed about, looking around himself, touching his forehead and stepping back. ‘
Oui
,
oui
, Jacques Frey-Duval.’ We shook hands. ‘This way. We are in the middle – you know, changes. I ’ave just five minutes, if you please.’

He held the door ajar, waited for us to come through, bolted the street door and waved us through into the shop. It was filled with crates; paintings were propped against the walls, none were hanging – just the hooks that they used to hang from. It was hard to find a place to stand.

‘It is unfortunate,’ he said. ‘We are closing.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

He looked wistfully around, the corners of his mouth moving. ‘Time for something else.’

I wondered how many generations the gallery had been in his family.

‘Please, this way to my office.’

We followed him, squeezing past the crates, to a small room out the back of the building. His office was cluttered with files. He cleared a bundle from two chairs and gestured for us to sit down. ‘I would offer you something to drink, but alas . . .’

I thanked him but said it was not necessary.

‘So have you come about the Utrillo?’

‘Er . . .’

‘I
love
Utrillo,’ Rachael crooned. ‘Can you show me? I’d love to see it properly – through the window’s just not the same.’ I glared at her. ‘I mean, after we’ve finished in here.’

Jacques seemed delighted to hear Rachael declare her love for his life’s passion. ‘You ’ave good taste.’

‘We’re not here for the Utrillo, sorry,’ I interjected. ‘Actually, I’m hoping you’ll be able to shed some light on something for me.’ I took out my BlackBerry and showed him pictures of the dealer stamp. ‘Is this one of yours by any chance?’

He heaved his torso forward to take the BlackBerry from me and put on his glasses. He was silent for a time and then handed the BlackBerry back. ‘It is ’ard to say. Per’aps.’ He cleared his throat. ‘What is this for?’

There was a note in his voice, something had changed. I wondered if the claimants had been here asking questions.

I smiled, trying to reassure him, and told him I was researching the provenance for
La Baigneuse aux Cheveux Roux
and about Monica’s guess. ‘Did your gallery once own the painting during the war?’

The pink faded from his cheeks. He stared at us, no longer the charming, bumbling old man, his eyes had become dark marbles. ‘It could very well ’ave been sold ’ere; but,
désolé
, we ’ave no records.’

Monica had mentioned their records were not available for consultation, but I didn’t know why. Perhaps many people came to them with questions? Even from this angle things had to be handled delicately. ‘I see – that is a shame. I should have called first – I didn’t mean to spring this on you.’

He shook his head back and forth. ‘Ah no, no, no. But I am so very sorry. It is very unfortunate there was a big fire some years ago and all the records went
pfft
.’ He gestured with his fingers something going up in smoke. ‘I am sorry to say.’ He
pfft
ed again. ‘There is no way of knowing.’

I leant forward and said in my silkiest tone, ‘Is there any chance you could just check?’ My elbows rested atop a pile of papers, one piece sticking as I moved my arm. ‘My grandfather spoke very highly of your gallery.’ It was just a little lie.

‘Your grandfather?’

‘I think my grandfather knew your father – Anton Delamotte?’ I had no idea whether they had known each other, but it was worth a try. They would all have come across one another at some point.

Jacques’ eyes opened wide. ‘My God, why did you not say this until now?’ The colour flooded back into his cheeks. ‘My father was a great friend of your grandfather. ’E is still . . .?’

I nodded. ‘But I’m afraid he’s not well. And your father?’

He shook his head. ‘It is not good to be so old. But ’e is remarkable,
non
?’ He tapped his head. ‘Everything up ’ere is very good. ’E understand
absolument
everything. Nothing ’as changed. I am very sorry to ’ear about your grandfather. ’E is a great man. So many people, so much respect. ’E is much loved.’ He looked puzzled. ‘But I do not understand – you are from Australie, but Francine, she is ’ere.’

‘My mother was Francine’s sister, Marguerite.’

He continued to look puzzled. ‘No, I think I never met ’er.’

‘Can we see the Utrillo now?’ Rachael asked.

Jacques manoeuvred his way out from behind his desk, sucking his substantial belly in, and took us back to his showroom, where he opened the curtains and turned the masterpiece around. It was one of Utrillo’s classic cityscapes of the streets of Montmartre with dulled colours from his white period. Jacques spoke of the artist’s early life, his mental illness and how fortunate he had been to have met him as a young boy. Rachael fired off questions, until I gave her a nudge and said we should take our leave. Jacques unlocked the door.

‘It was a pleasure to meet you,’ I said as we shook hands again, his palms plump and moist.

‘I shall speak to my father,’ he said, pulling his waistcoat down.

I turned to him hopefully. ‘Oh, that would be wonderful.’

‘’E will want to know the granddaughter of Anton.’

We smiled and waved goodbye and moved on out into the street crowd. Even though they had spurned us for most of my life, I was glad that, once again, the family name could help in some small way.

*

The next day, Rachael began her work with Lucien at his studio, which also included a visit to his exhibition. I spent the hours staring at my laptop trying not to look at the time. I logged on to the Art Loss Register and looked up the Red Flag List.

I clicked the document open and did a search for Frey-Duval.

The cursor jumped quickly through the document and highlighted his name:

Frey-Duval. One of the most active collaborationist dealers. Worked with Rochlitz, from whom he acquired paintings looted by the ERR and which he later sold at Hôtel Drouot through intermediaries. In touch with Haberstock, Schoeller and Cailleux. Reported to have assets concealed under the name of Mme Vernier (sister-in-law, 25 Rue de la Pompe) and Mme Bescon, also a sister-in-law (13 Ave Victor-Hugo). Indicted by French government.

I’d heard of Rochlitz and Wendland; Rochlitz was a German art dealer based in Paris and Haberstock was one of Hitler’s appointed dealers. Any painting associated with these names had to be checked thoroughly. There was no doubting culpability when you were known to have done business with them. No wonder Jacques’ tone had changed yesterday. His father had possibly gone to prison.

Barry was not going to be happy with this. I composed a long email to him, explaining that while we still had no actual proof that the painting had been stolen originally, we still did not know how it had left Bernard’s possession. However, that Frey-Duval was a convicted collaborator and the painting had allegedly once been through their dealership was highly suspicious and required further investigation. I did have another lead for a possible sale, which I would be chasing up shortly.

This was a lie, of course – I had no such lead – but I didn’t want him to lose all hope, and anyway my expenses had to be paid.

Rachael still had not returned; I found myself clicking on Avery’s Safe Kids Facebook page again to see the updates. I’d put off calling Wolfe – I couldn’t face any more of his demands to come home.

A few mothers had posted suggestions for keeping abreast of teenagers’ internet passwords. What a load of crap, I thought. Teenagers should be given some autonomy. It taught them respect – keeping them on a tight leash only made them want to rebel. Bloody Avery, she’d only started this website to keep up with all the gossip.

It was after seven when Rachael finally walked through the door, half-tipsy and triumphantly, waving the catalogue in the air. She threw it across the kitchen bench to me and then pushed the window open, took out a box of matches and a cigarette from her coat pocket, lit it and blew the smoke outside.

‘I thought you’d stopped.’ I didn’t like that she smoked and she knew it, but I preferred that she didn’t hide it.

‘I know, but we’re in Paris! Everyone smokes.’ She ashed out the window into the courtyard.

‘You were at the exhibition for ages.’

‘I sent you a message,’ she said, her eyes aglow. ‘I had no choice. He ran into people and we had to go to this bar afterwards.’ She inhaled. ‘You should see his stuff, Camille – it’s wild.’

‘I’m seeing it now,’ I said, looking at the catalogue and wishing I’d been asked to join them.

‘Anyway, it was worth it – Lucien said we could use his name at the Beaux-Arts.’

‘Really?’

She nodded, staring dreamily up into the sky.

I dropped the catalogue, and gave her a big hug.

‘Okay, okay.’ She pushed me off her. ‘No need to get all sentimental.’

‘Oh, honey, that’s amazing.’

‘I know! I’m so excited I could scream.’ She leant out the window again and squealed.

I dragged her inside. ‘Shhh, the neighbours.’ We beamed at each other. ‘Well, this is a good start for tomorrow.’ I reached out and took the cigarette from her hand, took a quick drag and then threw it out the window.