The Good Thief's Guide to Paris (15 page)

“Hey, I didn’t say I had all the answers.”

“And meanwhile it all neatly mirrors a book I just happen to be working on?”

“Alright,” she snapped, throwing up her hands. “You’ve made your point.”

I let out a deep breath and shook my head. Then I pushed up from the cabinet I was leaning on and moved towards the bathroom.

“Where are you going?” Victoria asked me.

“For a shower. I have to meet Pierre soon.”

“You’re still going?”

“I am. And I need to think first. So I’m going to put my head under some hot water to see if I can clear it, maybe even reconcile this new stuff we’ve come up with. Then we’re going to talk about the favour I need.”

“Favour?”

“Yes,” I said, reaching into my pocket and removing Catherine’s driving licence. “Best practise your French. It could be you’ll need it.”

NINETEEN

It took me close to an hour to travel from the hotel in Montmartre to the École Militaire métro stop, at the rear of the Champ de Mars. Even so, I was a few minutes early so I did my best to slow my pace as I walked towards the open-air café where I’d met Pierre just two days before. I didn’t know quite what I’d say when I got there. The idea of telling Pierre everything was certainly appealing, and might be essential if he happened to have seen the news report that mentioned my name in connection with Catherine’s death, but part of me wondered if I should hold back some information. This was the second time he’d got me involved in a job that had ended up with somebody dead and my name heading the list of suspects and, just for a change, I wasn’t too thrilled about it.

Now that Catherine’s body had been found, I felt self-conscious about being outside in daylight. My apartment was only a short distance away, no doubt sealed off and overrun with forensic experts and crime scene photographers, and to all intents and purposes the French authorities were treating me as a fugitive from justice. I hadn’t adopted any form of disguise because they were looking for somebody an awful lot more handsome than me, but all that could change in an instant. How long would it take them to put a more accurate identikit image together, or even to find a true likeness of me from some dark corner of the Internet?

I tried to shake the fear from my mind and told myself to stop hiding my face whenever a passer-by approached. I was behaving as if I was guilty and no matter how subtle the signs, I might draw attention to myself. Besides, thinking as though it was just a matter of time until I was caught was hardly the best way to stay focused. I had no idea how Pierre would react when he saw that I didn’t have the painting with me and I needed to be alert if I was going to play things right.

Just then, I caught myself about to reach into my pocket for my sunglasses. I lowered my hand and shook my head. Pierre had commented on how unusual it had looked the last time we’d met and, if anything, the weather was even more sombre today. The sky was low and dishwater grey, a melt of formless clouds that threatened rain. There was a faint breeze but it was failing to make me feel any more alert. Sure, it’s always surprising how capably you can function without any sleep, but it’s never quite possible to shake the sensation that your brain is in danger of a misfire.

I was close to the café now and, shoulders dropping, I could see Pierre wasn’t there. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might not show but I supposed it made sense. If he’d seen the television news, he might have decided it was too risky to turn up for our rendezvous or that I must have fled Paris. I should really have tried calling him from the hotel. It was a foolish mistake because I could have saved myself the risk of coming out into the open. Why had I done it? Maybe because I wasn’t thinking all that clearly. Maybe because I was overly confident in the police mix-up with my photo. I was beginning to think I might have to pay a price for my complacency and that was before a strange voice to my right said, “I’m afraid your friend won’t be meeting you today.”

I turned to find a smartly attired man sat on the park bench to my side. The man wore a tweed suit with a dark brown tie and he was folding a newspaper and smiling up at me in a relaxed manner, as if he’d been waiting patiently for my arrival. A group of pigeons were scavenging near his feet.

“Excuse me?” I managed.

“Your friend, Pierre I believe you call him, I’m afraid he won’t be joining you today. Would you care to sit?”

The man was English and very well-spoken. He pronounced each word with absolute clarity, as though cutting the letters free from his tongue with a scalpel. I peered at him and the fragments of his appearance began to jog something in my memory. I’d seen him before. He was the gentleman in the linen three-piece suit with the radio who’d been sitting nearby when Pierre had hired me.

“That’s right,” he said, reading my expression. “You recognise me. Very good.”

The man patted the space beside him on the wooden bench with the end of his newspaper. I gave the spot a wary look.

“Oh do sit,” he said. “We haven’t got all day.”

Reluctantly, I lowered myself onto the bench. The man withdrew a gold pocket watch and consulted the time. I wasn’t sure whether my punctuality pleased him or not. He closed the watch and dropped it into the pocket of his waistcoat, which was cut from the same tweed fabric as his tailored suit and fairly screamed London. He didn’t have a moustache but he could have carried one off. All things considered, he looked every bit as if he’d just walked off the set of an Ealing comedy.

“You know, of course, that Pierre is not his real name,” the man said, absently.

“Who are you?”

“Nathan Farmer,” he told me, straightening his spine. “And you’re Charlie Howard, the writer.” He tapped my knee with his newspaper. “At least, that’s your better-known profession. I understand you’re quite the lock man.”

“Listen,” I said, “I don’t know who your source is but –”

“Tsk,” he muttered, interrupting me. “Don’t let’s play that game. I know things Mr Howard. That’s my business. I suppose one could call me an information gatherer.”

I stared hard at him for a moment. “And just who exactly would you be gathering information for?”

He gave me a wry look, eyes twinkling, as though my question had pleased him greatly. “I have a number of clients, Mr Howard. I’m rather good at what I do, you see. On certain occasions, their interests coincide. That just happens to be the case with you. Or rather, with the painting you were paid to acquire.”

“You’ve lost me, I’m afraid.”

Nathan Farmer inhaled deeply and crossed his right leg over his left thigh. His brogues were a highly polished brown colour, like freshly brewed tea.

“I find that very hard to believe,” he said. “Almost impossible, in fact. Why, when I spoke to your friend this morning, he was more than willing to tell me what it was you’d discussed.”

“You’ve spoken to Pierre?”

Farmer nodded. “At the police station. He’s been detained, I’m afraid. No formal charges just yet, though I dare say we can find something if we need to. But that all depends on you, really.”

“On me?”

“On how much you’re willing to co-operate. Of course, you may not be overly concerned for the welfare of your friend. In which case,” he went on, running his fingers along the distinct crease in his trousers, “I have to say I don’t think it would be too difficult for me to give the police a more accurate description of your features. I imagine if they were broadcasting your real appearance on the television, you could find moving around a good deal more tricky.”

I thought about playing dumb about that one too but it was clear by now it wouldn’t work. The man knew what he was talking about. I began to wonder if he’d also arranged some back-up – perhaps a few heavies were lurking among the shrubs behind us.

“Why don’t we take a walk?” I said. “I’m not too keen on staying put just now.”

“If we must.”

“And you can leave the newspaper,” I added, freeing the folded broadsheet from his hand and tossing it into a wastepaper bin.

“Whatever for?” he asked, frowning.

“Well, I don’t know who you work for, but I’ve written enough crime fiction in my time to know how easily a wire can be hidden inside a newspaper. Let’s see the lining of your suit too.”

“I’m disappointed,” he said. “A King’s graduate. I expected such an educated chap.”

“Just show me.”

Farmer spread his arms wide in a listless manner and gestured for me to pat him down. I did just that, trying not to draw too much attention to the two of us.

“Would you care to check beneath my tongue for any cyanide capsules?”

“That’s very cute,” I told him. “Come on, let’s go. You can tell me what it was you came here to say.”

We began walking in the direction of the Eiffel Tower. I didn’t mind in the slightest – the crowds of tourists at the base of the tower would offer me some protection and they’d make it harder for us to be followed, assuming Farmer had people with him. I didn’t know about that. It could be he was by himself after all, but then, why make it easy if he wasn’t?

“Do you have the painting?” he asked, as we passed a line of tour coaches and approached a queue of people snaking out from the right-hand leg of the tower.

“The scene of Montmartre, you mean?”

“Indeed.”

“The one painted in oils? Signed Maigny?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Then no,” I told him. “I don’t.”

Farmer turned and leered at me, his lips peeled back over some expensive dental work.

“Don’t take me for a fool, Mr Howard,” he said, in studied calm.

“I wouldn’t dream of it. In fact, I’ll tell you the absolute truth. It was the damndest thing. The painting was already gone when I broke in to steal it.”

Farmer’s lips twisted, as though he’d sucked on something sour.

“Gone, you say.”

“Oh yes. But there was a silver lining. I knew who’d taken it.”

Farmer paused, aiming to control himself. “Pray tell.”

“It was a guy called Bruno. Something of a charlatan. He’d had me break into the same apartment under false pretences two days before.”

Farmer swivelled on his heel on the gravel square, his eyes filled with utter contempt. I could smell something sweet and pungent from a stall to our left – a mixture of sugared popcorn, strawberry crêpes and heated candyfloss. Beside the stall, a middle-aged man was lining up a photograph of his teenage daughters, their arms held aloft as though they were supporting one leg of the tower between them. I concealed my face with my hand.

“Honestly,” I told Farmer. “I wouldn’t invent something like this.”

“Even supposing I believed you,” he said, eyes narrowing, “I don’t imagine you’d tell me where I could find this Bruno character?”

“Gladly, if only it were that simple. But I’m afraid he gave me a false name and I’ve drawn a blank so far in looking for him.”

“And what was your next move going to be?”

I glanced over Farmer’s shoulder, to where I could see a uniformed gendarme approaching, his peaked blue cap visible in snatches between the heads of the tourists surrounding us. The officer didn’t appear to be looking at me directly but his proximity made me uneasy. I cupped Farmer’s elbow and began walking him in the direction of the Seine. We reached the Quai just as a pedestrian crossing lit up in our favour and then we passed in front of the waiting traffic and onto the Pont d’Iéna. I could see a collection of Bateaux Mouches moored together along the river’s edge, all of them looking too large and too angular for the setting.

“To answer your question,” I said, returning my attention to my dapper companion, “I didn’t have a next move. Or rather, you seem to have taken it from me. I was going to ask Pierre if he could give me any information about the woman I found dead in my apartment. You understand, I imagine, that her death has become something of a pressing concern for me.”

“No doubt.”

“I didn’t kill her, incidentally. You didn’t ask, but I thought you might care to know.”

He met my eyes. “I see.”

“How about you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Any chance you broke into my place and killed her?”

Farmer’s lips puckered in evident distaste. “Absolutely not.”

“What about one of these people you’re working for?”

“No,” he replied, in a terse voice. “I’m not a killer Mr Howard. And neither are the clients I represent.”

He cast his gaze ahead of us, to where the grand façade of the Trocadero building loomed up from the end of a narrow reflecting pool. Foamy water was cascading from the decorative fountains but a few people were lounging on the grass banks around the pool’s edge. A number of black salesmen tried to draw our attention to the mini Eiffel Towers and fake handbags they’d displayed on blankets spread out across the floor. The blankets had handles sewn into them, I noticed, so the traders could gather up their wares and flee if the police decided to hassle them. To the right of the salesmen, in-line skaters were weaving between rows of plastic cones that had been positioned at regular intervals on the smooth tarmac. Their bright clothes and oversized stereo headphones seemed wildly futuristic alongside Farmer’s outfit.

“So what now?” I asked.

“I want the painting, Mr Howard. That’s all.”

“You mind me asking why? Pierre showed me a photograph and I have to say it’s an ugly-looking thing. Not worth a great deal of money, I wouldn’t have thought. But Pierre’s client was willing to pay through the nose for it. And now you turn up, acting like some long-lost member of the Lavender Hill Mob, and I have to wonder what’s so appealing about the damn thing.”

“It’s just a painting, Mr Howard.”

“Really?”

He smiled. It was the kind of smile a teacher might offer a problem pupil. “Will you obtain the painting for me?”

“I already told you. I can’t find this Bruno guy and –”

“Yes, yes, I know what you told me. But I dare say that was before I gave you sufficient motivation. Two days, Mr Howard. I want the painting at the end of that time. If you can’t provide me with it, my contacts in the local police will charge your friend Pierre with receiving stolen goods. You may think that doesn’t affect you. But the goods in question are the items you left Amsterdam with. And please don’t insult me by saying you don’t know what I’m talking about. I have contacts in the Netherlands too.”

I frowned. “That was over a year ago.”

“Yes, but that matters very little, doesn’t it? After all, I imagine your friend will give the police your name and your description if the right pressure is applied. Just another complication to add to this unpleasant murder business you seem to have become caught up in.”

“I told you, that wasn’t me.”

“And I believe you.”

“You do?”

Farmer nodded. “I’ve met killers, Mr Howard, and you are a different breed. A wily thief, perhaps. But not a cold-blooded murderer.”

“I guess I should be flattered.”

I gestured towards the curved stone steps at the base of the Trocadero building and Farmer began to climb them alongside me. We didn’t talk for a few moments and I used the opportunity to try and get my mind in some form of order. I didn’t know what to say next. He knew about the documents hidden in the painting, I was sure of that, but there was no way I could mention them without making it obvious I’d lied about having the painting myself. Those documents surely connected to something big. Characters like Nathan Farmer weren’t the sort of people I came across in the shallows of the criminal world I usually paddled in. He was a creature from the deep, something far more predatory than I was used to. Not a shark, maybe. No, he was more the type to lie in wait, tendrils outstretched and poised to ensnare anyone foolish enough to come within his grasp.