The Good Thief's Guide to Paris (25 page)

THIRTY-FOUR

Farmer agreed to meet with us at Place de la Bastille. We emerged from the Bastille métro station to find his sleek Jaguar parked just away from the National Opera House. I tapped on his window and he folded the newspaper he was reading and signalled for his chauffeur to admit us without bothering to acknowledge our existence. We climbed into the cream leather interior at the rear of the Jag, and I was instantly overcome by the new-car scent that enveloped us. The leather beneath my backside was soft and wonderfully sprung and the walnut inlays and panels on the doors and the dash were polished to a high sheen. I bounced on my seat and ran my hand over the leather, making an appreciative noise in the throat.

“Only the very best for you, Mr Farmer,” I remarked.

He eyeballed me.

“Don’t worry. It’s a good thing,” I assured him. “The nicest car, the finest suits, hand-crafted shoes. And to top it all, you deserve the most refined explanations available.”

“You sound as if you’re going to sell me a new home appliance,” he said, dryly.

“It’s just the satisfaction I get from a job well done. It’s the same with my novels. Right, Vic?”

Victoria nodded. “It’s exactly the same, Charlie.”

“Shall we have a drink?” I asked, gesturing to a cut-glass decanter of whisky set into the moulded leather console ahead of us.

“Why don’t we just talk,” Farmer said. “Let’s see what you have.”

“All business, huh?”

“I’m afraid the situation rather demands it.”

Farmer made a deft gesture towards the rear-view mirror and his chauffeur slipped the automatic transmission into drive and began to pull away from the kerb, turning left onto Rue Saint Antoine and continuing in the direction of the Louvre. I waited until we were passing the glass pyramid at the heart of the museum before really getting to the crux of my theory. I told Farmer that the dead woman in my apartment was an Estonian called Sophia and that her murder had been part of an elaborate cover-up of the Picasso heist that Catherine Ames and her husband Gerard had masterminded. I explained the motives behind their actions and the methodology they’d employed, and I was glad to see that in the second telling, the story sounded even more convincing to my ears.

As I unburdened myself of the tortured logic of it all, we glided up and down the broad, sloping avenues of the Champs-Élysées, circling around the Arc de Triomphe at one end of the boulevard and the Place de la Concorde at the other. We passed glitzy motorcar showrooms, expensive perfumeries and extortionate restaurants and cafés. We passed throngs of tourists. We passed every make and model of French car you could possibly imagine. And the overwhelming sensation I had was one of space. Not just space to think clearly now that my brain was beginning to shed some of the junk that had been swirling around it, but also a real appreciation of the wide expanses at the very heart of the city, all of it a welcome counterpoint to the confusion and fatigue I’d endured for the past few days.

I’d almost reached the end of my explanation when Farmer interrupted me with his first question. It was one I hadn’t anticipated.

“How did Catherine access your apartment?”

“Excuse me?”

“How did she get in? You had good locks, correct? I believe you thought the Italian bookseller had picked them open.”

I blinked. “He had.”

“But according to you, he’s not the killer.”

“Nope.”

“Then how did Catherine get in?”

I felt my eyebrows switch places. I fumbled for an answer.

“It’s obvious,” Victoria said, from just off to my side. “The Italian didn’t lock up, so Catherine was able to get in once the group from the bookshop left.”

“She can’t possibly have known that would be the case,” Farmer said.

Victoria shrugged. “Maybe she did. Maybe it was just luck.”

“Or maybe Gerard had taught her to pick locks,” I suggested.

Farmer gave me a despairing look. “So you had two break-ins, one after the other, both within a matter of hours, and the concierge at your building didn’t see either of them.”

“Could happen.”

Farmer grunted.

“You haven’t met my concierge,” I told him. “Anyway, you don’t want to get bogged down in the details. Just test the body in my apartment and see if you can prove it isn’t Catherine. Or better still, that it’s this Sophia woman. If I’m right about that, you can track Catherine down and get the confession you need.”

“You’re being rather simplistic.”

“That’s true. But believe me, after the way I’ve been feeling for the past few days, I can’t rate simplicity highly enough.”

Farmer pulled a silk handkerchief from his trouser pocket and coughed into it. The cough was an effete number. I sensed it was a delaying tactic, a move to give him time to run back through my argument and decide how he felt about it. I checked on Victoria’s reaction. It didn’t strike me as too reassuring.

“Outline your theory again,” Farmer said, mopping his lips. “From the very beginning. Be specific. I need to think about this in more depth.”

I started twittering away once more, all birdsong and sunlight and first-degree murder, and I was perhaps three minutes into my monologue when the telephone in the rear of the chauffeur’s seat began to ring. Farmer answered, listened intently, then muttered a few curt responses before setting the receiver back into its cradle and telling me the news.

“We’ve been monitoring your friend Pierre’s telephone line,” he said. “Someone just left a message on his answering machine. It was a woman. Asking if he’d obtained the painting.”

I felt a nerve twitch in my cheek. “Sorry?”

“The painting of Montmartre,” he said, his fingers splayed and denting the leather seating beside his leg. “And that poses an interesting problem. I have to say I was inclined to go along with your theory. It’s outlandish, naturally, but I could live with that. The problem now is where does this fit in with your thinking? You imagined the theft of this painting was just a mechanism to get you arrested and make everyone believe the Picasso heist could never proceed. But if this phone message is genuine, it contradicts all that.”

I stared at the damn telephone that had scuppered me and rubbed my bandaged fingers against the side of my face, the cotton webbing catching in my stubble. “It has to be Catherine.”

“Possibly. But you do see my point.”

“So what are you saying exactly?”

“The woman left a telephone number,” he went on. “There’s something we can try but I imagine we’ll only get one shot at it. I say we have your fence call her back and set up a meeting. I’ll have men at my disposal. If we can, we’ll detain her.”

“And if she doesn’t come?”

Farmer withdrew his pocket watch and contemplated the time, unwilling to meet my eyes. “Pray that doesn’t happen.”

THIRTY-FIVE

Boy, was I praying. Hands clasped together between my knees, brow knotted, I found myself repeating a silent mantra over and over in my head. Please be here. Please be here. The damn phrase was going to drive me nuts. Perhaps I needed to vary it. Maybe a different mantra would lead to better results.

It was later the very same evening and I was sat on a concrete bench in Place de la Défense with Victoria and Nathan Farmer on either side of me. Ahead of us loomed the Grande Arche, a marble and glass composite of impossible angles and towering dimensions. I could see an oblong of evening sky through the archway. The sky looked bleached, as though the colour had been drained from it. Shreds of cloud were being reflected over and over again in the windows of the arch; like a desktop image that had been endlessly repeated on a stack of computer monitors.

Pierre was stood at the bottom of the flight of stone steps in front of the mammoth structure, a pale blue sweater draped round his shoulders. He wore a white polo shirt, tan trousers and navy espadrilles. From where I sat, it was impossible to tell if his time in custody had affected his appearance. I guessed he wouldn’t have had much sleep for the past few days and maybe that would show around his good eye. I’d heard he’d been allowed to shower and shave before he was driven to the arch and no doubt it had helped to make him feel a little more human. In his left hand he held the painting of Montmartre, wrapped once again in brown paper and string. His right hand gripped his leather manbag.

I didn’t speak with Victoria or Farmer but they didn’t seem to care. We were each of us absorbed in the wait, wondering if she would show. I didn’t know quite what to do if she didn’t. There’d be some move I could make, there always was. But the thing that concerned me was how long Farmer could keep the authorities waiting. My thinking was that if events stretched on for more than a few days they’d become jittery and my face would begin to look like a good fit for the television newscasts all over again. And if that happened, the chances of anyone investing time in my theory would be slim at best.

I was unclear what was motivating Farmer. Perhaps he felt some kind of loyalty to me for returning the Picasso to the gallery or perhaps he was old-school enough to believe he should help out a fellow Brit abroad. Either way, I had to respect him for giving me a chance to prove my innocence, even though I knew he couldn’t indulge me for ever. Soon, it might become inconvenient for him to fight my corner or a new crisis might require his attention. Losing Farmer wasn’t a scenario I was eager to confront. She simply had to show.

Just as the thought ran through my mind, Farmer raised a pair of compact binoculars to his eyes. The binoculars weren’t compact enough for my liking. Sure, we were a good distance away from the arch and we were obscured by a low wall and a collection of shrubs, but we were hardly invisible. And binoculars were exactly the kind of equipment that would send her running if she happened to catch sight of us. We’d assumed she’d emerge from the métro station situated towards the far side of the plaza, or arrive via the boulevard that ran round the back of the arch, but there was no guarantee. She could just as easily approach on foot from behind us, and if she did, everything would be ruined.

Victoria gave me a tired smile and bunched her shoulders. She mouthed the word “Okay?” and I nodded my head, then looked towards the arch once again. I didn’t want to miss a thing.

“She’s late,” Farmer said, lowering his binoculars.

“Maybe she clocked your spy gear. Not exactly discreet.”

Farmer coughed and slipped his binoculars back into a suede carry-case. He consulted his pocket watch. Why didn’t he just buy a wristwatch like everyone else? It was such an annoying mannerism:
hand to chest, fingers into pocket, remove watch, pop clasp, check time, close clasp, return watch to pocket
. I guessed the whole procedure might add up to an entire wasted day by the end of his life and I thought that perhaps I would buy him a watch when we were through – a cheap digital number from one of the street markets near my apartment. It would be worth it just to see his expression when I handed it over. I imagined it would be like I’d passed him a soiled tissue.

“Maybe we should wait somewhere else,” I said. “In you car, even.”

“We won’t be able to see her from the Jaguar.”

“She won’t be able to see us.”

Farmer made a clucking noise with his tongue and shook his head. He was about to reach for his pocket watch again but I gripped his wrist.

“Thirty seconds since you last checked,” I told him.

Farmer shrugged and pursed his lips. He dropped his hands and drummed his fingers on his thighs. I looked at Victoria and offered her a tight smile. Then I looked back at Pierre.

Pierre was turning on the spot, gazing up at the centre of the arch immediately above him, to where a white, canvas-like structure had been suspended on metal cables. He looked bizarrely small in comparison to the cloud-shaped canvas and the arch itself; as though he’d ingested a magic potion that had shrunk him many times over. If it had been the middle of the day, he would have been surrounded by a mass of people – workers hurrying to and from the branded glass skyscrapers that crowded the area, tourists waiting to ascend to the roof of the arch inside the glass-capsule elevators. Right now there were only a handful of visitors contemplating maps and guidebooks, a scattering of pigeons and a group of hooded teenagers on skateboards, leaping down the stone steps, landing with a clap of plastic on concrete that echoed around the space. The noise might have been a gunshot, it was so loud. Not that any of Farmer’s troops were carrying guns. At least, I didn’t think they were. The police officers were stationed out of sight, on the rooftops of the nearby buildings, in the entrance to the IMAX cinema positioned off to the side. I’d tried looking but so far I’d been unable to spot any of them. I knew that was a good thing but I kept checking anyway, as if it was some kind of compulsion. What did I really want? Maybe to be able to blame someone other than myself if the meet never happened, I suppose.

Just then, Pierre raised his hand to his eyes and glanced over at us. It wasn’t the smartest move ever but there wasn’t much I could do about it. I couldn’t speak to him because he wasn’t wearing a wire or an earpiece or any of that nonsense. He stood there, holding my eye. I lowered my head and contemplated my feet. If ever I got out of this mess, I swore I was through dealing with him.

I heard more trundling noises and looked up to find that the skateboarders were circling Pierre, acting territorial. The circle got tighter, faster. Then one of the kids swerved abruptly and barrelled into Pierre and I thought for one horrible moment the kid was about to snatch the painting. He didn’t. Instead, the kid groped for Pierre’s waist, like the crudest of pickpockets, and then he backed away and began to skate off. His buddies followed. I waited for Pierre to realise that his wallet was gone but instead I saw him unfold a scrap of paper and study it. He looked up and held my eye once more and then he turned and swiftly climbed the steps in the direction of the glass elevators.

She was up there, had to be. And if she was looking down from above then she would have seen Farmer’s men on the rooftops and probably us too.

“What’s he doing?” Victoria asked.

“They gave him a note. Did you see that?” I said, turning to Farmer.

“You told me to put my binoculars away.”

“But you can see what she’s done, right? She’s changed the meet.”

“Or your friend is leaving us.”

“You’re crazy. You really think he’s going to try and flee from the top of that arch?”

“Do you think she’s going to?”

I threw up my hands, then pushed up from the bench and began running after Pierre.

“You’ll jeopardise everything,” Farmer called. “You’ll have only yourself to blame.”

“At least I’m doing something,” I yelled back. “For Christ’s sake, where are your men?”

Coming towards me from the left, as it happened. It dawned on me then that maybe the officers in the IMAX cinema had been briefed to make sure I didn’t launch an escape bid. Under normal circumstances, I might have felt a bit aggrieved about that, but right then I was just glad of the back-up.

I lowered my head and ran as fast as I could, aiming to reach the steps at the base of the arch before they got too close to me. I made it in good time and took the steps in pairs, then leapt for the crest and continued my run in the direction of the exposed elevator shafts. There was no queue at the ticket booth for the elevators and no sign of Pierre either. I turned on the spot, looking this way and that, but it seemed for all the world as if he’d disappeared. He wasn’t in the elevators; he wasn’t on the opposite side of the arch; he hadn’t doubled back on himself. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the bobbing heads of the onrushing police officers. Time was running out. I checked to my side and in that instant I snatched a glimpse of the back of Pierre’s head. He was passing through the glass vestibule of the government offices that occupied the left-hand limb of the arch. I darted after him, bundling through the revolving doors at the entrance to the vestibule and finding myself in a modern, air-conditioned foyer.

Aside from a waif-like cleaner who was polishing the marble floor with a noisy, vibrating machine, the foyer was empty. The cleaner wore a pair of ear-protectors and a glazed expression. I bypassed her and hurdled a metal turnstyle positioned next to the deserted reception desk. Two stainless-steel elevator doors confronted me. I glanced up at the electronic displays above them. Neither elevator was anywhere close. I cast my eyes around for alternatives and caught sight of a nondescript door off to my left. I crashed through the door just as Farmer’s troops entered the vestibule.

On the other side of the door was a flight of stairs leading upwards, but no sign of Pierre. I supposed it was possible there had been other options I’d missed back in the foyer but I didn’t have time to find out. I looked once more at the door I had come in through and noticed a steel bolt at the top. I slid the bolt across just as someone barged into the door from the opposite side. The wood of the door seemed to bulge in the centre, like a drum skin being struck. There was a pause and then a police officer started to hammer on the door and shout loudly in French. I backed away and made for the stairs. I ran up the first flight, then the second. At the top of the third flight I stopped dead in my tracks.

Pierre was slumped on the floor, clutching his right hand to a dark, glistening spot on his chest just below his left shoulder. Poking out from between the fingers of his hand was the rubber shaft of a knife. Blood was pulsing over his fingers, smearing amid the hairs on his bare wrist. I looked from the wound to Pierre’s face. He was grimacing, breathing sharply through his teeth. His eyes were narrowed, as if trying to shut out the pain. I fished in my pocket and removed a handkerchief. I pressed the rag against his hand, then between his fingers and into the gaping wound. The cloth turned red, staining my fingertips. I looked at the knife and thought about pulling it out but I feared it would just make thing worse. Instead, I freed the blue sweater from around Pierre’s neck and compressed it around the blade.

The banging was getting louder downstairs. I could hear splintering noises too. The police were forcing their way through the door and it was sure to give in just a moment.

I looked to either side of Pierre. His manbag was there but the painting was gone.

“She took the painting?” I asked.

Pierre nodded, and I could see that it hurt him to do it.

“Where’d she go?”

He gestured upstairs with a tortured heft of his chin.

“The police are coming,” I said, getting to my feet. “They’ll look after you. Stay with us, okay?”

I didn’t wait for his response. I just stood from the floor and reached for the stair banister with my bloodied fingers. I yanked on the banister and sprang for the first steps as the door broke through below me. I moved fast, drumming my legs. I could hear heavy footsteps from below – as though an army was coming. I kept moving as quickly as I could, trying to ignore the acid burn in my lungs. Did she have any other weapons or would the knife have been it? I didn’t know and there was only one way to find out. As I reached the next floor, I craned my head up between the stairwell and saw a blur of flesh two flights above. Shouts came at me from below – a jumble of assertive French. They were ordering me to stop. I sucked in more air and ran on.

I can’t tell you how many floors there are inside the Grande Arche but I do know I ran up most of them like a madman on fire. It was only as I neared the top that I began to wonder if I’d made a mistake. Why would she head for the roof? She had to have planned her escape route and I doubted the roof could form part of it. Security guards and tourists would be clogging the space and the only viable exits were the central glass elevators and what I guessed would be a matching set of stairs and elevators on the opposite side of the arch. By now, Farmer would have police stationed at the bottom of them all.

I glanced out of a window in the stairwell. I was what, a dozen floors from the top? When would she break off? Had I already gone too far?

I paused for what felt like a maddening few seconds, straining to hear her above of me, but I couldn’t distinguish her footfall from the noise of the officers down below. They were getting closer. They had to be fitter than me and it was beginning to show. I went up one more floor and then I chanced my luck and dived through an internal door into the dim-lit office corridor beyond.

Catherine Ames was ahead of me, doubled-over, the painting gripped in her hand. It was surreal to see her at last. For so long, I’d associated her name with the dead body I’d found in my apartment, and now the differences in her appearance seemed almost vulgar, they were so stark. She looked older than I’d expected, heavier too. Her broad face was flushed and her forehead and flat nose glistened. She had on a pair of grey slacks and a plain pink T-shirt, the material stained with patches of sweat and flecked with traces of Pierre’s blood.