The Grandfather Clock (13 page)

At lunch the property closed. Guests
were shooed out and the gates locked for ninety minutes. Marianne
drove me to the train station and I went into the city. The shop
was on Haussman near the Paris Opera. Despite the cold weather, the
streets were busy with a mixture of business people and tourists.
As I approached my phone rang. It was Claudette. She had seen my
email and would find the slides and send them right away. There
were about twenty boxes, each one about six inches long and three
inches square.

“
So, how are you getting
along with Marianne and Celeste?”

“
Very well. Celeste took
me out on the town on Friday. We were out until almost
dawn.”

“
She’s a nice girl,”
Claudette said. “She can be aloof. She took her father leaving very
hard. Marianne pretends it didn’t happen, which makes it even
worse.”

“
And how is Ol’ Toons
without me?”

“
Not the same. Not the
same. But I’m happy every time I think of you.”

“
Thanks for all of this,
Claudette. It means so much.”

“
It was you who made it
happen. And the gun.”

“
Speaking of... I’m here
to pick it up. Assuming it arrived in one piece. I am supposed to
take it to a Dr. Desjardins.”

“
Go! Let me know what
happens!”

“
Au revoir,” I
said.

“
Listen to you, ‘Au
revoir.’ C’est bon! Bye bye, Michael.”

I had the gun sent by a custom
shipping company. They had built a small wooden box. Inside it sat
in a custom Styrofoam mold. The slatted blond wood looked like a
cartoon box of dynamite. It had a rough rope handle built into it.
I was impressed. I walked a couple of blocks to a bench near a
large church.

I opened the latches on one side of
the box, which was crudely hinged. It was not meant to be opened
and closed many times. The molding had a flat section covering the
gun. I peaked only quickly. I didn’t want a bystander to be alarmed
at the sight of the weapon, even if it was over two hundred years
old. It was all in one piece.

I pulled out the card for Dr. Jean
Desjardins.

I zipped up my fleece as I waited for
the phone to ring.

“
Desjardins!” came a loud
voice on the other end.

“
Uh, Jean Desjardins? Dr.
Jean Desjardins?”

“
Oui. Qui
est-ce?”

“
Um, Michael Chance. Le
Américain. Marianne Demers m’a dit de vous appeler.”

“
What?
American?”

“
Parle-vous
anlgais?”

“
No, not a word. Now what
do you want?”

“
Marianne Demers, from the
Château de Malmaison said I should call you. I have an interesting
item that I need some opinion on.”

“
An ‘interesting item,’”
he repeated. “And what is this ‘interesting item’?”

“
It’s a blunderbuss,” I
said. “A gun.”

“
I know what a blunderbuss
is. And why is it interesting? There are literally thousands out
there. Don’t tell me you found it in your uncle’s
attic.”

“
Close. It has some
interesting markings.”

“
There’s that word
‘interesting’ again. What are the markings? I will tell you if they
are interesting.”

“
Well, one reads ‘Veni
Vidi Vici.’”

There was a pause. “Hmmmm.”

“
I’d like to show it to
you. I ask for just a few minutes of your time.”

“
Come to the Louvre
tomorrow morning. Call me when you are outside and I will walk you
in.”

It was almost closing time at the
museum when I got back. Marianne was eager to see the gun in
person, but didn’t want anyone else to see it. She told me to keep
it under wraps until we got back to the apartment. When we got
there, Celeste was curled up on the couch crying. She tried in vain
to conceal it when we walked in.

“
Oh dear. What is the
matter?”

“
Nothing,
Mother.”

“
Something is the
matter.”

I set the box on the kitchen bar,
walked to the office and took off my tie. I could hear them switch
to French and speak in a low tone. Marianne had a tendency to speak
English around me. She said it was good practice for
her.

I had a good idea of why she was
crying. In my brief interaction with Marco, I knew he was a
handsome athlete with a cool attitude. She was young, still living
at home. It would be hard not to fall under his spell.

Marianne called for me to open a
bottle of wine, and Celeste and I helped Marianne make dinner. I
chopped onions and garlic for a green bean dish, while Celeste made
a salad. Marianne baked a chicken. It was comfort food at its best.
At the end of dinner, Marianne cleared a spot on the small table
and insisted on seeing the gun. Celeste moved to the kitchen and
began washing dishes.

“
Don’t you want to see it,
Celeste?” Marianne asked.

“
I saw it, remember? In
New Orleans.”

“
Well, that was two months
ago. Come see.”

Celeste seemed to give her mother
friction on a constant basis. She came to the table without a
word.

“
Here we go,” I said. I
opened the box, removed the piece of foam and lifted the gun from
the box. I gripped the bell-shaped muzzle so that Marianne could
see the inscriptions. The muzzle’s combination of wood and metal
came together smoothly and I started to appreciate the
craftsmanship. It needed a cleaning. It was dusty, and tarnished,
but it was a solid piece.

“
Can I hold it?” Marianne
asked.

“
Sure,” I said. “It’s not
loaded.”

Celeste laughed.

“
Beautiful,” said
Marianne.

Celeste jumped in. “Look on the other
side. The ‘N’ is there.”

Marianne turned it over. “Très
bon.”

“
What do you think?” I
asked.

“
I think it may be a
significant find, Michael. I really do.”

Celeste leaned over it, her dark hair
falling into her face. “How did your grandfather end up with it?
This was probably in a museum? No?”

Marianne stood up abruptly. “The
experts can help us answer that.”

Celeste and I cleaned the kitchen
together.

“
Sorry about earlier,” she
murmured as she washed the plates.

“
What?” I
asked.

“
Crying.”

“
Oh, no. Don’t
apologize.”

“
Marco is going on a
tryout to Argentina. I hoped he would take me on the trip. But
it’s... impractical.”

I didn’t know what she wanted me to
say. “I’m sure he’ll be busy with the tryout and he’ll need rest,”
I offered without conviction.

“
His whole family will be
there. Making him meals. Helping him prepare. He’ll be gone two
weeks.”

“
I’m sorry.”

“
But he’ll be back. He is
going to a camp with a team in Dijon. They looked at him a few
months ago, but his ankle was still hurt. So he might stay here.
The pay is better.”

“
It will work out,” I
said.

“
Maybe.”

Marianne’s secrecy about the
blunderbuss and her odd behavior confused me. My visit with Dr.
Desjardins shed some light on the mystery. On the train ride in, I
emailed Howard Nixon to see if he was free for lunch. It was only
my second day “on the job,” but I loved the feeling of working
through the city. I felt like I was doing something. Instead of
tending bar and hearing everyone else’s stories, I now had a
story.

Cold wind blasted the square in front
of the Louvre. I called Jean Desjardins. I had pictured a tiny
French academic but was greeted by a man who looked like a retired
athlete. He was easily taller than my six feet, two inches. He had
long dark hair, with a neat ponytail and a receding hairline that
gave him a dramatic air. His handshake could break
bones.

Ignoring the line of tourists
stretching into the plaza, Desjardins took me through a side
entrance. We walked down two long halls until we reached an office.
The ceilings must have been twelve feet high. Desjardins had a
computer with an enormous monitor. His bookshelves seemed
organized. In the corner, at a small desk, a young woman sat typing
with headphones in her ears.

“
Ellen. Ellen!”

She turned and removed an ear
bud.

“
This is Michael Chance,
the American,” he said in French.

“
Bonjour,” she said, and
returned to typing.

“
Sit down,” he said to me
in English. “So, you have an antique blunderbuss. Let me guess, it
has markings that lead you to believe it had a well-known
owner.”

“
I don’t know what to
believe,” I said, taking a seat in the worn leather chair he
offered. “Marianne Demers took an interest in it, for possible
exhibition at the Château de Malmaison. She sent me to
you.”

“
Let’s see it.” Without
any care, he flipped the wooden lid open and tossed the covering
aside. He pulled it out like he was about to shoot a
pigeon.

“
Ah. Heavy,” he said
approvingly.

He pulled out an eyepiece and began
examining the inscriptions. He paused and looked up at me with a
glint of surprise.

“
Where did you say this
came from?”

“
It was my grandfather’s.
He passed away about six years ago. I think he picked it up in the
late 1940s when he took a trip around the world.”

“
That’s it. He just
‘picked it up’?”

“
I guess,” I said,
starting to feel nervous. “I have no idea.”

“
Where is your family
from?”

“
California.”

“
No, before they
immigrated.”

“
Scotland maybe. England.
We don’t really have a strong lineage.”

“
Did he fight in the
war?”

“
No.”

“
Was he
wealthy?”

“
No.”

He held the gun as if to aim it. “And
who has seen this?”

“
Marianne. Her daughter.
And her sister in New Orleans. Some friends.”

“
It will take a little
research,” he said. “One can’t be entirely sure, without an
original photograph, or some sort of catalog. But the information
is out there.”

“
What information?” I
asked.

“
Proof. That this belonged
to Napoleon.” He leaned back in his chair.

“
Wow,” I said with a
slight smile.

“
The bigger question is
how your grandfather got it. If he ‘picked it up,’ as you say, who
did he pick it up from? This was likely in a collection. Either in
a museum, or in someone’s private collection.”

It started to dawn on me when he said
it. Marianne’s tight lip about the gun. She didn’t talk about it
with museum staff.

“
The question is, did the
Nazis take this gun out of France? Because that is how many items
of art and collectibles have found their way into strange places,
without explanation. If the Nazis took it, how did your grandfather
get it?”

He opened a drawer on his desk and
pulled out a small penlight. He looked into the muzzle.

“
Well! What’s this?” He
reached his long middle finger into the muzzle and pulled out a
yellowed piece of heavy paper.

The dusty card read Tromblon de
Napoleon Bonaparte, 1816.

Dr. Desjardins looked at me, mouth
agape in a half smile. He used a piece of paper to hold the card
under a loupe for a better look. “This is a museum
placard.”

“
We need to know more
about what your grandfather did on his trip to Europe.”

“
There are pictures. I’ve
seen them many times. I’ve sent for them.”

“
It’s a good thing your
grandfather wasn’t a German officer. Knowing where this was before
the war will answer many questions. Start at the Musée de l’Armeé.
You must find out more about your grandfather. You’re aware of what
Napoleon’s swords sold for?”

“
Not…”

“
6.4 million
euro.”

“
That over…” I was trying
to do the math.

“
More than 8 million
dollars. Be careful who you trust,” he warned.

I felt faint as Dr. Desjardins led me
out to the plaza.

“
This piece is valuable
for its simple antiquity and for its historic
significance.”

“
Do you think he carried
this in battle?” I asked, immediately regretting the
question.

Desjardins shook his head and
murmured, “The biggest battle this piece will see lays before it.”
I thought I knew what he meant.

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