The Little Antique Shop Under the Eiffel Tower (26 page)

“This is terrible,” I said. “Do the gendarmes have any idea yet? Surely there’s footage or something this time.”

“I heard through a source,” she said gravely, “that the gendarmes are investigating, but won’t leak any of the evidence in case the robber flees. This is such a tragic loss. And a huge mark of disrespect for Catherine Lacroix who trusted her beauties would find the right homes and the money to go to those animals she loved so well.”

There’d been no sign of Tristan in France; maybe he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time with the other robberies. Was he innocent? The idea gave me hope.

“She’d be horrified,” I said. “Her legacy gone.”

“Insurance will pay it out,” Madame Dupont said, sadly. “But it’s not the point. The point is, half of it’s gone and into the hands of someone who doesn’t deserve it. Anouk, do you think it’s your beau? That beautiful man?” Her face fell as she considered Tristan as a heartless criminal for the first time without romancing his part in it.

I shrugged. “Maybe it’s not him. I haven’t seen him for weeks.” My voice was hopeful; no matter how I tried to mask it, it still spilled out.

Her face brightened. “It’s his eyes,” she said. “Those eyes make a woman melt. I just get the feeling the robber would be…sharp-featured, somehow. You know the type, black heart, no soul, eyes that make your blood run cold…”

“So we’re basing Tristan’s innocence on his looks?” We’d never make it as spies, as I’d done the very same thing myself.

She shook her head, disagreeing with me. “All good investigators trust their gut feelings. I’m trusting mine.”

“I don’t know, Madame. It’s suspect that the robberies began just after he arrived. I think we have to be realistic. Our mold for the typical thief – black eyes, black soul – might be wrong,” I said. “Short of catching him out what else can we do?” I wrinkled my brow. “I suppose we could write a list of all the auction houses in France, but what good will that do? They all sell jewelry. There’s no way to tell which place will be targeted next.”

“Are you suggesting we take matters into our own hands? Like a good old-fashioned stake-out?” Her heavily made-up face shone with the idea and I couldn’t help but laugh. This was the sort of thing Madame Dupont lived for – some high-stakes adventure.

Before the idea took hold I said, “Well no. I wasn’t suggesting a stake-out. I was…”

She held up a hand adorned with so many gold rings I wondered how she had the strength to keep it aloft. “It’s the only way! The gendarmes are probably taking bribes! Surely it can’t take this long to solve the thefts? We’ll do it ourselves.” She surveyed the shop. “We’ll need a camera. Have you got anything other than that box thing over there?” She gestured to an old Le Phoebus box camera, a relic from the 1870s.

I laughed. “All my cameras are antique. They’re perfect for arty, moody pictures but not for zooming in or sharp detail.” I caught myself. What was I considering? Hiding in a car in the middle of the night! It was something only an unhinged person would do. “But, Madame, what are the chances we’d be at the right place at the right time? There’s been no routine to these robberies. It might take months and even then we could be at the wrong place – or worse, see nothing because he gets in through the roof or something!”

Madame Dupont went to light a cigarette but thought better of it when I stared her down. “Darling, you’ve got to believe, otherwise what else do we have? It’ll be fun! We’ll take my old Bugatti…”

I shook my head, but it was lost on Madame Dupont who was gazing through me, plotting silently. “We can’t take that car! It’s not exactly inconspicuous.” Madame’s vintage Bugatti was rumored to have been a gift from movie star Olivetti who she’d had a brief affair with in the seventies. It was eye-catching, too recognizable.

“Okay, I suppose you’re right, so we’ll hire a car? Something plain: a Peugeot or a Renault. What about that?”

“But we could spend months sitting in a car all night long for no reason! It’s ludicrous, Madame Dupont, it really is. It’s not as though he’s got a key and will waltz in the front entrance.”

“You never know.” Madame Dupont smirked and went to the door, standing on the threshold, with her arm outside so she could smoke a cigarette. “Darling, what else have you got to do at nighttime? Lilou says you’re back to those long lonely evenings playing Solitaire on the computer! Did I not tell you to stop that? What kind of life is that? If you want to play cards at least go to the casino! Flutter those eyelashes…”

She shook her head as if she was disappointed in me, and I could see why Madame Dupont and Lilou got along so well. Age was just an insignificant number for Madame Dupont and she was still as flighty and spontaneous as Lilou. Madame Dupont told me constantly I was wasting my youth, and my curves. I could only laugh.

But still, I said, “I don’t play Solitaire. I play Sim City. I like building villages. Those people depend on me.”

“Those people? On a computer game?” Her mouth fell open.

“They’ve suffered enough. There was an earthquake, and it’s taken a long time to rebuild. Morale is down, it’s tense…”

Her face drained of color. “It’s much worse than I thought.”

Guilt tapped me on the shoulder. “I’m only joking, Madame. I don’t play Sim City. I occasionally play Solitaire, but my life isn’t as empty as Lilou would lead you to believe.”

She threw her head back and laughed. “Merde! I was so worried! I was planning to kidnap you, and force you to holiday in Saint Barth’s or somewhere you couldn’t escape. Back to Operation: Aquamarine –”

“Aquamarine?”

“The color of his eyes,” she said dreamily. “He won’t suspect we’re talking about him, if he stumbles on us. So make sure you use that code word whenever you want to discuss it. OK?”

“One minute ago you thought he was innocent!” I couldn’t keep up. What insanity had I gotten mixed up in? “I’m sure the gendarmes have investigators staking out the auction houses, and they’ll have night-vision cameras, and…” I struggled to think of modern-day spy accoutrements. “And…guns. And what will we have? An old box camera!” Not exactly cops and robbers’ MO.

“I’ll buy a camera! I’ll buy two! Binoculars…” She wrinkled her nose in contemplation, and then snapped her fingers. “Got it! We’ll also need newspapers to hide behind in case someone walks past. We can cut out eye holes so we can still see what’s going on right in front of us! It’s genius.”

We were going to get arrested for disturbing the peace, I was sure of it. “Eye holes? Madame, who’d read the newspaper in a dark car at nighttime? Don’t you think that’d be a dead giveaway?”

“OK, OK, well it doesn’t have to be a newspaper. We just need to blend in to our surroundings. I’ll get us some overalls, khaki-colored. Wait!” She held up a hand. “Dion! He will know what we need. I’ll call him now.”

I hid a smile. “OK.” As crazy as the idea was it was growing on me. It was hard to resist Madame’s enthusiasm. It would be good to know if I was in love with a criminal mastermind. “But I’m not committing to months of this, just so you know.”

She blew out a plume of smoke. “Give it a couple of weeks and if we get any proof it’s him, then we can discuss the next step. Who knows, it could be a team of women, it could be Lilou’s boyfriend, it could be anyone!”

“OK. I guess we’ve got to help. France can’t keep losing its precious jewels. And you’re right, Lilou’s boyfriend is suspect now I come to think of it. He turned up at the same time as the robberies began too, Madame… Don’t you think that’s weird?”

She sighed. “I think you’re grasping at straws to save your man…”

I colored. Was I? “Well, he’s also been snooping around my apartment, studying my paperwork.”

“He’s innocent. Probably looking for money, that’s all. He’s a couch surfer with limited funds. I don’t blame him,” she said to my appalled face. “Let’s make that list. Every auction house and their upcoming auctions. See which jewels he’s most likely to target.”

An hour later we’d made a long list of potential targets. Madame Dupont left with instructions she’d pick me up the following night once she’d hired a car, and asked Dion to source an abundance of spy paraphernalia.

I hid the list inside my handbag. Could we really catch a thief?

The phone buzzed, halting any thoughts of trying to back out of our plan.

“The Little Antique –”

“Anouk!
Je l’ai mis la maison en feu!
”

“What? Slow down, Papa! You set what on fire?” I stood, galvanized, until I remembered I was too far away to help him.

“The house is on fire! Well, the kitchen more specifically.”

In the background the whining of fire engines sounded. “Oh my God, Papa, get out of the house!”

“I can’t because I don’t have a cell phone, and then how would I tell you?”

I held in a sigh. “Papa! Mon Dieu! Just leave, and go to a phone box!”

“OK, OK. Tell Maman to come back, I’m sorry!”

“Just leave, Papa, and let the firemen put it out!”

My pulse thrummed with fright. The line went dead.

I snatched up the phone again and called my apartment. Maman answered, “Bonjour?”

“Maman there’s been a fire. Papa set the kitchen alight somehow.”

“OK, well thanks for letting me know.”

“Maman!”

“What? It’s a cry for attention. I bet he was trying to get the creases out of that great big heavy tablecloth he insists on using, and set it on fire with that antiquated iron.”

Shock rendered me mute. It was like she didn’t care at all. “But, Maman, the house is on fire! The house is ON FIRE.” Maybe she’d misheard?

“Sorry that he can’t cope, but now he might realize how silly his expectations are. You’ll see, ma chérie. It’s not time yet.”

“Time for what? What if your entire house burns down to the ground?”

“The house won’t burn down. He’ll be exaggerating like he always does. Anouk, if you really paid attention you’d know he’s too egotistical to apologize so he’s hoping this will work instead.”

Who was this woman? She adored her house, and all the homemade decorating she’d done over the years. How could she be so certain it would be OK?

“I hope he hasn’t inhaled too much smoke…”

“He hasn’t.”

“Maman, why are you being so callous?”

She let out a long, weary sigh. “Matteau, my neighbor, called. He saw smoke and went to check Papa was OK. They dumped a heap of water on the tablecloth and the curtains next to it, and it went out. The fire truck was already on its way. Perhaps he should have called them to cancel, and not you, in the hopes you’d tell me, non?”

“So he wasn’t in danger?”

“He might have been for a few minutes, but they got it under control. This kind of trickery won’t work.”

I shook my head, dazed over it all. Papa would rather Maman come home because of a fire, than because he smoothed things over, and capitulated to her compromises. Love was impossible sometimes.

“Wait until I speak to him!”

Chapter Twenty-Three

The following afternoon, I was tidying the shop. With a feather duster I tickled the armoire that housed spools of antique lace ribbons, arranged in color order from pastel pinks, down to golden browns, in various textures and sizes. The day had been deathly quiet because of the glorious sunshine, and for once, I was glad for the peace. It gave me time to ponder the stake-out, and what we’d do if we actually saw Tristan break in to an auction house. Cuff him? I couldn’t see me or Madame Dupont running across the cobblestoned street and lunging at him, taking him down. Did we even have handcuffs? Take photos and show the gendarmes? But what if Madame Dupont was right and he was bribing them?

What if it was someone else? It could be anyone. The narrow-eyed milliner who was always draped in layers of expensive jewelry. The man from the hobby shop who had ties with politicians – he was always talking about high-tech gadgets. Henry…

As the sun began its slow descent amber rays shimmered through the lace curtains, like fairy dust. Nerves fluttered in my belly like the tips of butterfly wings. One night, I promised myself, and then I’d tell Madame Dupont we were being silly.

Bundling up the takings, I stuffed them into my bag, and locked up the shop.

Instead of walking home, I went to the Metro. I had to see a client in de Ménilmontant, the 20th arrondissement. Marianna often called on me to visit, and price antiques she’d found at vintage fairs, and flea markets.

The train station was full of bustling bodies in the race to secure a spot. Peak hour, and the glum faces of weary travelers, sapped after an unusually hot day. Elbowing my way on like a seasoned Parisian does, I held the strap above to keep from falling over, as the train shimmied and rocked its way forward.

At the first stop, a wave of commuters exited, and another throng barreled their way on. I was being bumped and jostled, and rued the fact I’d left work so early. In my haste to get back in time for Madame’s arrival, I’d hit the busy hour.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Someone was encroaching into my personal space, a common misdemeanor on the Metro. I was about to turn to tell them off when he spoke.

“I like your hat.”

It was him. The thief. The robber. The bad guy.

I turned to face him. Tristan. “I didn’t think the likes of you would use public transport,” I countered, while my mind spun furiously. Had he been in Paris the whole time? Or had he come back just to steal the Cartier jewelry? My heart sank.

He stood out on the Metro with the bright blond of his hair, and dazzlingly white teeth as he flashed a smile. The rest of us wore muted expressions, vacant eyes. But not him. He had challenge written all over him in big, fat capital letters.

“Sometimes I get bored of fast cars, and private planes.”

I felt wobbly, startled to see him on the Metro and confused by the pulsating need to reach out and touch him that had flowed through me. Shaking my head I reminded myself he was probably trying out a new escape route. I shouldn’t trust a word that fell from his silky lips. “You’re only adding to the chaos being here. There’s not enough room for commuters as it is,” I snapped.