The Paris Secret (13 page)

She dropped her head in her hands. Her remarkable run had come to a juddering halt. This was not what Angus would want to hear; she needed to establish how the Vermeils had come to be in
possession of the painting and whether or not Von Taschelt had sold it on to them directly, or to someone else in between . . .

The FaceTime dial tone suddenly rang out.

She was out of time.

She checked the clock again. Ten past nine in the morning in New York.

‘Angus,’ she smiled, her voice full of a lightness she didn’t feel, as his image suddenly beamed onto the screen. He didn’t look happy.

He ran his hands over his face. ‘You actually
slapped
her?’

As an opening gambit, it wasn’t promising.

‘She hit me first,’ Flora replied quietly. ‘If that makes any difference.’

‘No! Not really!’

She inhaled slowly and watched as he paced the office – so much bigger and brighter than hers. She could see a new Anne Magill oil above the desk, his silver Montblanc pen strewn over some
papers.

‘You realize you almost gave me a goddam heart attack when I got off the plane last night and saw your messages? All twelve of them.’

‘Sorry. I just . . . I wanted you to hear it from me first. It was a crazy situation. I didn’t want her to make it sound worse than it was.’

‘You mean it’s possible to
get
any worse after kidnapping and assault?’ He raked his hands through his hair. ‘Christ almighty, I mean, they’re our
single-biggest clients right now.’

‘I know.’

‘If we get this entire collection to sale, do you realize what it’ll do to our bottom line this year?’

‘I can imagine.’

‘Imagine harder. It’s more than we could have dreamed of. Not to mention the exposure we’ll get once the press gets wind of it, and they will – you can be sure of
that.’

Flora closed her eyes. And if they got wind of the fight between her and Natascha . . . ? Her position here was untenable, she saw that now. It didn’t matter what she brought to the table
on the Renoir, he couldn’t hold on to her in these circumstances. The agency had too much to lose.

‘Angus, I understand your position. I know I’ve put you in an impossible situation. I’ll resign my post with immediate effect. Just please don’t fire me—’

‘
Fire
you?
What, are you kidding me?’ Angus looked furious now.

‘But I thought—’

‘You should be so lucky as to think I’m going to fire you. We’ve got a ton of work to do and I need you on the ground over there.’

Flora stared back at him in astonishment. ‘But what about the Vermeils?’

He shrugged. ‘What about them? Lilian and Jacques haven’t been in contact. I’ve been waiting for a call but if they haven’t been in touch by now then as far as I’m
concerned, nothing’s happened. It’s business as usual.’

‘But surely . . .’ Flora was flabbergasted. She’d barely slept for worrying about the fight and . . . what? Natascha and Xavier hadn’t even mentioned it? They were going
to let it fly?

Angus lowered his voice. ‘Listen, I didn’t like to say anything before, but Xavier and Natascha don’t exactly have the best reputations. I’m not sure their word counts
for much with most people, including their parents. Although that’s strictly off the record.’

‘. . . OK.’ She was dumbfounded.

He looked back at her sternly again. ‘But that doesn’t mean
I’m
letting you off the hook, Flora. It is not OK to go round slugging the clients, especially those with
priceless Renoirs in their possession.’

‘Angus, I assure you, nothing like this has ever happened before, nor ever will again. It was a complete freak thing. You can trust me.’

He blinked down the screen at her, taking in the bags under her eyes and her wan pallor. It must be clear to him that she’d been beating herself up over it.

‘Yes, well, you’re just lucky they’re French. If it had happened over here, you’d have been hauled up on assault charges.’

‘Understood,’ she nodded. Christ, like her parents needed
that
right now.

‘Right, well, that’s the end of today’s lecture. Make it up to me. Give me some good news,’ he said, perching on the edge of the desk again and folding his arms over his
chest. Flora thought he looked even more relieved than she did.

‘OK . . . uh . . . well, the good news is the Renoir is in the
cat rais
. As we thought, it is called
Yellow Dress, Sitting
and guess what? It has a companion.
Yellow
Dress, Walking
.’

Angus looked pleased by this. ‘Interesting.’

‘I thought so,’ she said, relaxing a little. ‘Now, the paintings were painted over the winter of 1908, and sold by Renoir to his dealer Ambroise Vollard in May, who in turn
sold both in 1910 to a man called Fritz Haas. He kept them till 1943.’ She bit her lip. ‘But here comes the bad bit – that year his daughter sold our Renoir to Franz Von
Taschelt.’

She watched as Angus’s expression changed. ‘. . . Please tell me there’s more.’

‘I’m afraid not,’ she replied. ‘The Getty site doesn’t have anything registered for it after that sale in 1943.’

There was a long pause. ‘So how the hell did it get into the Vermeils’ apartment?’ Angus asked eventually.

‘I don’t know yet, but I’ll find out. I’m only just back from Bernheim-Jeune.’

He rubbed his face in his hands again. ‘Jesus. Of all the places for the trail to run cold.’ He looked up again. ‘You do realize this throws the Vermeils’ ownership into
doubt? It doesn’t matter if they bought from him in good faith. Practically all his deals were covers for asset-stripping rich Jews.’

‘I know. But you’ve already checked the ALR and there aren’t any heirs placing a claim to it, so that’s got to be something – the transaction
could
have been
genuine.’

Angus looked sceptical. ‘We definitely need to get this provenance sewn up. The Resistance flooded the market with good-quality fakes to dupe the Germans as it was. If we can’t show
a step-perfect paper trail, all bets are off. The painting’s authenticity will be thrown into doubt if we go to market saying it was found in an abandoned apartment and our clients
can’t explain how they came by it.’

‘Well, if there was one thing the Nazis were meticulous about, it was keeping their books – they made a big show of recording all the bills of sale to conceal the forced nature of
the transactions, so there’ll be something written down somewhere,’ she said reassuringly. ‘It may take a while but I’ll find it. I’ll speak to the family again and
try to find out what other paperwork they’ve got from the father.’

Huh,’ Angus snorted. ‘After all this time? Good luck. François Vermeil’s been dead over seventy years.’

‘Maybe the notaries have a ledger listing everything that was in the apartment, or a receipt of sale? You never know,’ she said, determined to sound optimistic.

Angus looked somewhat mollified. ‘OK, well, I don’t care how you get it – you have to turn in the goods on this, Flora. The buck does not stop with Von Taschelt, you hear me?
Under no circumstances does the trail stop with that Nazi. The family would never sell if that connection had to be made public.’

In which case, bang went their commission and up went the overdraft. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll find out how it came into the Vermeils’ possession.’

‘You know, it might be worth trying to find the owners of the companion piece,’ Angus said thoughtfully. ‘If it’s still with the same family, they might know something
– like why one of the pair was sold to Von Taschelt.’

‘Everyone needs money in a war.’

‘Hmmm, 1943 you said?’

‘That’s right.’

‘That’s the same year the Vermeils shut up the apartment, meaning they must have bought it off him almost immediately,’ he murmured. Then he brightened suddenly. ‘In
which case, Von Taschelt may have acted just as a broker between the two parties, you know – flipped it? So there’d be a reasonable chance the Haas heirs know what happened next. If a
painting as important as that was in the family for . . . what, thirty-odd years, and they held on to the other one, they’re bound to have kept tabs on it. They could well know something
about that sale.’ He got up from the corner of the desk he had perched on and walked round to his chair. ‘What did you say the other one was called?’

‘
Yellow Dress, Walking
.’

She watched as he tapped on his keyboard for a moment, no doubt in the Getty Provenance archives too. He looked back at her triumphantly a moment later. ‘Don’t bloody believe
it,’ he winked. ‘A New York address!’

‘Brilliant,’ she nodded, not quite as convinced as he was that this would make a material difference to their search. Did it matter
why
one of the Renoirs had been sold? The
fact was, it had left the Haas family and ended up with another. It was the second part of that equation they needed to answer.

‘Right, leave that with me. I’ll make contact at this end and get a meeting set up pronto.’

‘OK.’ She leaned forwards, getting ready to disconnect. ‘And I’ll come back to you as soon as I know anything more on the provenance for ours.’

‘OK, I’ve got to run. I’ve a meeting with Rory Mortlake at Christie’s in fifteen.’ He looked at her, as if noticing her for the first time. ‘And get a decent
sleep, Flora. You look tired.’

She tried to rally. ‘Me? No, I’m fine.’

He was quiet for a moment. ‘Hmmm . . . well, keep me posted.’

‘Sure thing.’ The screen went black and she slumped back in the chair, dropping her head on her folded arms for a minute. He was right, she was exhausted but this was no time to let
up. She’d been
that
close to getting fired.

She tabbed back in to the Getty site. ‘So if Von Taschelt was the last recorded owner . . .’ she murmured to herself. ‘Then, if I do a search under dealers . . .’

Her eyes scanned the information that came up.

‘Bingo.’ Flora sat back in her chair, swinging it lightly on the pivot. It was that easy. If only Angus had given her a few more minutes . . . The details of Von
Taschelt’s sale of the Renoir would be in those historic ledgers. The answer she needed was in the South of France.

She smiled. She was back on top.

Ines was waiting for her by the scooter when she finally exited the building four hours later.

‘Your bell doesn’t ring,’ Ines muttered, a cigarette dangling from her mouth as Flora grabbed the spare helmet from the back.

‘I hope that’s not a euphemism for my sex life,’ Flora quipped.

Ines cackled with laughter, grinding her cigarette into the ground and hopping astride the bike. ‘You’re in a good mood today.’

‘I’ve had a good day,’ Flora smiled, fastening the chin strap.

‘He didn’t fire you then?’

‘Dodged a bullet this time.’

‘Didn’t I tell you?’ Ines winked. ‘They are so much badder than a catfight, those two. I bet they have completely forgotten already.’

Flora clasped her hands around her friend’s waist, feeling discomfited by the thought. She hadn’t been able to forget either of them so easily; in fact, her mind kept replaying
events every time she fell into a daydream – Natascha’s viciousness, the sudden appearance of Xavier at the door.

There was no question of riding astride the scooter in her narrow olive-green skirt, so she sat side-saddle, her arms around Ines’s waist and her friend’s curly black hair tickling
her face as they zipped through the traffic. The city was drowsy from the midsummer heat and the roads were quiet, Ines languidly manoeuvring the bike along the boulevards, boys whistling at them
each time they stopped at the lights.

They were there in just a few minutes, stopping at the junction where Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré meets Rue Boissy d’Anglas. Flora slid off the seat, Ines dismounting with a
careless leg thrown high like a gymnast’s as she shook her hair out of the helmet, her Isabel Marant mini-dress perfectly pitched for the city heat.

Ines handed her a stiff ivory invitation and they were waved through the multi-storeyed Hermès flagship building by the security guards. They stepped into the mirrored private lift and
both women set to checking their appearances – Ines backcombing the roots of her hair with her fingers, Flora fiddling with the collar of her white shirt.

She fanned her neck. ‘Damn, it’s hot. I should have gone home first and changed. This shirt is wilting. I look grim.’

‘You look gorgeous. You always look gorgeous. Anyway, for once, no one will be looking at you.’ The doors had opened and Ines winked at her as she walked out. ‘Just wait till
you see this.’

Flora followed, scarcely able to believe what she was seeing. She had anticipated the rooftop being a stone affair with tasteful lighting and maybe some artfully arranged plant pots. She
hadn’t counted on a perfect lawn banked with beds of jasmine; apple and pear trees heavy with fruit; magnolia branches spreading like splayed hands above the crowd and casting dappled shade
onto the lawn; balustraded pathways squaring the perimeter of the space and keeping the garden back and hidden from view from the streets below; charming country-house
treillage
laddering
the walls. It was a pocket Eden in the heart of the capital.

‘Paris’s secret garden,’ Ines said in an excited whisper. ‘Only a very few people know it is even here. This is VV
V
IP, baby.’

They each took a whisper-fine crystal flute of champagne from a tray and stepped seamlessly into the chic crowd. White was clearly the new black; almost everyone was wearing it, bolts of white
linen accented with flashes of grass-green or red, but mainly Hermès’ trademark orange – be it the ribbons on neat panamas or orange H-slide sandals, ‘
collier de
chien
’ studded cuffs or double-strap Kelly watches.