Aaron Elkins - Old Scores

"Look, Chris," Calvin said with some exasperation, "that's the way it works. A guy's alive, and then he's dead."

"I know, but-yeah, I know."

We stopped at a cafe on the Rue Musette for another cafe au lait and some croissants, which helped to settle my thoughts, but still left me sick and empty, dreading having to talk to the police. I suppose some of my reluctance came from realizing that I was going to have to tell them about my ill-thought-out incursion into Vachey's study; mostly, though, I just hated to think about him dead. Shot. I didn't know where he'd been shot, or how many times, or anything else about it, and I didn't want to know. I hadn't thought to ask if an arrest had been made. I just didn't want to accept it.

I had finished eating before something dawned belatedly on me. It didn't matter what I recommended to Tony; the business with the Rembrandt was over. Vachey had died without our meeting his conditions, so the gift could be valid. The picture belonged to whoever would have gotten it on Vachey's death if he hadn't decided to give it to us. The same went for the Leger. If that meant his son, Christian, which I supposed it did, then somehow I didn't think they were ever going to wind up on the walls of the Barillot or SAM.

Calvin nodded his agreement. "I think you're right. Unaccepted offer dies with the offerer, that's the way it works. Let's hope the Louvre has something on paper for its share."

"I hope so."

Actually, at this point I didn't much give a damn. I felt rotten.

At my instigation we dawdled-well, procrastinated-over a moody second cup of coffee, and arrived at the gallery five minutes late.

We had assumed we were coming in for interrogation, but that wasn't it at all. This was a group affair, held in a large, sparsely furnished room at the back of the daylight basement, below Vachey's living quarters. Part storage area, part office for Marius Pepin, Vachey's secretary, the room had several irregular recesses in which were objects ranging from mattresses on their sides and folded card tables to broken Roman statuary. In the central area seven people sat in assorted chairs that had been arranged in a rough semicircle to face a plain wooden desk. A spare, balding man sitting to one side and a little behind the others motioned us with an imperious little snap of his fingers toward the only available seats, two folding metal chairs on the far right.

I nodded to Clotilde Guyot, Vachey's gallery manager, who was sitting next to me clutching a balled handkerchief, her round face blotchy from weeping. Next to her was Froger, showing no signs of tears over the demise of his old adversary. He did look a little sickly, however; probably because he'd come to the same conclusion we had about the fate of the two paintings and was mourning his lost Leger. Beyond him was Vachey's son, Christian, looking like a man nursing a hangover. He had taken a bottle of mineral water from a side tray and was rolling it, unopened, against his temple. Pepin was next to him, jumpy and distracted, and after him was a man I didn't know but whom I'd seen at the head table the previous evening.

Gisele Gremonde, without her wig, without her gaudy makeup, rounded out the half circle. She was vacantly twisting her fingers, looking utterly shaken. Of course, she had drunk enough cognac to shake an elephant not so many hours before, but it went beyond that. I barely recognized the former opera star. She sat like a heap of old meat, boneless and shrunken. With her thin gray hair and gray, collapsed face she looked a hundred years old.

"I think we can begin now," the balding man said in a cool, nasal voice when we'd sat down. "Everyone speaks French? Good. I am Chief Inspector Lefevre of the Office of Judicial Police. I shall be in charge of conducting the investigation into the death of Monsieur Rene Vachey, as most of you already know."

"I want to know why I was summoned here," Froger said.

Lefevre ignored him. "When I learned that Monsieur Sully planned to meet with the legatees of Monsieur Vachey's will before some of them-that is to say, some of you-found it necessary to leave the area, I asked to attend. I apologize for the necessity of intruding at this sad time."

He crossed his legs and settled back. "Monsieur Sully-if you please?"

Monsieur Sully was seated behind the desk. Plump, capon-breasted and silver-haired, he wore an expression suggestive of feathers that had been severely ruffled.

"That is not quite accurate, Inspector," he said, irritably fingering a few handwritten sheets of lined white paper in front of him. "I would like it to be understood that this gathering was instigated by you. I am complying with your instructions, but I wish it to be known that I consider it premature and highly irregular."

Lefevre gazed impassively back at him. "As you like."

"I also wish you to make it clear that if anyone prefers to leave, he is under no compulsion to remain. I will contact all concerned persons in due time."

"Certainly," Lefevre said. "All who wish to go are free to do so."

No one moved.

Lefevre looked steadily at Sully. "You have done your duty, monsieur. Proceed."

Sully cleared his throat. "As some of you are aware, I am Charles Sully, Monsieur Vachey's attorney of many years. All of you are here because you are concerned in one way or another with the estate of Rene Vachey."

Calvin and I exchanged surprised glances. What did that mean? Were we in Vachey's will? Was it possible that he had actually bequeathed the Rembrandt to us, something I hadn't even considered? From the corner of my eye I saw Froger perk up; apparently his thoughts were running along similar lines. To my surprise, I felt my own attention quicken. Despite everything that had happened, apparently I wasn't as disinterested in the Rembrandt as I'd been telling Calvin-and myself.

"I must tell you," Sully went on, "that at this point I can relate to you only certain of the more significant provisions of Monsieur Vachey's will. The document is complex, and I do not have a copy with me. The original is in a Credit Lyonnais safe deposit box in Paris, for which Monsieur Vachey and I are joint signatories. It was placed there upon its completion in January of this year-"

"January of last year," Christian Vachey said.

The younger Vachey wasn't as young as I'd thought at dinner the previous night, when I'd been fooled by a softly rounded chin, smooth baby-cheeks, and an adolescent smirk. Seen up close he was well into his forties, a husky, laid-back, Hollywood ish kind of man with dark, curly, blow-dried hair that came down almost to his shoulders in back and hung in a Superman forelock in front. He was wearing a sharp double-breasted gray suit with no tie, but with his white shirt buttoned up to the collar. A gold earring in the form of a cross with a loop for its upper arm-the Egyptian ankh sign-dangled from his left ear.

Sully paused. "No, this year."

"No, last year. I think I ought to know, don't you?"

"I think I ought to know, monsieur," Sully said, "and I assure you it was January of this year."

"Now look-" Christian began, then stopped abruptly, and flapped his hand. "The hell with it. It's not important enough to argue about." But a vivid, nickel-sized red spot had leaped out on each cheek.

What do you know, Inspector Lefevre had gathered his first piece of information, assuming that was what he was there for. Rene Vachey had redrafted his will and hadn't told his black-sheep son about it. More than that, the will was in a safe deposit box that his lawyer could get into, but not his son. Interesting.

I frowned. Now why the hell should I find that interesting? Was Vachey's murder beginning to nag at me, now that the initial numbness had passed? Was I looking for conflicts, motives, sources of friction?