Aaron Elkins - Old Scores

"What conditions?" Froger said. "I know of no conditions."

Sully frowned at him. "These donations were drawn up-and signed by my client-in readiness for their acceptance by the donees. There are certain stipulations set forth-"

"Stipulations, what stipulations?" Froger asked.

Sully appealed to Lefevre. "Am I to be permitted to continue?"

"Try to control yourself, Monsieur Froger," Lefevre said mildly.

Sully read the conditions aloud. They were what I already knew: no scientific analysis was to be permitted; our decisions were to be made no later than Friday (Vachey, true to his word, had appended a rider extending the time limit), with the paintings remaining open to our visual inspection at any time during normal business hours; Vachey would pay for transportation to the Barillot and to SAM at the end of the two-week invitational showing in the Galerie Vachey, and would provide for their continuing conservation and insurance; the paintings were to be prominently displayed as a Rembrandt and a Leger, at SAM and the Barillot respectively, for a period of not less than five years.

Froger listened keenly. "These stipulations, they also apply to the Seattle Art Museum?"

"I told you," Sully told him, "they are identical."

Christian emitted a patronizing sigh. "Can I just make one point? My father's dead, right? The stipulations haven't been met-these people haven't signed anything, right? So how can the offers be binding on my father's estate?"

Sully looked at him for a long time. "But they are," he said. "These are not contracts, monsieur, they are conditional donations. In effect, they have already been made. If and when the donees accept the conditions, the matter is closed. The death of the donor is immaterial."

"Immaterial?" Christian repeated, then laughed. "He'd love hearing that. Look, Monsieur Sully, I don't accept what you're telling us, and I'm telling you right now that I'm going to be conferring with my own attorney about it."

Sully shrugged his unconcern. "Confer with twenty attorneys. The law is clear."

"In the meantime, I assume I can refuse entry to my own property if I feel like it?"

Sully looked impatiently at him. "Meaning?"

"Meaning I hereby refuse permission to Edmond Froger and to him"-he tilted his head toward me-"to examine the paintings."

"Wait one moment," Froger said, his voice taking on an edge of outrage. "That Leger happens to be in the Galerie Vachey, which is now owned by Madame Guyot, not-"

"But the Galerie Vachey happens to be in a house that I now own, and I refuse you entrance," Christian said with a triumphant smirk. "Him too." That was me again.

Froger started sputtering. "You… I…" He looked helplessly at Sully. "Can he do that?"

"No," the attorney said. "The will makes it quite clear-"

"No?" Christian said. "No? Listen, Sully, I know a little about the law myself, and as the executor of my father's estate, it's damn well my prerogative-"

Sully cut in. "You are not the executor of your father's estate. I am the executor of your father's estate."

Christian's astonishment was almost comical. His lips came together, then separated with a moist pop, to remain open. The fight had drained out of him as completely as if a plug had been pulled.

"And as executor," Sully continued, "I grant these people free access to the Galerie Vachey for the purpose of evaluating the paintings. You, however, are within your rights to refuse them entrance to the living quarters."

Froger had regained his composure. He looked sleek and confident again. "I would also like to have Monsieur Charpentier examine the painting further."

"You may have whomever you wish to assist you."

"And I may assume his fees will be paid by the estate? Last night Rene made it clear-"

"I was present," Sully said. "Yes, monsieur, the estate will pay them."

"I bring it up, you understand, because it seems only fair-"

"I have already said the estate will pay them. No further questions?" He looked toward Lefevre. "We are free to leave and to go about our business?"

"Of course. But Monsieur Vachey, Madame Guyot, Madame Gremonde-perhaps you would all remain behind for a little while? I would like to speak with you individually. Monsieur Vachey, is there a more convenient room where we might do this?"

"What?" Christian was still recovering from the last of his several shocks. "Oh-yes, all right. My father's study." Then, as an afterthought: "Clotilde, tell Madame Gaillard to make some coffee."

Clotilde Guyot's sunny features clouded. "Who are you to give me orders? I don't work for you. And I'm a gallery owner, not a servant; why should I fetch coffee?"

No, she didn't say it out loud-she was hardly the type-but the French can put a lot into a quivering eyebrow, a lifted chin, and a frigid stare. I may not have gotten every bit of it right, but you couldn't miss the general message. And I didn't think it was a case of unbridled feminism either. I thought it was simply a case of her not being able to stand Christian's guts. I was starting to feel sorry for the guy. Nobody liked him. Even the good Lorenzo's face had soured when his name had come up.

Nevertheless, Clotilde nodded, raised her soft bulk from the chair, and went out to make arrangements. Lefevre got up too, said he would be back in five minutes, and left.

I went after him. It was time to let him know about my adventure last night, and to take whatever lumps I had coming. He was on the steps outside, having a cigarette.

"Inspector?"

He turned, blew two thick streams of smoke out of his nostrils and looked down his nose at me. He was taller than I'd realized, about six-three, straight as a ramrod, and with a way of carrying himself that was somewhat austere, to put it kindly. Or embalmed-looking, to put it otherwise.

"Yes? Monsieur Norgren, do I know you?"

"I don't think so."

"Are you sure? Your name is familiar."

I considered asking him if possibly he'd read my recent monograph on Andrea del Sarto and the early Italian Mannerists, but thought he might take it the wrong way.

"Sorry," I said, "I don't know why it would be familiar."

He peered coolly at me. "Weren't you recently involved in an art theft affair in Bologna?"

"Well… yes… last year. Only incidentally, actually. I happened to be there at the time, you see. About something else entirely. I was able to, er, provide the carabinieri with a little help."

The reason for this abject sniveling was that my encounter with the minions of the law in Bologna had taught me that policemen were not likely to take kindly to amateurs who stuck their noses into police matters without being asked. Even with the best of intentions. Even, in fact, when you wound up solving their case for them.

And, although I hadn't stuck my nose anywhere yet, and didn't intend to, I was in no hurry to get on the wrong side of the steely Inspector Lefevre.

"That's not quite what I recall," he said stiffly. "If memory serves, you seemed to be at the center of a number of misadventures that rather complicated matters for the carabinieri."

"Not on purpose," I said with a grin, hoping a little self-deprecating American humor might soften him. "Colonello Antuono's theory was that someone put an evil eye on me when I was still in the womb."

Lefevre was unsoftened. "Well, I can't speak for the Italian police, but we, here in France, are perfectly capable of solving our crimes without unsolicited assistance. If you have pertinent information, we would like to have it. If we have questions, we would appreciate honest answers. Beyond that, please be kind enough to leave matters to us."

"Absolutely," I said. "Definitely."

His glance shifted to a man in shirt sleeves and a loosened tie who came out of the house, a toothpick jiggling at the corner of his mouth. "Phone call from the public prosecutor, Inspector. Wants to see you right now."