Rebecca Raisin - The Little Antique Shop Under The Eiffel Tower

Back in the car I briefed Dion on what had transpired with Andre, and the reason he was happy to see the scroll go.

“Life is such a complex thing.” He started the engine. The car purred – it was Dion’s pride and joy, and was polished to a shine. I’d never understand men and cars. “You have to secure that cello; don’t lose it, Anouk.”

“I will. I’ll bid until they all fall away. I’m hoping the more popular showy instruments will woo the crowd, and they’ll leave the Mollier to me.” We drove sedately out of the estate, heading for the double-bronzed gates. As they creaked open a flashy red sports coupe careered sideways from the road, into the driveway and came to an abrupt stop, spraying gravel in its wake. Dust plumed up and straight into my open window.

“Who is this fool?” I spat between dusty mouthfuls.

I was ready to yell a volley of abuse to the dangerous driver when I clapped eyes on his face. It was the hot guy wearing the Aviator sunglasses who had been outside the front of my shop the day I had lunch with Lilou. Inwardly I groaned. I’d thought he was a handsome holidaymaker, but he was obviously a dealer too, and hot on my tail. You couldn’t trust anyone! This industry was with rife with chameleons and I thanked my lucky stars I hadn’t entered into conversation with him that day, encouraged by the white wine racing through my bloodstream. Another competitor in an already suffocating industry.

He ran a hand through his blond hair, and gave me an ostentatious smile. “Is this Andre’s place?” An American! My mind shrieked a warning; stay well away. I could already tell he’d be a problem with his playboy good looks, and that swagger that came with money, and ambition and the desire to win at any cost. I’d seen it one too many times to miss those markers now.

I pursed my lips, and pressed the button for my window. Slowly the glass blocked him from sight but not before I caught his wink. Really, how did winking help the situation? Did he think I’d dissolve into a hot mess, and tell him everything? Amateur. “It doesn’t take long for them to sniff out a deal,” I said to Dion.

“Forget him. He doesn’t know the backstory.”

I leaned back into the leather seat, and closed my eyes. “Oui. You’re right. Andre will send him on his way.”

Chapter Five

Antiques missing as suspected smuggler ring hits Paris

Paris gendarmerie are investigating a robbery that took place overnight at the prestigious Vuitton Auction House on Rue St Honoré in Paris. They believe the theft is linked to the recent spate in the town of Sorrento, Italy, but won’t release any further details. The Vuitton Auction House released a statement today saying that their security cameras had been interfered with and the thief overrode the high-tech alarm systems, including the state of the art infrared sensors. It’s suspected that the rare collection of jewelry stolen would fetch up to two hundred thousand Euros on the black market in America, where it’s believed the antiques are being shipped to, after police raided a southern Californian home and found some earrings believed to be the ones stolen from Sorrento. Anyone with any information is asked to visit their local gendarmerie or call the hotline direct.

My stomach lurched. A smuggler ring? Had they multiplied? It wasn’t just a rogue cat burglar like in the movies? I whipped open the newspaper once more, scanning the next page in case there was any more detail but found nothing. It appeared that the thief was interested in jewelry, and France had a wealth of it under lock and key, especially in Paris, where so many exclusive auction houses were situated.

The jewels would be lost forever, and with it their story. It was migraine-inducing, picturing those precious keepsakes being lifted in the dark of night, hastily wrapped, badly treated, and gone for good.

Blood drained from my face right down to the tip of my slipper-clad toes but it was auction day, and I had no time to make any calls or hunt out any leads. I had to win the cello to secure the scroll.

Once dressed and ready, I hurried down the Boulevard Saint Germaine, making my way toward the 8th arrondissement. The perk of living in Paris meant I didn’t own a car; I walked everywhere. If it was too far I used the Metro. Driving was such a nuisance in this bustling city and I was glad to avoid it.

With sunshine on my back I was almost certain I could feel the presence of the illustrious François Mollier, the famous cellist who’d died over half a century ago. I’d found out that the reason his descendants were selling some select pieces from his musical collection was to fund a theme park set on the grounds of his estate. The idea had me crying into my soup bowl, but there was little I could do, except secure the cello knowing it would go to Andre who would worship it. Mollier’s château and expansive grounds should have been a museum, a place for the people to visit, and celebrate his achievements in a world that still hadn’t forgotten him, and never would, not a place for bumper cars, and mechanical bull rides.

Pausing, I imagined the cello with its soon-to-be new owner, red-headed Andre, alone on his balcony at nighttime with his own château silent. His eyes slowly closing as he clamped the cello tight, drawing the mother of pearl bow back and forth across its taut strings, relaxing into the sound, and letting go of bad memories, like a vapor.

Mellifluous notes drifting above, stars shrieking in the inky sky. Beautiful music would invigorate the antique instrument and summon the ghost of François Mollier, who’d visit standing off in the distance in the realm of here or there, a faint smile playing at his lips…

Whimsical, but totally possible.

Time was stealing away, so I picked up the pace, finally arriving at the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré in the 8th arrondissement where the Cloutier Auction House was situated. It was a grand old building with a French baroque façade that stood out among the less imposing neighboring structures. A burnished gold sign announcing the house hung perpendicular, and creaked softly as it swayed. Nerves fluttered but more from anticipation than anything.

A doorman wearing an immaculate, sharply pressed suit, and top hat nodded as I rushed past. “Bonjour, mademoiselle.”

“Bonjour, monsieur.” I flashed him a smile as he opened the heavy black door and ushered me in. “Merci.”

With quick steps, I headed down the entrance hall and into the bar area.

Exclusive auctions held around France were filled with collectors and dealers from all around the world who were backed up by old money, families with recognizable names, or lots of available cash. It was a sacred circle, and you had to pass some invisible test to be accepted by them. It’d taken me an aeon to be invited in, and I was still looked at as the new girl, but they weren’t threatened by someone who often bid on items that were perplexingly valueless in their eyes and were only sold at some auctions as part of a deceased estate.

But sentimental or not, I had a varied range of customers who, like me, held antiques with rich histories in high esteem. It could be something as small as a tin of buttons rescued from a Dior 1940s’ collection. The men would frown over their spectacles at me and mutter, “Buttons…?” their confusion apparent. But I’d have a customer who collected vintage buttons, and I knew they’d adore such a bounty. Who wouldn’t? Some amazing seamstresses had probably thumbed those little plastic discs – what had the buttons overheard? Talk about hemlines, waistlines, the progression of fashion…

Auctions were jovial affairs. Champagne flowed freely because punters paid more when they were relaxed after a few glasses of bubbles, though no auction houses admitted that’s why they supplied copious bottles of Moët & Chandon – it was the way it had always been done, a tradition that had always made the numbered paddles raise that little bit easier.