Cara Black - AL05 - Murder in Clichy

“Go ahead and torment yourself, camarade, ” Tran said. “You’re good at that. But it can’t bring them back. Nothing will. As they say, it’s all termite spit.”

“Albert opened his big mouth; he talked about the jade. And then the man he spoke to was shot. Killed.”

Tran’s hand shook as he lit another cigarette. “ Merde!”

Tran, reestablish your connections,” Gassot said. “Go back “ to the house. Talk to the old buzzard about the jade. You’re the one who heard the rumor in Haiphong.”

Tran bowed his head. “That’s so long ago,” he said.

“The jade is here. In Paris. We know it. We’re not the only ones looking for it, Tran,” Gassot said. “Remember that.”

“But we’re the only true believers.”

Gassot turned away. He stooped, tried to control the quiver in his shoulders. “Tran, you have to go back to the house.”

No one would suspect Tran. Gassot kept to himself his fear that someone was picking them off, one by one.

Wednesday Midday

AIMÉE NUDGED HER WAY through the throng of patrons at the Drouot auction house counter, to the catalogues. Around her, in the long salle hung with paintings celebrating Drouot’s history, patrons milled in the display rooms, looking at items in glass showcases or piled in corners. Her grand-père, a habitué, had frequented the auction house. More often than not, he’d spot a frayed Savonnerie carpet or a Baccarat chandelier with missing crystals in a heap to be auctioned off as part of a lot. Many of these “finds” furnished her apartment now. “I’ve got an eye for these things,” he’d say, grinning and crossing his eyes, making Aimée laugh. As a young girl, she’d loved the smell of old furniture, the blistered oil paintings, and the sound of the wooden gavel of the auctioneer.

Afterwards they’d walk to the confiserie , her hand nestled in his overcoat pocket. Inside, he’d let her choose from the old-fashioned sugared violets and candied almonds. They’d end the day at the Guignol puppet theatre in the Jardin du Luxembourg.

Now all Aimée saw were the feral gleams in dealers’ eyes and the video surveillance cameras tracking patrons. She doubted her grand-père would have been able to discover bargains or “finds” now.

She consulted November’s auction catalogue. Nothing. But in October’s issue, on page 114, she found a black and white photo that did little justice to the eleven exquisite jade pieces pictured. Yet even this photo took her breath away.

A short description read: Incomplete set of Chinese jade astrological figures, reputedly of fourth century Chinese origin. Provenance unknown.

This didn’t make sense. Who had put the jade figures up for auction, and more importantly, how had Baret ended up with them? Why sell them to Linh for fifty thousand francs when their value was estimated in the hundreds of thousands? Had he been short of money and so, motivated to make a quick sale? Or was he sincerely trying to help Linh?

“Excuse me,” she said to the smiling woman behind the counter, “I’d like to find out the result of the sale of lot #8793. What it sold for and to whom, if possible.”

The woman beamed at her, looking past people consulting glossy catalogues and smudged typed lists. “Just a moment please,” she said and consulted a binder. “According to the current auction log,” she said, “this lot was withdrawn from the auction.”

“Withdrawn?” Aimée asked in alarm. “You mean it was never auctioned?”

“Oui, taken off the list.”

Frustrated, Aimée leaned against the counter and thought. Nothing seemed to fit.

“I need to find out who put the pieces up for auction. How do you suggest I proceed?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you. Queries regarding previously catalogued items must be submitted to Madame Monsour in our archives division.”

“ Merci, ” Aimée said, and bought the catalogue. She wouldn’t give up without trying. By the time she reached Madame Monsour’s office, she knew she’d have to improvise. Again.

“What . . . no appointment, Mademoiselle?” said a harried man carrying a thick stack of files.

Aimée gave him a big smile. “Forgive me, I know she’s busy. Five minutes of her time, that’s all I ask.”

“If you’d made an appointment. . . .” he said.

“Marcel, so you finally found the Asian art estimates!” interrupted a slim young woman in a black suit, emerging from the office whose doorway bore the nameplate MADAME MONSOUR.

“But, Madame Monsour, that’s what I need to speak with you about,” Aimée said, stepping forward. “I need background information on a jade collection.”

“Do your homework. Go read some books, Mademoiselle. I suggest—”

“But I have, you see, and they raise more questions.”

Madame Monsour was attractive and well put together, with coiffed black hair that almost disguised her small ears: very small, which she hid with her thick shoulder length hair. Except when, with a the nervous motion, she tucked it behind her ears.

Aimée moved closer, toward the office door. “Please, I’m sorry, but just a few minutes.”

Madame Monsour said, “The auctioneer needs my assistance and I must prepare.”

Aimée showed her the page from the October auction catalogue.

“Please, Madame Monsour.”

Madame Monsour pursed her lips and without a word, showed her into a high-ceilinged cramped office piled high with books.

“Make it good,” she said.

Aimée gave an edited three-minute explanation to Madame Monsour, leaving out Thadée’s murder. Then she showed her PI badge.

“Is this some official inquiry? If so, here at Drouot, we make it a policy to have our lawyer present.”

“No, not at all,” Aimée said. “Nothing like that.”

Madame Monsour wavered.

“Give me a request in writing,” said Madame Monsour, “stating the full background and reasons for your inquiry.”

Typical bureaucrat. But she didn’t have time for that. “Forgive me, but would the consignor’s name be in your archives?”

“It’s impossible to furnish information about the piece.”

“What about online?”

Madame Monsour shook her head. Little of the old fashioned Drouot system had entered the Internet era.

“How long will the data be kept?”

“Not my field, I’m sorry.”

And where was it kept?

“You must realize, I can’t help you,” Madame Monsour said. “Consignors sign a contract with us. Their identity is confidential. By law, we can’t reveal their names.” She paused and looked at the page. “Such incredible pieces, too. More than their historical interest, it’s their mystical quality which make them so highly prized.”

Aimée heard a wistfulness in her tone.

“What do you know about these jade astrological pieces?”

Madame Monsour shook her head. “I only came on board this month, sorry,” she said. “And old Monsieur Valdeck’s passed on. A pity, he would have known a lot.”

“The research I did also mentions the mystical quality of jade,” Aimée said, venturing to articulate a hunch. “Could these pieces be even older than the catalogue says?”

Madame Monsour seemed to be considering. “Sometimes descriptions are conservative,” she said.

What did she mean by that? “Why would someone put these pieces up for sale and then withdraw them?” Aimée asked.

“Pick a reason,” she said. “Change of heart, a private collector approaches the seller, or as is often the case, the early bids don’t match the consignor’s expectations.”

“May I ask a favor?” Aimée asked. “Could you contact the owner and ask if he, or she, would speak with me?”