The Good Thief's Guide to Paris (23 page)

THIRTY

Farmer entered the Picasso room alongside a short, balding man. The balding man wore a dark V-neck sweater over a crisp white shirt and carried a pigskin briefcase in his hand. They were flanked by a team of security guards who worked efficiently to seal off the room and evacuate any visitors from the end of the gallery we were occupying. Deville, the museum attendant, remained in his plastic chair, staring mournfully at the floor. Farmer and the balding man didn’t trouble themselves with him or even with me. They simply approached The Guitar Player and then the balding man fixed a jeweller’s loupe into his right eye socket and scoured the canvas.

While the balding man worked, Farmer tapped the soles of his tea-coloured brogues in a nervous quick time, awaiting his verdict. I did the same thing in my scuffed baseball trainers. It didn’t speed the man’s work at all but it at least gave me something to do beyond wringing my hands and muttering soundlessly.

The balding man pressed his face right up against the glass of the picture frame, trawling over the canvas inch by inch. His nose was twitching, I noticed, as though he were a bloodhound tracking an elusive scent. Or perhaps he just had a head cold. Whatever the reason, the twitching and the inspection continued, as did the silence in the room.

“You were able to watch it all?” I asked Farmer, aiming to break the tension.

“Yes,” he said, in a distracted way. “We reinstalled the cameras the moment your Polish friend finished with them.”

“So you saw me attach the tracking device to the canvas before it was put in the folio?”

Farmer gave me an arch look. “You’re beginning to doubt yourself?”

“Just nervous, I guess.”

“Well, I dare say I can understand that.”

I dare say he could. After all, he’d come away with by far the better end of our deal, and that was only provided my logic was sound.

“You have someone following the camper van?”

“Yes, yes,” he told me. “Don’t fret. We won’t lose them.”

“Both our heads would be on the line if you did, I guess.”

“Oh, do be quiet and allow this gentleman to work.”

The gentleman did just that. He was focusing on the bottom right-hand corner of the canvas, where an artist’s signature might normally be found. There was no signature on The Guitar Player and there wasn’t one on the forgery either – Picasso had never signed the work. Even so, Farmer had assured me the balding man was expert enough to determine the efficacy of the canvas.

The balding man inhaled and removed the loupe from his eye. I readied myself for his opinion but instead he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned the lens of the loupe. He fixed the loupe into his eye once more and re-examined the bottom right-hand corner of the painting. Then he motioned for Farmer to join him and encouraged him to look at one greyish-brown facet in particular. He was speaking French in a low, hushed tone and I was unable to make out what he was saying.

“What’s he think?” I asked Farmer.

Farmer turned to me, removed his gold pocket watch from his breast pocket and consulted the time. Whatever he found on his watch face didn’t appear to please or displease him in the slightest. Eventually, he said, “It seems you were right.”

“Yes.” I punched the air. “I knew it.”

“Which would explain why you were quite so nervous, I imagine?”

I let that one slide.

“Admit it,” I told him. “You’re impressed.”

“I’m neither impressed nor disappointed,” he said, putting his pocket watch away. “I’m simply pleased to have done my job.”

“Oh come on, don’t I even get a thank-you?”

“Why don’t you just follow me?” he said, crooking his finger. “Your friend is waiting upstairs.”

“That’s really it? Lighten up, guy. You could at least shake my hand.”

Farmer crossed his arms in front of his chest and studied me for a moment. He drew in a calculated breath. “Very well,” he said, before treating me to one of the most formal and uninspired handshakes I’ve ever had the misfortune to experience.

The moment I entered the security room behind Nathan Farmer and Victoria saw me for the first time, she stepped away from the bank of colour monitors she’d been watching and placed her fists on her hips.

“Will somebody please tell me what the hell’s going on?”

“That’s the idea,” I told her. “You saw it, right?”

“I saw you and the bookshop crowd take that Picasso,” she said, gesturing at the monitors. “I don’t understand what it means, though. Mr Farmer here wouldn’t tell me a thing other than that you wanted me to be your witness. But witness to what, Charlie? I can’t clear your name because I was stood here watching you help them.”

“That was kind of the point.”

She glared at me, stiff-jawed, and I reached over and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“I wanted you to be able to confirm that I was involved.”

“Why? So you can get a few extra years behind bars?” she asked, shaking my hand loose.

“No. So that the people who matter acknowledge that I played a role in returning the original to the gallery.”

Victoria’s forehead became a cluster of frowns. “You might have wanted to think about that before you let those clowns steal it in the first place.”

“Look,” I said, moving towards one of the television monitors that was screening back the image of the Picasso room and pointing to The Guitar Player. “
That’s
the original.”

Victoria gazed at me as if I was mad. She bared her teeth. “What?”

“Francesca’s gang stole Catherine’s forgery.”

“I don’t understand. Are you saying you’d switched them?”

“No,” I said, reaching for her shoulder once more. “The truth is Catherine’s forgery has been hanging in the gallery for some months. The original was in her bank vault. A day ago, you were carrying it in your hands.”

Victoria stared at me for a few moments, the colour beginning to fade from her cheeks. She dropped onto the swivel chair positioned to her side and raised her hand to her forehead. “Tell me this is a joke.”

“It’s no joke,” Nathan Farmer said. “At least we don’t believe it is. X-ray and forensic tests will be able to confirm it. But for now, the opinion of the gallery expert seems quite conclusive.”

“Along with my reasoning,” I added.

Farmer nodded without another word, as though punctuating what I’d said in an attempt to stave off any praise I might be seeking. Perhaps he was afraid I would try to secure a reward. I knew when not to push my luck, though. Quashing the investigation into my involvement with Pierre’s activities was more than sufficient for me.

“Would either of you care to share this reasoning?” Victoria asked, looking between us as if she was uncertain whom she loathed more.

“Sure,” I told her. “It all came back to Pierre’s client.”

“Catherine’s husband, you mean? The armed robber?”

“No, as it happens. I know we discussed that theory but I was never all that comfortable with it. I mean, what was the guy’s motive?”

“Revenge. Catherine was trying to sell the plans to the heist out from under him.”

“That was our idea,” I allowed. “But it didn’t add up. We had no way of knowing whether they’d really fallen out. And if they hadn’t, what was to stop him sharing in any money Catherine might make from selling the plans?”

“Um, how about the fact he’s locked up?” she said, with heavy sarcasm.

“But he’s only going to serve another sixteen months if his lawyer is to be believed.”

Victoria glared at me, frustration seeping from her every pore. She looked ready to pounce on any error I might make. It wasn’t that she wanted me to be wrong; she was just annoyed because I’d kept her in the dark until now.

“Okay,” she said, in a level tone. “So if Catherine’s husband wasn’t Pierre’s mystery client, who was? Was it Bruno?”

“I don’t think so. And I have to admit, I didn’t exactly work all this out for myself. I had to find a clue first.”

“A clue. Fancy that. Clues can be good.”

“Clues can be excellent. Especially when they tell you something important.”

“Such as?” she said, rolling her hand as if to wind the information out of me.

“Such as the telephone number that belonged to Pierre’s client.”

“Wait a minute. You’re saying you recognised one of the numbers you found on his telephone?”

“Not to begin with. But I narrowed it down to three possibilities and then I cross-checked those numbers against the city telephone directory.”

Her eyes went wide. “You went through the entire telephone directory?”

“No-o. I just checked some numbers for the people who could have been involved in this thing. I checked Bruno’s number, the number for the bank he worked at, the number for the bookshop, the number Mr Farmer here had given me. Everything I could think of, in fact.”

“And?”

“And I found a hit.”

“Christ, Charlie. Will you please just tell me who Pierre’s mystery client was?”

“It was Catherine,” I said. “She hired me herself.”

THIRTY-ONE

“Gah,” Victoria said, clutching her temple. “Now I’m really confused. You’re saying Catherine hired you to burgle her?”

“No. Catherine hired Pierre to find someone to burgle her. In return for twenty thousand euros.”

“But that’s insane.”

I backed off from her. “Why?”

“Well, duh, why would anyone want to be burgled?”

“I have a hypothesis.”

“Is that the same thing as a hunch?”

I gave her a doped smile, then shook my head. “I hope it’s a little more than that. At least, it was good enough to persuade Mr Farmer here to trust me.”

“I don’t know about that,” Farmer cut in.

“Either way,” I went on. “There’s logic to my thinking. Want to hear it?”

“Gosh, like you wouldn’t believe.”

I grinned and showed Victoria my hands and my forearms, like a magician demonstrating to an audience that he has nothing concealed up his sleeves. “To begin with, we know that Catherine and her husband had come up with a detailed plan to steal The Guitar Player.”

Victoria nodded, bright-eyed, like a setter awaiting a treat.

“We also know that Catherine had studied Picasso’s work at the gallery archive near Orléans and she’d produced an excellent forgery.” Victoria went to speak but I held up a finger and stopped her. “Meanwhile, Gerard had done some legwork of his own and he’d come up with various pieces of information. The most crucial piece was the museum attendant. Once they were in a position to coerce him, they had a much better chance of switching Catherine’s forgery for the original.”

“Sure. But then Gerard was arrested before his plan could be put into practice.”

“Not necessarily. I think that’s what they wanted people to believe.”

“Huh?”

“In fact, I’d go so far as to say Gerard planned his arrest. Think about it: Francesca’s take was that Gerard had never learned to stop shooting his mouth off, even when it got him sent to prison the first time round. But let’s suppose he hadn’t just learned his lesson – let’s suppose he’d also worked out exactly what it could do for him.”

“I’m not sure I follow you.”

“Well, Gerard couldn’t ever be suspected of carrying out the heist if someone else did it first, right?”

“But you said they didn’t.”

“Yeah, but no-one was supposed to know that. The way I see it working, Gerard put his plan into effect weeks ago. He switched Catherine’s forgery for the original Picasso and then Catherine stored the original at her bank. After that, Gerard got himself arrested. Of course, dumb old Gerard had been talking for months about how he’d planned the perfect heist. And pretty soon, Catherine began letting it be known that she was fed up with her moron of a husband and she was willing to sell his plans for a reasonable sum. After all, she couldn’t be expected to carry out the theft herself.”

“This is sounding beyond far-fetched, Charlie.”

“I know. But not impossible.”

She grimaced. “You think?”

“Well, stealing the Picasso certainly wasn’t. I’m willing to bet Deville, the museum attendant, will be able to confirm he was there when they did it. And what better way to throw the authorities off the scent than by having somebody steal the very plans everyone’s been talking about before anyone gets to put them into practice?”

“Even though they were useless by then.”

“Exactly. It’s all smoke and mirrors. Catherine gets me hired to steal the painting of Montmartre from her apartment. Maybe she even lets it be known that her forgery was taken at the same time. So it seems the heist can never go ahead.”

“Oh, okay. And if the heist can never happen, the last thing anyone would suspect is that it’s already occurred.”

“Precisely.”

She screwed up one eye. “I think I’m still confused.”

“I can understand that. But even if you don’t follow my thinking all the way through, you can’t ignore the fact that the person who hired Pierre contacted him from Catherine’s apartment.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean it was Catherine. Didn’t Pierre say he was contacted by a man?”

“Well – there is that. But even if I don’t have all the answers, it’s still a theory that works. Plus there’s the fact that the painting that’s hanging there now,” I said, jabbing my finger at the television monitor near Victoria’s elbow, “looks as if it really is the original.”

“Subject to the necessary tests being carried out,” Farmer added.

“Of course.”

Victoria turned to him. “And where exactly do you fit into all this Mr Farmer? Do you work for the gallery?”

Farmer squared his shoulders and inhaled deeply. “As I told Charlie, I have a number of clients and in this particular matter their interests just happened to coincide.”

“By which you can take it he works for the gallery, the insurance company and the local authorities,” I said. “Any I missed?”

“I don’t see a reason for me to confirm it,” Farmer told me.

“I guess I don’t either. Provided I’m in the clear.”

Farmer shook his head and slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. “I’m really not sure we’re there just yet.”

“But I got the Picasso back. That was what you wanted, right?”

“Originally. But there’s also the small matter of Catherine Ames’ body being found in your apartment. I’m afraid it’s going to be rather difficult to simply ignore.”

“Yeah right,” Victoria said, finding her feet. “As though Charlie wouldn’t have solved that too. Come on Charlie, tell him who you think the killer is.”

“You must have an inkling,” I said, with a tilt of my head.

“Pierre?”

“I agree,” I told her. “Happen to know why?”

“Not really. Although I find it kind of suspicious that he didn’t notice how his client’s telephone number matched the number of the person he was asked to have burgled.”

“He did notice. The number was circled in the telephone directory I found in his apartment.”

“Well, there you go then.”

“And there’s more. When I was inside Pierre’s apartment, I happened to look inside his kitchen drawers. He had a roll of plastic bags. The bags looked very much like the one that was used to suffocate Catherine.”

“Plastic bags,” Farmer said, in a dubious tone.

“Plus a roll of electrical tape. Black – the same colour as the tape that was used to secure the bag round Catherine’s neck.”

“You’re basing your accusation on plastic bags and electrical tape? These are common household items.”

“It’s also a feeling I have. Plus motive. Catherine and Gerard would have needed to sell the Picasso, yes? They’d have needed a fence. There’s nothing to say they hadn’t already lined Pierre up. And I’m guessing he would have been pretty steamed when he heard Gerard had got arrested and Catherine was looking to hire someone to steal those plans.”

“Hmm,” Farmer said, and rocked forwards on his toes. “I do hate to be the bringer of bad news but aside from pointing out that what you’ve just said makes almost as little sense as your quite pathetic and entirely ineffective disguise, I’m afraid there’s a rather large hole in your theory.”

“Oh?”

“The police have had your fence in custody since the afternoon he hired you. There’s no way he could possibly have killed Catherine Ames.”