The Good Thief's Guide to Paris (8 page)

NINE

Once I’d closed the door behind Paige, I took a moment to familiarise myself with the study. It was cold, despite the spring sunshine outside on the street, and it was almost too silent – like some forgotten inner sanctum where a luckless person could get stuck and might not be found for months on end. I had no idea how many more floors the bookshop went on for but I was confident I wouldn’t be disturbed. After freeing the telephone wire from behind the desk, I carried the telephone over to the sagging reading chair, gathered up the directory and sat myself down.

I opened the directory on my knees and meanwhile I dialled Victoria’s office number. I heard a series of clicks, then a pause, and finally the prolonged international ringing tone. I wet my finger and turned the delicate pages of the directory.

“Victoria speaking,” she said, after perhaps the fourth ring.

“It’s your favourite client,” I told her.

“Ah. Well, they all say that.”

“This one means it. How’ve you been?”

“Fine. You?”

“Preoccupied,” I replied, flicking further through the directory.

“With Faulks? Hasn’t he knocked off that bank yet? I would have thought he’d be tackling the Pentagon by now.”

I shook my head, as though weighed down by regret. “He’s still at the planning stage.”

“You mean you are.”

“I suppose I do,” I said, and sighed. “Thing is, it can sometimes be hard for me to tell us apart. It’s almost as if I’ve become such a skilled practitioner of my art that I’m no longer able to separate myself from my characters.”

“Sheesh.”

“Sheesh? Really?”

Victoria exhaled into the telephone but she didn’t say anything further. I didn’t mind. I’d just found the page in the telephone directory I’d been hunting for and, after running my finger downwards, I was able to confirm there wasn’t a single listing for a B. Dunstan in the whole of Paris. Of course, that didn’t necessarily mean he’d made his name up, but it did mean I couldn’t find his address all that easily.

I flipped a chunk of pages and began scanning the ‘A’s.

“Aren’t you supposed to be saying something here Charlie?” Victoria asked. “After all, you called me, so unless my mobile just cut out, this is in danger of becoming an uncomfortable silence.”

“Oh, sorry,” I told her, pausing for just a moment in my search. “I was checking something. How come you’re on your mobile – I thought I dialled your office line?”

“My phone’s on divert. I’m on a train.”

“Ah, that’ll explain the background noise. You have a good seat?”

“I’ve just moved between carriages. People were staring at me.”

“Bastards. You can’t help the way you look.”

Victoria groaned. “I’m struggling to believe I left my seat for this. But since I already made that mistake, tell me, are you calling because you ignored my advice and broke into that apartment and everything went wrong? Or are you calling to gloat?”

“Not everything went wrong,” I replied, returning my attention to the directory.

“Oh God. You haven’t been arrested, have you?”

“No, nothing like that. Everything went like clockwork, in fact. Only, the painting was already gone.”

“Aha! Just like I said. I bet Bruno took it. And I bet he didn’t even live there.”

I pulled the telephone away from my ear and frowned at the receiver. “Looks that way,” I managed.

“Well, I told you.”

I didn’t respond straight away because I was looking down once again at the telephone directory. There was a C. Ames listed at Rue de Birague in the Marais. Maybe, I thought, I could give her a call and ask her if she had any idea where her painting had got to? Perhaps I could even offer her a share of my fee.

“Told you,” Victoria said again.

“Oh, yes. Sorry. Stupid me – I only made ten grand from the job, I suppose.”

“But something wasn’t right about it. You have to admit that.”

“If it’ll make you happy.”

“Very.”

I glanced up from the directory and stared at the back of the door. A knitted cardigan was hanging from a rusty nail and I could see a cigarette packet poking out of the cardigan pocket. I considered lighting up for just a moment but then I dismissed the idea. I wanted our conversation to remain private, so it was best not to do anything that might draw attention to myself.

“Then, yes, something was wrong,” I said. “But I couldn’t very well turn Pierre down without a good explanation. And, as it turns out, there was no harm in me going back to the apartment.”

“Hmm. So what are you going to do now?”

“I’m not altogether sure. It’s not exactly a scenario I’m familiar with.”

“Failing?”

“No-o. Finding that someone else got there first. Especially when that someone else was me.”

Victoria began to say something but I could tell from a change in her tone that it wasn’t intended for my ears. It sounded as if somebody was trying to get past her on the train. I closed the telephone directory and sat with it on my lap, waiting.

“Sorry,” Victoria said, once she was back on the line. “I’m trying to remember where we’d got to? Isn’t this the part where I tell you to leave everything alone and count your blessings only for you to try to convince me there might be some reason why you should stir things up?”

“Wow. It’s almost like you don’t need me for these conversations any longer.”

“Maybe I don’t. Maybe I’m all too familiar with your next move.”

“Ah, like my nemesis.”

“Indeed.”

“Except, I’m not going to try to convince you of anything,” I said, resting my chin on my fist. “Because really, there’s not all that much I can do. I did think I might try to find Bruno, but I have a feeling that won’t be terribly straightforward.”

“Because Bruno won’t be his real name.”

“Most likely. And if that’s the case, I can only think of two possible options. The first is to find out if anyone at the bookshop knows him.”

“And the second is the letter from the bank.”

I nodded to myself. “I think so. If, as you so brilliantly speculated, it’s a forgery, there’s a chance he has some connection with the bank, which would explain how he was able to get the headed notepaper and the credit card. And it might explain something else.”

“Oh?”

I made a humming noise deep in my throat. “I found some personal documents in the apartment in the Marais,” I confessed. “The place belongs to a woman called Catherine Ames. She happens to keep an account at the same bank.”

“Wait – there’s only one branch?”

“No, it’s a multinational – the Banque Centrale. So it could just be happenstance.”

“Or it could be a clue.”

“Or even a red herring. Which would you prefer?”

Victoria took a deep breath. “I’m not altogether sure,” she said. “I like red herrings, if I’m honest, but I have to say they’re not your strongest suit. So I guess I’d plump for it being a clue. But if it does turn out to be coincidence, and your leads don’t pan out either, what are you going to do?”

I paused. It wasn’t something I’d considered just yet. “I guess I’ll just have to tell Pierre the painting was gone when I got there.”

“And you think he’ll believe you?”

“I hope so. But I figure I can always share my ten grand with him if he doesn’t. It would seem a bit unfair for him to miss out, given the circumstances.”

“Ah, there’s that new-found morality again. Careful Charlie – you’re in danger of creating a believable character here.”

“Ouch.”

“Oh, come on. That was nothing. Like one of your hubby jibes, right?”

“See,” I said, trying to keep my tone as light as possible, “there is something wrong. I knew there was. What is it?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Oh come on. I can tell I’ve upset you. The other day on the phone, you were kind of weird and now you’re –”

“What?”

“I don’t know.” I threw up my hand, as if grasping for the right word. “Antsy?”

“Antsy?”

“Uh huh. You’ve been pretty direct about some of my writing just recently and you’ve never been that way before. I’m really not sure what to make of it.”

“Well,” Victoria said, and I could picture her squaring her shoulders. “As my client, perhaps it’s something I think you should hear.”

“As your client?”

“Yes Charlie. I happen to rely on you and when –”

“Wait a minute,” I said, crowding over the telephone receiver. “You don’t think you can rely on me? Since when have –”

“Enough,” Victoria said. “I can’t do this now. I’m going.”

And with that she hung up the telephone, something she’d never done to me before. I cradled the receiver, then put my hands to my face and rubbed the back of my neck. I lowered my hands, drummed my fingers on the telephone directory and idly scanned the books on the shelf by my side. Barely any of the spines had any text on them, so I had no idea what exactly I was looking at. I thought about setting the phone down on the floor and devoting a couple of minutes to one of the cloth-bound volumes, then changed my mind and picked up the telephone receiver again. I dialled the number for Victoria’s mobile.

She answered with a hushed, “Yes?”

“It’s me. Tell me what’s going on.”

“I’m back in my seat,” she whispered. “We can talk later.”

“I want to know now. I must have done something and I’d like to straighten things out. I don’t happen to think it’s fair –”

“Hold on,” she interrupted. “Let me get out of this bloody carriage again.”

I waited, listening to the muffled noises of Victoria rising from her seat and passing down the train aisle. I heard her mumble a few apologies on the way and every now and again there was a rustling sound, as if something was rubbing against the speaker on her mobile. Finally, I heard her voice.

“I’m coming to Paris.”

“
What
?”

“I’m on Eurostar and I’m coming to see you. And I don’t care what you say, Charlie, because it’s ridiculous we’ve never met. I’m not prepared to listen to a single one of your excuses. We’re meeting, and that’s the end of the matter.”

My eyebrows jerked up. I reached above my head to retrieve them from the ceiling and shook my head vigorously.

“But I’m right in the middle of a book,” I said. “I could really do without interruptions just at the moment. It’s in your interest that –”

“Charlie, enough. I don’t know what it is you’re afraid of and I don’t know what you think I might do. But that’s bull and you know it. If you can spare the time to break into someone’s home, you have more than enough time to eat dinner with me.”

“Vic, be reasonable. I’ll come to London when the book’s finished.”

“You won’t, though. We both know it. And I honestly have no idea why.”

I swallowed hard, conscious of a buzz and a click in my ears. “That’s a bit unfair.”

“No, it’s not. This situation has gone on too long already. If you want me to continue acting for you, then you’ll meet me. Simple as that.”

“But Adam,” I began.

“What about Adam?”

“Won’t he mind?”

Victoria paused, as if fighting to control herself. “Adam’s a mature human being, Charlie. He’s not the jealous type.”

“I didn’t mean –”

“Yes you did. But I really don’t care. I couldn’t give two hoots. I’ll be in Paris in under two hours. I’m staying at the Hotel Moderne. Meet me there at seven and we’ll find somewhere to eat. Agreed?”

“Um.”

“Good. Then we’ll speak later.”

Victoria cut the connection and left me gaping at the receiver. I shook my head wordlessly, gripped my hair by the roots and wondered what on earth I would do. I called her straight back.

“Victoria, listen, I really don’t think –”

“Adam and I split up,” she said.

“
What?
”

“We split up.”

“But you just said –”

“I know. But we broke up. Five months ago.”

I became aware of my jaw grazing my knee. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“No, I didn’t. You kept going on all the time with that hubby nonsense of yours and I couldn’t bring myself to talk about it when it happened. And then all those months went by and the truth is I’ve felt bad about not telling you for quite some time. But there, I’ve told you now.”

I was silent for a moment. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You could say you forgive me and you’re sorry it didn’t work out.”

“Of course I’m sorry. Christ, I’m even more sorry you didn’t feel able to tell me.”

“Well, me too. So listen,” she went on, “is there anything you want to get off your chest before we meet? Call it an official amnesty. Speak now – tell me anything at all.”

“There’s nothing,” I muttered, and put my hand over the telephone receiver.
Only the fact that I don’t look anything like you imagine
, I thought.

TEN

Following my conversation with Victoria, I flicked through the telephone directory until I found a switchboard number for the Banque Centrale. I dialled the number and between my awful French and the passable English of the woman who answered, I was able to obtain address details for the three branches of the bank situated closest to Catherine Ames’ apartment. The first branch was on the fringes of the Latin Quarter, the second was near the Bastille and the third was not too far from Les Halles and the Pompidou Centre.

Before leaving the bookshop, I returned the telephone directory to Paige and told her that I was going to have to pass on dinner for a day or so. I said that opening the door to the cramped study upstairs had given me an idea for the book I was working on and that I wanted to write the whole thing out before it slipped from my mind. I wasn’t sure if she believed me or not but just at that moment I didn’t altogether care. The fact was I was still trying to come to terms with my phone call with Victoria. I suppose I’d always known that one day we might have to meet and that when we did I’d be forced to confess to the deception I’d been guilty of. But I’d also assumed I’d have time to prepare for it and perhaps even find a sensible way to go about things. Now, I wasn’t so sure.

As I walked in the direction of the Latin Quarter, I tried to come up with possible explanations for my behaviour that might sound credible. Sadly, the only excuses that occurred to me were quite obviously flawed. And somehow, I had a feeling this might be one of those times when a good-natured smile and a humble shrug wouldn’t quite cut it. To make matters worse, I kept getting distracted by fantasies about avoiding Victoria altogether. I’d picture myself lying low in my apartment or even catching the train to London and pretending that I’d become confused about where she wanted to meet. It was nonsense, of course, but I just couldn’t help myself.

At the same time, I was feeling bad that Victoria hadn’t told me about Adam. I’d been making dumb remarks about him for well over a year, almost from the moment they started dating, and I could only imagine how crass it must have sounded when they broke up. Sure, I hadn’t known any better, but why did I have to say stuff like that in the first place? Now I just felt like an ass. Worse, an ass who’d been lying to his best friend for years.

And I guess because I felt so ill at ease, I was really quite glad to have the distraction of searching for Bruno. Otherwise, I’m not altogether sure I would have persisted, especially when my hunt didn’t begin all that well and I drew blanks at the first two bank branches I visited. The same was true of the third branch, which was located inside a grand, Art Nouveau building on Boulevard de Sébastopol. The haughty, impeccably dressed gentleman I spoke with at the customer information desk shook his head dismissively when I mentioned Bruno’s name and he point-blank refused to consult with any of his colleagues. I raised my eyes to the vaulted glass ceiling and tried to think of a way to convince him otherwise but when I looked back down and met his unflinching gaze, I knew it was hopeless.

I turned from him and scanned the faces of the cashiers. They were sat behind dated-looking iron bars that were supposed to protect them from armed robbers of the kind Faulks was trying to outwit in Rio. I wasn’t sure how the bars were meant to achieve that. So far as I was aware, most bullets are small enough to squeeze through two-inch gaps, and if I was a hard-nosed bank robber, the first thing I’d do would be to point the barrel of my sawn-off at the forehead of the nearest cashier and ask them very nicely to give me all of their money.

Fortunately, I only imagine these things, and perhaps I don’t imagine them all that well, because it occurred to me now that the bank I’d been describing in my novel might be more than a touch unreal. It was very modern in appearance, you see, filled with high-density safety glass, panic buttons, silent alarms and multiple security cameras, not to mention guards who happened to be armed with Taser guns. And if that kind of facility could feel misjudged in Paris, I could only imagine how odd it might seem to anyone who happened to be familiar with Brazil.

But then again, I reminded myself, Victoria had made it all too clear that the Faulks books had little to do with reality. And truth be told, I was rather fond of the bank interior I’d described. It felt real to me, no matter how far-fetched it might be, and I needed a tangible backdrop to move my characters around inside. Plus, I’d invested a lot of time detailing the security devices in an effort to stack the odds against Faulks. I wanted my readers to think the task he’d set himself was impossible and then I wanted them to marvel at how ingenious his solution was. Of course, now all I had to do was work out how in hell one man could defeat everything I’d put in place.

But that was an issue for another day and I still had my current situation to resolve. In an effort to do just that, I walked along the line of cashiers, checking their intent faces, but I didn’t see anyone who looked the least bit like Bruno. There were a handful of staff working at computer stations behind the cashiers but all of them were women. I turned around, searching for other possibilities, and my eyes chanced upon a featureless corridor some distance away that connected with a flight of stairs that appeared to lead down into a basement area. At the beginning of the corridor was a security desk that was manned by a stocky, shaven-headed guard in a dark blue suit. I could see a coil of flesh-coloured wire at his neck, connecting to a radio earpiece. I moved towards him and he stiffened, as if sensing a threat. I had no idea what was at the end of the corridor but I got the distinct impression it was off-limits to the general public. I could see an appointment ledger in front of the guard and a walkie-talkie clipped to his belt. I smiled awkwardly, then veered off in the direction of a pair of cash machines, as though I’d momentarily lost my bearings.

I didn’t need any cash – I was carrying half of the money Pierre had given me – but I did want to spend a few more minutes in the bank for the sake of completeness, and using the cash machine seemed like my best excuse. So I removed my wallet from my pocket, inserted my cash card into the machine, entered my pin number and selected a modest sum. While the machine worked its magic, I looked up from the screen and aimlessly scanned the wall by my side. And that was when I saw him, staring back at me with a sightless gaze.

The photograph was only a little bigger than a passport image and it was in a smudged glass frame along with perhaps thirty others. I guessed I was looking at a set of photographs of everyone who worked in the bank. Bruno’s image was towards the far right, fourth row down. His hair was a good deal longer and he had on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, but it was unmistakably him. “Bruno Chevrier” read the nameplate below his image. The row above contained a headshot of the bald security guard. Way over to the left was a photograph of the obstinate gentleman on the customer information desk.

I turned and scanned the interior of the bank once more, checking to see whether Bruno was in an area I hadn’t spotted just yet. But he was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he worked at the end of the mysterious corridor, protected by the hairless security guard. Or perhaps in a back room, answering telephones or processing mortgage applications. Hell, maybe he was even watching over me on CCTV.

For just a moment, I thought about returning to the customer information desk and asking if Monsieur Chevrier was available but I immediately discounted the notion. I’d already asked for Bruno by a different surname once and I didn’t want to create suspicion. Besides, if he was working, he’d be unlikely to come down once he’d gained some impression of who I was. Another idea I had was to settle myself on one of the leather chairs positioned nearby and pretend to consult some of the banking literature in the hope he might appear. But that wasn’t a plausible option either. The chap on the information desk already knew my French was basic, at best, and I got the impression I’d drawn enough attention to myself for the time being. If I sat down and flicked uselessly through some brochures, I’d most probably look as if I was planning a heist.

Just as I was considering all this, my money spewed forth from the cash machine and I slipped it into my wallet and made my way outside. I checked the time on my watch and found that it was nearing a quarter to five. I crossed the street and shuffled backwards into a recessed doorway between a sweet-smelling patisserie and a cramped tabac that gave me a good view of the front entrance to the bank. It occurred to me that I could wait until the bank closed and try to spot Bruno leaving for the day. Of course, it was entirely possible that there was a separate staff exit or it was his day off, but I figured I’d take my chances and stick with the front. If I was unlucky, I could always return first thing in the morning and try again.

Instead of just loitering, I decided I might as well pass the time by browsing in some of the nearby stores on Rue Quincampoix. If I was careful and didn’t wander too far away, I could return at five and again at half past to keep an eye on the bank entrance. Besides, Rue Quincampoix was a regular haunt of mine and I felt confident one of the galleries or quirky design stores that lined the street would have something to hold my interest.

After consulting my watch once more, I stepped out from my surveillance point, walked to the end of the street and then turned left and left again. There was an American coffee house at the end of Rue Quincampoix, poised to ambush tourists on their way to and from the Pompidou Centre. The interior was jammed with people carrying frothy drinks away from the young, clean-skinned French students who worked there, towards the wooden stools positioned in front of the giant picture windows. In truth, the customers didn’t have such a great view. A team of workmen were leaning on pickaxes and shovels in front of the window, talking among themselves, smoking cigarettes and scratching their backsides.

I skirted the spilt sand and loose bricks and walked on down the street, weaving between ornate metal bollards. Rue Quincampoix was a narrow, wavering avenue, permanently in shade. I passed a curio shop, then a cocoa-scented chocolatier, and paused in front of an antique store on my left. The place dealt mostly in furniture. There was a pair of half-decent, if garishly upholstered, Louis XV chairs in the window and a very respectable console table off to the side. A number of quite misplaced African artefacts were adhered to one wall and a few Tiffany-style lamps displayed on a central table. As I took it all in, the owner saw me hovering and raised his eyebrows optimistically but I gave him a polite smile and moved along to the adjoining store, which turned out to be a modern gallery space.

I stepped inside, and was instantly struck by the scent of fresh emulsion paint. The gallery hadn’t been here the last time I’d come by and it looked as if it had only just opened. The brilliant white walls were hung with digital photographic prints. Several of the works were images of famous Parisian landmarks that had been superimposed onto one another. I spotted the Arc de Triomphe straddling the Canal Saint-Martin and the glass pyramid of the Louvre in the middle of Place de la Concorde. As I stooped forwards for a closer look, a young man in a white T-shirt with spiked hair and designer stubble emerged from a room at the rear of the gallery and gave me a discreet nod. He settled himself behind a smoked-glass table and began clicking on a computer mouse that was connected to a laptop. The man didn’t ask me if I was looking to buy and I didn’t bother enquiring about the prices. There were none displayed on the walls and that was warning enough for me.

Next-door again I found another gallery, though it was of an altogether different character. The interior was poorly lit and as I squinted through the thickened window glass, my sight was obscured by my own reflection. I cupped my hands around my face and peered inside, beyond the pleated, velveteen material that had been draped around the window. There were one or two Italianate mirrors resting on the velveteen and towards the back I could spy some marble busts, but the majority of the space had been given over to paintings. They were oils and watercolours mostly, and they were all, without exception, dreadful. The worst piece by far was the painting positioned nearest to me but I knew the instant I saw it that it had to be mine. Why? Because even from this distance, I could see it was the painting Pierre had hired me to steal.

Incredible, right? Well, maybe not so hard to believe. The way I saw it, Bruno had stolen the painting in order to sell it for a quick profit. The gallery was just a short distance from where he worked and it really couldn’t have been much more convenient. From the look of the place, it wasn’t the kind of establishment to ask awkward questions about the provenance of a piece of art and, besides, the painting really didn’t merit that level of investigation anyway.

I entered the gallery and approached the painting for a better look. It was every bit as mediocre as I’d suspected. The glaze was grubby and could do with a clean but the real problem was the poor quality of the work itself. The composition was clumsy and outdated even for the early twentieth century, and the brush strokes displayed an alarming lack of skill. The flower seller in the foreground appeared almost cross-eyed, for instance, and her hand was grossly out of proportion. The woman with the parasol was even worse. Despite the supposed good weather, her parasol looked as if it had been caught by a rogue gust of wind, contorting her arm.

In all honesty, the most striking thing about the painting was the frame that contained it. The frame was oversized and very ornate, with elaborate mouldings and extensive gilding. It was the kind of thing I was used to seeing in museums, showcasing a dramatic sea battle or a dashing young monarch upon a stallion, and I have to admit it struck me as a shame that it had been paired with such an insipid work.

There was a paper tag hanging on a thread of string from the frame and I turned it over to discover that the asking price was four and a half thousand euros. I frowned. It wasn’t an outrageous amount, I didn’t think, but either I – along with the owner of the store – was missing something or Pierre’s client had paid way over the odds to hire us. Maybe sentimental attachment came into it somehow. Perhaps Pierre’s client desired the picture so much they were willing to pay more than four times its value. Or perhaps they knew it meant a great deal to Catherine Ames and they were prepared to shell out a generous sum to spite her. Whatever the reality, I had a decision to make. Did I buy the painting or did I steal it?