The Paris Secret (9 page)

‘Well, of course not,’ Madame Vermeil said sharply. ‘Why would they be, if they are in our apartment?’

Angus was unruffled. ‘I’m not implying anything, Lilian – it’s merely a formality, the first step in due diligence any time an artwork of this importance re-emerges on
the market. If for any reason the paintings were registered with the ALR, they’d be rendered instantly worthless – you wouldn’t be able to sell them and within hours of me logging
the search, the authorities would be breathing down your necks. It is my job to make sure you are not put in that position.’

Lilian smiled, mollified. ‘Do you hear that, Monsieur Travers?’ she asked the silent notary sitting to her and Jacques’ right. ‘Mr Beaumont works in our interests, not
against them.’

Flora was surprised by the caustic comment and caught the poor man pressing his shoulders down from his ears. He murmured something in French, which Flora translated as ‘merely following
orders’.

Angus cleared his throat politely. ‘Clearly, you need time to gather your thoughts and consider whether or not you want to keep the Renoir, but you should know there’s an important
Impressionist sale happening at Christie’s next month. The catalogue isn’t out yet so exact details aren’t confirmed, but from what I’ve heard on the grapevine, there are
some very intriguing paintings going in, including some high-profile Pissarros and a Manet. It’ll attract a lot of attention and some serious buyers – those on the inside track are
expecting records to be broken. Blood will be up and there’s no doubt in my mind that a painting of this calibre, in that sale, would achieve a very good price indeed.’

Flora smiled, staying silent, knowing exactly why Angus was pushing for a sale – if the painting was sold, the agency would take a cool 1.7 per cent commission of total sale value, a
significant leapfrog over their research, inventory and curation fees.

‘How good?’ Jacques enquired coolly.

‘At your common or garden sale, this would fetch an easy six million pounds. At that one, you could be upwards of nine, even ten.’ Angus smiled. The numbers were intoxicating. He
looked punch drunk. ‘But that’s just something for you to consider. No pressure, clearly. It’s your call. The deadline for submissions is in the next couple of weeks –
I’d need to ascertain when, exactly – but if you are interested in selling it, we’d need to act quickly to get it in on time. There’d be a
lot
of work to do.’
He rubbed his hands together, pleased. ‘Anyway, that’s the end of my song and dance. Now Flora is going to present you with a rundown of everything else we found.’

Flora stood, holding her iPad in the crook of her right arm and clicking on the Apple remote in her left. An image of the cluttered hallway, taken as they’d first entered the apartment,
was beamed onto the collapsible white screen that they used for mobile meetings such as this.

‘Well, this is how everything looked when we first walked in,’ she began. ‘As you can see, it’s a very haphazard jumble of artworks –’ she clicked onto the
next image, this time of the study and the towers of antique books – ‘and artefacts . . .’

Madame Vermeil’s hands tightened in her lap, a frown creasing her brow, as she looked from the screen to Monsieur Travers. ‘And you knew about all this?’

The lawyer appeared to suppress a sigh. ‘We did not, Madame Vermeil. Only that there was a property, not what was inside it,’ he replied with impressive neutrality.

‘Someone must have known. Your father.’

‘If he did, he is – as you know – long dead, Madame.’

Madame Vermeil turned away from him with a look of distaste.

Flora hesitated, not sure whether to continue. ‘. . . Anyway, there was no classification system, no filing at all, really. Everything was set down almost as though it had been placed
there in a rush.’

‘Well, there was a war going on,’ Jacques said, that half-smile on his lips as he watched her.

‘Of course,’ she said with a tip of her head. ‘So I’ve done a preliminary inventory. In total, there are two hundred and three paintings of which sixteen, including the
Renoir and Faucheux, are significant. The collection includes some Picasso sketches, small oil sketches by Manet, Matisse and Cézanne – so, the modernists predominantly. In addition,
there are three hundred and sixteen artefacts by which I mean candlesticks, sculptures and the like.’

Whilst she had been talking, she had been flicking through the images on the white screen, giving almost a guided tour through the apartment. The Vermeils were riveted, Madame Vermeil looking on
in dismay when they got to Gertie.

‘How extraordinary,’ Madame Vermeil murmured, her eyes pinned to the boudoir jacket draped over the giant bird’s plumage. ‘To see the home your parents lived in before
the war,
cher
, exactly as it was when they were there.’ Flora wanted to ask whether Jacques’ mother had given any further detail as to why she didn’t want them seeing the
apartment but she kept quiet, merely flicking through the hundreds of photos she had taken, trying to give the clients an understanding of exactly what had been found.

‘Clearly, there’s a huge amount of work to be done – everything will need to be moved to secure premises where we can begin proper classifications so that you can see exactly
what you’ve got, the condition it’s in and what restoration work may be required, insurance valuations, sale estimates . . .’

Madame Vermeil sat back on the silk sofa, looking momentarily overwhelmed.

‘Well, I think we’ll want to sell most of it, won’t we?’ she said. ‘It’s not like we really need anything else.’ She gestured vaguely to the pristine
perfection of the room they were sitting in.

‘Don’t you think that’s a decision my mother should make?’ Jacques asked her, a smile on his mouth but a glint of coldness in his voice. ‘She is not dead yet,
remember. Technically, all this is hers.’

‘Of course,
cher
,’ Lilian conceded with a vague toss of the hand. ‘I am merely trying to avoid clutter.’

Clutter? Flora almost fell off the chair.

‘But you’re right. Certain pieces may suit very well in Antibes and of course the children need things for the walls in their homes too,’ his wife continued, staring back at
the screen. ‘Even if they do barely ever set foot in them.’

‘
Bien sûr
.’ Jacques caught Flora’s eye and though he didn’t roll his eyes at her, something in his expression implied it. She looked away quickly.

‘You have done a superb job. It is a wonderful start,’ Lilian Vermeil said with a clap of her hands, signalling that the meeting was at a close and rising to her Chanel-clad feet.
Angus walked towards her. ‘We would have been quite overwhelmed to have walked into such chaos. It was
absolument
the right thing to call you in.’

‘Well, you’re at the beginning of a very exciting journey, Lilian, and we’re honoured to walk it with you. I’m afraid I’ve got to shoot off to the airport –
I’m heading back to New York tonight – but Flora will be staying here for as long as it takes to get everything shipshape and Bristol fashion for you.’

Flora looked at him in surprise. She was? It was news to her. She specialized in bringing in new business and going for the kill in the saleroom. Research wasn’t her strength.

‘You are testing my English,’ Madame Vermeil laughed, placing a hand on his arm. ‘But we are grateful you have overseen this yourself.’

‘Personal service is what we’re about, Lilian.’ Angus turned back to Flora. ‘Can I give you a lift?’

‘Don’t worry,’ she replied. ‘I’ve arranged for the security firm to come at four to deliver these to the vault so I’ll just pack up and wait, and then catch a
cab.’

‘Our driver is free,’ Madame Vermeil offered. ‘He’d be happy to take you wherever you need to go.’

Over her shoulder, Angus shrugged his approval. ‘That would be great, thank you,’ she nodded.

‘I’ll send him round. He will wait at the front for you.’

‘We’ll speak tomorrow and you can give me the updates,’ Angus said, clicking his fingers and pointing at Flora by way of a goodbye.

‘Sure.’

‘Come, we will walk you out,’ Madame Vermeil said, as Monsieur Travers opened the door and the group of three filed out. The old notary nodded his head at Flora and left the
room.

She sighed, exhaustion breaking over her as the adrenalin from the meeting began to subside. Bruno was out at a competition tonight – as a pro-skateboarder, he worked odd hours – and
Ines had promised a quiet night in for them both. Flora wanted to be in bed by nine.

She threw the dust cloths over the paintings again and began to disassemble the white screen. Voices drifted and dissipated through the open door. Somewhere another door slammed.

Footsteps in the hall made her look up and she saw the butler escorting two security guards towards her. Early! ‘Ah, excellent,’ she smiled, pleased to see they were carrying the
wooden crates and packing materials she had ordered too.

It didn’t take her long to protect the paintings, wrapping each one first in acid-free tissue paper and then bubble wrap, taking particular care with the more vulnerable corners, before
sliding them into the wooden boxes which were nailed shut. She filled in the pro-forma documents, identifying each artwork as the responsibility of the agency, signed on many dotted lines and then
watched as they were carried away, incognito. She would sleep well tonight knowing those pieces were in a secure – and insured – location at last.

Her phone buzzed – it was Ines asking if she fancied chicken for dinner. Flora’s stomach growled at the mere suggestion. A snackbox of sushi as the only sustenance in twenty-four
hours wasn’t anywhere near good enough and her fingers almost trembled as she started to text back her agreement.

The butler appeared again.

‘
Votre voiture, mam’selle
.’

‘
Ah, oui. Merci.
’

With a last glance around the room, the collapsible white screen now telescoped and under her arm, she followed him out into the mirrored hall, her high heels sounding out her presence on the
marble floors. Little wonder Madame Vermeil seemingly preferred to wear flats – she could move without being tracked.

He opened the front door and held it for her. ‘
Mam’selle
,’ he murmured, motioning to the sleek, glossy chauffeur-driven Mercedes parked directly outside.

‘
Merci
,’ she nodded, skipping down the steps.

The driver climbed out and opened the door for her, taking the white board and putting it into the boot. She slid onto the vanilla-coloured leather seats and resumed texting again, the loud
YES
to the chicken question halfway across the screen when the car door was suddenly flung open and a flurry of limbs and coconut-scented hair fell in.

There was an alarmed pause.

‘Hey!’ the young woman beamed suddenly, her smile slightly too big, too sudden.

In the corner of her eye, Flora could see the driver twisting back in his seat, trying to see what was happening.

‘Who are you?’

‘I . . . I’m Flora Sykes. I work for Beaumont Fine Art Agency. Madame Vermeil has lent me this car to go home,’ she said in tangled, anxious French.

The young woman was openly looking Flora up and down, taking in her edgy trousers, Lalique crystal cabochon ring, sold-out-everywhere shoes. There was a long pause. ‘. . . Fine art?’
she asked finally.

‘That’s right.’

She angled her legs towards Flora’s, suddenly a lot more friendly. ‘So then you are working on the lost apartment.’

Flora hesitated. It was fairly obvious to her who this must be, but she couldn’t make assumptions. Her work for the family was confidential. ‘Sorry, you are . . . ?’

It was the wrong thing to have asked.

‘Natascha,’ she replied, letting the word drop from her lips as though it were an insult. ‘Pascal!
Allez!
’ And she uttered an address Flora had never heard of to
the driver.

The car began to move.

‘Uh, hang on,’ Flora said quickly. ‘Listen, this is your car. You obviously need it. I’ll jump out and catch a cab.’

‘
Non.
’ Natascha stared back at her with her father’s rich brown eyes but her mother’s coolness.

‘No?’ Flora echoed. She gave a nervous laugh, sure that her French – usually perfect – was letting her down and the young woman had misunderstood. ‘Listen, you
don’t understand. I have to go. There’s someplace I have to be. If we can just stop the car,’ she said more carefully.

‘
Non.
’ Natascha stared out of the window. She took after her father with her deep-set eyes, slightly hooked nose and olive skin, and was handsome rather than beautiful, but
Flora could see there was something magnetic about her – probably down to the self-confidence that she suspected strayed too often into obnoxiousness and arrogance. Her legs were coltish and
tanned in black denim hot pants, a blue denim shirt tucked in but the buttons almost entirely undone, revealing a non-wired black mesh bra underneath; a Chanel Boy bag lay on the seat beside her. A
braid was tightly plaited just under the front section of her hair.

‘Look, I don’t know what you think you’re doing or if you’ve confused me with someone else but—’

Natascha looked back sharply at Flora. ‘I need you.’

‘Me?
You
need
me
?’

Natascha nodded. ‘You work for my family, don’t you?’

‘Well, yes, but—’

‘So then I need your help.’

There was another pause as Flora tried to take all this in. ‘And what is it you think I can do for you?’ she asked, almost laughing at the absurdity of her being kidnapped in broad
daylight from one of the ritziest streets in Paris.

‘You will see when we get there.’ And Natascha took her phone from her bag and made a call, speaking to someone in a low, hurried voice.

Flora stared at her in open-mouthed disbelief. Seriously? Now she was ignoring her? Client or not, Flora found her indignation rising as they navigated the city streets.

Within minutes, they were pulling up outside a baroque building, brass plaques screwed into the wall.