The paris widow, p.11
The Paris Widow, page 11
Or no—it’s the way he breaks into a jog.
It comes to me in a flash of heat, the vision of a blond man with a crooked nose, covered in dust and other people’s blood, running into the burned-out café. I watch his easy gait as he ducks into a side street, and now I’m certain. It’s the British man I spotted in the square that first day, the one racing into the rubble to haul out the survivors. The Good Samaritan, except is he?
Is he following me?
I whirl around, taking in the other people mingling about on the street. An old man smoking a cigarette on a front stoop, a woman scrolling through her phone while her dog sniffs at a tiny patch of grass, two mothers speed walking down the sidewalk behind matching strollers. None of them seems to have noticed me, but still. My heart thuds so hard it’s all I can hear.
I hustle to the corner, then stare down the dingy street where the Brit just disappeared. The sidewalks are mostly empty here, what few storefronts there are either closed or boarded up. At the far end, a stocky woman in a headscarf shuffles by.
But no Brit. Wherever he is, he’s long gone.
A shiver travels down my spine and I half jog, half run the rest of the way, my eyes combing the streets until my phone dumps me, sweaty and stressed, at L’Objet Qui Parle. The Talking Object.
Antoine’s shop.
I’m panting as I push through the door, and a brass bell on the glass announces my presence. I stand for a moment in the cool, dark space, letting my lungs settle and my eyes adjust—and not just to the dim light.
Antoine’s shop is like one of our neighbors back in Atlanta, an eccentric old lady who wears feathers in her hair and talks to the slightly smashed mouse who lives in her pocket. The walls of his shop are the color of blood, hung with filmy mirrors and every kind of painting imaginable. A purple velour fainting couch piled high with embalmed and stuffed animals, foxes and boars and a cloud of mean-looking bats, dangling from the ceiling like a scary Halloween decoration. Yellowed globes and cracked boxing gloves arranged into towers. Plaster teeth molds like you’d see in a dentist’s office, clenched around smoke-stained pipes. Suits of medieval armor sized for a child.
At the far wall, a giant sideboard is loaded with baskets of cards and buttons and balls, next to an old-school cash register. The pretty girl behind it smiles. “Bonjour, madame. Avez-vous besoin d’aide?” Can I help you?
I step around a mannequin wearing a fringed and jeweled dress that looks like it came from the set of Moulin Rouge. “S’il vous plaît. Do you speak English?”
“Oui. I do. A little.”
“I’m looking for Antoine. I understand he’s the owner? I’m hoping to speak to him about my husband, Adam Knox.”
It’s almost comical, the way her face changes at the mention of Adam’s name. The pleasant smile drops off her cheeks like a guillotine, along with all the color. This woman knows Adam, and she knows what happened to him.
“You are Stella. Of course. I...I’m so sorry. Please, wait here.”
She whirls around before I can agree, then disappears behind a plain wooden door. A few seconds later it’s whisked open and an older man steps through it, looking like he time-traveled here from another century. Three-piece suit, bow tie, leather shoes polished to a high shine. Round spectacles sit low and slightly crooked on his nose, and a delicate golden watch chain dangles from one of the buttonholes of his tweed vest, disappearing into a pocket. I guess his age to be creeping toward seventy.
But it’s his mustache I can’t stop staring at, two long strips of silver hair wound into elaborate curls. They twitch when he speaks.
“Stella Knox. How lovely to finally meet you in person. I’ve heard so much about you, my dear.” His English is impeccable. He takes my hand in both of his, clasping it tightly. His skin is dry but warm. “I feel like I already know you, even though we’ve just met.”
I don’t mention Adam only spoke of him once in passing, or that it was a combination of coincidence and detective work that brought me here. I only give him a tight smile. “Thank you. I’m sure you’ve heard the news.”
“I have, and I can barely believe it. I take it there’s still no word?”
I shake my head. “Nothing yet. That’s what I’m here to talk to you about. Is there someplace we can talk?”
“Of course. Please. Follow me.”
He gestures for me to follow him to the door, spouting off orders in rapid French to the pretty shopkeeper before leading me down a tiny hallway and into a room that could earn him a starring role on Hoarders. There’s a desk parked in the middle—at least, I assume it’s a desk, since it’s drowning under piles of papers and teetering stacks of notepads and catalogs. There are piles lined up six feet high against every wall, too, heaped precariously on chairs. He heaves an armful from the chair across from his desk and drops it to the floor, sending up a cloud of dust.
“S’il vous plaît. Sit. Can I get you something to drink?”
I sink onto the edge of the chair, resisting the urge to brush off the upholstery. “No, thank you. I’m fine.” My bag hangs on a hip, and I shift it to my lap, pressing it with both hands against my stomach. “When was the last time you spoke to Adam?”
Antoine unbuttons his jacket and takes a seat on a leather swivel chair, thinking. “It was the day the two of you arrived in Paris, I believe. You’d just come from...Luxembourg, I think?” He pauses for my nod, then flips the pages in a Filofax spread open on the desk. “So let’s see. Ah, yes. Last week Friday. He wanted to know if I had any contacts at an international shipping company. It sounded like he was comparison shopping, looking for a better price.”
“Did you give him any?”
“Just one, but he said it was the company he was already in discussion with. I’m afraid I wasn’t very helpful.”
“Has anyone else been here, asking these kinds of questions?”
Antoine frowns, tilting his head. “Anyone like who?”
“Like the police, maybe. They seem to think he might have been the reason for the bombing. A target someone was trying to have killed. I don’t know who.”
“That—” Antoine sits back in his chair with a huff of air. “Well, that just can’t be right. This is not a dangerous profession Adam and I are in. Who would want to have him killed? Why?”
Everything I know about this man leads me to believe Adam trusted him, and maybe it’s a mistake, but in that instant, I decide to, too.
“The French police say his Atlanta shop was a cover for his real business, dealing in looted and stolen artifacts.”
Antoine laughs, a loud burst from deep in his belly, until he sees I’m not joining in. His smile bleeds away, and his eyebrows rise. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m afraid I am.”
“But—but that’s absurd. People like Adam and me, we are in this business to earn money, oui, but it’s a business that is driven by the artistry of the past. All those pieces you see out there in my shop, in his, they’re selected because they are beautiful and special just like a Picasso is beautiful and special, or the parchments that make up the Dead Sea Scrolls. We sell them because we can’t bear to let these treasures of history fade away, and we definitely don’t come by these treasures illegally. We leave the looting to the pirates and thieves.”
“That’s what I said! Well, not word for word, but pretty close. I said Adam’s business honors history and would never exploit it. But my contact at the US Embassy says the French police have built a pretty strong case. He used the word airtight.”
I think about the other grisly A word that came out of Lucas’s mouth—arrest—but something holds me back from mentioning it now. Pride, probably. Not because Adam’s arrest was imminent—not a good look, certainly—but because of how it makes his disappearance seem. Like he ditched me to avoid it.
Antoine makes a face, hiking up his mustache on one side. “Airtight. I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Agreed. And there’s nothing on his laptop or in his briefcase to corroborate their accusation, so now I don’t know what to think. Like, maybe they got the wrong guy, or he got caught up in something by accident, without realizing the artifacts were stolen. I mean, that’s possible, right?”
It’s definitely what I would like to believe. That Adam is a pawn, manipulated by some powerful underworld people. That he made a deal with the devil unwittingly, and now the police have him on the hook for another person’s sins. It would make this whole disaster, his disappearance, his fate...well, not easier to bear, exactly, but maybe a little less awful.
Antoine leans back in his chair, sending up a loud creak. “It’s certainly possible. Some of the world’s greatest auction houses and museums have been fooled by fraudulent export licenses or ownership papers. If it can happen to Sotheby’s, it could happen to me or Adam.” He pauses, frowning. “You said you still have his laptop?”
“Yes. I spent all last night combing through the hard drive. I read emails that went back years. There’s nothing on there but corbels and herringbone flooring.”
“That’s a good sign, I suppose. Though I could take a look, if you’d like. If your theory is true, the emails might look innocent enough to someone with an untrained eye.”
“Or the police have evidence that wasn’t on his computer,” I say, skating right over his offer. To hand over Adam’s laptop to Antoine, to anyone, doesn’t sit right, not until I know what’s going on. “At least, that’s how my contact from the embassy made it sound. He says the police have more than they need.”
Antoine pulls a face, shaking his head. “This doesn’t sound good, Stella. It doesn’t sound good at all.”
“I did find one thing.” I say it before I can consider the consequences, the words flying out of me before I can think to snatch them back. Antoine waits for it, his eyes kind and curious, and I decide to keep going. “I found a card in his wallet, the size of a business card except there was nothing printed on it. No logo, no name, just some numbers written in blue ink. Not Adam’s handwriting, by the way.”
“May I see it?”
I shake my head, my fingers curling around my bag. “It’s back at the hotel, I’m afraid. I locked it in the safe.”
This part is a lie. No way in hell am I leaving that card behind anywhere, not even in a safe. It’s in the bag pressed to my gut, which is telling me those numbers unlock an important mystery. And until I know what that mystery is, nobody is putting eyes on that card but me.
Antoine nods like it was the right answer. “A safe is the best place for the card, at least for now. And there were only numbers on this card? No letters?”
Again, I shake my head. “Only numbers. Forty-eight of them.”
“I’m asking because sometimes auction houses will have catalog numbers that long, but they almost always incorporate letters as some sort of listing code. But forty-eight... Could it be a phone number—or multiple numbers?”
“I don’t think so. There are too many.”
“Perhaps when you get back to the hotel, you could text me a picture.” He flips open a carved box on the desk, pushes a business card toward me. “That is my mobile number at the bottom.”
Not a chance. Not until I know what those numbers mean, and even then. Text messages get intercepted all the time. If there’s even the slightest whiff of truth to the lieutenant colonel’s words, if someone planted a bomb powerful enough to take out Adam and half a Parisian block, then whatever those numbers might lead me to is best kept quiet. In fact, I’ve probably said too much already.
Still. I reach across the desk for his proffered business card, but before I can get there, he snatches my hand out of the air. The card flutters to the floor and his fingers clamp down on my wrist, and the old man is strong, I’ll give him that. He gives my arm a good yank, pulling my hand to his face and me a few inches off my chair.
His voice is sharp in the tiny room. “Where did you get this?”
The golden ring on my thumb, the one I found in the pocket of Adam’s jeans. He twists my wrist, turning my hand to get a better look at the ring from all sides. The belt-buckle shape, the inscription on the backside, and I don’t like the new glint in his eye.
A hum of warning starts up in my head.
“Where did you get it?” he says again. Demands it. “Tell me where you found this ring.”
“Adam gave it to me.”
Not an outright lie, exactly, but not the complete truth, either, and it occurs to me that I’m taking inspiration from my husband. If I’m to believe the police, Adam learned to keep his secrets hidden in plain sight. No over-explanations, no details that will only trip you up later. Provide only the barest of facts. It’s the best kind of lie. The smartest.
And everything about Antoine’s reaction—his scowl, his tone, the iron grip he’s still got on my wrist—tells me to tread carefully. To hold back.
“When?” He gives my arm another tug, holding my thumb under the desk light, squinting at the ring. “When did he give it to you?”
“I don’t know. Recently.”
“May I see it? May I hold it in my hands?”
The metal is heating under the lamplight, turning hot against the skin of my thumb, and I try to tug my hand away but Antoine’s hold is too strong. He’s up off his chair, hunched over my hand, his nose ten inches from my thumb.
“Only if you let go of my arm.”
He does, reluctantly, and I snatch my hand back. By now the metal is practically sizzling, and it’s a relief to slide the ring off my thumb. He’s far too eager when he takes it from my fingers, far too gleeful when he inspects it with the magnifying glass he pulls from a desk drawer. He squeezes one eye closed and peers at the ring with the other, taking in the belt buckle, the inscription engraved on the inside. Antoine studies the ring and I study Antoine, trying to glean what he’s thinking from his expression. But the only change I can see is a light sheen of sweat that pops up on his brow.
“This is... This is an extraordinary piece.” I don’t miss the slightly higher pitch to his voice, the way he hasn’t looked at me—not once—since he noticed the ring. “Did Adam tell you where he got it?”
“No.”
“Did he tell you anything at all about it?” Antoine’s face is still shiny and red. His mustache twitches at each of the corners.
“No. Why? What makes the ring extraordinary?”
“I’ll give you ten thousand euros for it. I’ll write you the check right now.”
I shake my head. It’s not exactly an answer, and besides. “Adam gave it to me.”
He peers at it again through the magnifying glass, turning it every which way, and I turn and glance at the door. This was a mistake. Coming here. Trusting this man, even if not completely. In reality, I know nothing about Antoine, other than that he occasionally gave Adam tips about items coming up for sale here in Paris. I have no idea if Adam likes Antoine, if he trusts him. I consider Antoine’s reaction to the numbers on the card, and the only thing I can think of is getting out of here.
But not without that ring.
With a flush of heat, I thrust my hand over the desk. “Can I have the ring back now, please?”
Antoine starts at the sound of my voice, looking up like he’d forgotten I was still here. His eyes are glazed over, his cheeks still pink like apples, and I could take him. I could leap over this desk between us, tackle this old man to the ground and pry the ring out of his arthritic fingers if I have to. He stares at me, and a few seconds elapse, then a few more.
I stab the air with my hand again. “It’s mine. Give it to me.”
Finally, begrudgingly, he hands over the ring.
I shove it up my thumb and lunge for the door.
He calls after me as I’m racing up the hall, something about keeping in touch, but I don’t slow. I hurry through the crowded shop while the pretty girl behind the counter watches with confused eyes, the brass bell clanging as I push through the door to outside, where I take off running, down the sidewalk and away from Antoine.
Fifteen
Adam
Luxembourg City, Luxembourg
Six days earlier
Good resolutions are simply checks that men draw on a bank where they have no account.
—Oscar Wilde
I stand on the edge of bustling Place d’Armes, my cell pressed to an ear, and watch Stella through the window of the restaurant where we’ve just had a late lunch. She’s not happy—that much is clear. She shakes her head at something on her phone, and her thumbs move rapid-fire across the screen, stabbing at the glass. Something’s up, but I can only handle one problem at a time.
I keep my gaze steady on her while I say to my client, “I’ll be back in Paris in two days. Forty-eight hours. That’s all I’m asking.”
There’s a loud huff of air into the phone, and I picture her vaping in her plush Parisian apartment, surrounded by all that art. “Where is the ring, Adam? I want it now.”
“I already told you I have it. I’ll deliver it myself.”
On the other side of the glass, Stella tosses her phone to the table, those thick curls falling across her lovely face. She said she felt out of place, far too underdressed among all the bankers and business executives, but standing here on the sidewalk of the leafy square, Stella looks perfect.
“Yes, but when?” my client says in my ear, pulling my attention back to the phone. “When will you deliver the ring? And before you answer, I also want the Pinner Qing dynasty vase and the Greywacke statue. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that I’ve already paid you handsomely for both.”
