The Little Antique Shop Under the Eiffel Tower (27 page)

He cocked his head, and tried to gauge my mood. A surliness settled over me, but I had to hide it. This moment was too good to pass up. I needed information. I needed to know if he was the robber, the Postcard Bandit everyone was talking about.

The train trembled along, shuffling us together. “Did you miss me?”

I choked out, “More than I can say.”

A grin split his face. “Good.”

I found myself soften, only to shake myself again to figure out how I could gather intelligence without being obvious. “What are your plans for this evening?” I asked. Hoping he’d say something I could use in an effort to find him later that evening from my hidden vantage point in the car Madame Dupont hired.

“Busy, I’m sorry. But I’m free tomorrow night if you are? Dinner first, though.” He coughed into his hand. “If you prefer?”

I blushed to the roots of my hair. Drowning myself in champagne had been a mistake. “I have quite a few auctions to attend, and lots to peruse tomorrow.”

“At nighttime?” He frowned.

“Oui, I go through the pictures online and make my selections. What about you? Have you seen anything you like lately?” All I needed was a name!

“There’s one thing I want.”

I bumped hard against him as the train took a turn. “And that is?”

“A secret.”

This wasn’t going well at all. I was only digging myself deeper into his web of deceit. Should I tell him to run? I swallowed back genuine fear that he’d get caught, and spend a lifetime in jail.
Why did he have to be this way?

“So when can I expect the pleasure of your company?” he asked, his voice saccharine.

It was now or never. My mind rushed with so many emotions, but I thought of Joshua and the drama that had ensued, and knew I couldn’t go through that again. It’d have to be a clean break. “I’m not interested in you in that way, I’m sorry.”

“That way? What exactly is
that
way? Do you mean sexually?” His voice boomed around the small space, drawing wide-eyed stares.

“Shush, don’t do that brash American thing!” I hissed.

“Answer the question. Do you mean you’re
not
sexually attracted to me?” He was goading me, trying to get a rise, and he’d succeeded.

I raised my voice to match his. “No, Tristan Black, I am not sexually attracted to you at all. Not even a little bit.” Heat rushed to my face.

He threw his head back and laughed. “You’re a liar. You’ve always been a liar. And you know how I can tell? The way…” He paused, and gave me a smirk. I tensed for what he’d say next. “You kissed me back. You can’t fake that kind of passion.”

“Did you kiss him back?” a round, brown-skinned woman beside me asked.

I pursed my lips, as I noticed all eyes were on us. This was like being a performer in some kind of street theater. “I did but only because…”

She stopped me with a look. “How many times did you kiss him?”

I gulped. “Twice, or maybe three times, five at the most, but it’s not what it sounds like.”

The woman exchanged a knowing glance with Tristan and said, “Sounds like someone doesn’t want to admit how they feel. Tread gently, because you might scare her off. Probably one of those types with all the
issues
, you know, you read about it in those magazines –”

“Excuse me, I’m standing right here!”

She shrugged. “You kissed him back. I know I’m old but that sounds like you’re attracted to the boy. I mean, look at him.” It was like a tennis match; people were turning their heads from me to him, and back again.

“So he’s got a nice face, big deal.”

She guffawed, and a few commuters joined in tittering.

“What?” I asked her. “What’s so funny about that? I happen to prefer men who are…a little uglier.”
Way to go, Anouk. You prefer men who are…uglier?

“He’s got more than a nice face, and I can tell he’s got feelings for you. What’s stopping you from giving him a chance? You’re a pretty girl. You two match, you know that? With your blond-haired blue-eyed loveliness.”

Tristan stood there like he was the King of England, smirking, while his loyal followers made goo-goo faces at him. “I don’t date Americans.” I stuck my chin out.

She rolled her eyes. “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. I bet you dream about him, don’t you? That’s how you know – if they steal into your subconscious like that.”

“He certainly does
steal
…into my, er, subconscious.” The crowd nodded and continued staring at me. It was very unlike Parisians to get involved in other people’s conversations on a busy train. Tristan had that way about him, like he’d hypnotized them into being his cheer squad. How did he do it? Maybe he’d hired a rent-a-crowd to do his bidding?

“Excuse me.” I pushed past them all, relieved the train was screeching to a standstill just in time. “This is my stop.”

Once the train pulled away, I halted, and leaned against the tiled wall on the platform. It was so mind-bendingly obvious he was the culprit. He could manipulate a carriage full of Parisians into believing him. It was all down to practice. It’s probably how he managed so many heists. Used that intense gaze of his to brainwash innocent people.

I hurried out of the Metro, rushing to my meeting with Marianna feeling frazzled. Madame Dupont would be at my home soon, and I had to shower and try to dress inconspicuously, so I would need to make this fast. I was more determined than ever to catch him out. After my extremely hasty appointment with Marianna I headed home, mind spinning.

When I got to my apartment, I froze. My handbag! It was gone. That didn’t stop me from manically patting myself down. Did I leave it at work? No, I’d taken my ticket from my purse to get into the station.

It was him again! Mournfully I added sleight of hand to his capabilities. Of course he’d be a master at pickpocketing – he could break into auction houses protected by FBI-quality security systems without being caught. I raced back downstairs, desultory, all my fire gone.

Madame Dupont arrived, beeping the horn happily, her face animated. I rushed to the car, and threw myself in the front seat. “Don’t you want to change first?” she asked handing me a pair of overalls that resembled the jungle. “They’re camouflaged.”

“He stole my handbag!” I said.

“Who did?”

“Tristan! He just so happened to be on the same train as me.”

Her mouth fell open. “Where is the list we made of suspect places? Don’t tell me it was in your bag? He’ll know we’re onto him!”

I gasped, and cradled my head. “Oui, it was in there. But it’s in a hidden pocket. Maybe he won’t see it?”

She rested her hands on the steering wheel and gazed out the windscreen. “Why would he steal your bag?”

I lifted a shoulder. “Money? I had today’s takings. But it would be small change to him.”

Madame’s mouth twisted. “The keys to your shop? Do you think he’d rob you?”

“The secret room!” My pulse quickened. Maybe the lore about the secret room had intrigued him? But the contents seemed minor compared to what he could steal. I mentally assessed what was in my purse. Apartment and shop keys, including those for the secret room, whose alarm he’d easily be able to override. The list of suspected targets. Various lipsticks, a compact. My cell phone. Was there anything incriminating on it?

“Oh, Madame!” I cried out. “My cell phone has our text messages! What if he reads them?”

She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, as she pondered. “We spoke in code, remember? He can’t know that Gargoyle by the river means the Bell Tower Auction House. He won’t know what we’re on about. Using the word Aquamarine was a brilliant touch. He won’t know we’re referring to him!”

“Oui, but what about the message about the stake-out?”

“All we said is we were going to meet.” She took her phone from a velvet clutch and scrolled through our messages. “Hang on, can he even read French?”

We stilled. “No! He can’t!” The air hummed with hope. “When we were in Saint-Tropez, he asked the waiter to translate the dinner menu!” I sagged, as relief flooded me.

Madame’s cackle rang out in the small space. “OK, OK, so he can’t read our messages, he might not find the list, and at the very worst he’s got the keys to your shop and apartment. Something tells me if he wanted to sneak into your secret room, he would have done so by now. Maybe he stole your handbag so he can simply return it to you? It’s the oldest trick in the book when Cupid comes knocking.”

I blew out my cheeks, considering it all. “Do you really think he’d do that?” A weight lifted.

“Of course. He’s not sure where he stands. It’s a reason to visit you.”

She was right. He didn’t need my keys. If he’d wanted to break into my shop, he would have done so already. “OK, let’s focus on the matter at hand. We don’t have the list, but we don’t need it. We know our first guess was the Trésor Auction House. Let’s head there, and wait across the road. I’m sure nothing will happen until it’s dark, but better if we’re there before him.”

She twisted the key in the ignition and the car burbled to life. “Oui,” she said. “Grab the camera from the backseat and hold on!” Her hands whitened around the steering wheel as she stared straight ahead.

I didn’t know whether I was terrified or electrified. Nervous laughter barreled out of me as I reached for the so-called spy gear behind me. The backseat was piled high with cameras, binoculars, and some strangely shaped goggles. “How much did you buy?”

“All of it,” she said, grinning. “There’s heat-reflecting cameras and a GoPro for our heads. I don’t want to miss anything. We can set them all up, and watch the footage later.”

I shook my head. “What are these?” I held up the goggles that resembled something the little yellow Minions would wear.

“Oh, they’re night-vision goggles. If we have to chase him we’ll be able to see him a mile away.”

“Let’s hope we don’t have to chase him,” I said, picturing us wearing night-vision goggles, and GoPros, and scampering down the street in our high heels. Even though Madame Dupont was dressed in her camouflage gear, she’d still worn sky-high stilettos. We were Parisian. We could do a marathon in them if we had to.

She tutted. “Where’s the fun in that? I personally would love to chase him.” We sped off down the street, Madame Dupont cornering like she was on the Monaco Formula One track. I gripped the armrest, and tensed as the momentum sent me sideways.

Finally she zoomed into a parking space, skidding to a stop. Burnt rubber permeated the air. “Way to blend in,” I said, giving her a hard stare.

“Come on, I drive like any other Parisian. Like I’ve got somewhere to be.”

“You were one step away from pulling the handbrake and going in backward!”

She smirked. “I was too! You know me so well. I watched some stunt-driving footage for pointers… I’m sure I could have slid in backward.”

“Madame, you’ll give the game away.” I shook my head as we got our gear ready. We put the cameras in the foot well, and reclined our seats so we were at eye line with the dashboard.

“I feel ridiculous wearing these.” I pointed to my face, which was adorned with the heavy night-vision goggles, and the GoPro strapped to my head like I was some kind of intrepid adventurer.

“Darling, relax. You look as beautiful as ever. Would a glass of wine help? You’re coiled up tight like a snake.”

Who knew spy gear was so weighty? I truly felt like I was going into battle. “We shouldn’t drink on the job, surely?”

She waved me away, making a face. “It’s purely medicinal.” She leaned over into the backseat and brandished a bottle of vin rouge, and two glasses. I had to hand it to her: she came prepared.

We nursed our glasses of wine and waited. Moody gray shadows darkened the sky and the air cooled, the earlier heat dissipating for another day. I checked my watch. We’d been exactly an hour, but it felt more like five.

Madame Dupont crossed her arms. “I expected a little more action, I must admit.”

A knock on the window had us jump in fright. Lilou’s pretty face peered in. “What are you doing?” she muffled through the glass.

Madame Dupont unlocked the car and Lilou bent herself to fit in the small backseat.

“How did you know where we were?” I asked.

She frowned. “I didn’t. I was on my way home from an appointment. I got a huge order from the shop on Quai Voltaire. They commissioned me to make key rings.”

“Lilou, that is incredible!” I said, pride making my voice hitch.

She waved me away. “What’s going on here?”

“We can’t tell you, Lilou,” Madame Dupont said gravely. “It’s top secret.”

“You’re trying to catch the jewel thief, aren’t you?”

There were no secrets in my life, despite my efforts to keep them, damn it! “Have you been going through my room again?” I’d cut out newspaper articles about the thefts and had hidden them in my closet.

“I needed business attire,” she said with a shrug.

“Lilou!”

“What?” Her faux innocent expression was fixed firmly in place.

“Why can’t you buy some with the allowance Papa gives you?” Money ran through her fingers like water.

“Anouk, no one could live off that paltry amount! It wouldn’t even keep you in lipstick!”

There was no point fighting with her. We had a job to do. “If you stay, you have to promise not to say a word to anyone. Deal?”

“Deal. Pass me your wine.”

Another hour crept past, even slower than the last. Lilou leaned through the small gap between the front seats. “So who exactly are we looking for? Who do we suspect?”

I exchanged a glance with Madame Dupont and gave her an almost imperceptible headshake. “No suspects. We might not even be in the right place.”

“OK,” she said. “Oh look there’s your boyfriend! Call him over; I can switch seats with you.”

Madame Dupont and I snapped to attention. “Shush, Lilou,” I hissed. “Get down, don’t let him see you!”

Lilou dropped down and whispered. “Lover’s tiff?”

I wanted to shake her. “He’s the robber!”

“What!” Her voice came out like a shriek.

“Be quiet! You’re going to get us caught!”

With nimble fingers, Madame Dupont reached for the binoculars without taking her eyes off the suspect. Against the goggles, with the GoPro crowding her head I wondered how much she’d actually see. I was certain we were doing it all wrong.