The Little Antique Shop Under the Eiffel Tower (6 page)

I could understand his motivations, and thought that Andre was the kind of man the world needed more of. Someone not driven purely by money, or greed.

Quietly, he said, “I made some enquiries about who I should sell it to, and your name kept popping up. I know you’ll find the right home for it. And then it will be a chapter closed for me, and I would very much like that.”

I didn’t know what to say in the face of such generosity. “Merci, Andre, that’s very kind of you, and you have my word I’ll find it the perfect home. So, I’ll secure the Mollier, and call you once it’s done?” I was rendered silent once more by the fact people had spoken so highly of me, and that Andre was so pure of heart to make up for his grandfather’s shady deals.

“Oui.” His features softened. “Mollier was an inspiration to me. To own something as extraordinary as his very own concert cello would be an honor.”

Outside an old fluffy dog gave a halfhearted bark before settling onto one of the benches under a row of acacia trees. I turned back to Andre. “Wait until you hold it. It hasn’t lost its luster after all this time. There’s magic inside, I’m sure.”

Andre gave me a wide smile. “Let’s hope it stays there when I play, and doesn’t run away screaming.” He made a self-deprecating face. Enquiries I made about Andre suggested his talent was astonishing, but I could tell he was the humble type.

The mood had lightened and I hoped Andre would have some closure in his life, and be able to move forward. “I’m sure you’ll add another layer of magic too.”

We made the deal on a handshake and said our goodbyes. Andre walked me out into the fading light of the spring day to my waiting car. Dion was playing chauffeur today, and sat reading a newspaper, squinting against the gentle sun that shone through the windscreen.

I smiled, and gave Andre the customary French goodbye peck on both cheeks. “I’ll be in touch. Au revoir.”

Back in the car I briefed Dion on what had transpired with Andre, and the reason he was happy to see the scroll go.

“Life is such a complex thing.” He started the engine. The car purred – it was Dion’s pride and joy, and was polished to a shine. I’d never understand men and cars. “You
have
to secure that cello; don’t lose it, Anouk.”

“I will. I’ll bid until they all fall away. I’m hoping the more popular showy instruments will woo the crowd, and they’ll leave the Mollier to me.” We drove sedately out of the estate, heading for the double-bronzed gates. As they creaked open a flashy red sports coupe careered sideways from the road, into the driveway and came to an abrupt stop, spraying gravel in its wake. Dust plumed up and straight into my open window.

“Who is this fool?” I spat between dusty mouthfuls.

I was ready to yell a volley of abuse to the dangerous driver when I clapped eyes on his face. It was the hot guy wearing the Aviator sunglasses who had been outside the front of my shop the day I had lunch with Lilou. Inwardly I groaned. I’d thought he was a handsome holidaymaker, but he was obviously a dealer too, and hot on my tail. You couldn’t trust anyone! This industry was with rife with chameleons and I thanked my lucky stars I hadn’t entered into conversation with him that day, encouraged by the white wine racing through my bloodstream. Another competitor in an already suffocating industry.

He ran a hand through his blond hair, and gave me an ostentatious smile. “Is this Andre’s place?” An American! My mind shrieked a warning; stay well away. I could already tell he’d be a problem with his playboy good looks, and that swagger that came with money, and ambition and the desire to win at any cost. I’d seen it one too many times to miss those markers now.

I pursed my lips, and pressed the button for my window. Slowly the glass blocked him from sight but not before I caught his wink. Really, how did winking help the situation? Did he think I’d dissolve into a hot mess, and tell him everything? Amateur. “It doesn’t take long for them to sniff out a deal,” I said to Dion.

“Forget him. He doesn’t know the backstory.”

I leaned back into the leather seat, and closed my eyes. “Oui. You’re right. Andre will send him on his way.”

Chapter Five

Antiques missing as suspected smuggler ring hits Paris

Paris gendarmerie are investigating a robbery that took place overnight at the prestigious Vuitton Auction House on Rue St Honoré in Paris. They believe the theft is linked to the recent spate in the town of Sorrento, Italy, but won’t release any further details. The Vuitton Auction House released a statement today saying that their security cameras had been interfered with and the thief overrode the high-tech alarm systems, including the state of the art infrared sensors. It’s suspected that the rare collection of jewelry stolen would fetch up to two hundred thousand Euros on the black market in America, where it’s believed the antiques are being shipped to, after police raided a southern Californian home and found some earrings believed to be the ones stolen from Sorrento. Anyone with any information is asked to visit their local gendarmerie or call the hotline direct.

My stomach lurched. A smuggler ring? Had they multiplied? It wasn’t just a rogue cat burglar like in the movies? I whipped open the newspaper once more, scanning the next page in case there was any more detail but found nothing. It appeared that the thief was interested in jewelry, and France had a wealth of it under lock and key, especially in Paris, where so many exclusive auction houses were situated.

The jewels would be lost forever, and with it their story. It was migraine-inducing, picturing those precious keepsakes being lifted in the dark of night, hastily wrapped, badly treated, and gone for good.

Blood drained from my face right down to the tip of my slipper-clad toes but it was auction day, and I had no time to make any calls or hunt out any leads. I had to win the cello to secure the scroll.

Once dressed and ready, I hurried down the Boulevard Saint Germaine, making my way toward the 8th arrondissement. The perk of living in Paris meant I didn’t own a car; I walked everywhere. If it was too far I used the Metro. Driving was such a nuisance in this bustling city and I was glad to avoid it.

With sunshine on my back I was almost certain I could feel the presence of the illustrious François Mollier, the famous cellist who’d died over half a century ago. I’d found out that the reason his descendants were selling some select pieces from his musical collection was to fund a theme park set on the grounds of his estate. The idea had me crying into my soup bowl, but there was little I could do, except secure the cello knowing it would go to Andre who would worship it. Mollier’s château and expansive grounds should have been a museum, a place for the people to visit, and celebrate his achievements in a world that still hadn’t forgotten him, and never would, not a place for bumper cars, and mechanical bull rides.

Pausing, I imagined the cello with its soon-to-be new owner, red-headed Andre, alone on his balcony at nighttime with his own château silent. His eyes slowly closing as he clamped the cello tight, drawing the mother of pearl bow back and forth across its taut strings, relaxing into the sound, and letting go of bad memories, like a vapor.

Mellifluous notes drifting above, stars shrieking in the inky sky. Beautiful music would invigorate the antique instrument and summon the ghost of François Mollier, who’d visit standing off in the distance in the realm of here or there, a faint smile playing at his lips…

Whimsical, but totally possible.

Time was stealing away, so I picked up the pace, finally arriving at the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré in the 8th arrondissement where the Cloutier Auction House was situated. It was a grand old building with a French baroque façade that stood out among the less imposing neighboring structures. A burnished gold sign announcing the house hung perpendicular, and creaked softly as it swayed. Nerves fluttered but more from anticipation than anything.

A doorman wearing an immaculate, sharply pressed suit, and top hat nodded as I rushed past. “Bonjour, mademoiselle.”

“Bonjour, monsieur.” I flashed him a smile as he opened the heavy black door and ushered me in. “Merci.”

With quick steps, I headed down the entrance hall and into the bar area.

Exclusive auctions held around France were filled with collectors and dealers from all around the world who were backed up by old money, families with recognizable names, or lots of available cash. It was a sacred circle, and you had to pass some invisible test to be accepted by them. It’d taken me an aeon to be invited in, and I was still looked at as the new girl, but they weren’t threatened by someone who often bid on items that were perplexingly valueless in their eyes and were only sold at some auctions as part of a deceased estate.

But sentimental or not, I had a varied range of customers who, like me, held antiques with rich histories in high esteem. It could be something as small as a tin of buttons rescued from a Dior 1940s’ collection. The men would frown over their spectacles at me and mutter, “Buttons…?” their confusion apparent. But I’d have a customer who collected vintage buttons, and I knew they’d adore such a bounty. Who wouldn’t? Some amazing seamstresses had probably thumbed those little plastic discs – what had the buttons overheard? Talk about hemlines, waistlines, the progression of fashion…

Auctions were jovial affairs. Champagne flowed freely because punters paid more when they were relaxed after a few glasses of bubbles, though no auction houses admitted that’s why they supplied copious bottles of Moët & Chandon – it was the way it had always been done, a tradition that had always made the numbered paddles raise that little bit easier.

The antique trade was still a bit of a men’s club despite halfhearted protests that it wasn’t. But it suited me just fine to be one of the token women. My presence was largely ignored. They didn’t see me as a threat, and I could go by unnoticed and savor the lots alone.

Today, while they clinked glasses, and told tall tales about their latest conquests in the world of antiques, I casually flounced out of view and into the auction room, ready to take my seat at the front.

I spotted Gustave, the security guard.

“Bonjour,” I said, holding my handbag to the side while we air kissed each cheek.

“Bonjour, Anouk,” Gustave replied, his brown face crinkling into a smile. He was a robust man, about late fifties, with a big heart. He’d been working here as long as I could remember, and often saved me a seat if I was running late.

Laughter rang out from the bar area. “They’re in fine form today,” Gustave said, raising an eyebrow.

“Half sozzled already?”

“Oui.” Gustave tutted. “Monsieur left the front door unlocked last week! Can you imagine? Had the gall to blame me.”

I inhaled sharply. “He left it unlocked?” Anyone could have walked in and scurried away with something valuable. Monsieur Cloutier in his old age was getting business mixed with pleasure, a mistake I vowed not to replicate. Hence the rule: no champagne when working. I had to keep a clear head and focus.

Life was all about appreciating the steamy
pah
of escaped air as you broke into a twice-cooked soufflé deflating its cheesy goodness, and pairing it with a wine and languishing over lunch with friends. But
not
during work time.

“Not fair on you, Gustave. Let’s hope he doesn’t make that mistake again.”

Gustave rocked on his heels, and smiled. “He won’t. I’m barreling him out when my shift finishes each day, and locking it myself, but I’m not here all the time. There’s a lull between security staff; the place is empty for an hour, so I’ve asked him to rectify that. Just in case.”

“You heard about the robberies, then?”

His eyes clouded. Gustave loved the auction house like it was his own, so he followed industry news. Monsieur Cloutier was lucky to have such a loyal employee, especially as age crept up on him, and made him forgetful. Age or champagne, that is.

“Terrible.” He nodded. “And we don’t need to make it any easier by being lax with security.”

“Oui.” I felt a shiver, as if I was being watched. I turned, surprised to see the American standing behind me. He’d been out the front of my shop, at Andre’s estate, and now here. I didn’t like it – it meant he was on my trail and that usually implied he was after my contacts. I hadn’t heard him approach on the noisy wooden floors. Had he eavesdropped on our conversation? I’d hate for anyone to know about the door being accidentally left unlocked, especially a stranger. He must’ve had ties with someone to be here, though, and that meant trouble.

“It’s you,” he said, appraising me coolly.

“Excusez-moi?” I said in faux surprise as if I didn’t recognize him. His azure blue eyes twinkled, and he thrust his hands in his pockets and took a step closer. In response, I folded my arms and stuck out my chin. Who did he think he was?

“It’s you. The girl who everyone talks about. You’re famous, you know.”

“Me?” I stumbled slightly on my heels, put on the spot by such a thing. I wondered if the ‘everyone’ he was referring to were talking about the Joshua disaster. It’d taken months for the speculation to die down, but it cropped up now and again. I remained poised, adopting a haughty expression as if his presence bored me. “I hardly think so.”

He grinned, Cheshire cat like. “Humble, too, I see.”

“Is that all, Monsieur…?”

“Black.”

His smile slid into a smirk, showing his even, white teeth. He had a strong jawline, and was classically handsome in that all-star American way. He ran a hand through the neat blond of his hair.

“Well if that’s all, Monsieur Black, I’ll be taking my seat…” I said over my shoulder, as I walked across the shiny wooden floor to the front row seat I favored. It gave me the perfect view of the antiques on offer, as well as good visibility to the auctioneer. The American followed me and stood just in front of the stage.

I surveyed him as I sat. His clothes fit like they were tailor-made, his shoes shone like they’d never been worn before – even his nails were manicured. Rich playboy with too much time on his hands. A rich
American
playboy at that, which meant goodbye antiques. He’d probably ship them to somewhere where there was too much humidity for their moderate French wood, letting them buckle and bow, and another masterpiece would be scarred for its lifetime.