Murder Below Montparnasse - By Cara Black Page 0,41
key and a wave of musty air hit her. What was she looking for? A sign that Yuri had found a Modigliani that had been left here for more than seventy years? All she discovered in the shadows were rat turds and a broken chair on the hard earth floor.
“Mademoiselle?”
A plump black-haired woman shone a flashlight.
“I’ve already rented the apartment.” Her words rolled with an Italian accent. “The storage goes with it. You’ll need to find another place for your bicycle.”
“A shame, but merci, Madame,” Aimée said, racking her mind for a way to prolong the conversation. This woman might offer some insight. “Nice cleanup for a space full of seventy-something years’ worth of garbage. Least that’s what your son—”
“Porca miseria, don’t get me started,” the woman said. “A health hazard. I could do nothing until that old buzzard’s son finally came. He should thank me, he should. Found a masterpiece, or so he claimed.”
The woman liked to talk. And used her hands, evidenced by the flashlight’s yellow beam waving over the damp stone walls.
“By masterpiece you mean a painting?” Aimée shook her head. “Like a Rembrandt?”
The woman shrugged. “I don’t know. He seemed excited enough. These things happen, sì? People find treasures at flea markets, in attics. Down here all that time, wrapped up. Wouldn’t surprise me if it’s worth a fortune, that’s how it always happens. But you only know for sure if you get it appraised.”
Aimée followed the flashlight beam back up the steps, glad to leave the whiffs of decay and humidity behind her. Mortar crumbled under her feet.
“That’s what I told him,” the woman continued. “Let an expert examine it. Take it to an auction house, or an art gallery, a museum—I don’t know.” She laughed, a deep laugh from her stomach. “He says to me, Madame Belluci, you’re right. I promise to buy you a nice dinner.”
“He took your advice! Did he buy you that dinner?”
“That’s the funny thing,” Madame Belluci said. “We have reservations tonight at La Tour d’Argent. He told me we’d have champagne with the art dealer.”
Reservations Yuri couldn’t keep. “Lucky you. A prominent, well-known art expert, I assume?”
“I don’t know.”
Aimée paused. “Then I won’t keep you, you’re busy.” She glanced at her Tintin watch. “Eight o’clock comes early, I know. Keep me in mind if a space opens up for bikes, okay?”
Madame Belluci ran her hand through her curly hair, blew a gust of air out of her mouth. “But I didn’t say eight. Dinner’s at nine.”
Now Aimée knew what to do. She forgot the unpleasantness of Florent’s groping—finding the parking ticket had led to the cellar and the concierge. Now the art dealer.
No one got reservations at La Tour d’Argent at such short notice unless they were connected. Yuri wasn’t, so she figured the art dealer must be.
Ten minutes later, she entered La Tour d’Argent on Quai de la Tournelle. Afternoon light spilled over the gold sconces, red carpet so thick it muffled her footsteps, the red-velvet-flocked wallpaper soaked up conversation. The place exuded privilege.
An entrée cost the price of a pair of gently worn Louboutins. Even if she won the lottery, not her type of place. A tuxedoed maître d’ took one look at her outfit. “Mademoiselle, our last seating for luncheon’s full.”
She pulled out her father’s police ID doctored with her photo. Shot him a measured smile and gestured to the tall reception podium.
“No fuss no muss, Monsieur. Please cooperate and show me the dinner reservations for this evening.”
He hesitated. Adjusted his tie. “Anything I should know?”
“Pre-security detail,” she said. “I’m sure you know what that means.”
President Chirac, while notorious for being a palace homebody, had a proclivity for spontaneous visits to restos of this caliber with his daughter. It drove his bodyguards and security detail nuts, but, according to one she knew, it was the best possible security—if no one at the restaurant knew he was coming, no assassin would either. Reservations would be made under a false name, but contingent on a green light from security, who’d make a quick sweep a few hours prior.
“Extra measures, Monsieur. I’m sure you understand, n’est-ce pas?”
The maître d’ gave a knowing look, inclined his distinguished white head. So Chirac had dined here before.
“Bien sûr.” He turned the thick vellum pages toward her.
“We’re wondering about an old friend, an art dealer.”
“Monsieur Luebet, party of three, at nine P.M.”
“And his gallery, Monsieur?”
“Laforet on Montparnasse.”
Maître d’s knew everyone. That was their job. Only three people—Yuri, the art dealer Luebet, and the