to Number 14. He had to be the man she’d come to see, Yuri Volodya! She hurried after the old man just as he disappeared behind the gate.
“Monsieur … Monsieur Volodya?” she called out.
No answer. As she reached the darkened front door of the atelier, Aimée heard the tinkle of broken glass. A cry. She reached out but felt only cold air.
“Monsieur?” Her eyes tried to adjust to the dank vacuum in front of her. “What happened?”
“My door was open, the lights don’t work,” he said, his voice quavering. “I’ve been robbed.”
Aimée’s spine tingled. Smart thieves short-circuited electricity these days. With a tickle of intuition, she wondered if this was connected to the Serb they’d run over outside his door.
She rooted in her secondhand Vuitton bag until she found her penlight. Shined it on the man’s confused face. A trickle of blood trailed on his cheek. He’d cut himself on broken glass.
“Where’s your fuse box, Monsieur?”
“What good will that do?”
Did he want to argue now? “I’ll try to switch the power back on.”
She followed the old man across the creaking floorboards, glass crackling underfoot. A musty scent of paper emanated from the shadows. In the thin yellow beam she saw the problem right away. She pulled on her leather gloves and with a quick flick switched the fuse box levers upright.
Light flooded the sparsely furnished turn-of-the-century atelier. A worn velvet armchair had been overturned. A vase lay on its side, orange marigold petals scattered and water pooled on a long worktable.
Horrible. She pitied the old codger. His car, now his house.
“Monsieur Volodya? That’s you, non? I’m Aimée Leduc, you sent for me. I’m so sorry about your car, but I hope—”
“Forget about the car.” He grabbed at a dark wood beam in the wall, his bony white wrists shaking. Reminding her of her grandfather. She righted the chair, took his elbow to help him sit down. Dazed, he resisted, refusing to sit. With his thick fingers he smeared the blood on his cheek. Shock painted his face.
“I think you should see a doctor.”
“Wait …”
With surprising agility he hurried to the armoire, which had been shoved aside. She followed, noticing the small door behind it. Like a broom closet. A dark red stain smeared the wood door.
Blood.
He pulled the creaking door open. Empty. Anguish painted his face. “You’re too late. My painting’s stolen.”
“You kept a painting in a broom closet? A valuable painting?”
“But I locked it. It was only until the formal appraisal tomorrow.” His lip quivered. “My legs feel not so steady.”
His face had gone white. This time, he let her help him to the chair. “Let me get you water.”
He shook his head. “Vodka.” He pointed to the galley kitchen. A show of bravado, or to calm his nerves? But he looked like he needed it. She’d humor him until he explained. Then alert the flics.
The dark wood-walled atelier held an open mezzanine above, a cramped kitchen off to the side, an alcove with faded flowered wallpaper, and a bed covered by a rumpled duvet.
At the empty sink she wetted an embroidered towel, noticed the dish rack with a single plate, cup, and fork. The old man lived alone. Tidy. In the one cupboard she found a bottle of Stolichnaya, two glasses.
Could the Serb have been the one who robbed the old man? Caught in the act, she figured. But he hadn’t been carrying anything. Definitely not a painting.
“Now how do you feel?” She uncapped and poured the vodka. Handed him the towel.
“A scratch,” he said, clinked her shot glass. “I’m Yuri Volodya.”
“I know. You sent me five thousand francs.” She set down her card on the side table.
“So of course you came,” he said. “But too late. Hand me my glasses.”
Stubborn old Cossack, all right.
“There’s a pair hanging from your neck,” she said. “What’s this all about?”
He put on his glasses, and his voice changed. “You look just like her.”
Hope fluttered in her heart. “Maman? She’s alive?”
He shook his head. Winced in pain. “Forgive me. I thought you could help. You see, I owe your mother.”
“I don’t understand. Help how? And owe my mother what? When did you last see her?”
He averted his eyes and swigged the vodka. “I’m a bookbinder, I craft special editions. A commission takes a year.” He rubbed his thumb and fingertips together.
Why had he changed the subject? Nerves? He seemed anxious now, worried. Like he was saying one thing but meaning another.
“Alors, Monsieur Volodya, if we could talk about my mother, this painting.…”
“My