Murder Below Montparnasse - By Cara Black Page 0,88

a photo spread?” Aimée said, thinking as she spoke. “If you got the style editor on board and suggested an ensemble piece … you know, a little fashion voyage you whip into an article and use in the book. Nothing wasted.”

A little suck of breath. “You could make that happen, Aimée?”

“Her bodyguard likes me. Her female bodyguard.” A little too much.

“A female Russian bodyguard? Ooh, that could work for the shoot. I see Slavic cheekbones, toned body in a black leather catsuit.”

“Picture a business suit and biceps, Martine,” she said. “I’m meeting her for a drink later.”

“Bien sûr, you’re a big girl, you can handle yourself,” Martine said.

“The things I do for you, Martine,” she said, letting out a sigh. “She can take people down. Probably trained at the KGB.”

“It’s the FSB now.”

The second person to tell her that today.

“Then you’re interested?” Aimée paced back and forth on the dimly lit cobbles.

She heard keys tapping on a keyboard.

“Don’t be silly. I’m emailing the editor right now to see if we can make this month’s deadline.”

“So do me a favor. Explore her husband Dmitri Bereskova’s projected ‘art’ museum, who he owes krysha, and if a Modigliani would put him back on top.”

Martine sighed into the phone. “Why do I think you’ve been angling me into getting information all along?”

Dombasle waved from inside.

“Remember Bereskova’s art museum, Martine. Dombasle’s beckoning.…”

“Dombasle as in Rafael de la Dombasle, son of the noted painter?”

Did that explain his intello air? “Told me he’s an art cop. Got to go.”

AT THE COUNTER Dombasle introduced her to Huppert. Mid-thirties, sparse brown hair, black jacket and jeans, he stood a head shorter than her, with a glass of sparkling apple cider in hand.

“This is the one I told you about,” Dombasle said.

“You know I only do business at the gallery,” Huppert said. No smile.

Feeling awkward, she wished they’d open a window. The close air of too many bodies coupled with the pounding feet made it hard to think. She wondered why Dombasle insisted on meeting this uninterested man.

“We won’t have a chance later. You’re always busy at receptions,” Dombasle said.

“I’ve got to report on Maiwen’s progress to my wife,” Huppert said. “Her Breton culture’s like a religion to her. Wants Maiwen to learn Breton, move to Vannes.” He smiled at a flush-faced young girl, thick black hair in a ponytail, who winked back at him. “I draw the line at living near Montparnasse, that’s as Breton-ville as I get. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

Give this man high points for rudeness. Then again, one had to respect people’s privacy. But Dombasle was not going to let him go so easily.

“Show him the photo from Luebet’s envelope.”

There in the crowded hall, despite her misgivings, Aimée showed Huppert the Polaroid of Luebet and Yuri holding the small painting.

Huppert glanced at the photo. Looked again and set down the cider. Intent now, he put out his hand. “May I?”

She handed him the photo, and after a moment he beckoned them out the doors, past the foyer and into the courtyard.

“Why didn’t the old fox Luebet mention this?” he muttered under the lamplight.

“A little late now,” Dombasle said.

“I heard.” Huppert shook his head, his gaze fixed on the Polaroid. “Terrible.”

Aimée wanted to scream. Little good that would do now. Both men in the photo had been murdered; the Modigliani had vanished.

“How did you get this, Mademoiselle?” Huppert said.

“That’s not the point. He says you’re the Modigliani expert. What do you think?”

“From a bad photo?” He shook his head. “Do you know how many faux Modiglianis come across the gallery doorstep in a week?”

Be that way, Monsieur Expert, she wanted to say, but bit her tongue. “It’s not my intention to pass anything off on you. Nor was it my idea to come here. We’re wasting everyone’s time,” she said, reaching for the Polaroid.

She had Piotr’s Volodya’s letters to authenticate and give provenance. To her thinking, Yuri never intended for his wife’s son to inherit the painting. But if Huppert knew and it got back to Oleg, repercussions could follow; inheritance issues, a long court case.

But Huppert didn’t let go. “Un moment.” He pulled out readers from his pocket and studied it more closely.

“What bothers me is why someone would leave a Modigliani—say it’s real—in a damp cellar for more than seventy years,” Dombasle said. “All of a sudden it reappears, an old man claims it’s stolen but refuses to make a robbery report. He’s murdered, and then after that the art appraiser. But where’s the