Paris Love Match - By Nigel Blackwell Page 0,48

an endless string of Renaults until Sidney called a stop and leaned against a railing. She pried off one shoe and massaged her foot. “This is stupid. Like trying to find a needle in a haystack.”

Piers stretched the backs of his legs. “Next time, let’s kick Little and Large out, and we’ll keep the car.”

“You’ve waited all this time to think of that?”

Her phone buzzed. She read a message, pressed a couple of buttons, and stuffed it back in her pocket. “Friend. Doesn’t matter. Come on.”

“Where?”

“To walk this bloody route.”

Piers sighed and followed along after her. He rearranged the folds in the map to keep up with their location. After an hour, the Seine came into view. “That’s it. I’ve had enough,” she said, stopping on the sidewalk.

“There’s only one more street,” Piers said.

She looked at the last side road before the bridge to the island on which Notre Dame sat. She shook her head. “Sometimes I hate you. Lead on.”

A cardboard No Way Out sign had been shoddily tied to a lamppost at the street’s entrance. Sidney glanced down the road. “A dumpster, a dead end, and no sign of a Renault.” She sighed. “Any other bright ideas?”

Piers folded the map. “There’s a few more roads on the island.”

“They can wait. I’m going to sit down.” She walked off for a café. Piers took one last look down the dead end. “Wait.”

She stopped and looked back at him. “I need to sit down.”

“No. Look. Waterloo Large Construction.”

She rolled her eyes. “So?”

“That’s my company.”

“Terrific. I’m going to sit down.”

“Auguste spat at me when he saw the logo on my shirt.”

She threw her hands up. “Maybe he didn’t like your bloody cranes spoiling the view. Maybe your company turned him down for a job. Maybe,” she shook her head, “maybe he just didn’t like you.”

“Or, maybe he hated Waterloo for a reason.”

“Didn’t you just hear what I said?”

“Just wait a moment.” Piers started down the dead end. The road was blocked off a hundred yards down from the entrance. Cars lined either side, some of them double-parked to make the most of the dead end. The yellow dumpster had seen better days. It was the large sort. Piers forgot how much it contained, but he knew the big cranes were used to move them around and lift them onto 18-wheelers.

As he walked toward the dumpster he saw something else, a small patch of dirty color poking out behind it. He quickened his pace. It was hard to tell, but as he saw more of the color he started to run. Seconds later he was staring at a faded blue Renault 5. The stripe along the sides was missing from the passenger door. Probably as a result of accident damage and a re-spray. He waved to Sidney. She trudged toward him.

He walked around the car. It was wedged in by the dumpster. There were several holes in the tailgate that were large enough he could poke his middle finger into them. Through the windows he could see the holes lined up with holes in the seat backs.

He heard footsteps, which turned into a run. Sidney grabbed his arm. “My god, is this it?”

He nodded. “There are bullet holes in the rear.”

Sidney bounced up and down with her hands clasped together. “My god! Oh, my god. Oh, my god!”

He took hold of her hands. “Calm down. Don’t forget, we don’t want to attract attention.”

“Yes. Right.” She stooped to look in through the driver’s side window. “Is this definitely it?”

Piers tried the door. It opened with a creak. He looked inside before sliding into the seat. The glove box was empty as were the door bins, but wedged under the passenger’s seat he found a four-foot-long tube.

“Is that it?” Sidney said.

He looked up, unaware she had pushed her head into the car.

The tube opened easily, and the contents slid out when he shook it.

“It’s a painting,” Sidney said.

Piers folded over a portion of obviously fragile fabric. “Certainly seems to be.”

“Is it the right one?”

“How would I know?”

“What’s on it?”

He held it up so she could see. The head and wings of an angel were visible, with what looked like storm clouds and a rising sun behind.

Sidney gasped and grabbed hold of the door for support. “My god. That’s it.”

Piers slid the painting back into the tube. “You all right?”

She swallowed and looked at him. “Of course. Why shouldn’t I be?” She reached out to take the tube. “We just found the painting. A famous