Old Scores (Chris Norgren 3) (12 page)

At this stage my mind was far from its most acute, but I was pretty sure that, whatever else might happen when you fell out of a second-story window, you weren't supposed to bounce. Under my thighs I could feel a smooth, cold surface—definitely not cobblestones, but what? I opened my eyes (when had I shut them?), and although still a little dazzled from the spotlights, I saw well enough to realize what had happened.

Those cars. Those two glossy, gray, beautiful Renaults parked in a corner of the courtyard. I'd actually landed on the hood of one—an admirable, wonderful automobile with lovely, well-maintained shock absorbers. No broken legs, no broken pelvis, nothing but a couple of still-quivering arms that felt like tapioca pudding. I started to laugh, not without a shrill tinge of hysterical relief, but pulled myself up short when I remembered the people who had run down to the courtyard to rescue me.

I gathered myself together and turned to look at them. They stood frozen, half-a-dozen of them, arranged along the steps as if in a tableau, all of them staring mutely at me. In the strong, shadowed light of the courtyard, their expressions were easy enough to read: Incredulity. Amazement. Stupefaction. Perplexity.

"Good evening," I said. I slid gingerly off the hood and onto my feet. More
distingué,
don't you know.

Several people blinked. "What the hell is going on here?" one of them asked gruffly, but for the most part they continued to regard me with bewilderment.

And no wonder. They had heard shouts for help from the courtyard. They had rushed downstairs and arrived just in time to hear a couple of resounding
whumps
and to find me sitting on the hood of a car, tittering away to myself while the vehicle rocked slowly to a halt.

I didn't think any of them could have seen the fall itself, because the two side wings of Vachey's house—his study was in the right one—were recessed, some ten feet behind the central part, where the entrance was. I would have been behind them when they burst out, and they would have had to get a few feet out onto the stoop, or even down one or two of the steps, before they could see around the corner and into the recess.

"I thought I heard someone shout for help," I told them. "I came downstairs, but no one was here."

You can imagine how believable that was, but it was all I could think of.

Fortunately, no one asked me why I was bouncing on the Renault. "Maybe it was someone on the street?" a woman suggested doubtfully after a moment.
 
Someone went to the gatehouse, unlatched the wide door, and went out into the Rue de la Préfecture . He came back shaking his head, looking at me oddly. "No, nothing."

They milled around a while, then drifted back inside, muttering to each other and looking at me out of the corners of their eyes. Calvin had arrived with the last of them, and stayed behind, coming up to me when the others had gone in.

"Christ, what happened, Chris?"

"You didn't find my explanation convincing?"

He reached toward my shoulder and tugged on a loose suspender strap. I glanced down. Both clasps had come loose, and the straps were up around my neck. My jacket had popped its buttons, my shirttails hung loose, and my new patent leather shoes looked as if they'd been run over by a tractor. My bow tie was hanging from a shirt stud about halfway down my chest.

"Not real convincing, no," Calvin said. "What the hell happened to you?"

I gave him a brief account.

His eyes, always a bit protuberant, bugged out a little more. "Who pushed you, Vachey?"

"I wish I knew, Calvin."

He looked up at the balcony. "Out of
that
window?"

I looked up too, and cringed.

"Jeez, Chris, are you sure you're okay?"

"I think so. Sort of."

Gently, I tried out my moving parts. Everything worked, even my fingers, although they felt more like claws. I was far from tiptop; my arms were still trembling and flaccid, my shoulders ached and burned, my insteps felt as if they'd been flayed, and my palms had deep, painful, red grooves in them. There was a taste of blood in my mouth from when I'd bitten my cheek as I hit the Renault. Minor, all of it, considering the way it could have turned out, but I felt like hell.

"That book could still be up there," I said. "I'm—"
 

"You just stay there," Calvin said masterfully. "I'll go."

I didn't argue. "Big blue looseleaf, like a scrapbook," I called after him. "Old."

While he was gone I leaned against the car hood again. There weren't even any dents in it. I patted the metal affectionately. Nice cars, Renaults. Dependable. Trustworthy.

Calvin was back in a minute, shaking his head as he came down the stairs.

"Not there?" I said.

"Nothing. What now?"

"I guess the first thing is to talk to Vachey. Whether he pushed me or not, he knows what's in the book."
 

"Well, he's still up in the gallery."

I shook my head. "Not tonight. All I want to do right now is crawl into bed. Tomorrow morning I'll tackle Vachey first thing." Cautiously I rotated a shoulder, trying to work out the kinks. "Ow. Assuming I can get out of bed."

"What about the cops?"

"What about them?"

"Well, somebody just tried to murder you. I always thought you were supposed to mention it to the police when that happened."

"Murder me?" Strangely enough, I hadn't thought about it that way. Somebody had wanted either to keep me from seeing what was in that binder or to get it for himself. To do it, he— I didn't think it was a woman; I'd been pushed with a lot of force—had found it necessary to shove me through an open window. That was as far as I'd thought it out.

"You're right," I said after a moment, "but I don't think I will."

"No cops?" he said incredulously.

"Well, not until I have a chance to talk to Vachey first."
 

"You're crazy."

"Look, Calvin, how do I explain what I was doing in Vachey's study? Would they even believe me?" I tapped my curling shirt front. "I look like a joke version of a lush, and I must smell like a winery. Can you see me telling them about being shoved out the window by someone I didn't see, and hanging off the balcony by my feet, and then landing on the car?" "Well, it does sound a little—"

"You know what they'd say: 'Hmm, you 'ave 'ad per'aps a leetle wine to drink zis evening, monsieur?' Accompanied by a friendly wink."

"You got a point. And think about what the papers would do with it if they got hold of it: 'Seattle museum official mysteriously flung from window while rifling art collector's office.' " The prospect clearly amused him.

"I'm going back to the hotel," I told him wearily, pushing away from the car.

"I'll walk you," Calvin said. "You look a little shaky."

"You don't have to walk me. I'm not shaky."

But I was. We had only gone a few yards down the Rue de la Préfecture when I realized seven blocks was going to be too much for me. Luckily, there was a taxi stand at the first corner.

"Hey, I just realized," Calvin said as we settled into the back seat. "It wasn't Vachey,"

"What do you mean?"

"Vachey didn't push you out any window. When I came down, he was still standing in front of the Léger, trying to calm down the crazy lady."

"Good," I said.

"What do you mean, good?"

"I don't know what I mean. I guess I'm glad it wasn't him, that's all."

"Yeah, he's a likable old coot. But there's something about him . . ."

"I know. Well, I still want to start with him tomorrow. I think the first thing is to find out what's in that scrapbook."

 
"I'll go with you."

"Calvin, you don't have to go with me."

"I know, but what else do I have to do? What time, eight o'clock?"

I shuddered. "God, no. I'll call you when I get up. Maybe ten."

The cab pulled up in front of the Hôtel du Nord. I got out somewhat creakily; I'd begun to stiffen up.

"Don't forget to call me," Calvin said.

I leaned on the doorframe. "Look, Calvin, nobody's going to try to kill me tomorrow morning, if that's what you're worried about. There's no reason to. And I think I'd do better talking to Vachey alone."

Calvin heard me out. "Just call me, okay? Better yet, I'll call you. Ten o'clock."

"Okay, all right." I straightened up. "Tell me something, will you? Did Tony ask you to watch out for me or something? To make sure I didn't do anything dumb?"

Calvin tilted his head to one side and gave me his most rabbity grin. "You got it," he said.

* * *

Ordinarily, I kept clear of the hotel elevator, a rickety birdcage high on charm but low on everything else. Tonight, however, I was grateful to clank falteringly up to the fourth floor in it. Once in my room, I took a couple of aspirin, checked myself over for cuts (none) and abrasions (some), and got into a hot bath in which I soaked dreamily for three-quarters of an hour, drifting in and out of a doze.

It was after 1:00 a.m. when I climbed out, soothed but utterly washed out. I left a wake-up call for 9:30, and sank into the pillows.

At 7:50 the telephone rang. I got one eye open and glowered at it. On the fourth ring I got my muscles working and reached for it, growling something into the mouthpiece.

"Hiya, Chris." It was Calvin. "Did I wake you up?"

"It's not ten o'clock," I said.

"Listen," he said, "there's something in the paper I want to show you."

"Show me at ten."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes, okay?" I gave up.
 

"Okay, but bring some—"

" 'Bye."
 

The telephone clicked. "—coffee," I finished lamely.

I took another couple of aspirin from the bottle on the nightstand, got into a hot shower to loosen up my creaky joints, and shaved and dressed. Physically, I was feeling better than expected; aside from the predictable stiffness, the only parts of me that were still really sore were my insteps, just in front of the ankles, where, pressed and scraped against the wrought-iron grillwork, they'd borne most of my weight. It felt as if the bones themselves were bruised, and no wonder. I was sitting on the sofa, babying them by slipping my feet into a pair of disreputable but roomy jogging shoes, when Calvin came in.

"Well, nobody's going to have any trouble telling you're an American," he said, eyeing the shoes. "As far as I know, Velcro straps have yet to make it to the French fashion scene."

"Nobody has any trouble anyway," I said sourly. "What's up? What am I doing awake at 8:15?"

"Here," Calvin said brightly. "I figured you'd need a fix." He handed me a huge cardboard cup, milk shake-sized, of
café au lait.
"Picked it up on the way." He'd brought a smaller one for himself.

I brightened immediately. "Calvin, I apologize for what I was thinking about you."

"No problem," he said, and sat in the single wooden side chair with his cup while I got the lid off mine, inhaled the aroma, and had a long, milky, rehabilitative swallow.

"Now," I said, restored to my usual good humor, "what did you want me to see in the paper?"

He handed me a copy of
Echos Quotidiens—The Daily Gossip—
one of the livelier French tabloids. "Page one, bottom right. You're going to love it."

From his tone, I had my doubts. I turned to the article.

"PEINTURE DE MON PÈRE VOLÉE PAR COLLECTIONNEUR!" the headline blared.
My Father's Painting Stolen by Collector!
Underneath, the subheading was:
René
Vachey a Tool of the Nazis, Saint-Denis Man Claims.

"Christ," I muttered. "What a hell of a time for this to happen."

"It gets better," Calvin assured me. "More pertinent, you might say."

My misgivings increased. I read on.

In an exclusive interview with
Les Echos Quotidiens,
Mr. Julien Mann, a Paris Metro worker, has made a series of sensational charges against controversial Dijon art dealer and philanthropist René Vachey. Chief among them is the allegation that a Rembrandt painting recently donated by Mr. Vachey to the Seattle Art Museum is in reality a painting by Govert Flinck, which Mr. Vachey appropriated from Mr. Mann's father under conditions of extreme duress, during the German Occupation of World War II.

"Aargh," I said.

Calvin shrugged. "Told you."

With a sigh I leaned back against the sofa, took another draught of the coffee, and continued.

According to Mr. Mann, Mr. Vachey was at that time the owner of the Galerie Royale, located in Paris's Place des Vosges. As such, he bought up Jewish art collections at forced, greatly depressed prices, then sold them to Nazi buyers for removal to Germany at substantial profits to himself.

I lowered the paper. A slow shudder slithered down between my shoulder blades. René Vachey a Nazi collaborator, and a particularly vile one at that? I could hardly make myself think about it. A rogue, sure; a con man, no doubt about it; a humbug, well, yes, a little of that too—but a beast who would fatten on the horrible plight of the Jews under the Nazis? With all my heart I hoped it wasn't so. I turned back to the article.

Mr. Mann claims that the alleged Rembrandt painting now in the possession of the Seattle Art Museum was purchased in this way from his father in 1942 for a price of 20,000 Occupation francs, less than one-hundreth of its actual value. This is in sharp contrast to Mr. Vachey's assertion that he purchased the painting at a Paris antique shop in 1992.

"It was the same thing as stealing it," Mr. Mann told our reporter bitterly. "Like Jewish families throughout France, we were desperate and persecuted, our rights gone, our possessions stripped. What choice did we have? If we had not 'sold' the painting to Mr. Vachey, the Nazis would have taken it at will. It broke my father's heart to part with it. My father was not a rich man, not a collector. He was, like me, a government employee. The picture was the only thing of value we owned. It had been left to him in 1936 by an aunt in the Netherlands. It hung in our living room. I grew up with it."