The Art of Seduction (24 page)

She saw the reflexive hardening of his features. Then he took both her hands in his. “I know you're trying to help. But you have to understand, I really don't want to talk about them. It's not that I want to hide things from you. It's just that it's bad enough to have to live through them at night without having to rehash them during the day. They go away. I turn on the light, I give you a hug, and I'm fine. So please, Mason, don't make it hard for me.
Please.
If you want to help me, let's mobilize ourselves toward getting your paintings where they belong.”

He was shutting the door in her face again. But this time, it didn't anger her. She felt, instead, a rush of sympathy and love for him. It only made it more apparent that he was a prisoner of this thing in his past, and it was up to her to set him free.

L
isette's trial began in the first week of June. The bravely silent defendant, dressed in somber convict grey, was led out of the prison wagon surrounded by a phalanx of police guards and marched into the Palais de Justice, past a swarm of reporters and a jeering multitude of spectators.

In an unprecedented move, the courtroom had been sealed off from all but court officials, and its proceedings were to take place in strict secrecy. This extreme measure was necessary, the Sûreté had argued, because of the intense passion the case had engendered in the mob, and because the defendant's links to organized crime made some sort of rescue attempt a strong possibility.

Despite the blackout, the press unanimously speculated that the trial would not be lengthy. As the editorial writer of
Le Figaro
saw it, there were three significant elements to the prosecution's case.

First, the testimony of some twelve witnesses who'd seen the defendant with the victim at the Café Tambourine on the night of her death, plying her with drink and even, according to the waiter who served them, insisting that she consume the highly debilitating liqueur absinthe.

Second, and most damning, the testimony of a milkman who'd seen the defendant standing with the deceased on the Pont de l'Alma just moments before she was swept away in the Seine.

Third, the fact that, in the notoriety following her friend's death, the defendant had immediately sought to profit by her demise, illegally seizing several of her paintings and selling them to the public.

Also working against the defendant was her strangely steadfast refusal to speak out or cooperate with the trial in any way. Rumor had it that she didn't intend to put up a defense at all, so when the time came to present her side of the case, the attorney appointed her by the court would have to stand and merely shrug his shoulders.

Reading the papers, looking at the sketches of her lonely, defiant friend entering the building, Mason was beside herself. But she wasn't alone. Lisette's bodyguard, Hugo, frequently came by to check on her progress and express his anguish. It had taken ten policemen to beat him down the day they'd come to arrest Lisette. He still bore the lumps and lacerations of their clubs. But he held himself responsible. He was tortured by guilt and begged Dargelos to put a bullet in his brain.

Dargelos, however, didn't blame him and had no time for disciplining underlings. He was out of his mind with his own grief, desperate to take action—any action that might save Lisette. He tried to send his own attorney, but Duval made sure he was unacceptable to the court. After that, he began to recruit a small gangster army with the intention of storming the courthouse and rescuing her, come what may.

For his part, Richard was mindful of Lisette's plight and feeling his own anxiety about it. But while he was willing to follow Dargelos into such a fray, if no other solution presented itself, he strained to be the voice of reason in a highly charged situation, pointing out that such a reckless action would more likely cause everyone's death, including Lisette's.

Through the long, frustrating nights, Richard, Dargelos, and Mason sequestered themselves, coming up with plan after plan, and in the end, rejecting each as impractical. As Dargelos went without sleep and food, driving himself to the breaking point, Mason began to realize the depth of his feeling for Lisette, and her heart went out to him. “You have to eat something,” she told him one night. “You're going to collapse if you don't.”

Dargelos put his head in his hands. “I can't. I can't eat. I can't sleep. I can't think of anything else. When I think of what she's going through, how she's suffering…” He couldn't continue.

Mason put her arm about his shoulders. She felt his body relax somewhat, as if he needed her empathy. He reached back and patted her arm. “You're the only one who really understands,” he told her in a muffled tone. “Because you love your Richard in the same way I love Lisette. It doesn't matter if they love us back as much, does it?”

He saw more of what was going on in her life than she'd realized. There was a compassion underneath his rough exterior that was genuinely touching and a quiet strength that gave her courage. She was beginning to feel both respect and a special kinship with the gangster king of Belleville.

 

After the trial had been in session for a week, another adjacent story joined the massive newspaper coverage given the Lisette Ladoux murder trial. Several more of the victim's earlier paintings had come to light, all purchased by the Duchess of Wimsley.

Mason was beyond caring about this development, but Richard was unaccountably furious. When he read about it, he slammed the paper down on the table and said, “The market's being flooded by these damn things. You were right. I should have put a stop to it at once.”

“I don't understand. Why does anyone want to keep forging them, and why does Emma keep buying them? Hasn't the French government made it clear they plan to confiscate anything with my name on it?”

“I know why,” he said.

She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't. He just sat there fuming. She had a sense that he was formulating a plan to do something about it. But what could he do?

It struck her as odd that he should care so much about this now, in the midst of all that was going on, when he hadn't before. But she knew him well enough to recognize the stonewall face that told her any questions she might ask would go unanswered.

Instead, she decided to wait and see what he did. She didn't have to wait for long.

That night, about an hour after going to bed, when he thought she was asleep, she felt him slip from out of the covers and quietly sneak from the room with his clothes in hand. As the door closed behind him, she rose and quickly dressed. Then she tiptoed down the three flights of stairs just in time to hear him leave from the front door.

She scrambled after him. He disappeared around the corner onto Rue de Belleville. It wasn't so late that the streets were completely deserted, and she had no trouble following him down the hill at a respectful distance without being noticed. He found a cab just beyond the borders of Belleville and headed west. She hailed her own cab and told the driver to follow.

After they passed through central Paris and entered the 16th arrondissement, it became obvious to her that he was going to see Emma. When his cab pulled into the courtyard of the Galliera mansion, she left her cab and followed him into the courtyard on foot, keeping in the shadows. The area wasn't well lit, and when he paid off his driver and stepped to the door, she was able to creep to a hiding place behind one of the tress only a few yards away.

Emma opened the door herself. “Richard. You came!” Her voice sounded breathy, full of emotion.

“Isn't that what you intended?”

“It's what I'd hoped. But I was beginning to think you weren't getting my messages.”

“I thought I'd better stop by and see what you were up to.” His voice sounded casual, but Mason detected a hint of something underneath that told her he was anything but.

Emma opened the door wider so the light from inside spilled out. As Richard stepped in, Mason reached into her bag and extracted a calling card; then as Emma closed the door behind him, she raced from her hiding place to stand at the side of the door, slipping the card in between the doorjamb and the lock to keep it from latching.

She waited a few moments, then eased the door open and peered in. By now they'd moved into the main salon, leaving the foyer empty. She entered quietly, making sure the door made no noise as she closed it, then crept to the doorway of the salon to peek inside.

“I understand you were using this place for a little unscheduled target practice,” Richard commented in the same neutral tone.

“Oh, that. Let's forget that for now. You know I don't take surprises well. Would you like to see the paintings? They're over here. I've arranged them in the order I want you to see them. No, no, start over here with this one.”

As Mason watched from the shadows, they moved across the room to where the six forged canvases were lined up on display stands. For what seemed an eternity, no one spoke. Richard shifted his weight several times as he stood, but he seemed to be transfixed.

Finally, with vulnerability underscoring her confidence, Emma said, “Nothing I've ever done has come as easily or felt as satisfying as these works. For the first time, I wasn't just copying a style, I was creating within it. I just hope you feel the same way.”

What was she saying?
Emma
was the forger?

In a rather professional manner, Richard said, “Your use of complementary colors really is quite striking in this one. You've turned into quite the colorist.”

“Really? You think so?” The vulnerability had been replaced with undisguised joy.

Was Mason losing her mind? Was he actually discussing these fakes with the woman who'd forged them as casually as if he was strolling through the Louvre?

Emma gazed up at Richard, her eyes shining. “Come and take a look at this. I really love this one.” They moved down the line to another canvas. “What do you think of the light on the parasol?”

“Oh, yes. Big improvement. I remember how the texture of light was always the thing that gave you the most trouble.”

They sounded like two longtime conspirators, partners in crime discussing her handiwork with the chatty courtesy of two doctors over a patient.

Richard had known all along that it was Emma who was forging the paintings! Why hadn't he just said so? Why was he protecting her?

Emma was speaking in a soft, intimate tone. “This style of painting doesn't just suit me, it's liberated me. It's made me an artist in my own right for the first time. And though I went crazy when I found out she was still alive, I see now that it doesn't make one bit of difference. Because the inescapable truth, Richard, is that I'm a better Mason Caldwell than she is. Step over here and look at these.”

Richard stared at the next painting. “The off-center composition of this one is interesting. Rather like a Japanese woodcut. Hiroshige in particular.”

She beamed at him like a child who'd just been given a gold star. “Morrel was here yesterday,” she went on excitedly. “He couldn't say enough nice things about this one. He called it the summit of the art of Mason Caldwell. He thinks it should go at the very front of the Caldwell retrospective at the fair.” She glanced up at him, her heart in her eyes.

Mason watched Richard move from canvas to canvas, taking the time to study each one carefully. At last, he turned to Emma. “All right, Emma. I've seen them. Now, tell me: What are you trying to do here?”

“Can't you guess? I'm trying to make it right between us again.”

He frowned slightly, not quite comprehending. “Make it right?”

“I know how much you love art. More than you love people, really. I know how much you hate me—blame me for what happened to the Poussins. I've always known the only person you could ever love would have to be someone who could create art on that level. I've seen how you were devoting yourself completely to a woman artist everyone believed was dead. Suddenly, it seemed so clear. A way to wipe the slate clean, to make up for everything that happened between us. A way to make you forgive me. Make you love me. I could
become
Mason Caldwell! I could show you that I'm more than a copyist, that I'm a true artist. I could assume her style and paint better than she ever did. And when you saw the paintings, and fell in love with them, I'd tell you I'd done them. And you'd be so proud. That's why I lost my head when I found out the woman was alive. Because I thought it would ruin everything. But now…now that you've seen the paintings…I'm hoping…I'm praying, Richard, that it won't matter. That you'll see that, whether the real Mason Caldwell is dead or alive,
I
am the woman for you.”

She was watching him pleadingly, adoringly, as tears ran down her cheeks.

“You did all this—”

“For you, Richard. For love of
you.
”

For a while, he just stared at her. Mason clenched her fists so hard the nails bit into her palm. Her whole future stood suspended waiting for his response.

Finally, he said, “Emma…
Emma
.” He shook his head. “There's just one thing wrong.”

She blinked. “Wrong?”

His voice lowered a notch as he said, “They're…simply…not…very…good.”

Emma's face became a porcelain mask.

He went on, “They have line, color, composition. Technically, they're fine. But underneath the technique, there's nothing there. The backgrounds merely look repulsive. The passion of the artist and the purity of the female figures don't have the power to transform them into something beautiful. There's nothing transcendent in the paintings—any of them. Mason's unmistakable spark of originality and genius—her soul—isn't there.”

A dense silence. Then Emma's seething voice, “You son of a bitch!”