DARN AY LIVED IN a converted farmhouse of stucco and red tile that overlooked the historic old city of Aix- en-Provence. Skye had called the antiquities dealer from the train station to let him know she had arrived and Darnay was waiting at the front door when the cab dropped her off at his villa. They exchanged hugs and the perfunctory double cheek kisses, then Darnay ushered her onto a broad terrace that bordered a swimming pool surrounded by sunflowers. He seated her at a marble and wrought-iron table and poured two Kir cocktails of creme de cassis and white wine.
'You don't know how delighted I am to see you, my dear,' Darnay said.
They clinked glasses and sipped the cold sweet mixture.
'It's good to be here, Charles.' Skye shut her eyes and let the sunlight toast her face as she breathed in air tinged with the scents of purple lavender and the distant Mediterranean.
'You didn't say much when you called,' Darnay said. 'Your visit to the Fauchards went well, I trust.'
Her eyes blinked open. 'As well as could be expected,' she said.
'Bon. And did Mr. Austin enjoy driving my Rolls?' Skye hesitated. 'Yes and no.' Darnay raised an eyebrow.
'Before I tell you what happened, you had better pour us another drink.'
Darnay freshened their glasses and Skye spent the next forty-five minutes describing the events at the Fauchard chateau, from the time Emil greeted them at the front door to their madcap flight in the stolen airplane. Darnay's face grew graver with each new revelation. 'This Emil and his mother are monsters!' he said. 'We're very sorry about your car. But as you see, it couldn't be helped under the circumstances.'
A broad smile replaced Darnay's grim expression. 'What matters most is that you are safe. The loss of the Rolls is of no consequence. The car cost me a fraction of its worth. A 'steal,' as your American friend might say.'
'I thought it was something like that.'
Darnay paused in thought. 'I'm intrigued by your description of the Jules Fauchard portrait. You're sure he was wearing the same helmet?'
'Yes. Have you made any progress with its identification?' 'A great deal of progress.' He drained his glass. 'If you are sufficiently refreshed, we will go see Weebel.' 'What's a Weebel?'
'Not a what, but a who. Oskar Weebel is an Alsatian who lives in the city. He has the helmet.' 'I don't understand.'
Darnay rose from his chair and took Skye by the hand. 'You will when you meet him.'
Minutes later, they were in Darnay's Jaguar, speeding along a narrow, twisting road. Darnay casually wheeled the car around the switchbacks as if he were on a straightaway.
'Tell me more about your friend,' Skye said as they entered the outskirts of the historic old city. Darnay turned off onto a narrow street between the Atelier de Cezanne and the Cathedrale Saint Sauveur.
'Weebel is a master craftsman,' Darnay said. 'One of the finest I've ever come across. He fabricates reproductions of antique weapons and armor. He farms out most of his production these days. But his own work is so good that some of the finest museums and most discerning collectors in the world are unaware that what they consider antique pieces were actually forged in his shop.'
'Fakes?'
Darnay winced. 'That's such an ugly word to come from such a lovely mouth. I prefer to call them high- quality reproductions.'
'Pardon me for asking, Charles, but have any of these wonderful reproductions been sold to the museums and collectors who are your clients?'
'I seldom make claims about the authenticity of my wares. Something like that could land me in jail for fraud. I merely imply that the item in question may have a certain provenance and let the client connect the dots. As the American comedian W. C. Fields said, 'You can't cheat an honest man.' We're here.'
He pulled the Jaguar up to the curb and led Skye to a two-story stone building of medieval architecture. He punched the bell and a moment later a short round man in his sixties, wearing a pale gray workman's smock, opened the door and greeted them with a wide smile. He ushered them into the house, where Darnay made introductions.
Weebel seemed to have been assembled of mismatched spare parts. His skull-bald head was too large for his shoulders. When he removed his old-fashioned spectacles, his kindly eyes were seen to be too small for his face. His legs were stumpy. Yet his perfect mouth and teeth could have come from a fashion model and his fingers were long and slender, like those of a concert pianist. He reminded Skye
of Mole from the English classic The Wind in the Willows, by Kenneth Grahame.
Weebel shot a shy glance in Skye's direction. He said, 'Now I know why I have not heard from you, Charles. You have been otherwise distracted.'
'As a matter of fact, Mademoiselle Labelle arrived only a little while ago, my good friend. I have filled the time since her arrival telling her of your wonderful skills.'
Weebel replied with a self-effacing tut-tut, but it was evident from his expression that the compliment pleased him. 'Thank you, Charles. I was just brewing some hibiscus tea,' he said, and led them into a neatly ordered kitchen, where they sat at a trestle table. Weebel poured the tea, then peppered Skye with questions about her work. As she patiently answered the questions, she had the feeling that Weebel was tucking her answers in tidy mental files.
'Charles has told me about your work as well, Monsieur Weebel.' When he became excited, Weebel punctuated his speech with a quick 'Aha,' spoken as one word.
'He has. Well then. Aha. I'll show you my workshop.' He led them down a narrow staircase to the basement, which was brightly lit with fluorescent lights. It was basically a blacksmith's shop equipped with a forge, anvil, chisels, specialized hammers and pincers, all tools geared for the amorer's basic task, which was beating out plates from hot metal. An assortment of breastplates, leg armor, gauntlets and other protective equipment hung from the walls. Darnay's practiced eye glanced at a shelf holding several helmets of various styles.
'Where is the piece I left here?'
'A special headpiece like that deserves special treatment,' Weebel said. He went over to the suit of armor standing in the corner, flipped up the visor and reached inside. 'This is a mass-produced item. Aha. I have them fabricated in China for the restaurant trade mostly.'
He activated a switch inside the suit and a section of wall panel about four feet wide opened with a soft click to reveal a steel door. He punched out a number on the combination keypad. Behind the door was a room the size of a walk-in closet. The walls were lined with shelves stacked with wooden boxes of odd sizes, each marked with a number.
Weebel picked out a tall square case, which he brought into the workshop. He set it on a table and lifted out the Fauchard helmet. Skye eyed the embossed face and thought back to the portrait of Jules she had seen at the Fauchard chateau.
'A remarkable piece. Remarkable. Aha.' Weebel waved his hands over the helmet like a fortune-teller looking into a crystal ball. 'I had my metallurgist look at it. The iron used to make the steel was most unusual. He believes it may have come from a meteorite.'
Darnay smiled at Skye. 'That was Mademoiselle Labelle's theory. Have you dated this piece?'
'Some of the design features were innovative, as. you pointed out. I would place it in the fifteen hundreds, which is when the embossing of human or animal facial characteristics into the visor caught on. It is possible that the metal itself is much older, and that the helmet was recast from an earlier one. This dent is a proof mark apparently made to test the vulnerability of the metal to a bullet. It did very well at stopping the projectile. Not so well with this hole. It could have been made at close range or by a firearm of great power, perhaps at a more recent date. Maybe someone used this for target practice.' 'What about the manufacturer?'
'The helmet is one of the finest pieces I've ever seen. Look here on the inside. Not a hammer dimple mark to be seen. Even without the hallmark, I would know that there was only one armor maker that made such high- quality metal. The Fauchard family.' 'What can you tell me about the manufacturer?' Skye said. 'The Fauchards were one of only three families that founded the
guild that became what we know today as Spear Industries. Each family specialized in a certain area. One family forged the metal, the other fashioned the actual armor. The Fauchards were the sales arm, which sent agents traveling around Europe to sell their wares. They were well connected politically as a result. Normally they
