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 Prefecture 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 Leger, 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 Hotel 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 cafe 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 PERE VOLEE PAR COLLECTIONNEUR!' the headline blared. My Father's Painting Stolen by Collector! Underneath, the subheading was: Rene 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 Rene 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. Rene 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,
