She slammed the door on her way out.
TIGHT DUCT TAPE BIT into Rene’s ankles, cutting off his circulation. His wrists, tied behind his back, stung. He chewed the kerosene-smelling rag in his mouth. He couldn’t stop panting nervously, his nostrils working hard under his small, flat nose. The cartilage had never developed properly due to the diminished volume of pituitary secretion, a common problem for those of his size. But he doubted these
Every so often the gravel-voiced man kicked him. He heard murmured conversations somewhere. Waiting; they were waiting for someone, or for instructions.
Musky, mildewed odors surrounded him. His nose itched and ran. They’d taken off the burlap bag. Old timbered beams held up the damp wall, part brick, earth, stone, and flaking stucco that he faced: as if someone had once meant to resurface the old cellar and had given up, abandoning piles of cobwebbed bricks and worm-holed planks.
The light from a sputtering kerosene lantern flickered with a low hiss. He watched a trail of black ants mounting a brick by the sweating moisture-laden wall, moving a large crumb. It looked impossible. He watched them to keep his mind sharp, alert. And to avoid dwelling on the ache in his hip.
He could just make out numbers and letters written on the stone: 5/3/1942, Renault factory bombing, and the name Etienne M. He tried to peer closer. More names on the wall in a faded, old-fashioned script. Now he knew, he was in an old bomb shelter, an
He remembered his mother’s tales of running to the shelters or sometimes to the Metro. More often she’d gone to underground cellars and caves. Most Allied attacks had focused on outlying train depots and factories that had been taken over by the Germans.
Fat lot of good this information did him; he could be anywhere. If only he could locate his phone, reach it, and call Aimee.
“Get some beer while you’re there,” the gravelly voice said somewhere behind him.
“Where?”
“Next to Bata.”
“No names, shut up!”
Bata . . . the shoe store? Rene closed his eyes.
“He’s asleep.”
How many Batas were in Paris? They were usually in low-rent
They’d left the rags in a wet pile on his raincoat. Even that he could live with. He disliked more the fact that he could see them. A bad omen for kidnap victims. It meant the kidnappers didn’t care if they could be identified; the victim wouldn’t be around long enough to identify them.
Forty-eight hours. Then dismemberment and death.
AIMEE HEARD THE HUM of the fax machine. Apprehensive, she stood up to read the fax. Was it Rene’s captors, with a meeting place?
“Meet me downstairs at the Musee Henner. Dinard.”
Dinard, the jade expert!
Twenty minutes later she stood in front of Musee Henner, a weathered, sand-colored stone museum that displayed the blue, white and red French flag. Rain pelted the cobbles. She doubted if Dinard had had time to research the jade. But he wanted it.
She needed to string him along, glean information from him. His present interest must stem from the RG’s visit.
Aimee entered and saw a wooden staircase mounting to the upper floors of the eighteenth-century townhouse left to the state by the owner, a mediocre German painter. A fresh-faced young woman at the reception met her.
“You’re here to see the curator?”
Aimee nodded, not knowing what else to do, and followed the young woman’s directions to the bowels of the museum. Too bad; she would have liked to see the view from the top.
The sign on the door read CURATOR. She knocked and Dinard’s assistant, Tessier, opened it. He motioned her inside to a room with a computer on a desk next to piles of papers. Oversized art books filled the bookshelves; a large oval window overlooked the back courtyard
She stayed by the door, prepared to back out. “Where’s Dinard?”
“Monsieur Dinard asked me to collect the jade pieces,” he informed her, his forehead beaded with perspiration.
She played for time. “Why the fax, and the mystery?”
“He’s had to leave for the hospital for a hypertension screening.”
“No offense, but I’d rather give him the pieces myself,” she said. “My understanding is that he’s investigating their origin and provenance.”
She noted the perspiration on his brow and how he kept smoothing back his brown hair. A nervous habit she remembered from their previous brief meeting at Dinard’s office.
“They’re holding something over you, aren’t they?” Aimee asked.
A flash of anger lit his eyes and she knew. That’s what the RG did. Intimidation, threats of blackmail, wiretaps. Sickening. Regnier was probably overseeing the campaign.
“Look, you’re not my business,” she said. “All I want to know about is the jade.”
“They know about you,” he said, his anger replaced by a cunning look.
“Pleyet and the RG? Tell me something new.”
The phone rang. Was this a signal?
“I have to leave,” he said to her. “I don’t have much time. To do the research properly we need the jade pieces.”
“Like I said, I prefer to give them to Professor Dinard myself. When can I meet him?”
“In Dinard’s position, he can’t be seen dealing with you.”
“So that’s why you wanted to meet here?”
He nodded, turning toward the window. The parquet floor creaked as he shifted his stance.
Aimee said, “I have a question. Since the pieces have such a high value and the art world is so small, Professor Dinard must know the identity of the last owner.”
“We work in a museum.”
“But you deal with collectors,
“I thought you wanted help, Mademoiselle.”
But not the help he wanted to give her. “Who’s interested in the jade?” she asked.
“Do you have it with you?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think you’re a jade expert. You’re just full of hot air and questions.”
From his expression, she’d struck a nerve. He froze.
There was a pause. She heard a clock ticking, saw the shadows in the courtyard. Felt the chill in the room which had no working heater.
“I assist and help curate exhibitions,” Tessier said, his voice lowered. His eyes darted around the room. “But you’re wrong. The study of jade is my passion.”
Unease filled her. “Did Dinard mention the jade to you the other day after I left?”
Tessier shook his head.
