Wow. A blatant lie. To my face.
If it weren’t for Roux signaling for me to remain cool, I would have lost it.
“Well, we have the painting, and that’s what counts,” I forced myself to say.
Gordon’s expression told me how off the mark I was. Then he turned to Roux.
“What else do you have to report? No sign of Grepper on the way in or out? No sign of Alexandre Ernaux’s men?”
Roux’s gaze was perfectly level. “Nothing, sir.”
Gordon still didn’t look satisfied, but he never would be, short of Roux pulling that Monet out of one of his cargo pockets and saying,Oh yes. I almost forgot about this priceless artwork you never mentioned.
“Still, I think it would have been better to work through the authorities,” I said.
“And risk your father’s painting?” Gordon shot back. “It could have been destroyed by the time the authorities took action.”
“Well, I’m sure Dad would agree it’s not worth me — or you — gaining a criminal record for breaking and entering, or worse.”
Much, much worse, in your case,I almost added.
Roux held up his oversized, multifunctional wristwatch. “We need to get going if we’re to catch the train we booked for the trip back.”
Good old Roux — always pulling me back from the brink.
I checked the antique clock on the mantelpiece and wondered if that had been stolen too. Then I rammed a steel rod down my backbone and faced Gordon.
“He’s right,” I murmured. “We really ought to go. Unless you have any more questions?”
Gordon’s eyes bored into mine, and for the first time, I saw suspicion there.
Well, that beat seeing me as gullible, I decided.
The tap on my skull grew unbearable as he tried to spy on my thoughts. Then he frowned and looked away again.
“No. That will be all,” he grumbled, then threw in a belated “Thank you” to keep from sounding too harsh.
So, maybe he really loved me.
Maybe that could be usefulalso flitted through my mind. Another concerning sign of how devious I was becoming.
I headed for the door before Gordon corrupted me any further. But a calendar on a side table caught my eye — one of those small, triangular ones that stood on its own. We had one at the château too, but ours was a freebie from the nearest car shop that featured grainy photos of local scenery. Gordon’s came from a bank, judging by the fancy styling and discreet sponsorship label, and it featured famous artworks.
It was open to November, and the picture showed Monet’sMeules— Haystacks.
Opportunity wasn’t knocking — it was banging on the door to my mind. So, I grabbed it. Literally, by picking up the calendar and studying the image.
“Monet,” I mused. “So beautiful.”
Gordon shrugged. “Yes, but popularity has made some of his pieces almost ordinary.”
“You’re right. It is nice to come across lesser-known pieces,” I said.
Roux shot me the same look he’d used when I’d charged up the stairs at Grepper’s. Yes, I was treading on thin ice. But I had to know, for my father’s sake.
“Mom said Dad was trying to track down a couple of lost paintings when he died,” I went on.
My mother had said no such thing, but that was a safe enough thing to say since my father had always been working on one such project or another.
