Armand’s parents posed in the living room of what once must have been their estate, before the German occupation. His father sat in a wingback chair, wearing a dark business suit. His mother stood beside him, wearing a classy skirt suit with broad shoulders, the waistline cinched in with a wide matching belt.
Maurice studied the room in the background.
A fancy white mantel surrounded a wood-burning fireplace. On either side of the mantel were what appeared to be porcelain plates on stands with a small bouquet of flowers between them.
Over the mantel was a painting of a stream or river with a path alongside it. On the path was a woman, carrying a parasol. Maurice couldn’t tell for sure, but it seemed to be an impressionistic painting.
“Could that be a Monet?” Amelie asked, her tone low, intense.
“It’s hard to tell in a black and white photo,” Maurice said. “Maybe. Send them to me, and I’ll forward them to Swede.”
Moments later, Maurice had the images and texted them to Swede with the message that they were of Armand’s parents, some of them before WWII, and the one taken in New Orleans with the watch in his hand.
A woman entered the bakery, calling a halt to Amelie’s break. She rose with a smile and called out a greeting, slipping quickly behind the counter to take the lady’s order.
Maurice collected their coffee cups and carried them into the kitchen, poured the cold coffee into the sink and placed the cups into the dishwasher.
When he went back out to the front, the woman had finished her purchase and was walking out the door.
A middle-aged blond-haired man in neatly pressed slacks, a polo shirt and a blazer held the door for the woman until she passed through, then entered.
The man approached the counter with a smile. “I am looking for Ms. Amelie Aubert,” he said with a hint of a German accent.
Maurice tensed and moved closer to Amelie.
The smile of greeting Amelie wore slipped. “That’s me. How can I help you?”
The man held out his hand. “I’m Fredrick Schulz. I am currently researching the flight of wealthy French families who left France during WWII. I understand you worked with Armand Benoît in Paris a few years ago.”
Amelie nodded. “I did.”
“His parents, Germaine and Celine Benoît, were just such a family able to escape before Nazi occupation. I had hoped to learn more about them through journals, diaries or stories passed down to their son, Armand. Unfortunately, Armand is deceased, and his son, Luis, had little knowledge of his father’s family, having lived with his mother in California for most of his life.”
“What do you want from me?” Amelie asked.
“Did Armand Benoît speak to you of his parents’ journey? Where they went and how they survived in exile?”
Maurice’s brow dipped. “Even if she knew anything, why should she tell you? Why is it important for you to know more about the Benoîts?”
Schulz lifted his chin. “I am a historian of the arts. I am also German. As a German, I understand many famous paintings and antiquities were stolen, hidden or lost during WWII by Nazis and their sympathizers. I am trying to determine whether the Benoîts were able to escape with their prized art and antiquities or if they left them in their home for the Nazis to steal. I have been studying letters and records from the team Hitler assembled to identify artworks from wealthy collectors, which they targeted for works to be added to the Führermuseum in Linz. The Benoîts were among the names listed, with a note that they had defected. No other historical accounts indicate whether they escaped with their collection or if the works were confiscated by the regime. Did Armand have any artwork that you knew of?”
“Armand Benoît was first and foremost a master chef. He lived and breathed his work. Outside the Chez Benoît, his life was minimalistic. Small flat, limited furniture and little decoration.” Amelie lifted her chin, her jaw tight. “Upon his death, everything he owned was donated to the poor. His son was heading back to California and didn’t want any of the furnishings. There was no artwork. I don’t know what else to tell you.”
“Did he say whether or not his parents passed artwork to him that he might have sold before you met him?” Schulz asked.
Amelie shook her head. “No.”
“Did Mr. Benoît tell you that his parents came to New Orleans?”
Amelie hesitated and then answered, “He did mention it.”
“Did he say how they supported themselves?”
“His mother worked in a bakery, his father in a shipyard.”
“Did he say whether or not they sold any valuables to help them through that time or to fund their return trip?”
Amelie looked as though she was starting to get irritated with the German’s direct questioning. The man didn’t exude a hint of charm, just cold manners. “What I’ve told you already is everything Armand told me of his parents’ time in New Orleans.”
