He drank some cognac. ‘I don’t know.’
‘But what’s not to know?’ I was puzzled. ‘Tom’s stolen your pictures. Of course I realise they must be insured, but, if you don’t mind me saying this, for a man who has just lost a priceless art collection, you seem strangely unbothered.’
Chewing his cheeks, Luc contemplated me for a moment or two before saying quietly, ‘They were fakes.’
‘Fakes? What were? The pictures?’ I frowned, trying to get a purchase on this. ‘Are you saying the Matisse cut-outs and the other works of art that were hanging in your oh-so-elegant sitting room werefakes?’
‘Yeah, fakes. As fake as Tom’s gun. Dad sold the originals thirty-odd years ago when his business began to go down the tube.’
I was stunned. ‘You mean I could have starved to death in a wine cellar for the sake of a few poxy posters bought on Amazon?’
Luc laughed. ‘Not quite. An artist friend of my father’s made copies, highly professional copies, and Dad hung those on the walls. Nobody ever knew except Jess, and she didn’t tell me until after Dad died. I think it was a question of pride. Dad couldn’t bear to admit he’d failed.’
I didn’t know what to say. ‘But… but…’ I stammered, ‘but isn’t it, you know, um, like,illegalto forge a work of art?’
‘Goodness, Ms Bailey, what a law-abiding citizen you are.’
I opened my mouth to retaliate but saw the twinkle in his eye. ‘Oh, shut up.’
‘With pleasure,’ he responded equably. ‘However – no. Forgery is against the law of course, but it is not illegal to copy a work of art providing you do not offer that copy for sale claiming it to be the original. You can copy the Mona Lisa if you like, provided you do not try to sell it pretending itisthe Mona Lisa.’
‘But Tom’s a blackmailer, a thief. And he falsely imprisoned you and me. He threatened us with a knife, for mercy’s sake!’
‘He didn’t, actually. He dropped the knife when I asked him to.’ Luc stood up and started pacing round the kitchen. ‘But fair enough, Perry Mason. You tell me what I should say if I do decide to report Tom. The localflicsknow me and they know him. He’s spent quite a few nights in their cells over the years when he’s been picked up for being drunk and a nuisance. They’d probably throw the proverbial book at him.’
Then he sat down again and looked earnestly at me.
‘But how do I then tell them the paintings were fakes? For two decades, the police here in Nice have laboured under the delusion that there are priceless works of art kept in this house. For reasons best known to himself, my father never disabused them of that impression, any more than he did with the security company. It was all part of Dad keeping up appearances. I’d have to do some very fast talking indeed to explain it was all a sham and yet almost certainly would still end up in a pile of trouble.’
I saw his point. ‘Tricky,’ I murmured. ‘Nevertheless, have you thought of the risk that leaving Tom at large poses to others? The man’s dangerous, a psycho.’
‘No, I’m sorry, but I don’t believe he is a psycho or dangerous. He left the gun here, remember? And the knife.’
‘He’s such a prat he probably forgot to take them.’
‘Alix, Tom is merely a sad, embittered old man who has lost his way in life.’
‘Well, I sincerely hope he doesn’t find his way back here.’
‘He won’t. He’s doubtless nicked the Citroën too. “She’s running very nicely now, boss,”’ he mimicked in Tom’s grovelling voice. ‘Yes, the hapless Tom will be well across the border into Italy by now, licking his lips in anticipation of endless flagons of chianti.’
We smiled at each other. Then the next minute, oursmiles switched off like a power cut as we both had the same thought at the same moment: the Citroën, the faulty steering.
‘Where did you put the keys?’ cried Luc, leaping to his feet.
‘I dropped them on the floor in the hall when I grabbed hold of your jacket.’
He was out of the room in a flash. Seconds later, I heard the front door slam and he was back.
‘The keys are gone! The car’s gone! The stupid idiot has taken it!’
There was a pause as we stared at each other, speechless with horror, until Luc once more collapsed into a chair, his head in his hands. I watched him for a moment or two, not knowing what to say. Then I reached out and touched his arm.
‘I think you must phone the police now,’ I murmured.
Wearily, he lifted his head and gazed at me. He looked suddenly much older.
‘I know. But God knows what I’m going to say.’ He gave a hopeless shrug. ‘After all, it doesn’t sound good, does it?“Excuse me, Mr Policeman, but my fuckwit chauffeur has hot-footed it in my motor vehicle which has buggered-up steering.”It will sound even worse in French.’
