The Little Antique Shop Under The Eiffel Tower

Chapter Five

Antiques missing as suspected smuggler ring hits Paris

Paris gendarmerie are investigating a robbery that took place overnight at the prestigious Vuitton Auction House on Rue St Honoré in Paris. They believe the theft is linked to the recent spate in the town of Sorrento, Italy, but won’t release any further details. The Vuitton Auction House released a statement today saying that their security cameras had been interfered with and the thief overrode the high-tech alarm systems, including the state of the art infrared sensors. It’s suspected that the rare collection of jewelry stolen would fetch up to two hundred thousand Euros on the black market in America, where it’s believed the antiques are being shipped to, after police raided a southern Californian home and found some earrings believed to be the ones stolen from Sorrento. Anyone with any information is asked to visit their local gendarmerie or call the hotline direct.

My stomach lurched. A smuggler ring? Had they multiplied? It wasn’t just a rogue cat burglar like in the movies? I whipped open the newspaper once more, scanning the next page in case there was any more detail but found nothing. It appeared that the thief was interested in jewelry, and France had a wealth of it under lock and key, especially in Paris, where so many exclusive auction houses were situated.

The jewels would be lost forever, and with it their story. It was migraine-inducing, picturing those precious keepsakes being lifted in the dark of night, hastily wrapped, badly treated, and gone for good.

Blood drained from my face right down to the tip of my slipper-clad toes but it was auction day, and I had no time to make any calls or hunt out any leads. I had to win the cello to secure the scroll.

Once dressed and ready, I hurried down the Boulevard Saint Germaine, making my way toward the 8th arrondissement. The perk of living in Paris meant I didn’t own a car; I walked everywhere. If it was too far I used the Metro. Driving was such a nuisance in this bustling city and I was glad to avoid it.

With sunshine on my back I was almost certain I could feel the presence of the illustrious François Mollier, the famous cellist who’d died over half a century ago. I’d found out that the reason his descendants were selling some select pieces from his musical collection was to fund a theme park set on the grounds of his estate. The idea had me crying into my soup bowl, but there was little I could do, except secure the cello knowing it would go to Andre who would worship it. Mollier’s château and expansive grounds should have been a museum, a place for the people to visit, and celebrate his achievements in a world that still hadn’t forgotten him, and never would, not a place for bumper cars, and mechanical bull rides.

Pausing, I imagined the cello with its soon-to-be new owner, red-headed Andre, alone on his balcony at nighttime with his own château silent. His eyes slowly closing as he clamped the cello tight, drawing the mother of pearl bow back and forth across its taut strings, relaxing into the sound, and letting go of bad memories, like a vapor.

Mellifluous notes drifting above, stars shrieking in the inky sky. Beautiful music would invigorate the antique instrument and summon the ghost of François Mollier, who’d visit standing off in the distance in the realm of here or there, a faint smile playing at his lips…

Whimsical, but totally possible.

Time was stealing away, so I picked up the pace, finally arriving at the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré in the 8th arrondissement where the Cloutier Auction House was situated. It was a grand old building with a French baroque façade that stood out among the less imposing neighboring structures. A burnished gold sign announcing the house hung perpendicular, and creaked softly as it swayed. Nerves fluttered but more from anticipation than anything.

A doorman wearing an immaculate, sharply pressed suit, and top hat nodded as I rushed past. “Bonjour, mademoiselle.”

“Bonjour, monsieur.” I flashed him a smile as he opened the heavy black door and ushered me in. “Merci.”

With quick steps, I headed down the entrance hall and into the bar area.

Exclusive auctions held around France were filled with collectors and dealers from all around the world who were backed up by old money, families with recognizable names, or lots of available cash. It was a sacred circle, and you had to pass some invisible test to be accepted by them. It’d taken me an aeon to be invited in, and I was still looked at as the new girl, but they weren’t threatened by someone who often bid on items that were perplexingly valueless in their eyes and were only sold at some auctions as part of a deceased estate.

But sentimental or not, I had a varied range of customers who, like me, held antiques with rich histories in high esteem. It could be something as small as a tin of buttons rescued from a Dior 1940s’ collection. The men would frown over their spectacles at me and mutter, “Buttons…?” their confusion apparent. But I’d have a customer who collected vintage buttons, and I knew they’d adore such a bounty. Who wouldn’t? Some amazing seamstresses had probably thumbed those little plastic discs – what had the buttons overheard? Talk about hemlines, waistlines, the progression of fashion…

Auctions were jovial affairs. Champagne flowed freely because punters paid more when they were relaxed after a few glasses of bubbles, though no auction houses admitted that’s why they supplied copious bottles of Moët & Chandon – it was the way it had always been done, a tradition that had always made the numbered paddles raise that little bit easier.

The antique trade was still a bit of a men’s club despite halfhearted protests that it wasn’t. But it suited me just fine to be one of the token women. My presence was largely ignored. They didn’t see me as a threat, and I could go by unnoticed and savor the lots alone.

Today, while they clinked glasses, and told tall tales about their latest conquests in the world of antiques, I casually flounced out of view and into the auction room, ready to take my seat at the front.

I spotted Gustave, the security guard.

“Bonjour,” I said, holding my handbag to the side while we air kissed each cheek.

“Bonjour, Anouk,” Gustave replied, his brown face crinkling into a smile. He was a robust man, about late fifties, with a big heart. He’d been working here as long as I could remember, and often saved me a seat if I was running late.

Laughter rang out from the bar area. “They’re in fine form today,” Gustave said, raising an eyebrow.

“Half sozzled already?”

“Oui.” Gustave tutted. “Monsieur left the front door unlocked last week! Can you imagine? Had the gall to blame me.”

I inhaled sharply. “He left it unlocked?” Anyone could have walked in and scurried away with something valuable. Monsieur Cloutier in his old age was getting business mixed with pleasure, a mistake I vowed not to replicate. Hence the rule: no champagne when working. I had to keep a clear head and focus.

Life was all about appreciating the steamy pah of escaped air as you broke into a twice-cooked soufflé deflating its cheesy goodness, and pairing it with a wine and languishing over lunch with friends. But not during work time.

“Not fair on you, Gustave. Let’s hope he doesn’t make that mistake again.”

Gustave rocked on his heels, and smiled. “He won’t. I’m barreling him out when my shift finishes each day, and locking it myself, but I’m not here all the time. There’s a lull between security staff; the place is empty for an hour, so I’ve asked him to rectify that. Just in case.”

“You heard about the robberies, then?”

His eyes clouded. Gustave loved the auction house like it was his own, so he followed industry news. Monsieur Cloutier was lucky to have such a loyal employee, especially as age crept up on him, and made him forgetful. Age or champagne, that is.

“Terrible.” He nodded. “And we don’t need to make it any easier by being lax with security.”

“Oui.” I felt a shiver, as if I was being watched. I turned, surprised to see the American standing behind me. He’d been out the front of my shop, at Andre’s estate, and now here. I didn’t like it – it meant he was on my trail and that usually implied he was after my contacts. I hadn’t heard him approach on the noisy wooden floors. Had he eavesdropped on our conversation? I’d hate for anyone to know about the door being accidentally left unlocked, especially a stranger. He must’ve had ties with someone to be here, though, and that meant trouble.

“It’s you,” he said, appraising me coolly.

“Excusez-moi?” I said in faux surprise as if I didn’t recognize him. His azure blue eyes twinkled, and he thrust his hands in his pockets and took a step closer. In response, I folded my arms and stuck out my chin. Who did he think he was?

“It’s you. The girl who everyone talks about. You’re famous, you know.”

“Me?” I stumbled slightly on my heels, put on the spot by such a thing. I wondered if the ‘everyone’ he was referring to were talking about the Joshua disaster. It’d taken months for the speculation to die down, but it cropped up now and again. I remained poised, adopting a haughty expression as if his presence bored me. “I hardly think so.”

He grinned, Cheshire cat like. “Humble, too, I see.”

“Is that all, Monsieur…?”

“Black.”

His smile slid into a smirk, showing his even, white teeth. He had a strong jawline, and was classically handsome in that all-star American way. He ran a hand through the neat blond of his hair.

“Well if that’s all, Monsieur Black, I’ll be taking my seat…” I said over my shoulder, as I walked across the shiny wooden floor to the front row seat I favored. It gave me the perfect view of the antiques on offer, as well as good visibility to the auctioneer. The American followed me and stood just in front of the stage.

I surveyed him as I sat. His clothes fit like they were tailor-made, his shoes shone like they’d never been worn before – even his nails were manicured. Rich playboy with too much time on his hands. A rich American playboy at that, which meant goodbye antiques. He’d probably ship them to somewhere where there was too much humidity for their moderate French wood, letting them buckle and bow, and another masterpiece would be scarred for its lifetime.

“Mind if I join you?” he said, indicating the empty chair beside me.

I clenched my jaw. “It’s a free country.” I didn’t like anyone to see how I bid, or what I was interested in. It was better to remain incognito if possible, but sitting right next to me he’d be able to ascertain what I wanted.

“Great.” He let my jibe sail past, as if he hadn’t heard, and sat. There was something about him I didn’t trust. He’d obviously been following my tracks too closely for comfort. And I didn’t buy the innocent act: oh it’s you. Please.

“I’ve got my heart set on something magnificent,” he said. I gathered the swell of my skirt, and tucked it, facing away from him.

“Wonderful,” I said, my voice heavy with sarcasm. Better he know I was disinterested by his presence.

“The cello,” he said. “Have you seen it? It’s magnificent.” I turned back to him, my heart sinking. He gave me such a penetrating stare it took all my might not to react. Surely Andre wouldn’t have asked him to secure it for the scroll too? Instinctively I knew this stranger was trying to unsettle me. I toyed with telling him to back off, but maybe playing it down would be better with a man like him. They thrived on competition, and it would only encourage him if I acted irritated. He didn’t say the Mollier cello though. I quickly scanned the lots in front, recognizing a German cello… Fingers crossed he meant that one.

I changed tack. “This is an exclusive auction house, Monsieur Black. Were you invited here?” I gave him a chilly stare, but he didn’t cower. His smile widened, flashing those too-white teeth of his.

“Of course I was invited.” He winked. I stifled a groan. They were all the same these young, handsome Americans. They thought a wink here, a slow saucy smile there would be enough to weave their way into a woman’s embrace… Well this belle fille wouldn’t be so silly ever again.

“I see what you’re doing, you know,” I said. “And it’s not working.” His attempt to ruffle me was transparent. But my main concern was the cello. I’d promised Andre I’d secure it, and now this imposter was in my way. “This is a very select circle, so watch your step. It wouldn’t take much to have you…barred.”

His lips twitched but he was saved from answering as the crowd wandered in, their chatter accompanying heavy footsteps. I hadn’t seen Monsieur Black on the circuit before. And he was American so there was less chance he was related to someone here, maybe my bluff would make him think twice.

I made a show of saying, “Bonjour, it’s a lovely day for an auction.” A collector I knew took a seat beside me. Raphe shot me a puzzled look, knowing I kept silent when an auction was about to begin and usually ignored everyone so I could watch them behind my sunglasses, Audrey Hepburn style.

“Everything OK, Anouk?” Raphe frowned, perplexed over my effusive greeting. I hadn’t uttered a single word to him before, usually nodding a greeting, or giving a small wave. My striking up a conversation in an auction room had him surveying me as if I’d partaken of too many glasses of champagne.

A smile crept across my face. I could still feel the American’s gaze like a laser on me. To Raphe, I said, “Très bien.” Very good. I opened the program and pretended to study the lots, though I had them memorized from my earlier visits, and knew the story behind each one.

The auctioneer stepped up to the podium, and grappled with the microphone before introducing himself. I zoned out, fanning myself with the program, unable to switch off my worry that Monsieur Black was going to bid against me. The scroll and the profit I’d make on selling it would help me immensely, and I wouldn’t let some stranger take it from me.

The first lot was called, and the bidding commenced for an Asian xylophone. It was exquisite, bowed like a boat, its wood intricately carved with roaring dragons breathing fire. It wasn’t my specialty so I subtly studied the people to the left of me, studiously avoiding the American who sat on my right. I watched them tense when someone bid them up, or feign disinterest as they gave the auctioneer the tiniest, almost imperceptible, finger raise.

We were all given numbered paddles to bid with, but most of us used them only once we’d won, so they could record our number to process our payment. They were too obvious, bright white, and showed the competition who was bidding. If you had a reputation for quality buys then there was a chance attendees would bid against you, without having to do their own research on a piece. It was better to be as invisible as possible when you bid.

Thirty minutes later the French cello was introduced. The auctioneer gave a short spiel about its origins. He rhapsodized Mollier, and the maestro’s many accomplishments, drawing sighs of longing around the room.

The bidding commenced slowly at first. I was surprised to feel a rush of cool air, as Monsieur Black left his seat for another elsewhere. Good.

From the corner of my eye I could see the gnarly hand of a painter known only as Ombre raise up. My heart lifted. Ombre’s modus operandi was a few early bids before bowing out to resume drinking the free champagne, and chat to anyone lingering by the bar in the hopes of selling his surrealist artwork. So far the stranger hadn’t bid. Was he toying with me?

A few collectors joined in, heartily bidding, until one of them pulled out with a shake of the head.

I made an effort to act disinterested while waiting for the auctioneer to call it, and on the third count caught his eye and raised an eyebrow in my signature move. A subtle way to bid without anyone knowing it was me. I took the bid up to ten thousand Euros – it was affordable, a downright bargain for such a piece, and what I’d envisaged spending.

“Last bid at ten thousand Euros? Going once, going twice… Eleven thousand next bid.”

I stiffened in response, but raised an eyebrow. There was no need to ponder who was bidding against me; it must have been the American! Typically here to splash his cash and draw attention.

“Twelve,” the auctioneer said taking my next bid. “Thirteen, away from you.”

To the auctioneer, I mouthed, “Fifteen.” If I had to bid him up, I would, and hope he’d stop.

“Twenty, against you.”

Twenty! I’d expected to buy it for ten thousand! Though it was worth every cent of twenty thousand Euros, sadly my funds were limited and I had to be cautious. I couldn’t let Andre down, and I’d all but secured a buyer for the scroll. Time to let him know I meant business!

“Twenty-one,” I called high and loud, drawing the attention from the crowd. What was he doing to me? My emotions were usually kept under wraps, but with him goading me, my rules vanished.

“Twenty-two, away from you,” the auctioneer called. I wanted to spin on my seat and face my opponent, but I wouldn’t give him the pleasure of seeing my face fall when I had to bow out.

I did some quick calculations and knew it was well beyond my savings. But he was American! Another beloved piece of French history would be freighted to some fancy summer home on a coast far from here to collect dust.

And poor Andre would wander those cavernous halls, a shadow of bad memories in his wake.

My face reddened. “Twenty-three!” Anxiety gnawed at me – my stomach roiled. I’d send myself bankrupt being caught in a bidding war. It was his flippancy that galled me. Just because he could afford the cello didn’t mean he deserved it.

“Twenty-four, away from you.”

Damn him to hell! Anger coursed through me, my hands shook, so I planted them under my legs. The auctioneer called it, and looked past me, and then back, waiting in case I bid once more. I worried my bottom lip, clamping down hard, as conflicted emotions tore through me. I hated letting people down, really despised it, especially in business, but going higher than twenty-four would be making a bad choice. It was a little more than I had in the coffers in case I got stuck with the scroll for a while. I slowly shook my head no.

He picked up his gavel. “Last call, for the Mollier cello, a magnificent instrument played by the maestro himself…”

A sob rose in my throat but I swallowed it down.

“Une fois, deux fois, trois fois,” Once, twice, three times, the auctioneer closed the bidding. With a bang of the gavel the cello was lost to me. And I would have to explain to Andre that the deal was off. This wasn’t my year, that was for sure. It went to show you could never be complacent in business.

Time slowed, as the other lots were called. I stayed riveted to my seat, until finally, it was over. With as much poise as I could muster I made my way out of the auction room, tugging my skirt straight, wondering who my new nemesis really was, and how I’d go about finding out. The melancholy notes of the cello would drift up under a different sky, if it ever got played again. Of course, he couldn’t let his win go unnoticed. With his hands deep in his suit pockets he sauntered over to me.

“Who were you going to sell it to?” he asked.

I scoffed. “As if I’d tell a stranger my business.”

“But I’m not a stranger, I’m a friend, a fellow antique aficionado.” He was goading me, and I just couldn’t understand why. For fun? His way of flirting? A way to ease his boredom? Whatever it was, it rankled. This was my lifeblood, and he had bid against me on purpose.

“You are a stranger, Monsieur Black –”

“Tristan,” he said.

I sighed and continued: “Monsieur Black –”

“Just call me Tristan; we don’t need to be so formal, do we?”

Now he was telling me the rules? “Do you make a habit of interrupting every time a person tries to speak?”

He reared back, and laughed. “Are you angry with me for some reason, mademoiselle?”

“Are you dense? You knew I wanted that cello. You don’t need it. America has some fine objets d’art… Why don’t you hop back on your private jet and go hunt in your own country.”

His lips curved into a wide smile. “My private jet?”

For years, I’d heard men identical to him harp on about custom leather seats, and dinner degustation menus aboard their private planes. Memory-foam pillows, and round beds, and any number of things they boasted about to one-up each other with their vast wealth. Why couldn’t they fly on a domestic plane like everyone else? Their carbon footprints were yeti-sized. “Yes, fly it to America or somewhere else, and leave France alone.”