Murder in the Bastille by Cara Black Read Free Book Online

him.
    “Rumor had it, Goering liked my father’s collection. So much so, that he appropriated it for the Reich. Between the Reich and Goering’s coffers there was little distinction. According to other rumors, there is some question as to whether the collection ever made it to Germany, on a specially built freight train. Many think the pieces never left France, yes?”
    “Madame, why do you come to me?” Mathieu asked, gripping the edge of the work table.
    “Yes, of course, I’m bothering you with this old story. Please hear me out. In the account books we saw the Cavour shop name, and know you are respected ébénistes . The Comte’s files went back to when your grandfather, then your father, and perhaps even you, worked on his pieces.”
    Bile stuck in Mathieu’s throat. If he told her the truth, or what he knew of the truth, he’d lose everything; the atelier, the building where he’d been born, and his business: the business he struggled to keep open and out of the tax man and developers’ reach.
    “I’m so sorry to hear of the Comte’s passing,” said Mathieu, trying to keep his expression neutral. “He was a patron and good client for us. What about the other craftsmen required by his large collection?”
    “I’m an old woman,” she said. “And foolish to have hope. So many have told me. But one piece was special. The pieta dura commode.”
    Mathieu stiffened.
    “This was my father’s favorite. He’d recognized it in some pawn shop. Furniture from Versailles, lost in the Revolution. Papa had an eye. He said what caught him was the marble ‘the color of his little girl’s eyes.’ My eyes. And he had to have it. They say it’s worth a lot now, but it’s not the money, you see. It’s that papa thought of me when he bought it. And that’s all that’s left. They took my father and family and everything else.”
    The old woman’s large eyes brightened. Still beautiful, and a curious topaz amber color. Remarkable.
    “The lawyer says I’m foolish but if I found it again, I wouldn’t keep it. Those things aren’t meant to be kept by one person, one family . . . something this beautiful belongs to all. I just want to see it again. Feel the marble, oil it, like papa taught me. That’s all.”
    She leaned forward, emitting a delicate floral scent. “I had to come to your atelier, yes? See for myself the pieces you work on. Smell again that furniture oil odor I remember from childhood; yes, it’s the same. Our house was filled with it, too. Funny, the things that stick in your memory. I remember it as a time when the sun seemed like a big lemon and it shone every day.”
    Mathieu was torn. “I wish I could help you.”
    “I’m sorry, I’m taking your time and rambling,” she said, with a small shrug. She handed him her card. Dr. Roswitha Schell, University of Strasbourg, Professor of Art History . “I’m semi-retired and teach part-time. But I’m boring you, yes?”
    “ Non ,” Mathieu said, averting his gaze. He knew the pieta dura commode, better than she could imagine.
    He couldn’t remember when he’d last had a conversation with a cultured woman. These days he rarely left the quartier . Too much to do. His niece berated him for working so hard and he’d reply “That’s how we were raised. I was born over the shop, measured chair rungs from when I could count.”
    But the Cavour name, the skill and secrets handed down from father to son since 1794, would end with him if he didn’t continue with his plan. He wouldn’t let it happen.
    And Mathieu realized those eyes had shifted . . . perplexed. She’d thrust something at him, her cool fingers brushing his arm. Soft like a butterfly’s wing.
    “Forgive me,” he said, trying to look away. But he couldn’t.
    “But these photos . . . perhaps they could jog your memory. Maybe you’d seen the piece before at the Comte’s, yes?”
    But Mathieu turned away.
    “Monsieur?”
    Elegant and cultured and kind. Like the