As she got into the car, she turned back one more time. "Nobody answers the door, by the way. It's open. You just go right in. Hang a left at my dining set, and keep going straight on. He was in his study when I last saw him. You'll pass your horse on the way."
I turned back to Godard's place as the tires on Dorothea's car spun in her haste to get to whatever activity she and Kyle had in mind. The chateau was spectacular, but close up, it had an air of neglect. The hedges needed pruning rather badly, and the gardens were overrun with vines and weeds. Over to one side, a sheep and a couple of lambs were tethered to stakes, and a few chickens were scratching in the dirt. If it was a fairy tale castle, then perhaps it was Sleeping Beauty's, waiting for her prince, as the forest grew up around her.
Still, it was a chateau. While I had no idea what kind of fortune it took to keep a place like this up, no doubt it was a considerable sum. Perhaps that explained the troop of antique dealers through the place that day, one of whom, to my extreme annoyance, was Leclerc.
Despite Dottie's advice, I did try knocking. As predicted, this elicited no response, so after a minute or two, I pushed open the door. It creaked, just like in the movies. I would not have been surprised to see some aged retainer shuffling his way to the door, but there was no one. The door had been cut into one of the round turrets, and so I found myself in a quite pleasant circular vestibule tiled in white and black marble, with a very old brass chandelier. From there one went directly into the dining room, with rounded walls and leaded glass windows up very high. Dottie's table and chairs were, as she said, gorgeous. I found myself wishing I hadn't told her I wasn't interested in the furniture. This table and chairs would make quite a statement in the main showroom at McClintoch Swain, of that there was no doubt. At the far end of the table lay the remains of a meal, a half-drunk glass of red wine, some crusts of bread, and a plate. All the chairs, sixteen of them, were lined up against the walls rather than around the table, including the chair one would have expected at the set place. Presumably they'd been placed that way so that potential buyers could get a good look at the table, but it all seemed rather forlorn.
The next room was the living room, I suppose, although it could have been anything. Dottie had said Godard would be eating off a TV table if she bought the dining suite, and she was right about that. While the markings on two very large but threadbare carpets on the floor hinted that the room had once been well furnished, now there was only a small and rather homely settee under the window and across the room from it, in front of a magnificent stone fireplace, one chair and a little side table and lamp not beside the chair, as one would expect, but across from it. Marks on the wall over the mantel indicated that something, a mirror perhaps or a large painting, had once hung there. On top of the side table and piled up beside it were several books. It was a peculiar arrangement, with the chair to one side of the fireplace and the lamp and the books and the table on the other. All of a sudden I knew what the explanation was, and knew too, with certainty, that Boucher had been stringing me along with tales of Godard's travels.
Saying nothing to him but promising myself I would at the earliest opportunity, I stepped into the gloom of the next room. It was very dark and rather damp. It was undoubtedly the oldest part of the chateau, the fortified tower, several stories high, with slits for weapons rather than windows. Fourteenth century, I'd guess, although it took me a minute to take it all in. This was where Godard kept his treasures, or at least some of them. A number of glass shelving units were lined up in rows on one side, and in here rested a large number of terra-cotta pots.
A large sculptural piece had been clamped to one of the stone walls, and over to one side, in all its glory was Bellerophon. The winged horse was rearing up, and the rider, leaning forward, was aiming his weapon at something below. Far above me, a couple of birds were flitting about, and I realized that the slits in the walls had not been glassed in, and that the tower was very much in its original state. I started toward the horse but heard a voice from the next room speaking in a low murmur. "We'd better go and talk to Godard first," Boucher said.
A man much younger than I expected, about thirty or so, sat at a desk talking on the telephone. He had a thin face, its pallor accented by dark, long hair, pulled back in a ponytail. He wore a white, collarless shirt, open slightly at the neck, and a black, loose fitting jacket. In front of him on the desk were several large tomes, one of them open in front of him. Behind him was a computer turned on. I turned to Boucher. "Travels all over the world, does he?" I said, looking him right in the eyes.
"I didn't know. I've never actually met him," Boucher said, looking away. "I've only talked to him on the telephone."
The sound of our voices, however low, made Godard look up. "Not you again," he said rudely, looking right at Boucher. Boucher shifted nervously. "I thought I told you not to come back."
"Never met?" I said under my breath. "Perhaps he's mistaken you for someone else."
"Are you with him?" Godard said, looking at me with some hostility.
"No," I replied. I would have plenty of time later to count the lies I'd told the week or so since I'd met Lake, but at the time, I barely noticed what I'd done. "I believe I was here first," I said to Boucher, as if I'd just met him. "So perhaps you wouldn't mind waiting your turn outside." Boucher, slimy liar that he was, beat a hasty retreat.
"What do you want?" Godard said to me, his hand over the phone. He wasn't exactly welcoming, but the hostility in his tone dropped perceptibly as soon as Boucher left the room.
"I understand you may have some antiquities that you are willing to sell," I said. "I wondered if that is the case, if I might have a look at them. I'm an antique dealer from Toronto," I added, placing my card on the desk in front of him.
Godard stared at my card for a few seconds. "Give me a minute," he said at last, gesturing to a chair nearby. "I'll be finished this call in a minute. You were saying ... ?" he said into the phone. "No, there's nothing I want to sell right now."
That didn't sound too promising. I didn't take the proffered chair which, like the rest of the room, was piled high with books. The study was lined with shelves, each crammed with books, some new, some old, some very old and probably valuable. The world's great literature was represented here, from Shakespeare to Victor Hugo, in several languages. Judging from the volumes nearest me, however, Godard's primary interest was in the occult. Dolores Chapman's Conversations with Nostradamus sat next to Nostradamus' s own writings, Centuries and Prognostications. There were several tomes on astrology and foretelling the future, another one that, if I remembered correctly, promised to explain all the mysteries of Revelations. Over by the window was a telescope, which tied in rather nicely with the astrology books. I didn't care what he read nor what he believed in, but with the dark gloom of the tower behind me and this pale and rather sickly young man and all these books around me, I was beginning to wish I was outside catching the last few rays of the late afternoon sun, even if it meant dealing with Boucher. Still, I was going to have to establish some rapport with him if I hoped to get the Bellerophon.
The call went on for only a minute or two longer, but Godard was not yet ready to talk about the collection. "I need another minute here. Alone. Go and have a look, why don't you? Pull the cord by the door."