When I got back to the hotel, there was finally a message from Boucher saying that he'd been in touch with Godard again, and things were looking up. Go-dard was coming to Paris in the next day or two and would probably see me. Boucher would be back in touch with something more concrete as soon as he could.
By this time, I had done absolutely everything I could think of to do in Paris and was starting to get a little impatient, if not downright irritable, although there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. I had no idea what the fellow looked like, where he lived, or anything else except that he apparently had an Etruscan horse that he might or might not be prepared to sell, and that he would probably speak to me sometime, somewhere.
Boucher called again that evening. "Look," he said in a whisper. "I'm in the Cafe de la Paix with a friend of Godard's. Why don't you wander over here and happen upon me, if you see what I mean. You know. Chance encounter. Here he comes. I've got to sign off." The phone went dead in my ear.
I hailed a cab and headed for the cafe. "Hello Yves,"
I said, coming up to the table. "Fancy meeting you here."
"Lara!" he said, rising from his seat. "Good to see you. Pierre, this is the woman I've been telling you about, the antique dealer from Toronto. Lara, this is Pierre Leclerc, a colleague of mine from Lyons. Pierre is an antique dealer as well. How fortunate we should run into each other." He placed his hand against his chest and just oozed surprise and pleasure. He was so good at it, I decided I would never be able to trust the man.
"Won't you join us?" Leclerc said, pulling out a chair rather gallantly. The two men were a study in contrasts. Where Boucher favored the casual turtleneck and black jeans look, Leclerc was the well-dressed dandy, in tan suit, cream shirt, and lovely gold and brown tie with matching puff, and some rather expensive-looking gold cufflinks. They were also quite different in style, Boucher favoring an air of sincerity, or at least he tried to, while Leclerc had a rather oily charm.
"Kir Royale, isn't it?" Boucher said, signaling the waiter and ordering both mine and another round for the two men. I wondered whether I'd now be buying drinks for three. We engaged in small talk for a few minutes—the weather, Paris traffic, that sort of thing— until finally we got around to the subject at hand.
"Do you have a shop in Lyons, Pierre?" I asked.
"No," he replied. "Not anymore."
"He's a broker," Boucher said.
This made me nervous. In fact, the antiquities market in general makes me nervous. There is always the question of authenticity, where antiquities are concerned. There are so many fakes, and it's not always easy to tell. There is also the rather tricky question of provenance, where the objects came from, and whether or not they were acquired legally. Collectors' appetites, and by collectors I mean both individual and institutional, museums and the like, are fed by a shadowy group of dealers and brokers who find the desired objects. From time to time, people of rather dubious reputation get into the field. I had the horrible feeling I was in the presence of one now.
"Are you in the market for anything in particular?" Leclerc asked, adjusting the French cuffs on his impeccable shirt and straightening his cufflinks, which were rather ostentatious, two rather large gold disks.
"My client is interested in a bronze Pegasus," I said. "He's the horsy type," I added. "Collects with that theme in mind." I had no reason to think this was true, but I wanted to steer clear of the word Etruscan, which I was reasonably sure would narrow the field of collectors and put the price up. "I've heard that a Robert Godard might have such a thing, and I'm trying to get in touch with him through Yves here."
"I know Godard," Leclerc exclaimed. "Rather well, in fact. I've supplied him with several pieces in the past." He paused for a moment and then gave me an impish smile. "Perhaps we could do business together." His knee pressed against mine. I could not help but wonder what kind of business he meant.
"Godard is playing a little hard to get," Boucher said.
"I thought you said he was on his way to Paris," I said. "Arriving tomorrow or the next day?"
"He's changed his mind," Boucher said. "He's like that."
"He does become difficult to deal with from time to time," Leclerc agreed. "Doesn't like to part with anything. But he is in a selling mood right now. Approached properly, I think you might be successful in convincing him to part with it. Now, will you please forgive me? I must make a telephone call."
As he left, his hand brushed the back of my neck.
"He wants a cut," Boucher said.
"How do you know?" I replied. "He didn't say anything."
"That's why he's gone to the telephone. He's giving us time to discuss it."
"I thought you were going to put me in touch with Godard," I said.
Boucher looked pained and pressed his hand harder against his chest. "That's what I'm doing," he said. "That's why I set up this meeting. Leclerc is someone close to Godard. You don't have to include him, of course, but he will certainly make everything move a lot faster. It's entirely up to you."
"How much?" I sighed.
"I don't know," he said. "He may want a percentage. If you're lucky, though, and he likes you—I think he does, by the way, I saw him looking rather admiringly at you when you came in—he might take a flat fee, say ten thousand. If you're really lucky," he added.
"I'm going to the ladies' room," I said. "Be right back."
What I really wanted was time to think. I went outside, pulled out my cell phone, held it to my ear, as if making a call, and then looked back through the windows to the table. Across the street, Antonio sat with a cup of coffee on the table in front of him. He flashed a grin, his beautiful teeth evident even from where I stood. I looked back to the cafe I'd just left. From the street, the interior was quite visible. Leclerc returned, and the two men sat, heads together in a conspiratorial way. Boucher said something, and they both laughed. I knew, somehow, that the joke was at my expense.
Suddenly, all the sleepless nights, and waiting, and worry caught up with me, to say nothing of the pressure of working for Lake. I went back to the table. "Sorry, gentlemen, but I have to go. I've had a call from an agent in Amsterdam," I said. "He has something I know my client will be very interested in: painting of a horse and rider, Flemish. I'll have to try to get a flight out first thing in the morning. Perhaps I'll swing by here on my way home, and we can talk again. Yves, I think you owe me a drink," I smiled. "So thanks for the Kir Royale." I stomped out of the place, hailed a cab, and went back to the hotel, leaving them, I hoped, in some disarray. With any luck, I'd forced the issue. Because I was sick and tired of waiting for Godard.
THREE. VICHY
WE REACHED THE OUTSKIRTS OF VICHY about four o'clock the next afternoon. It had taken most of the day to get there, partly because I was determined not to appear overeager, but also because Boucher had insisted on coming with me, a fact I found rather irritating, despite the fact I'd apparently won the war of nerves. My snit of the previous evening had had the desired effect: I'd had about ten minutes' sleep— at least that's the way it felt after a night spent alternately fuming and plotting how I'd find Godard myself and convincing myself that Boucher would come through now, if he believed my little subterfuge—before the telephone jarred me awake.
"I've located Godard," Boucher had said without so much as a hello. "He's back home now. He was difficult to persuade, but I explained the situation. We can see him today. We'll have to get a move on, though. It will take the better part of the day to get there."
"Really?" I said, squinting at the clock. It was only seven in the morning. "I'm not sure I can put off the Amsterdam people. They're expecting me this evening." Despite the fact that I'd emerged victorious, I wasn't giving him any satisfaction.