Читать книгу The Little Antique Shop Under The Eiffel Tower - Rebecca Raisin - Страница 11

Chapter One

A forget-me-not scented breeze ruffled the pages of my newspaper, obscuring the headline that had caught my eye. The fragrant sky blue flowers spilled from planters on the balcony above, perfuming the spring air sweet. Impatiently, I snapped the pages taut, hoping I was mistaken, and there wasn’t bad news on the horizon. For our foreign neighbors, at any rate.

“What is it?” Madame Dupont asked, holding a tiny cup of café noir to scarlet-painted lips. “You’ve practically got your nose pressed against the ink. It’ll come off you know, and you’ll walk around all day with the French Enquirer text written backward across your skin.”

I shook my head ruefully. Only Madame Dupont could think of such a thing. She was a vivacious seventy-something woman who still wore a full face of heavy makeup, with rouged cheeks that were so pink they were almost purple. Her deep hazel eyes were outlined thickly with kohl, and framed by false lashes that looked like exotic ebony fans. Still the twinkle in her eyes was that of a woman half her age, and she had a vitality and spark that was hard to match. Plumes of smoke swirled around her carefully coiffed gray hair, which she pointedly didn’t color, claiming the silvery streaks suited her skin tone. She was never without a lit cigarette encased in an ivory holder, a relic from another era. I’d found it for her at a flea market by the bank of the Seine, and she cherished it.

Of course, when I nagged her about her addiction she laughed high and loud, declaring her vices kept her young. Madame Dupont cast most people in the shade when it came to the business of living, with her beguiling charm, and French sophistication, she was an icon in Paris. In her youth she’d been a famous cabaret singer, and rubbed shoulders with artists around the world, and that glamor had never left her. Sought out by men and women alike who were desperate to be part of her life, and know her secrets. I found it amusing, the way people clamored for her attentions. However, our morning tête-à-têtes were taken on a quiet avenue in Paris, so we could gossip in private without a local spotting Madame Dupont and striking up conversation.

The black and white pages ruffled insistently once more as if reminding me about the article and the distressing headline. “There’s been a spate of robberies in Sorrento, Italy,” I said, handing Madame Dupont the newspaper. “The Dolce Auction House, and the Rocher Estate.”

“What? But we were just there!” Madame Dupont said, donning her diamond-encrusted spectacles and skimming the article.

“Oui,” I said. “Can you imagine?” We were well abreast of our Italian counterparts and what they traded in the antique world. I’d accompany Madame Dupont for an adventure in exotic locales; I couldn’t resist the idea of stepping onto foreign soil and breathing in different air, sitting under different stars. We’d go on buying jaunts when a dazzling collection beckoned. More so, Madame, who owned the Time Emporium, and traveled extensively to source unique clock work. I specialized in French antiques, and only bid for pieces that were from my native country but had lived elsewhere for a while. Between estate sales, auctions, flea markets, and my sources, I had enough in Paris alone to keep me busy, but a little wanderlust in my veins justified the travel.

Madame Dupont had invited me to join her for two days in the town of Sorrento. I’d accepted, but her stamina with work and play had worn me to the bone. In response I’d taken afternoon siestas to gather my strength for our evenings out. During the day we’d admired the antiques on display at those very same exclusive auction houses, and Madame Dupont had successfully bid for some exotic timepieces. There’d been no French antiques on offer so I’d happily perused the Italian lots but kept my bidding paddle down.

She frowned. “Oh no…” she said, mouthing the words silently as she continued to read. “Tragic for them to lose the L’Amore di uno and the L’arte di romanticismo collections.” The exquisite jewels were well known because of their Italian heritage. Pink diamonds became synonymous with Coco Salvatore, the soprano singer, who was never seen without them, up until her death a few years before.

In Sorrento we’d been stunned silent when we came to the pink diamond collections on display. They’d pulsed with life, as if they’d absorbed some of the soprano’s vivacity, some of her sound.

Madame Dupont put a hand to her chest. “Such horrible news. What if the thief had walked straight past us but we were too engrossed in the diamonds to notice?”

I nodded, sipping my café au lait. “Oui, imagine that. And we had no idea those beauties were about to be snatched.”

Straightening her skirt, Madame Dupont remained quiet, until finally saying: “How those thieves can override technology that can detect the merest whisper is a mystery, though. They’d have to be experts on security systems, and all that goes with it these days. I can barely send email, so I do applaud their nous.”

“Madame! You can’t applaud thieves!” We paused while a tiny car parked sideways in a car space next to us. The mini car was prevalent in Paris, and expert drivers maneuvered the minuscule vehicles to fit in any size gap.

“Why? It’s true, the facts are he’s a jewel thief with a brain.”

“He?” I asked.

With a look heavenward she said, “Of course it’s a he. Or…maybe it’s a team of he’s. Women respect diamonds too much to steal them. Who knows, but it would be much easier if it were only one person. The more people who are in on the secret the more likely it is they’ll be caught.”

I wrinkled my forehead in mock consternation. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience, Madame.”

I couldn’t help but tease her. Madame’s past was full of salacious stories, yet, it wasn’t from her scarlet lips they spilled. Outrageous rumors still abounded about her glory days. The most infamous one was that she’d been the lover of the idolized Marquis Laurent back in the sixties. He was famous for his flamboyant lifestyle, obscene wealth, and ties with royalty. Their affair was scandalous for many reasons, but everyone remembered the split more than anything – she was the first woman to ever break his heart. No one walked away from the Marquis unless he said so, but Madame Dupont had, because his plan of settling down scared her silly. She hadn’t settled then and wouldn’t now. She craved her freedom, whether it be from man, child, or relative.

That meant she played by her rules, always.

“Are you suggesting in my long, rich history of living I’ve been a criminal of some sort?” A rash of youthful giggles erupted from her.

“I wouldn’t put it past you, not that you’d ever tell.” That was the thing about Madame’s past: from the woman herself, little was said.

“Oui, my secrets are under lock and key unless I go senile, and even then I hope I’d have the good sense to lie.” She smiled. Her gaze traveled just past me, as she considered something. “Have you thought about it though, Anouk, the work involved in being a criminal these days? What he would need to do in order to get in and out without detection defies belief. And then there’s selling the loot. No one could ever wear the jewelry in case it was recognized.”

I tore off the edge of my croissant. Flakes of pastry scattered over the table. “What a waste of such precious artifacts. It’s not only the worth of the jewelry – there’s a whole history attached to those diamonds. And now it’s lost forever. And what for? To sit in someone’s vault for a lifetime. What’s the point of that?” I ate slowly, leaning back in my chair, and turned toward a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower, visible from the Boulangerie Fret-Co on the Avenue de la Bourdonnais. Madame Dupont and I had been breakfasting at the same place for years.

Regular customers strode in and promptly out with a fresh baguette. Nothing ever changed: the coffee was always strong, the croissants buttery, and the view of the tower partially obstructed by a leafy canopy of trees, which shimmied as the wind collected them. It was mostly quiet here in the mornings, with only the stooped man next door ambling about whistling as he dragged his postcard carousels to the footpath, giving them a light dusting with a rag.

Madame Dupont lived in a penthouse apartment on the Avenue Élisée Reclus one street over. A hop, skip, and a jump and she was practically at the Eiffel Tower. My little antique shop wasn’t far from there, closer to the Avenue Gustave Eiffel, and surrounded by nature, leafy trees, and lush gardens, with flowers that changed with the seasons.

“Greed! That’s what it is!” Madame Dupont said. “That’s what drives these black market buyers. The collections won’t be lost, not forever. I’m sure the Italian Carabinieri will catch those responsible. After all, they’re just as well armed these days in technology – someone’s always watching.” Her words were meant to reassure, but her high-pitched musical tone gave her away. She knew as well as I did, if the jewels had left the country, they’d never be seen again.

“Maybe,” I said not convinced. The avenue was slowly coming alive: cars zoomed along tooting their horns, tourists with sleepy expression meandered by on the hunt for coffee, the usual soundtrack to our morning, and a sign it was time to start our own jobs.

I finished the last of my coffee. “I suppose we should be thankful Paris hasn’t been targeted.”

Madame Dupont just lifted a brow and took a sip of her coffee.