"No, he said you would."
"Well you've been screwed all round, haven't you?"
"Yes," he said. "That is certainly true. I was offended, you know, that Palladini wasn't using me. But this is a tough and unforgiving business, I'm sure you'll agree. He, the secretary, asked me if I knew Godard. I did, even if he doesn't like me, so I said yes. I called Godard, but he hung up on me, told me not to call again. I kept at it because I was afraid I'd lose Palladini as a client. He buys a lot of stuff, most of it from other people, but every now and then I get lucky. That's when I had the idea of bringing in Leclerc. Will you really pay me?"
"Yes," I said. The fellow was so inadequate, I found myself feeling sorry for him. But I had no intention of paying for nothing. "But first, tell me more. Did this Palladini person contact you directly?"
"Of course not," he said. "He's too big a personage for that. His secretary did. But I have found a few things for him in the past, so I did what I was asked. Also, I needed the money, as I've already admitted. Business hasn't been so hot lately. I'm out of my league here, I know."
"So this Palladini's secretary just said that you were to see that I meet Godard. Nothing more?" I said.
"Yes," he said.
"Okay," I said. "The money will be in your account later today. You can check it this afternoon. I'll say good-bye now," I said, picking up the bill. I wasn't going to leave money on the table with Boucher around.
"Au revoir," he said. "And thank you."
I went back to my room, got out the laptop, and reluctantly transferred twenty-five hundred dollars to Boucher's account, sent a few E-mails of my own to the store and to Jennifer Luczka, checking on her and asking if she'd heard from her dad. At this point, I just wanted to go home. I wished I'd never heard of Lake, never been dazzled by all his money, never had to deal with pathetic people like Godard and Boucher, nor miscreants like Leclerc.
It was in this rather melancholy frame of mind that I headed back to the chateau. It was late morning, and I was reasonably sure that Leclerc would be long gone. Indeed, I waited an extra hour to make sure of it. I didn't think I could stand another encounter with the man. Dottie would have come and gone by then as well. I hoped she got the furniture, but I thought if she hadn't, and given that the sheep's liver had said I was the one, I might have a go at Godard about that. If I got it, then the trip might have been worthwhile. I'd let Dottie know, of course. I wasn't that mean-spirited.
She might pay me a small commission if she still wanted it. If not, it would make a rather fine display at McClintoch Swain.
By the time I arrived, the sun had gone behind the clouds, and a rain shower was passing through. The autumn colors that had seemed so beautiful in the sun were now a rather dreary and sere yellow. The sheep and the little lambs were gone, and my heart sank. It was all so unspeakably dismal, I could hardly get out of the car.
I knocked rather perfunctorily, not really expecting anyone to answer. Once again, the door creaked unpleasantly as I pushed it open.
"Monsieur Godard," I called into the gloom. "It's Lara McClintoch. I'm back, as promised." There was no reply.
I stepped into the dining room and gasped as a mouse scampered across the room. There was no sold sign on the dining room table. Dottie had apparently been unsuccessful in convincing Godard to part with it.
I went into the living room. There had been a fire in the fireplace, but it was now merely smoldering, giving off a rather unpleasant odor, as if someone had doused it.
"Monsieur Godard," I called out again. The place was absolutely silent. I crossed the threshold of the tower. The horse was still there. I walked up to it and saw a sold sign. Leclerc, I thought with some satisfaction. / hope he paid a bundle for it.
My enjoyment was short-lived however, because the very next thing I saw was a sold sign on the floor beneath the temple frieze. "Oh no," I groaned. "What will I do now?" I didn't think Lake would be too impressed with me when I called him back to tell him I'd lost the temple frieze, too.
The Micali painter: Lake hadn't been very interested, but perhaps that was because he didn't know what it was and could be persuaded. I turned to the glass case. The case was open, and the chimera hydria, the object that Godard had said was the very last thing he would part with, was gone. I suddenly had a very bad feeling about the place, a sense that something awful had happened. Perhaps it was just too quiet, I don't really know, but my feet felt like lead as I stepped into the study. The trapdoor was open, and Godard's wheelchair lay on its side nearby. I knew there was something wrong with that, but it took a second or two for me to remember that he had let the chair down on the rope before he descended himself.
I looked down into the basement but could see nothing. "Halloo," I called down, but all I could hear was my own voice sounding rather tinny in the space. With absolute dread, I grabbed my pocket flashlight and aimed its weak beam down into the darkness of the tomb. Godard lay sprawled, his body contorted in an awkward position, with his useless legs partly under him, his eyes still open, mouth contorted in a hideous grimace of fear or perhaps rage, as blood seeped from a wound at the back of his head.
FIVE. VOLTERRA
"GODARD IS DEAD," I TOLD LAKE.
"Dead!" he exclaimed. "This wasn't supposed to happen."
"No," I said. That was a ridiculous thing for him to say, but still, it was a shock.
"You didn't give him any money did you, before he passed on?"
"No."
"Well, that's something, anyway. At least I won't lose that. Hold on for a minute, will you?" He put his hand over the receiver, and I could hear muffled voices, but none of the conversation.
"Sorry," he said, coming back on the line. "I was attending to some other business. That Etruscan hydria you spoke of: I don't suppose you could just go back and get it? I don't mean steal it or anything. But you could leave a check for, say, five thousand dollars, payable to the fellow, and it would look as if we'd bought it."
"Mr. Lake!" I said. "The man has died in a dreadful accident! And anyway, the hydria was gone."
"Gone, did you say?"
"Yes."
There was another pause and again the sound of muffled voices.
"Okay then," he said, coming back on the line. "We're going to have to regroup here. I've got less than two weeks now. Where are you?"
"My hotel room in Vichy. I've been talking to the police. I think they'll let me leave soon."
"Good. Have you got a car?"
"Yes."
"All right then. As soon as they let you get on your way, head south. I'll meet you at my villa in northern Tuscany."
"Wouldn't it be faster to drive back to Paris and fly to Milan or Rome?"
"You'll take the rest of the day getting the car back to Paris, and you'd have to rent a car in Milan or Rome, anyway. Why don't you just get in your car and drive."
"Okay," I said.
"What happened to him, by the way?" Lake said, rather late, in my opinion.
"He fell into his basement. He was in a wheelchair. .. ."
"I didn't know that," Lake said.
"No. He had rigged up a method for getting down into the basement, lowering his wheelchair down and then himself. I guess that was what he was trying to do when he fell."
"What did he need to go into the basement for. Wine, or something?"
"He was painting his tomb."
"Oh," Lake said after a pause. "So he ended up dead in it, did he?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Unfortunate timing," he said.
I decided right then I didn't like Lake, not one bit. He was insensitive, didn't know a thing about antiquities, and was all round, a jerk. But by now I had spent rather a lot of the expense money: Boucher's twenty-five hundred, the airfare, the lovely hotel in Vichy, and the even lovelier one in Paris, the car rental, well it was shrinking rapidly, and the only way to recoup was to find something, anything, for Lake. If I told anyone, most particularly Clive, what had happened, they'd think I was an idiot. There seemed nothing for it but to carry on.