Free Murder in Clichy by Cara Black Page B

in a heap to be auctioned off as part of a lot. Many of these “finds” furnished her apartment now. “I’ve got an eye for these things,” he’d say, grinning and crossing his eyes, making Aimée laugh. As a young girl, she’d loved the smell of old furniture, the blistered oil paintings, and the sound of the wooden gavel of the auctioneer.
    Afterwards they’d walk to the confiserie , her hand nestled in his overcoat pocket. Inside, he’d let her choose from the old-fashioned sugared violets and candied almonds. They’d end the day at the Guignol puppet theatre in the Jardin du Luxembourg.
    Now all Aimée saw were the feral gleams in dealers’ eyes and the video surveillance cameras tracking patrons. She doubted her grand-père would have been able to discover bargains or “finds” now.
    She consulted November’s auction catalogue. Nothing. But in October’s issue, on page 114, she found a black and white photo that did little justice to the eleven exquisite jade pieces pictured. Yet even this photo took her breath away.
    A short description read: Incomplete set of Chinese jade astrological figures, reputedly of fourth century Chinese origin. Provenance unknown.
    This didn’t make sense. Who had put the jade figures up for auction, and more importantly, how had Baret ended up with them? Why sell them to Linh for fifty thousand francs when their value was estimated in the hundreds of thousands? Had he been short of money and so, motivated to make a quick sale? Or was he sincerely trying to help Linh?
    “Excuse me,” she said to the smiling woman behind the counter, “I’d like to find out the result of the sale of lot #8793. What it sold for and to whom, if possible.”
    The woman beamed at her, looking past people consulting glossy catalogues and smudged typed lists. “Just a moment please,” she said and consulted a binder. “According to the current auction log,” she said, “this lot was withdrawn from the auction.”
    “Withdrawn?” Aimée asked in alarm. “You mean it was never auctioned?”
    “Oui, taken off the list.”
    Frustrated, Aimée leaned against the counter and thought. Nothing seemed to fit.
    “I need to find out who put the pieces up for auction. How do you suggest I proceed?”
    “I’m sorry, I can’t help you. Queries regarding previously catalogued items must be submitted to Madame Monsour in our archives division.”
    “ Merci, ” Aimée said, and bought the catalogue. She wouldn’t give up without trying. By the time she reached Madame Monsour’s office, she knew she’d have to improvise. Again.
    “What . . . no appointment, Mademoiselle?” said a harried man carrying a thick stack of files.
    Aimée gave him a big smile. “Forgive me, I know she’s busy. Five minutes of her time, that’s all I ask.”
    “If you’d made an appointment. . . .” he said.
    “Marcel, so you finally found the Asian art estimates!” interrupted a slim young woman in a black suit, emerging from the office whose doorway bore the nameplate MADAME MONSOUR.
    “But, Madame Monsour, that’s what I need to speak with you about,” Aimée said, stepping forward. “I need background information on a jade collection.”
    “Do your homework. Go read some books, Mademoiselle. I suggest—”
    “But I have, you see, and they raise more questions.”
    Madame Monsour was attractive and well put together, with coiffed black hair that almost disguised her small ears: very small, which she hid with her thick shoulder length hair. Except when, with a the nervous motion, she tucked it behind her ears.
    Aimée moved closer, toward the office door. “Please, I’m sorry, but just a few minutes.”
    Madame Monsour said, “The auctioneer needs my assistance and I must prepare.”
    Aimée showed her the page from the October auction catalogue.
    “Please, Madame Monsour.”
    Madame Monsour pursed her lips and without a word, showed her into a high-ceilinged cramped office piled high with