Free The Corners of the Globe by Robert Goddard Page A

a wary glance towards the drunkard as he did so.
    ‘Monsieur Soutine?’ Sam asked, moving smartly across the arcade.
    The man started violently. ‘
Mon Dieu
,’ he gasped. He peered suspiciously at Sam in the thin light of the arcade lamps. ‘
Qui est-ce?
’ He had a flat, loose-skinned face given some distinction by a snowy white Vandyke beard. His small, blue eyes shone like two sapphires dropped in a bowl of porridge.
    ‘
L’héro de la guerre, c’est moi!
’ came the slurred bellow.
    ‘Are you Monsieur Soutine?’ Sam asked.
    ‘You are English?’
    ‘Yes. But are—’
    ‘I am not Soutine.’
    ‘
L’héro de la merde, c’est moi!
’
    ‘But . . . this is your gallery.’
    ‘Yes, yes. But I am Laskaris, not Soutine. You are looking for my partner?’
    ‘Er, yes. Yes, I am.’
    ‘I am also looking for him.’
    ‘Any idea where he is?’
    ‘No. Of course not. Otherwise—’
    ‘
L’héro de la guerre, c’est moi!
’
    ‘Ach. Come inside.’ With an impatient flap in the direction of the drunkard, Laskaris retreated into the gallery, beckoning for Sam to follow. He vanished somewhere amid the shadows, then threw a switch. A lamp standing on a desk in a corner came on, its light a particularly sickly hue of yellow-green.
    Laskaris rested the Gladstone bag on a stone sarcophagus bearing faded carvings on its side and sighed wearily. His shoulders dropped and Sam noticed how dusty his clothes were. Laskaris appeared to notice at the same time and started to brush some of the dust off.
    ‘I do not normally come here, Mr . . .’
    ‘Twentyman.’
    ‘Twentyman?’ Laskaris gave all three syllables of Sam’s name a lot of studious emphasis. His accent was not French, though he was certainly not English. Sam would not have been able to place him on a map of Europe. ‘Does Soutine owe you money?’
    ‘No, no. Nothing like that.’
    ‘You surprise me. Most of the customers I have heard from since Soutine’ – he pursed his lips and made a plosive noise accompanied by a gesture symbolizing disappearance into thin air – ‘have wanted to be paid for something. Or paid back for something they did not receive. I am Soutine’s
commanditaire
, you understand. His . . . inactive partner.’
    ‘Sleeping partner?’
    ‘Sleep? I wish I could. Telephone calls. Telegrams. Callers. I am besieged. See that?’ Laskaris pointed to an elephant’s foot standing by the door. ‘Would you believe that belonged to one of the elephants who crossed the Alps with Hannibal?’
    ‘Er, I don’t think so, no.’
    ‘Wise of you, Mr Twentyman. It seems others are less wise. Or perhaps my partner is more persuasive than I am. Ach, Alphonse. How could you do this to me? It’s too much.’
    ‘How long . . . has Monsieur Soutine been gone?’
    ‘I do not know. It is a week since I began receiving complaints about him. Unpaid bills. Undelivered goods. And I am liable for them. I am an honest man. I have a reputation. I
had
a reputation. Now I have migraines.’
    ‘Where does he live?’
    ‘Here.’ Laskaris pointed up the spiral stair. ‘In the rooms above. So he told me, anyway. “I do not need a large house, Viktor, when I travel so much to buy antiquities.” Ach, another lie. No, no. There is a house somewhere. A chateau, where he reclines on his chaise longue with his mistress. But I do not know where it is. I do not know where
he
is.’
    ‘It’s important I find him, Monsieur Laskaris. I, er . . . It’s very important.’
    ‘But not because of money?’
    ‘No. Not because of money.’
    ‘Then it cannot be so important.’
    ‘How long have you known him?’
    ‘Alphonse? Ach, too long. We met in Tunis, many years ago. He owned a vineyard then.’ Laskaris chuckled at some bittersweet memory. ‘Probably he did not own it. Probably he has sold things here that he did not own. It seems to be what he does. And I am left to answer for it.’
    ‘I’m sorry for your predicament, but I do need to find