Free The Paris Secret by Karen Swan Page B

spotted – and she
had changed into her baby-blue culottes, Miu Miu block heels and white cotton blouse in record time.
    They all took their seats, Angus choosing to remain standing. Flora crossed her ankles, knowing her moment was coming.
    ‘Well, it’s been an eventful twenty-four hours,’ Angus began, clasping his hands together. ‘Flora’s been working for almost all of them.’
    ‘It is just as well then we don’t pay you by the hour,’ Jacques Vermeil said with a smile, looking across at Flora and prompting a laugh from the group. Angus’s notes had
mentioned that he was an eminent cardiologist, retired now of course, and he wore the suavity that characterized most men in this elite tier – his movements both few and unhurried, an air of
bemusement mixed with boredom just behind his eyes and lips. Flora guessed women loved him.
    ‘Well, you’d certainly be able to afford it,’ Angus continued, dipping his head. ‘There were quite a few surprises awaiting us in there.’
    ‘Had our kindly intruders damaged anything?’ Lilian asked, a sombre expression on her features.
    Angus shook his head. ‘On the contrary, from what we could see, there was no sign of any previous entry whatsoever. The door was locked and very stiff with a pile of post still in place
behind the door, the windows were closed, and there were no footprints or hand marks in the dust. If you didn’t know for a fact someone had been in there, I would have said no one had.’
He shrugged.
    ‘It was all very odd. There was no obvious sign of theft either,’ Flora added. ‘Quite apart from the additional surprises awaiting us, the actual furnishings of the apartment
were still intact – the pictures were still on the walls, desks and chairs in place, all the shelves filled with books. Either they didn’t realize the significance of what they’d
stumbled into and mistook it all for dusty junk, or they’ve taken something specific, in which case, short of finding an inventory somewhere, we’ll probably never know what that
was.’
    ‘Dusty junk?’ Jacques Vermeil echoed quizzically, as though something had been lost in translation.
    Flora went to reply but Angus cleared his throat and she stayed quiet. ‘Indeed. When we entered the apartment, there were literally hundreds of paintings stacked against the walls, many in
the hall itself but mainly in the dining room. The sheer volume of pieces in there could have persuaded them that none of it had any value. Else, why would the owners have left it?’
    There was a pause.
    ‘And
is
any of it valuable?’ Jacques asked.
    ‘See for yourself.’ Angus’s eyes brightened as, with a flourish, he pulled the first cloth down to reveal the Faucheux. Madame Vermeil gave a small gasp and leaned forward in
her chair, her eyes expertly reading the painting, understanding its nuances and symbolism.
    ‘
Mon Dieu
,’ she whispered. ‘She is beautiful.’
    ‘And rare,’ Angus added. ‘The artist Faucheux died just as he hit his prime. The last time one of his works came to open market was in 1951 in Berlin. Almost all his known
catalogue is in private collections. Only a handful of museums worldwide boast a Faucheux.’ He held up his fingers on one hand and began counting. ‘The Prado in Madrid, the Guggenheim
Bilbao, the Uffizi in Florence and the Courtauld in London.’
    Just four museums. Jacques Vermeil’s eyebrows shot up his tanned forehead. ‘So if we chose to sell . . .’
    ‘You would in all likelihood find yourself with a bidding war from some of the biggest institutions in the fine-art world, not to mention the most serious private collectors who would like
to add his name to their catalogues.’
    ‘How pleasing,’ Jacques replied coolly after a moment.
    ‘This is a particularly fine work,’ Angus said, looking back at the painting. ‘I think it would attract a lot of interest.’
    ‘How is its condition?’ Madame Vermeil asked, getting up to inspect the