Free Hunting Ground by J. Robert Janes Page A

yes.’
    ‘And the whore?’
    ‘I … I don’t know what you mean?’
    Jules, the Vuittons, and the others were upstairs in the library listening to the wireless. ‘That your sister’s being one and that because of what she’s done with Jules, you’ve accused me of stealing from him.’
    ‘And didn’t you?’
    Marcel washed the carcass and laid it with two others in the cast-iron casserole. Adding chopped garlic, some butter, thyme, and oregano, a liberal wash of the rough wine he preferred, he said, ‘I didn’t, and you know it. Lily, why must you hate me? Jules is my friend.’
    ‘Your benefactor. Hah! He couldn’t lend you any more money, could he? Are your things in hock? Has the concierge confiscated them in lieu of back rent?’
    He dried his hands on one of the tea towels, left streaks of blood, struck a match on the stove, and lit that filthy stub. Again, he coughed. ‘You’re jealous of me, of the attention Jules pays to my paintings. Aren’t you curious to find out what I would do with that piece you made in wax?’
    ‘You?’
    He tossed his head to one side, threw up his bushy black eyebrows, and became the Marseillais fisherman he ought to have remained. Short, swarthy, and with brawny arms, he had the gut that perpetual sponging brings.
    ‘Me, for sure,’ he said. ‘That piece, Lily. That gorgeous piece of ass. Janine.’
    He had had no business finding it, but he and Jules must have been searching for the treasure. ‘You would melt it down.’
    Sadly, he shook his head and began to cut leeks into the casserole. Some carrots, handfuls of quartered potatoes, the whole of a cauliflower followed, after which he laid strips of fatty bacon over everything.
    Then he stuffed the casserole into the oven, burned a thumb, and swore as he slammed its door.
    ‘I would do no such thing. I may be a pig, I may even be a poor artist in your eyes, but I know good work when I see it.’
    Apprehensive now, I asked, ‘What would you do with it?’
    ‘Me? Remember, madame, that it was me who suggested this. Me, I would take it to a foundry and have it cast in bronze. Even at a time of war, I would do this, paying a little extra, of course.’
    ‘You couldn’t pay a sou for anything.’
    ‘Then let’s leave it, eh? Let’s give it time. Then go to the Gallery Pascal on the rue la Boétie and see for yourself.’
    That was a street of old mansions, many of them cut up into little hotels, galleries, and other things, and I couldn’t believe him. I never could anyway.
    ‘Why don’t you talk to your sister?’ he asked. ‘Perhaps if you told her how you felt, she would leave Jules alone.’
    ‘I can’t. It’s not her fault. She’s not a whore. It’s Jules.’
    ‘Men can want a lot of women, but women can’t want a lot of men, eh? You’re a purist, Lily.’
    ‘I didn’t take that jewellery.’
    ‘And neither did I.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘So now Jules trusts neither of us and we two hate each other a little more.’
    ‘Lily, I want it back.’
    ‘You’re afraid, my husband. Is it that you’re worried someone else might discover what’s in that box?’
    ‘Just what’s that supposed to mean?’
    ‘A certain tiara, I think. One that the Vuittons must know of. One with emeralds and diamonds.’
    I thought he would hit me, but he held back, flashed a cruel smile, and said, ‘It’s a fake. Worthless paste!’
    Had I been so wrong about it? ‘The box is in the cellar, under the barrel my sculpture’s on.’
    He didn’t sigh or smile with relief. He simply looked through to the other room to where that bitch Nefertiti was sitting. ‘I’ll tell them it’s safe, and you’ll put it back in the attic where you found it, but after we’re gone. Even though they were worried about it, your little outburst last night had the desired effect. Vuitton and that wife of his have agreed to use us as a repository for some of the extra pieces from the Louvre. They’ll be arriving in a few days. Give the men a