Free The Fifth House of the Heart by Ben Tripp Page B

“Property is my business in some ways. The château is built directly on the river Loire. There is a tunnel beneath the walls for boats, built in the nineteenth century. In this way, one can enter the château from the water. It makes a mockery of the fortifications, naturally. There is a gravel carriage path up to the front of the property, and a dirt track that leads along the river’s edge, interrupted by the structure itself.”
    Warming to the subject, Jean-Marc began to diagram the house with his fingertip on the tabletop, an incomprehensible mass of strokes.
    â€œIt’s a bit like Château de Chenonceau, but the place doesn’t extend out into the water. Or Montreuil-Bellay, if you know it. A cross between the two. Medieval structure with Renaissance improvements. Riddled with secret passages and hidden rooms and tunnels. The château is built on three levels, exclusive of the cellars and attics. The main entrance is in the center, salons on either hand, dining and music rooms behind, kitchens beneath. Upstairs the usual bedrooms, parlors, suites, and so forth.”
    â€œMonsieur,” Sax interrupted. “You describe the place as if we were planning a . . . What is the word. Christ. Un vol qualifié , if I have that right. A burglary.” Sax didn’t like the sound of this. He needed to know the prize before he learned the obstacles.
    Jean-Marc broke off a small piece of a laugh and chewed on it. “How can I describe what is inside the place if you cannot imagine the place?” he asked.
    â€œI am not sure you should describe what is inside.”
    â€œVery well. You know it’s most valuable; I’ll skip to the meat of the matter. The property is owned—”
    â€œBy a lady of indeterminate age, Madame Magnat-l’Étrange. She is ill. She is intestate. I remember,” Sax interrupted.
    Jean-Marc raised his glass. “My apologies. You are not the first I have approached. The speech has become a habit. You remain interested?”
    â€œStrictly for conversational purposes.”
    â€œNaturally. Madame Magnat-l’Étrange is a formidable character, by the way. Erase from your mind any image of an ancient, trembling skeleton in a bath chair. She is a mystery.”
    â€œIn what way?” Sax asked, and flagged a glass of beer from the waiter.
    Jean-Marc rubbed his hands together as if to start a fire. “There’s no record of her existence.”
    â€œPardon?”
    Jean-Marc tapped the tip of his own nose. “I have some interest in real estate, as I say. It’s all a matter of documents. There isn’t a patch of earth in all of Europe that isn’t carpeted with documents. Every bureaucrat has his little rubber stamp in the desk drawer next to the scissors and string and the gift for his mistress. He puts the little stamp on a document in the morning. He goes to lunch. He puts another little stamp on another document in the afternoon. Millions of bureaucrats for a thousand years have been doing this. And me? To get my feet on a single patch of honest dirt, I must first dig through a layer of documents as deep as oak leaves in the forest.”
    Jean-Marc finished his wine and wagged the glass for a refill. Sax sipped his beer and tried not to look as interested as he was.
    â€œOak leaves,” Jean-Marc said again. “I was looking into the potential of just such a patch of ground two years ago for a little project near to my heart, and in the course of my investigations I noticed there was a lack of paperwork associated with the land across the river. By which I mean, not a single document had been filed in regards to Château Magnat-l’Étrange—although that is not its formal name—in over one hundred and thirty-five years.”
    Jean-Marc pronounced thirty with an initial F , an accent Sax associated with Paris. Local boy, then. “The family hired solicitors,” Sax said.