Murder in the Bastille

Wednesday

“BONJOUR, ” SAID A VOICE from the shop interior.

In the workshop, Mathieu paused, stretching the band of ash to fit in the grooved notch. He lifted his foot from the foot pedal, halting the rotor blade saw. Sawdust and the smell of freshly sawed wood filled the dusty space.

“Suzanne . . . Suzanne, someone’s in front,” he said, as the metal saw teeth ground to a stop.

But no answering footsteps came from his assistant’s desk.

Where was that girl? She’d gone on an errand more than an hour ago.

“A moment please, and someone will help you,” he called out. He dabbed glue mixed with wood resin in the crack, stretched the wood taut, and slid it gently in place. After wiping off the excess, he sanded the rough edge until no distinction could be felt, as though it were one piece with the wood.

“Delivery!” Another voice shouted. “I need a signature.”

Where was Suzanne? He had an art nouveau rosewood desk drawer to repair and the façade of a console to finish filing. . . . He couldn’t do that and run the shop too. He’d gotten behind since his apprentice Yvon had gone on vacation.

“Oui,” he said, wiping his hands on his stained apron and peering over the reading glasses perched on his nose.

“Shall I deliver at the rear as usual, monsieur?”

Mathieu went to the front shop, signed the receipt and stuck it on the counter. He dimmed the chandelier, a remnant from his grandfather’s day, and assumed the customer had left.

But when he looked up he saw a slender older woman, wearing a tailored black suit, her blunt-cut steel grey hair brushing her shoulders. She watched him from behind the marble-topped mahogany commode.

“Exquisite!” she said.

Her fingers traveled over the marquetry wood decorated sides.

Though she spoke French well, he detected a slide in her sibilants. She stood, sleek and stylish, carrying a designer tote bag over her arm.

The delivery truck’s brake squealed in the rear cobbled passage. Over the open skylight, a flurry of blackbirds fluttered from the flowering honeysuckle. “My assistant’s disappeared, but if you’ll look at our catalogue while I deal . . .”

“Please, go ahead.”

By the time Mathieu guided the chestnut planks to the rough pine pallets, Suzanne, breathless and red-faced, appeared.

Mathieu’s lips turned down in disapproval. “Suzanne, clients, deliveries and how I can work when . . .”

“Monsieur . . . the police line,” she said, hanging up her jean jacket, scooping up the mail, and hitting the answering machine playback in one swoop.

Suzanne had a head for figures, unlike Mathieu. And when she appeared, she smoothed the office into routine and organization with an effortless charm. He ignored her bare midriff-tops, pierced navel, and penchant for Bastille club DJs who picked her up after work.

“Another strike?” Mathieu sighed. “Who is it this time?”

“Mais . . . they’re setting up police barricades,” she said, her eyes wide. “Didn’t you hear?”

Mathieu gripped the desk. His mind flew to the furniture.

“A woman murdered in the next passage; they say it’s the Beast of Bastille.”

The serial killer? Was that what the dwarf had been asking about?

“I had to prove I work here before they would let me into the passage,” Suzanne said. “They’ve started questioning everyone.”

What if they searched . . . found the furniture?

“Monsieur . . . excuse me,” the woman said.

Mathieu looked up. He’d forgotten about the elegant woman in the showroom.

She stared at the commode taking up most of the window space. Her hair fell across her face, and she flicked it away with a graceful movement of her long fingers. Her other hand rested on a black wooden cane.

“My great-great-grandfather’s work, the last one left,” Mathieu said. “I like to display the family’s tradition. It’s on loan from a client. My great-great grandfather kept the business going after the Revolution. Figured tradesmen needed furniture even if aristos didn’t.”

“A smart move, yes?” the woman said.

Or, as he remembered the saying attributed to his great-great grandfather, “They needed to park their rears to count the money.”

Was she a client?

“Suzanne, my assistant, can show you samples.”

“Perhaps this is a bad time . . .” An unsure look crossed her face as she reached for something in her bag.

Honor your clientele. Hadn’t his father drummed that into their heads? Artisans must respect clients. Mathieu preferred to stay in back and work, but he knew craftsmanship wasn’t the only thing that kept the shop door open.

He smiled and stuck his ruler in his blue work coat. “Madame, I welcome special orders. Please sit down.”

She ended many of her sentences in the old style with a questioning yes. She must be in her seventies, but her complexion could be that of a woman half her age. Wherever she came from, they took care of themselves.

He gestured toward a rosewood chair, brushed a speck of sawdust from the seat.

“For just a moment, but I’m afraid it’s not what you think. I feel guilty taking you away from your work, monsieur,” she said, sitting, resting the cane against her leg. “People tell me I’m chasing what is long gone, but my lawyer gave this to me.”

She pulled an envelope from her bag. “This list came to us from the Comte de Breuve’s estate. Evidently he’d gone bankrupt and the state took it over upon his death. On it, Monsieur Cavour, were some pieces owned by my family: paintings, sculpture, and furniture. Some of these had been in my family for generations. But they disappeared years ago, during the war. They’ve never been seen or heard of again. Now this list has come to light.”

Cold fear rooted Mathieu to the spot. His mouth felt as dry as the sawdust beneath him.

“Rumor had it, Goering liked my father’s collection. So much so, that he appropriated it for the Reich. Between the Reich and Goering’s coffers there was little distinction. According to other rumors, there is some question as to whether the collection ever made it to Germany, on a specially built freight train. Many think the pieces never left France, yes?”

“Madame, why do you come to me?” Mathieu asked, gripping the edge of the work table.

“Yes, of course, I’m bothering you with this old story. Please hear me out. In the account books we saw the Cavour shop name, and know you are respected ébénistes. The Comte’s files went back to when your grandfather, then your father, and perhaps even you, worked on his pieces.”

Bile stuck in Mathieu’s throat. If he told her the truth, or what he knew of the truth, he’d lose everything; the atelier, the building where he’d been born, and his business: the business he struggled to keep open and out of the tax man and developers’ reach.

“I’m so sorry to hear of the Comte’s passing,” said Mathieu, trying to keep his expression neutral. “He was a patron and good client for us. What about the other craftsmen required by his large collection?”

“I’m an old woman,” she said. “And foolish to have hope. So many have told me. But one piece was special. The pieta dura commode.”

Mathieu stiffened.

“This was my father’s favorite. He’d recognized it in some pawn shop. Furniture from Versailles, lost in the Revolution. Papa had an eye. He said what caught him was the marble ‘the color of his little girl’s eyes.’ My eyes. And he had to have it. They say it’s worth a lot now, but it’s not the money, you see. It’s that papa thought of me when he bought it. And that’s all that’s left. They took my father and family and everything else.”

The old woman’s large eyes brightened. Still beautiful, and a curious topaz amber color. Remarkable.

“The lawyer says I’m foolish but if I found it again, I wouldn’t keep it. Those things aren’t meant to be kept by one person, one family . . . something this beautiful belongs to all. I just want to see it again. Feel the marble, oil it, like papa taught me. That’s all.”

She leaned forward, emitting a delicate floral scent. “I had to come to your atelier, yes? See for myself the pieces you work on. Smell again that furniture oil odor I remember from childhood; yes, it’s the same. Our house was filled with it, too. Funny, the things that stick in your memory. I remember it as a time when the sun seemed like a big lemon and it shone every day.”

Mathieu was torn. “I wish I could help you.”

“I’m sorry, I’m taking your time and rambling,” she said, with a small shrug. She handed him her card. Dr. Roswitha Schell, University of Strasbourg, Professor of Art History. “I’m semi-retired and teach part-time. But I’m boring you, yes?”

“Non,” Mathieu said, averting his gaze. He knew the pieta dura commode, better than she could imagine.

He couldn’t remember when he’d last had a conversation with a cultured woman. These days he rarely left the quartier. Too much to do. His niece berated him for working so hard and he’d reply “That’s how we were raised. I was born over the shop, measured chair rungs from when I could count.”

But the Cavour name, the skill and secrets handed down from father to son since 1794, would end with him if he didn’t continue with his plan. He wouldn’t let it happen.

And Mathieu realized those eyes had shifted . . . perplexed. She’d thrust something at him, her cool fingers brushing his arm. Soft like a butterfly’s wing.

“Forgive me,” he said, trying to look away. But he couldn’t.

“But these photos . . . perhaps they could jog your memory. Maybe you’d seen the piece before at the Comte’s, yes?”

But Mathieu turned away.

“Monsieur?”

Elegant and cultured and kind. Like the Comte.

“Art’s not cerebral, there’s more than that,” she was saying. Her voice rose, lyrical. “The indefinable something from the soul that most of us strive for. Few achieve it, much less describe it.”

Why wouldn’t she stop talking? And then, quiet. He looked around, afraid of her accusing glances. But admiration and something like awe shone in her face.

“You must think me a blathering fool!” she said. “But I see, you’re an artist. You, of all people, must realize how much it means to me.”

A pang of guilt pierced him.

She lifted a small folder. Inside were photos from a lost time; black and white images of a young boy in a sailor suit, a serious-looking girl with long braids holding his hand. They stood in a room surrounded by museum-quality furniture, Impressionist paintings on the wall.

Conflicted, he turned away. “I’m sorry, I wish I could help you. But I don’t know how.”

“Monsieur, forgive me, I’ve offended you,” she said, “I’m sorry this came out all wrong. I’m grabbing at a thread from more than fifty years ago.”

He saw her to the door and watched her make her way through the courtyard.

Nothing must threaten his arrangement. Nothing. Even though the pieta dura commode sat in his cellar, refinished and ready for the auction house.