. . Are you coming back?’
‘It’s possible. I’m looking for someone who can tell me about the Rigauts.’
‘What did you want to know?’
‘That’s the problem, I’m not quite sure. I wondered – you said your husband comes from St Front?’
‘Olivier? Yes, but I’m afraid he’s not here just now.’
‘Still in Paris? Surely these are the holidays?’
‘He comes and goes.’ Judging by her tone of voice, these comings and goings were arranged to suit Olivier’s convenience rather than Delphine’s. ‘He’s due back at the weekend. If you want to speak to him I can give you his Paris number.’
I dialled. The phone was picked up almost immediately. ‘ Oui? ’
‘Olivier Peytoureau?’
‘ Oui .’
I launched into the usual explanation – name, place of work, the exhibition. Delphine. ‘One of the pictures I’m interested in is in St Front, at La Jaubertie. But they don’t want to lend it, or rather Monsieur Rigaut doesn’t. The old lady agreed, but he’s just written to say it’s all off, she can’t lend it unless he goes along with it, and he doesn’t.’
‘You could ask him why not,’ said the voice at the other end reasonably.
‘Apparently it’s not as easy as that . . .’
‘No, that figures.’
‘It seems to be part of some sort of family quarrel. Delphine said your family’s from Meyrignac – the old lady seems to have been involved with your great-uncle, is that right? So I wondered if you might have any idea what might be going on. Or know anyone who could help me find out. Then I might be able to do something about it.’
‘It’s possible,’ he said slowly. ‘Perhaps we should meet. Will you be coming over sometime soon?’
The budget wouldn’t really stand endless trips to France. On the other hand, I felt reluctant to ask Joe for money unless I really had to. ‘All right,’ I agreed. ‘I could come to Paris. That would be easier than St Front.’
‘Okay, but I’m leaving Friday. Shan’t be back for a couple of weeks after that.’
Today was Tuesday. Tomorrow was impossible, filled with commitments of various sorts. So was Thursday, but I could put those off. ‘Thursday?’
‘You really want to know this stuff!’ Peytoureau sounded amused.
‘I really do.’
‘Lunch?’
‘That would be good.’
‘I’ll see you at the Voltaire, then. Quai Voltaire. Twelve thirty.’
The Voltaire’s frontage, slipped in amongst a group of high-class antique shops, was so discreet that you had to look twice: yes, it really was a restaurant. The interior was dim and old-fashioned, with red plush banquettes and white tablecloths. The maître d’hôtel pointed out a table at the back of the room where a youngish man, perhaps in his early thirties, was reading a newspaper. As I approached he stood up and held out his hand. He had black curly hair, cut short, and very bright black eyes, slightly slanted, like a faun. Also in the faun tradition, he was thick-set and not particularly tall: a rugby player’s figure.
Neither the place nor the man before me fitted the slightly alternative character I had for some reason – per-haps because his wife ran a country b. and b. – ascribed to Olivier Peytoureau. He wore a well-cut cream suit with a black T-shirt, and was clearly at home in this distinctly bourgeois restaurant, most of whose tables were occupied by business lunchers. The Voltaire had been his choice, not mine, but he was doing me the favour, so this one was on me. And this was an expensive place – far beyond my tiny Caravaggio budget. I’d just have to foot the bill myself, and pretend I was back at the auction house.
‘An apéro ?’ He grinned cheerfully across the table, clearly enjoying (as who does not?) the prospect of an excellent lunch at someone else’s expense. ‘A kir? A coupe de champagne? ?’ He held up his glass. ‘The champagne’s excellent here. Let me order you one.’
I glanced at the list of drinks. A glass of kir cost four
‘It’s possible. I’m looking for someone who can tell me about the Rigauts.’
‘What did you want to know?’
‘That’s the problem, I’m not quite sure. I wondered – you said your husband comes from St Front?’
‘Olivier? Yes, but I’m afraid he’s not here just now.’
‘Still in Paris? Surely these are the holidays?’
‘He comes and goes.’ Judging by her tone of voice, these comings and goings were arranged to suit Olivier’s convenience rather than Delphine’s. ‘He’s due back at the weekend. If you want to speak to him I can give you his Paris number.’
I dialled. The phone was picked up almost immediately. ‘ Oui? ’
‘Olivier Peytoureau?’
‘ Oui .’
I launched into the usual explanation – name, place of work, the exhibition. Delphine. ‘One of the pictures I’m interested in is in St Front, at La Jaubertie. But they don’t want to lend it, or rather Monsieur Rigaut doesn’t. The old lady agreed, but he’s just written to say it’s all off, she can’t lend it unless he goes along with it, and he doesn’t.’
‘You could ask him why not,’ said the voice at the other end reasonably.
‘Apparently it’s not as easy as that . . .’
‘No, that figures.’
‘It seems to be part of some sort of family quarrel. Delphine said your family’s from Meyrignac – the old lady seems to have been involved with your great-uncle, is that right? So I wondered if you might have any idea what might be going on. Or know anyone who could help me find out. Then I might be able to do something about it.’
‘It’s possible,’ he said slowly. ‘Perhaps we should meet. Will you be coming over sometime soon?’
The budget wouldn’t really stand endless trips to France. On the other hand, I felt reluctant to ask Joe for money unless I really had to. ‘All right,’ I agreed. ‘I could come to Paris. That would be easier than St Front.’
‘Okay, but I’m leaving Friday. Shan’t be back for a couple of weeks after that.’
Today was Tuesday. Tomorrow was impossible, filled with commitments of various sorts. So was Thursday, but I could put those off. ‘Thursday?’
‘You really want to know this stuff!’ Peytoureau sounded amused.
‘I really do.’
‘Lunch?’
‘That would be good.’
‘I’ll see you at the Voltaire, then. Quai Voltaire. Twelve thirty.’
The Voltaire’s frontage, slipped in amongst a group of high-class antique shops, was so discreet that you had to look twice: yes, it really was a restaurant. The interior was dim and old-fashioned, with red plush banquettes and white tablecloths. The maître d’hôtel pointed out a table at the back of the room where a youngish man, perhaps in his early thirties, was reading a newspaper. As I approached he stood up and held out his hand. He had black curly hair, cut short, and very bright black eyes, slightly slanted, like a faun. Also in the faun tradition, he was thick-set and not particularly tall: a rugby player’s figure.
Neither the place nor the man before me fitted the slightly alternative character I had for some reason – per-haps because his wife ran a country b. and b. – ascribed to Olivier Peytoureau. He wore a well-cut cream suit with a black T-shirt, and was clearly at home in this distinctly bourgeois restaurant, most of whose tables were occupied by business lunchers. The Voltaire had been his choice, not mine, but he was doing me the favour, so this one was on me. And this was an expensive place – far beyond my tiny Caravaggio budget. I’d just have to foot the bill myself, and pretend I was back at the auction house.
‘An apéro ?’ He grinned cheerfully across the table, clearly enjoying (as who does not?) the prospect of an excellent lunch at someone else’s expense. ‘A kir? A coupe de champagne? ?’ He held up his glass. ‘The champagne’s excellent here. Let me order you one.’
I glanced at the list of drinks. A glass of kir cost four
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