Paris Love Match

Chapter 14





Sidney walked back to the corner and out of sight of the police officer. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Bloody hell, this whole thing was ridiculous. God knows what damage she was doing to herself with all the crying, running around, and falling down trash chutes. Her eyes would be as puffy as could be, she ached all over, and the cold and the rain weren’t helping. Even the brandy hadn’t warmed her up.

She flipped open the umbrella. It had been a stupid trick to get by the officer, but it had worked. Hopefully now they would find out something about the painting, though she wasn’t quite sure what they would find. Would Auguste have hidden it in his apartment? And if he had, surely the police would have found it already? In fact, what was Piers looking for? She furrowed her brow.

He was a weird guy. Kind of likable, and kind of funny, but still kind of different. At least he wasn’t just full of lines and, she grinned, he could give as good as he got, like he wasn’t just out to impress her. But he had hung on to her longer than she’d expected when they hid from the police behind the umbrella, and she wasn’t quite sure how much of his embrace had been acting and how much might have been a little more. There again, she smiled, that wasn’t such a bad thing. It had been obvious in the shower that there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him, and the firmness of his arms around her had been … she licked her lips . . . nice.

A black Mercedes appeared at the end of the street. Its windows were dark and she felt uncomfortable as it passed by. It didn’t look like a police car, but it might have been an unmarked one. The car turned right and raced away.

She looked up at the windows of the apartment block. Which one was Auguste’s? And how long was Piers going to be? She felt strangely naked without him. She shook herself. No. She didn’t need any man. Not again. She grinned. Or, at least not for a while.

She heard a voice behind her. “Excuse me?”

Sidney’s heart thumped so hard she could feel it in her throat. She whipped around, bringing the umbrella down as a shield. She gripped the shaft, ready to stab it forward into whoever had addressed her.

It took a moment for the face of the person who stood in front of her to register. He was tall, dark, and distinguished-looking, with square shoulders and a disarming smile of pearly white teeth. As she pointed the umbrella at him, he held his hands up in mock surrender. “Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you.”

She swallowed. She didn’t know what to say to the dictator who, for the past five years, had ruled her homeland with an iron fist and a ruthless secret police force.

He lowered his hands. “Please, put the umbrella down.”

She lowered it a fraction. “What do you want?”

He smiled. “I know you have been in this country for a while, my dear, but surely you haven’t forgotten me already.”

“Per … President …”

He nodded and held out his hand. “Brunwald. Yes, my dear, and I must say I am very pleased to meet you.”

She lowered the umbrella and shook Brunwald’s hand. His grip was firm and confident. Hers was limp and cold as her muscles refused to cooperate.

“Don’t worry. I understand why you had to, shall we say emigrate, to France. I sympathize with what you’ve had to go through. Our country was sick, it still is, and we all must do what we can to achieve our dreams in life.”

He held his hands out, palms upward. “Your passion, it is fashion. Mine, contrary to the popular opinion in the press, is to restore our beautiful country to health, to resurrect our pride, to cherish and protect the values we have held dear for millennia.” He smiled.

Sidney forced her mouth closed and swallowed. “I, er, don’t understand.”

“I’m sorry, my dear, it is a lot to take in quickly. You see, I am here to personally retrieve various historical objects—those the criminal class have stolen from us. These people seek to undermine the progress we are making in Elbistonia.” He clenched his fingers and shook them. “They wish to steal the very things that make us Elbistonians.”

Sidney shook her head. “I, I, I’m not … haven’t stolen anything.”

Brunwald smiled and patted her arm. “Oh, I am not accusing you. No, no, no. I know what you are going through to retrieve our art.”

Sidney licked her lips. “Going through?”

“You do know the painting it is that you seek?”

She curled the ends of her lips downward.

Brunwald bobbed his head up and down. “Aaaaahhhh. I suspected as much. Not of you my dear, but your friend, I fear, has been a little less than fully truthful with you.”

“My friend?”

“The convenient Mr. Chapman.”

“Piers? Convenient?”

Brunwald nodded. “He has taken advantage of your kind and generous Elbistonian nature.”

“He has?”

Brunwald nodded sagely. “Indeed he has. Have you wondered why you two met?”

She shook her head.

“He was already in the taxi when you got in, correct?”

She nodded.

“Have you wondered why?”

“He was closer to the taxi than me.”

The sympathetic smiled returned to Brunwald’s face. “No, my dear. He was waiting for the other man. For Auguste. The man who stole the painting. They were in this affair together.”

Sidney’s cheeks fell. “He was?”

Brunwald nodded. “At the railway station? Don’t you find it was curious he was able to identify Auguste’s companion so quickly?”

“She had a phone.”

He gave a sympathetic smile. “Even so. A trained professional would struggle to find an unknown person so quickly. And the apartment over there. You brought him to this address, but did he ask for the apartment number?”

Her eyes narrowed their focus.

“You see, my dear, he has been using you. Playing you along.”

“But he—”

Brunwald leaned forward. “No, my dear. He is using you as cover and will dispense with you soon as he has what he wants. If you really don’t believe me, consider what happened in the taxi.”

She thought for a moment. “I got in. He was already there. He refused to get out—”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then Auguste got in. Then the shooting started and we drove away.”

“Did Auguste say anything?”

“No.”

Brunwald straightened up.

Sidney pinched her lip between her teeth. “Well … wait …”

Brunwald leaned closer again. “Yes?”

“He did say something about Waterloo. Piers works for Waterloo. And he spat at him.”

“Auguste spat at Piers?”

“Yes.”

Brunwald furrowed his brow. “I see. He must have known he wasn’t going to make it, and was venting his anger at his brother in crime.”

Sidney looked into Brunwald’s eyes. “Do you think?”

Brunwald’s face remained impassive and he nodded slowly, deliberately, exaggeratedly.

Sidney slapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh my god.”

“Don’t blame yourself, my dear. He and his sort use and abuse everyone they come in contact with. You haven’t done wrong. Quite the contrary. You are perfectly placed to do your country a great service.”

“I … am?”

“Indeed. As I said, I am engaged in rounding up the many pieces of art that have been stolen from our country. You may have heard about it. Our government is, of course, trying to manage the situation and the adverse publicity, but we must recover what is ours, do you not think?”

“Yes I do, but—”

Brunwald smiled. “What can you do? That’s easy, my dear.” He pressed a slip of paper into her hand. “This is my personal number. Text me. Keep me updated of what you find. No detail is too small. The people involved. Their locations. Oh, and there is money involved. Knowing who has it would be just as important as retrieving the painting.”

Sidney bit her lip. “Right. Ummm … “

“You are concerned, my dear, I understand that.”

“Er, no. I was just wondering, what is the painting?”

Brunwald gripped her elbow. “You don’t know? It is The Angel, The Angel of the Cross.”

She gasped and her eyes narrowed. “From the Basilica?”

Brunwald held his index finger over his mouth. “It is something we are most keen to keep quiet, my dear. Can you imagine the hurt and anguish that would be caused by the news of this theft, if it were to be confirmed? And all for some lowlife’s tawdry desire for mere money? No, no. This is something I wish to recover at all costs.” He gripped Sidney’s hands. “Something you and I must do, if we are ever to make our country right again, my dear.”

A horn sounded. Sidney noticed the black Mercedes was parked just yards away.

“I must go now. Please do not fail me. With your help, we will rebuild our great country. Once again, we will able to hold our heads high in the world. We will be proud of our history and our achievements.”

He gave her hand, the one holding his phone number, a squeeze, and bowed his head. “Goodbye for now, my fellow comrade.”

In a moment he was in the Mercedes and the car was purring away.

She stood numb as she watched the small plume of vapor from the car’s exhaust trail around the corner and out of sight.

Boucher Brunwald! Boucher Brunwald had talked to her. To her. The man who’d used the army to take control of Elbistonia when the riots had started. The man who had installed himself in the old king’s palace. She swallowed. The man had a brutal reputation. People called him Brunwald the Butcher, but only out of earshot of his secret police. She’d even fled the country because things had become so bad.

But perhaps things hadn’t all been his fault? Riots and political unrest were tearing the country apart until he took control. He had been ruthless, but perhaps he’d had to be? Maybe it had been criminal gangs that stirred up the unrest?

Besides, he was here in Paris to find The Angel, the painting that had hung in the Basilica for five hundred years, and the single greatest symbol of their country. He was here to take it back from the criminals. Him. Personally.

She looked at Brunwald’s phone number. The Angel was going to be returned to the Basilica if she had anything to do with it.

She pulled her phone out. As she entered his number into the address book, she heard her name, half called, half hissed. She looked up. Piers stood in an alleyway across the street, staring at her.

Shit. Her skin prickled. How long had he been standing there?

She rammed the paper into her pocket, and smiled with all her might.