stop herself, she rushed on, ‘I would buy any one of these, or all of them, if you would consider selling.’
‘They are the most fabulous Gauguins,’ Jacqueline murmured. ‘Gauguin painted all three in the same year, 1892, and what extraordinary examples of his work they are. I could never sell them, I love them far too much. But even if I had the desire or the need to auction them to the highest bidder, I am afraid, Mademoiselle Valiant, that I could not. The paintings belonged to my husband, and he left them to our son Arnaud and his wife Natalie. I have them to enjoy for my lifetime, but I do not own them.’
‘I envy you living with them,’ Laura said. ‘They are so beautiful they are…blinding.’
‘Perhaps we should talk about the Renoir,’ Hercule interjected. ‘As you know, Jacqueline, Laura has a client who may well be interested in it, and, of course, there is Claire Benson, who wishes to photograph it on Monday.’
Jacqueline said, ‘Let us go back to the salon vert, where we can sit and discuss everything in comfort.’
Later that afternoon when Hercule dropped Laura off at the hotel, she thanked him profusely, then said, ‘I will phone my client in Toronto, and hopefully I will be able to give the countess an answer by Monday, perhaps even sooner.’
Hercule nodded. ‘That will be perfectly all right, Laura.’ After helping her out of the Mercedes and walking her to the door of the hotel, he said, ‘I shall come in with you for a moment, if I may. I want to talk to you about two things: about paintings. And about Claire.’
Taken aback, Laura stared at him. ‘What about Claire? Is there something wrong? You sound odd.’
‘I think perhaps I sound worried, Laura, but let us not stand here. Please, let us have a cup of tea, or something else if you wish.’
‘Yes,’ she said swiftly, ‘yes, of course, Hercule,’ and she was unable to keep the sudden concern out of her voice as she spoke. ‘I don’t think I want tea. I’d prefer a drink. Can we go to the bar, please, Hercule?’
‘Mais oui, let us do that,’ Hercule replied, and they walked on quietly without saying another word, and went downstairs to the bar. It was only when they were finally settled at one of the small tables in the dimly-lit, rather clubby-looking Bar Anglais that Laura spoke.
‘Why are you worried about Claire? Please tell me, Hercule.’
‘I will, in due course. First, let us order. What would you like?’
‘A glass of white wine, please.’
Hercule beckoned to the waiter, ordered for Laura, and asked for a Scotch and soda for himself. Then he sat back in the black leather chair and said, ‘I’ll get to Claire in a moment. First, I want to talk to you about paintings.’ He paused and added, ‘Something serious about paintings.’
Looking at him alertly, she nodded. ‘Please tell me, Hercule.’
‘It is about Gauguin’s paintings. It is very important that you let me know whenever one comes onto the market in the States. Providing you know this, of course, and if you are interested in it for a client. I am asking you to do this for your own protection.’
‘Of course I’ll tell you. What’s this all about?’
‘There are several Gauguin paintings that are, well…questionable. I know your great interest in him as an artist, and how much you love his work, and I do not want you to make any mistakes. I do not want you to make a commitment without talking to me.’
‘You mean there are some fakes around?’
‘I am going to tell you a story about a Gauguin, and you will find it interesting, I believe.’ He paused, stared at her intently. ‘Laura, this is confidential. What I am about to tell you is for your ears only, it must remain between us. At least for the moment.’
‘I would never discuss it with anyone,’ she reassured him. Her eyes were eager, the expression on her face expectant.
‘Many years ago, there was a collector,’ he began. And slowly, carefully, he recounted a story to her.
She was rapt, hung onto his every word.
When he had finished, he said, ‘Now to Claire. I don’t think that she is well. In fact, I would go so far as to say that she is ill.’
Laura gaped at him, then said, ‘She told me you’d given her a lecture about her weight.’
He nodded. ‘She has lost much weight. She says she has been on a regime. However, it is not so much the weight loss that troubles me. It is…the look of her, Laura.’
Frowning, shaking her head, Laura murmured, ‘I don’t understand what you mean.’
‘Yesterday, at the studio, there was a moment when she was talking to me from the set, and she had…’ He stopped, looked off into space, as if trying to remember something, and then he said, ‘She looked very peaked, no, that is not it. What is the word I am looking for…she looked pinched…drawn…as if the skin of her face were stretched very tightly over her bones.’ He took a deep breath, and added, very quietly, ‘Her face was like a death mask; it frightened me, Laura.’
‘Hercule! That’s awful! An awful thing to say,’ she exclaimed, and shuddered.
The waiter brought their drinks, and they were silent until he disappeared behind the bar again. Then Hercule continued, ‘I have the most terrible apprehension for her. I cannot explain it. You see, I love her –’ He cut himself off, and stared at Laura, suddenly at a loss.
She said swiftly, ‘I know you love her, Hercule, I’ve known it for a long time. You don’t have to be embarrassed or feel shy with me. I do understand. And I’m glad you love her, glad you care so much about Claire.’
Looking relieved, he answered, with a slight nod, ‘I am pleased I have told you this, and I thank you, my dear, for your understanding.’ He lifted his glass and took a sip of his Scotch.
Laura, also sipping her drink, asked, a moment later, ‘What do you mean when you say you feel apprehensive?’
‘As I told you, I do not think she is well, but I cannot explain why I feel this, not in a rational way. I thought she looked tired, worn out, yesterday, with the black smudges underneath her eyes, and so very thin. At one moment, when she turned to speak to me, the light fell upon her and she looked…like a skeleton, and so ill. I was frightened.’
‘Perhaps it was just the way the lights on the set hit her face; you know that can happen.’
‘Yes, that is true. I tried to tell myself this last night. I reviewed the time I had spent with her at the studio, and certainly she had been energetic, as she always is. But –’ He cut himself off again, sat back drinking his Scotch and soda; his eyes were troubled, his shoulders taut with anxiety.
Laura could see how upset he was, and she waited until he had collected himself before she said slowly, ‘What do you think is wrong with Claire? You say you think she’s ill, but with what?’
He lifted his hands in that typical gesture of his and shook his head. ‘Alas, I do not know, Laura.’ He sighed and continued, ‘I push the worry away, as I did when we were at Jacqueline’s earlier. Yet it creeps back into my mind. Has she…has she confided anything in you?’
‘Nothing, Hercule, and I’m sure she would if she were sick, or worried about herself. She did mention you’d chastised her about the weight loss, and she is thinner, I agree with you. But I didn’t think she looked ill last night over dinner.’
‘The cosmetics, they help,’ he said pointedly.
‘That’s true. She’s very…’ Laura paused and did not continue, changing her mind all of a sudden.
Hercule, looking at her intently, asked, ‘She’s what?’
Laura shook