She rooted in her secondhand Vuitton bag until she found her penlight. Shined it on the man’s confused face. A trickle of blood trailed on his cheek. He’d cut himself on broken glass.
“Where’s your fuse box, Monsieur?”
“What good will that do?”
Did he want to argue now? “I’ll try to switch the power back on.”
She followed the old man across the creaking floorboards, glass crackling underfoot. A musty scent of paper emanated from the shadows. In the thin yellow beam she saw the problem right away. She pulled on her leather gloves and with a quick flick switched the fuse box levers upright.
Light flooded the sparsely furnished turn-of-the-century atelier. A worn velvet armchair had been overturned. A vase lay on its side, orange marigold petals scattered and water pooled on a long worktable.
Horrible. She pitied the old codger. His car, now his house.
“Monsieur Volodya? That’s you, non? I’m Aimée Leduc, you sent for me. I’m so sorry about your car, but I hope—”
“Forget about the car.” He grabbed at a dark wood beam in the wall, his bony white wrists shaking. Reminding her of her grandfather. She righted the chair, took his elbow to help him sit down. Dazed, he resisted, refusing to sit. With his thick fingers he smeared the blood on his cheek. Shock painted his face.
“I think you should see a doctor.”
“Wait …”
With surprising agility he hurried to the armoire, which had been shoved aside. She followed, noticing the small door behind it. Like a broom closet. A dark red stain smeared the wood door.
Blood.
He pulled the creaking door open. Empty. Anguish painted his face. “You’re too late. My painting’s stolen.”
“You kept a painting in a broom closet? A valuable painting?”
“But I locked it. It was only until the formal appraisal tomorrow.” His lip quivered. “My legs feel not so steady.”
His face had gone white. This time, he let her help him to the chair. “Let me get you water.”
He shook his head. “Vodka.” He pointed to the galley kitchen. A show of bravado, or to calm his nerves? But he looked like he needed it. She’d humor him until he explained. Then alert the flics.
The dark wood-walled atelier held an open mezzanine above, a cramped kitchen off to the side, an alcove with faded flowered wallpaper, and a bed covered by a rumpled duvet.
At the empty sink she wetted an embroidered towel, noticed the dish rack with a single plate, cup, and fork. The old man lived alone. Tidy. In the one cupboard she found a bottle of Stolichnaya, two glasses.
Could the Serb have been the one who robbed the old man? Caught in the act, she figured. But he hadn’t been carrying anything. Definitely not a painting.
“Now how do you feel?” She uncapped and poured the vodka. Handed him the towel.
“A scratch,” he said, clinked her shot glass. “I’m Yuri Volodya.”
“I know. You sent me five thousand francs.” She set down her card on the side table.
“So of course you came,” he said. “But too late. Hand me my glasses.”
Stubborn old Cossack, all right.
“There’s a pair hanging from your neck,” she said. “What’s this all about?”
He put on his glasses, and his voice changed. “You look just like her.”
Hope fluttered in her heart. “Maman? She’s alive?”
He shook his head. Winced in pain. “Forgive me. I thought you could help. You see, I owe your mother.”
“I don’t understand. Help how? And owe my mother what? When did you last see her?”
He averted his eyes and swigged the vodka. “I’m a bookbinder, I craft special editions. A commission takes a year.” He rubbed his thumb and fingertips together.
Why had he changed the subject? Nerves? He seemed anxious now, worried. Like he was saying one thing but meaning another.
“Alors, Monsieur Volodya, if we could talk about my mother, this painting.…”
“My craft’s for les connaisseurs, vous savez,” he said, as if she hadn’t spoken. “A certain clientele who appreciate the feel of a hand-bound book, the presentation of prints inside. Salvador Dalí commissioned my work, des gens comme ?a.” Apart from his odd sentence structure—as if he translated from Russian construction—he spoke with a pure Parisian accent.
Under her boot she felt something hard and round. A brass button embossed with LEVI’S. Like the brass buttons on the Serb’s jean jacket. Her heart skipped. “What if this fell off the Serb’s jacket?”
“That man you ran over?” Yuri’s teary blue eyes widened. “Blame it on the Serb curse.”
“Meaning?”
“We have a saying about Serbs: An unfortunate man would be drowned in a teacup. But of that man I know nothing. Nothing.”
She doubted that. “I think this button came from his jean jacket. Maybe he trashed this place and came up empty.”
Yuri’s shoulders sagged, and the lines framing his mouth grew more pronounced. A quick scan told her the intruder knew exactly what to look for and where. The leather-bound books lining the shelves were untouched, as was an antique iron book-press on the worktable. An open calendar and notepad lay undisturbed on the desk.
“Life kicks one in the gut and we’re surprised?” he said. “As if one is the exception, not the rule?”
Since when do people refer to themselves in the third person, she wondered. An old-world thing?
“Monsieur Volodya, I’m here to return your money.”
“Keep it. Find my painting.”
“Art recovery’s not my line of work,” she said, suspecting he’d mentioned her mother as a ruse. This smelled off.
“I’ll make up a list, tell you everything.”
Everything? “Tell me how you know my mother.”
His left hand trembled slightly. “Please, in my own way. Give me a moment.”
It was foolish to rush him. Of course he was still in shock. He’d seen a man die, his car damaged, and his home burglarized all within a short time.