Paris Love Match

Chapter 5





Pierre “Matchstick” Morel gripped the telephone receiver so hard it almost broke. He had gained his nickname partly because of his six-feet, 156-pound frame, and partly because he had a predilection for burning buildings. Usually the buildings of his enemies, and usually while his enemies were in them.

He forced himself to relax his grip on the phone, and breathed out a long hiss through his teeth. “What the hell do you mean, Auguste is gone?”

“There was shooting.”

“Shooting? Who the hell was shooting?”

“Auguste, sir. He went mad.”

“Auguste? If Auguste went mad then there was something bloody wrong. I should never have trusted that f*cking dictator. He was there, non?”

“Who, sir.”

“The dictator, you idiot!”

“Oh, yes, him.”

“So, he was there?”

“No, sir.”

“No? You said yes.”

“No, sir. Well, yes, I did say yes, but no. No. No, he wasn’t there.”

“Listen. The fact that you and I share a great-grandfather is the one and only reason I’m not hunting for you with a can of gas. Get it?”

“Right, sir. Yes. Got it. Sir.”

“Good. Now bring me the painting. I’ve already sold it for twice what I paid the dictator.”

“Errrrr, Auguste had the painting, sir.”

Morel rolled his head around, stretching his neck. “So? What’s the problem? Tell Auguste to bring it to me.”

“But, Auguste’s gone, sir.”

Morel stopped rolling his head around. “Gone where? Exactly?”

There was no reply.

“Where the bloody hell has Auguste gone?” he yelled.

“Gone as in dead, sir.”

“Dead!”

“The dictator’s men shot him.”

“Shot him?”

“In a taxi.”

“What they hell was he doing in a taxi?”

“We, er, don’t know, sir.”

Morel breathed out, and regretted his decision not to send more men with more firepower.

“So, where’s my painting?”

“Er . . .”

Morel leapt to his feet. “You don’t know?” he yelled. He gripped the phone so hard his hand trembled. “I can’t believe you screwed this up. I brought you in to keep watch on this operation. Nothing complicated. Just to keep watch.”

“We did watch. The police were there, and there was lots of shooting, and we were gridlocked, and—”

“Spare me. You searched this taxi?”

“The painting definitely wasn’t in it.”

Morel groaned. “Can this day get any worse?”

“There’s something else. There was a man and a woman in the taxi.”

“Did they have the painting?”

“No. We’d have seen it when they left.

“You let them leave?” Morel’s voice inched up an octave.

“Er, well, they were on a motorbike. They went off fast, clouds of smoke and—”

“You mean you lost them. The only lead we have and you let them get away. You slimy, good-for-nothing—”

“No, no, no. There’s Auguste’s phone, see. It’s still moving.”

Morel’s face froze between anger and a sneer. “So?”

“Moving the same way the man and woman went.”

“So, track them! Find them! Threaten them! Do whatever it takes, but find my bloody painting!”

“Yes, sir. Definitely, sir. No problem. We’re on it.”

“You better bloody had be. You’ve got twenty-four hours.”

“And then?”

“I’ll go all matchstick on them.”

There was a small laugh. “That should do it.”

Morel lowered his voice. “And on you, too. Understand?”

The man on the other end of the line swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”