The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art (25 page)

“There will be results.” He switched the phone off.

~ * ~

Petrovitch’s expression was agitated. There were times when he wished he were physically powerful, strong and robust, but he had always known that could never be. He wasn’t built that way. His strengths he
knew
. Because he
knew
them, that fact made him stronger than most realised. His perception, intuition and loyalty had aided Berezin in his steady but stealthy rise to power. He had an uncanny ability to organise robbery and theft, even in the most daunting of circumstances. His attention to detail were testimony of that was, and can be seen in Berezin’s haul of stolen wealth. Thoughts tumbled through his mind.

Joseph couldn’t have obtained his sizable collection without me.
He has rewarded me well, and I can’t complain on that score. I have enjoyed the work. Why he takes on people the likes of Novikov, I never quite understand. Muscle, brawn and violence are no match for brains. And then he expects me to deal with his weird dangerous characters. I’m left to sort out his mess and those of other idiots he’s used and the mistakes they often make. Novikov is a prime example. I would have dumped him a while back.

For a moment, he allowed the thoughts to move on but one that always came to mind was the evening that he and Joseph had cornered Anna Karolin in his office.

Now, that was a perk!
 

Chapter Twenty Seven

“
N
ow comes the litmus test,” said Manton.

He’s nervous,
thought Tamsin, seeing his twitching lip as they stood outside the apartments of the Passage du Genie.

“This does not look encouraging.” He pointed at the uninspiring dirty white building, and then the faded bell plate that once spelled ‘L. Brodsky’.

“Press it then.”

He looked round at her, grimacing before he jabbed at the old button. She heard it ring down a long passageway. It didn’t take long for the door to swing open, but remained attached to a stout door chain from behind, from which stared a pair of dark, suspicious eyes like black olives.

“
Oui. Que’st-ce que c’est
?” Her gravelly voice sounded like it came from years of smoking.

“Madame, so sorry to disturb you but we’re looking for Monsieur Leonid Brodsky.” Tamsin smiled and spoke in perfect French.

The woman stepped forward a fraction, and Tamsin guessed she had seen better years as her bony fingers wrapped around the door edge.

“
De quoi parlez-vous
?”

Tamsin repeated her previous request.

The woman softened as she unbolted the chain and opened the door further. Her clothing, a severe funereal black, were softened only by a large pair of silver earrings and a glistening silver brooch pinned to her breast.

“Ah – Monsieur Brodsky, I remember him well. A very quiet man but always kind to me.”

“He’s not here?”

“I’m afraid not. He moved to Lyon two years back. I believe he had relatives that way.”

“Do you have an address, Madame?”

“No, he didn’t leave me one. He did, if I recall, mention the Quartier Tête d’Or area.”

Tamsin looked back at Jack who had understood the woman words.

“Not our day Jack.” A despairing look crossed his face. “What do we do now?”

“Lyon it is.”

“Okay.” Turning, she extended her hand to the old woman, thanked her and watched as she closed the door and heard the sound of the door bolt slide back into place. “What next?”

He looked at his watch. “I think it’s time we paid the Reverend a little house call.”

“Must we? I’m really not up for this. It’s too scary.”

He ignored her concerns. “Agreed, but I guarantee if he is the killer he will be making his way over to the Blue Square Gallery to get at us. Trust me. If not, he will be who he says he is and pleased to see us. C’mon, let’s go. We’re going to have to wear these.” He produced two black baseball caps and threw her one.

~ * ~

“Becoming a man of the cloth pays well around these parts,” said Manton, as his gaze swept around the architecture of the oldest square in Paris, the Place des Vosges, built by Henri IV in the early seventeenth century. He consulted his pocket map and pointed. “The Rue des Tournelles is across the road that way. Can’t be more than a couple of minutes.”

Five minutes later, they ascended the stone stairway leading up to the second floor where Reverend Giuffré had his apartment. Hanging on to his arm, Tamsin had nothing but dread passing through her.

“What if he’s in? Then what are we going to do?”

“Run like hell! I assure you though, we won’t have to. He’ll be waiting for us in the gallery. Ah, here we are, the second floor.” Manton looked to his left down an expanse of threadbare red carpet stretching out along a stone-flagged passageway, its symmetry broken only by the indentations of numerous recessed doorways. “It should be the fourth one down.”

“Stop, stop please.” She pulled hard on his arm, dragging her footsteps. “This is madness.”

“You stop if you want. I’m carrying on.” Manton strode out, but she refused to let go of his arm. He reached the faded blue door with its bell push mounted centrally over a wrought-iron letterbox. Tamsin stood behind him with her hand to her mouth. He planted his ear to the door, shook his head, and pressed the bell. “Can’t hear a thing. As I thought, there’s nobody in.” He pressed it again… nothing.

“The door’s locked. How’re you going to get in?”

“Watch this.” He pulled his Visa card from his wallet and slipped it between the latch and door lock. “You can learn quite a few useful things at university.”

He probed the card into the lock, moving it back and forward until he felt it connect, turned the handle, and the door gave way and swung open without a sound.

“Bingo!”

Looking around and straining to hear any noise, Manton stepped inside the small, furnished apartment, closing the door. Tamsin moved alongside him. A deathly quiet pervaded the place and drifting in the air, the faint smell of brewed coffee. Manton’s gaze swept around the rooms.

“
Trés ordinaire
,” he whispered to Tamsin, as if somebody would hear him.

The modesty of the decor and its utter tidiness, with nothing out of place, squared off furniture and chairs adding symmetry to carpets and curtains standing in straight lines, was indicative of a trained and meticulous mind… someone who couldn’t bear to see a crumb upon a table. To the right, she could see the bedroom and he stepped inside as she clutched the back of his jacket. There was nothing of interest: wardrobe, bedside tables and a provincial French chest of drawers. He flipped open the wardrobe to be greeted by an array of slacks, shirts and sweaters, mostly black or grey. In the corner, stacked in ascending sizes, stood an airline bag and three black and red carbon-fibre suitcases.

Kneeling down, he inspected them and they possessed sturdy metal clasps with a set of digital security dials. Around the handles hung luggage tags on which were written the name ‘Giuffré’.

“Jack, this is madness. You’re making a big mistake. That man’s painting must be here somewhere. I just want to get out of here. What are you going to do now?”

“Break into these cases.”

“No, you are not. We don’t have time. We’ve left fingerprints all over the place and it wouldn’t take too long for the police to find us. You know that. I’ll go through his pockets and see if there’s anything there, and you go in the other rooms and see what paintings you can find.”

Manton inhaled deeply, gave a pinched expression and moved out of the room. Tamsin said nothing; relieved she’d managed to stop him, and systematically began checking through the clothing on display. Halfway along the rack and having found nothing apart from fluff and minute scraps of tissue, her fingers delved into a zip-up windcheater and closed around what felt like a business card. She pulled it out, read it, spread her fingers across her chest and gave a suppressed gasp.

He didn’t need to look twice – there were no paintings to be found. He looked behind the sofa alongside the coffee table. Leaning against it stood one solitary painting. He picked it up with both hands and placed it on the coffee table.

“My God!” Staring up at him were reds, blacks and yellows, the shape of a naked woman enveloped in what looked like a geometric skirt. She wore a mask and in her hands she held a fan and what looked like an olive branch. “Tamsin,” he shouted out loud. “In here, quick!”

Tamsin rushed in. “What?” She could see his eyes glinting.

“Look, look, it’s a Brodsky, it has to be!” He thrust it at her. “What does it say on the back?”

Without looking at the painting, she turned it over.

“This belonged to Nikita Brodsky. We have the original title plate. It’s numbered 10, the
Girl of Peace
by Mikhail Brodsky.”

“I knew it!”

She interrupted him. “Before you get too excited, you’d better see this.” She read the card she’d found and passed it over. On it was written Berezin’s name, position, and a pencilled-in contact number.

Tamsin saw the raised eyebrow followed by a setting of his jaw.

“This could be the break Kolosov and Interpol have been hoping for. It
must
be the person he’s working for. It’s too much of a coincidence.”

“Agreed. Let’s get out of here fast.” She took back the card and rammed it in her pocket.

“Find some material to cover the painting. I’m not leaving without it.”

Tamsin grabbed two large towels from the bathroom and secured them around the painting.

“Let’s go.”

~ * ~

By the time he had reached the well-lit premises of the Blue Square Galerie, he could see the steady stream of cognoscenti jostling around in the main viewing area.

He stepped back into the shadow of a nearby doorway and reached inside his pocket, pulling out a pair of compact mini binoculars. He began scanning the people staring at the various works of art hanging from the walls. Manton and his woman didn’t appear to have arrived yet, unless they were back in one of the rear viewing areas. He decided that enough people had gathered, and it would be safe to make an entrance and become lost in the throng. His arm in a sling, he knew from past experiences, would have positive advantages.

As he reached the door, it swung open for him, held by a young Frenchman dressed in a white shirt, bright yellow bowtie and a black waistcoat.
Not a good time to become distracted.
He was ushered inside with the sweep of an arm and the semblance of a graceful bow, and then led towards the guest book to sign in.

He signed in as Professor Grigori, but making sure the scrawl was illegible. He scanned the signatures and the name of Manton had yet to appear. A glass of champagne appeared on a silver tray and he accepted, smiling and pleased that his makeup remained intact.
The disguise is working well.

He spotted an assistant wearing a dark blue suit with a name badge, ‘Monique’. She smiled at him as he drew near.

“Can I ask you a question, Mademoiselle?”

“Of course. How can I help?”

“Monique, what can you tell me about the artist Mikhail Brodsky?” He saw her eyebrows furrow and her head tilt to one side.

“He is now much sought after and his works are scarce. Russian, of course, mostly pre-war, but they probably wouldn’t fit in with this exhibition.”

He held up his hand, cutting short her sentence.

“One moment.”

A frown crossed his face. Static and what sounded like voices crackled in his concealed earpiece.
Someone is in my apartment
.

“Sorry I have to go.” Novikov turned to exit. “Excuse me.” He pushed past an annoyed waiter who had to keep his tray from upending as Novikov sped out of the gallery.

The air outside remained warm, hot almost, it was still light and the sun had yet a long way to the horizon. He wiped away a trickle of foundation-coloured sweat dripping down the side of his face, as he raced to the nearest taxi rank.

Stuck in Paris traffic, fury gripped hold of him as he listened in his earpiece to the voices in his room, snooping and moving about.
It can’t be Manton. He knows nothing! He’s an academic.
For one moment, the voices became clear and he knew that it
was
him and his woman.

He removed the sling from around his shoulder, released the safety catch on his PSS and placed it in his pocket. Finally, the taxi drove into the Rue Des Tournelles, before pulling to a halt outside his apartment building. He leapt out, leaving the door open, sprinted, pushed his way through a throng of tourists and headed toward the entrance. He ignored the shouts of the taxi driver, chasing and yelling at him for his fare. Novikov raced up the staircase two and three steps at a time. He no longer cared that his gun was visible and ready to fire.

Reaching the top of the second flight, he turned left into the long passageway. He could now slow down and catch his breath. There would be no escape if they tried to slip past him.

The corridor appeared deserted apart from two removal men, heads bent, wearing baseball caps and carrying bags and other items between them. He swept past them just before he reached the door of his apartment.

He turned just as the two figures moving at speed reached the staircase.
That’s them!

“Stop, Manton!” Bellowing, he raised his pistol and fired.

The wheezing taxi driver in pursuit of his fare loomed into view and crashed sideways into Tamsin, sending her and Manton sideways into the wall at the top of the stairs. The bullet missed them, but struck the driver, who dropped instantly to the floor with a cry of agony.

Novikov didn’t hesitate and began chasing after the pair. They sprang down the staircase in a frenzied rush. His second bullet ricocheted off the white granite slab on the corner of the staircase, sending a spray of dust and stone flying through the air.

Manton propelled Tamsin into a wall of passers-by, hoping for protection, as he jostled and pushed through the tourists trying to lose himself and Tamsin.