Read Murder Below Montparnasse for Free Online

for it but as a commodity.
    Luebet, who had been prominent in the art world for forty years, sighed. “Or they’ve gone to Moscow-on-Thames.” The Russian oligarch billionaires bought up country manors aroundLondon with irritating efficiency. Kept the UK economy afloat. Too bad that hadn’t happened here since the eighties with the Japanese château-buying frenzy. “The young breed operates pipelines outside my sources.” Luebet shrugged. “We’re old,
compris?
There’s a new generation.”
    True. Dombasle wanted to get this over with, but sensed Luebet had another agenda. “
Bon
, I’ll contact the chief, he’ll inform the
comtesse
.” Dombasle grinned. “The usual drill. Tell your seller you’ve found a client who wants a verbal provenance. Arrange a meeting. Say you’ll bring the money. We’ll do the rest.” A cut-and-dried sting operation.
    Luebet seemed to weigh his options.
“D’accord,”
he said finally. That hesitation in the dealer’s look indicated he had more information—a tip, a name.
    “Something else on your mind, Luebet?”
    “Rumors.”
    “Concerning what, Luebet?”
    “That’s just it, rumors,” Luebet said. “Years ago a story surfaced about a Modigliani that went missing in 1920—only shown once. Whispers only, you understand. That it’s been found in France. Worth … well, for years its existence was the stuff of dreams. Now the whispers say right after it was discovered it went missing.”
    Dombasle knew the art dealer was fishing for something. Teasing the story out to find what Dombasle knew. But he wouldn’t play.
    “Luebet, is there a point to you spreading rumors?”
    “Word goes a fixer,
une Américaine
, runs a network transporting certain
objets d’art
.”
    Dombasle’s nose twitched in full gear now. “The Modigliani?”
    “Just rumors, as I said.”
    “I need more than rumors, Luebet,” he said.
    “
Alors
, I told you everything.…”
    “Cut the act,” Dombasle said. “You owe me, remember?”

Monday Morning, San Francisco International Airport
    R ENÉ F RIANT’S HIP ached after the eleven-hour flight and the long line at US immigration. Four feet tall, he stood on tiptoe at the glass booth to pass over his French passport.
    He smiled at the immigration officer.
“Bonjour.”
    “You’re a tourist, Mr. Friant?”
    His promised work visa hadn’t come through. Perspiration dampened his shirt. Nervous, his mind went back to Tradelert’s last fax, which he’d memorized on the plane:
No problem, H-1B visa’s in the works. Soon as the green light comes, we whisk you over the border at Mexicali, you come back in legal to work. Meanwhile say you’re consulting on a project for the week from Paris, no visa required
.
    René preferred to follow the rules and laws, at least more than Aimée did. But the less said the better.
    “For now, Monsieur.”
    A loud thump and TOURIST stamped on his passport. “Enjoy your vacation.”
    Then an endless walk through the terminal with his bags, goading the hip dysplasia pain. But currents of excitement ran through him as he waited at the airport curb. The air felt different, the colors—the newness of everything struck him. Fog settled over the taxis, the huge American cars.
    “Over here, Tattoo,” Kobo, Tradelert’s rep, yelled from a battered Volkswagen.
    René grinned. “Where’s the sun, Kobo?”
    “You’re thinking of LA.” Kobo, tall and gangling, bent to give René a high five. A matchstick of a man, René thought, smelling of onions. Kobo tossed his bags in the backseat.
    “But
Zeelakon Vallaaay
.…”
    “We call it ‘The Valley,’ Tattoo,” Kobo interrupted.
    “What’s with ‘Tattoo’?”
    “De plane, de plane!”
Kobo laughed. “From the TV show
Fantasy Island
. Get it? You’re wearing the same suit, too.”
    Wasn’t Kobo too young to have seen that eighties show? Strange, but René recalled that Americans watched the
télé
all the time. René’s aunt in the countryside