Caravaggio's Angel Read online

  ‘Obviously, I don’t know him that well. But just at present, I believe there’s nobody. He lives alone.’

  ‘Where, as a matter of interest?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Marie France said. It was obviously a lie: her face had turned beetroot-red.

  ‘His secretary must know,’ I insisted.

  She shook her head firmly. ‘It’s no good. He’s not there.’

  ‘Has anyone been round to see?’

  ‘I’m sure they have.’ She fingered her seeds again. Perhaps she was saying a little prayer that I’d go away. I couldn’t understand why she hadn’t tried to stop me coming in the first place. Nor, now, could she – that was pretty apparent.

  I stood up. ‘Well then, that seems to be that.’

  Marie-France looked relieved. ‘I’m terribly sorry.’

  ‘Oh, so am I,’ I assured her in my crispest voice. ‘Is there anyone else I could talk to? Who’s his deputy?’

  ‘It’s Charles Rey, but –’

  ‘Charlie Rey – of course, I heard he’d got a job here.’

  ‘You know him?’ She sounded alarmed.

  ‘For years,’ I assured her.

  In fact that was a little misleading: we’d met once or twice at conferences years ago – during one particular meeting in Ghent, I recalled being puzzled, and rather put out, that he hadn’t made a pass. I still remembered my first sight of the great Van Eyck altarpiece, with Charlie in full excited explicatory flow.

  She shook her head firmly. ‘He won’t be able to do any-thing about this. It’s a matter for the head of department.’

  ‘But he’s a colleague. He might know where Monsieur Rigaut lives.’

  Marie-France’s round face reddened once again. She looked as though she might be about to burst into tears. ‘Really, I’m sure there’s no way he could help.’

  I could have sworn she knew more than she was telling me. Perhaps Rigaut had confided in her – ‘Now, Marie-France, I’m trusting you to deal with this – get rid of the woman, there’s a good girl’ – something like that, and she was afraid that if it emerged she hadn’t dealt with me, that I’d persisted in asking awkward questions, she’d be marked down as a loser, her promotion prospects blocked . . .

  ‘I’ll take a chance. Why don’t you tell me where his office is? Is he on this floor?’

  If we had to work together again I’d be sorry I’d been so brutal. But she could hardly pretend she didn’t know where her colleague’s office was. After a minute she gave in. ‘If you go down the corridor and turn left it’s on your right. His name’s on the door. Shall I come with you?’

  And muddy the waters? I’d met people like Marie-France before. You have some perfectly straightforward request, some clear line of thought, and then they come along and throw grey mists over everything. ‘No, thanks, I’ll be fine.’

  It was by now three o’clock: not exactly early in the day. Even so, some people might still be out at lunch. But perhaps today was a sandwich-at-the-desk day. I walked down the corridor as instructed, and passed a door whose nameplate read Dr Antoine Rigaut and below that Dr Charles Rey. I knocked, a little surprised. Surely Rigaut would have an office to himself?

  ‘Entrez,’ called a female voice.

  Inside, a smartly dressed middle-aged woman looked at me inquiringly from behind a crowded desk. To her right and left were two doors, one, presumably, leading into Rigaut’s office, one into Charlie’s. So only the secretary was shared.

  ‘Bonjour, madame. Is Dr Rey around?’

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t. I came from London today to see Monsieur Rigaut about a loan for an exhibition. There’s been some sort of misunderstanding, and I hoped he and I could sort it out, but I understand he’s not around just now. Charlie and I are old friends and I thought it might be a good idea to speak to him. If he’s available, obviously.’

  ‘Unfortunately he isn’t. He’s out this afternoon. He may pop back at the end of the day. You could try again around five thirty.’

  ‘Thanks. Perhaps I will. I don’t suppose you know where Monsieur Rigaut is?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘I hope nothing’s wrong,’ I said politely.

  ‘I expect he’ll turn up. He’s gone away somewhere and forgotten to tell us, that’s all. It happens . . . Shall I tell Charlie you called?’

  I pulled out a business card and put it on the desk. ‘Perhaps you could give him this?’ Perhaps you could give him this?’

  ‘Of course.’ The secretary read out, ‘Dr Regina Lee.’

  ‘That’s me. I’m afraid I don’t know your name.’

  ‘Desvergnes. Janine Desvergnes. I look after . . .’ She gestured all-embracingly. Clearly this was, in all but name, her department.

  What now? The afternoon, that should have been so satisfyingly and enjoyably filled with detailed discussions, stretched ahead. I wondered whether to ask Madame Desvergnes for Rigaut’s address – she must certainly know it. But she might not want to divulge the information, and then indirect methods might be more difficult to implement. I said, diffidently, ‘I don’t suppose you have a Paris telephone directory I could look at?’

  ‘Business or private?’

  ‘Private.’

  She fished it out from a shelf somewhere near her knees. ‘You can use the table over there.’

  I sat down with the fat volume and opened it at R. There might be a good many Rigauts, but it was worth a try. However, I was out of luck. The first name on the list was a Rigaut, Bernard. No Antoine Rigaut was listed, nor any Rigaut, A. Perhaps he had chosen to be ex-directory. However, as I scanned down the list for any initial A – Antoine might, after all, be my quarry’s second name – something else caught my eye. A Rigaut, J., was listed as living at 72 rue d’Assas.

  72 rue d’Assas – it rang a bell. Wasn’t that where Robert de Beaupré had lived – or at least, died? ‘Yesterday, at 72 rue d’Assas, a body found hanging . . .’

  I looked again at the directory. Maybe my imagination was playing tricks, over-eager to compensate for a frustrating day,. Not that I’d been thinking about rue d’Assas at that particular moment. But no – there it still was.

  There was probably no connection with the absent Head of Paintings, still less the Surrealist suicide. But here at last was a small stroke of Surrealist chance. And as such, not to be ignored. Here was a possible entrée to the building. I might even get to see the room where the fabled suicide had actually occurred. If so, I would at least have salvaged something from my trip to Paris. I noted down the number, and handed back the book. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Find what you wanted?’ Madame Desvergnes inquired politely.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  I was about to take my leave when I remembered Joe’s request. What with one thing and another – general dis-may, irritation with Marie-France – it had slipped my mind. ‘I was wondering – a stupid thing, really, I was looking at the papers this morning and it struck me Monsieur Rigaut had the same name as the Minister. Are they related?’

  ‘Yes, they’re brothers. But better not mention it to Antoine. They don’t see eye to eye politically – he prefers not to be reminded of it, especially now.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll remember.’

  ‘Shall I tell Charlie you’ll be back?’

  ‘Perhaps I’ll ring first to see if he’s here.’

  ‘That would probably be sensible,’ Madame Desvergnes agreed, and we bade each other au revoir.

  When I left the room, Marie-France was lurking in the corridor on the pretence of filling her glass at the water-cooler. ‘Was he there?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘No, he’s out this afternoon.’

  She looked relieved. ‘He wouldn’t have been able to tell you anything.’

  I said coolly, ‘Probably not. I’ll be in touch.’ She wanted absolution, to be told it wasn’t her fault, that it didn’t matter, that everything would come out
in the wash. But I did not feel forgiving.

  ‘I’m so sorry . . .’

  The words followed me windily down the corridor. If I saw much more of Marie-France and her seeds I was going to lose my temper properly. And that would never do.

  4

  Rue d’Assas, June

  I bought an ice-cream from a kiosk, and sat on a bench in the Tuileries garden to consider my next move. Should I call Joe and tell him what I’d just found out? The fact that his Rigaut and mine were not just brothers, but political adversaries, might well be of interest to him. But until Antoine Rigaut reappeared, it was hard to see quite how the information might be used. So, on to the rue d’Assas.

  It was now three forty; if I started at once I ought to arrive just after four. J. Rigaut would almost certainly be out at work. But I preferred not to know this for certain before arriving on the spot. In any case, I wanted to see the house where the suicide had taken place.

  I’d never been to the rue d’Assas, but number 72 was extremely unlikely to be a private house. It would almost certainly be an immeuble, an apartment block built around a courtyard. Even if my man (or woman) wasn’t actually there, I might be able to get into the block on the pretext of visiting him or her, and talk to the concierge. That was the person I really needed to see – the one who would know where the premises’ suicides had taken place. I checked the route on my street map: it really wasn’t far, just across the Pont des Arts and down rue Bonaparte. And what could be more delightful than a leisurely stroll through Paris in the June sun?

  Rue d’Assas turned out to be narrow and oppressive, hedged in by walls of tall buildings. Mostly, as I’d anticipated, they were apartment blocks, with small shops on the street frontage. Number 72 was a cliff-like structure of blackened post-Haussmann stone. It had the usual big black porte cochère with a smaller door inset. Once all you had to do to get into these buildings was press a buzzer, and the door unlatched. Now, though, the doors are mostly controlled by a keypad, whose combination only the residents know.

  I hate phoning people I don’t know. Still, now I was here it would be ridiculous not to try. Students from nearby university buildings eddied around me as though I was a lamp standard. I took out the sheet of paper with J. Rigaut’s number and dialled.

  I didn’t expect an answer. But to my surprise, after two rings the phone was picked up. ‘Oui, allo?’ said a bored male voice.

  Absurdly, this unexpected development left me some-what at a loss. I had my approach to the concierge all prepared, but I’d been so certain my immediate quarry would be out, that I hadn’t really thought how I was going to explain myself to him or her.

  ‘Monsieur Rigaut?’ I said, feebly.

  ‘Oui.’ He sounded impatient – as though he might ring off at any moment. He probably thought I was a double-glazing salesperson.

  I said, very quickly before he could cut me off, ‘You don’t know me – my name’s Regina Lee, I work for the National Gallery in London. It’s a bit complicated – would it be possible to come and see you? Or I could buy you a cup of coffee, if you prefer.’

  ‘The National Gallery in London?’ He sounded startled, which was hardly surprising.

  ‘Yes. I know it sounds strange.’

  ‘Why the devil does the National Gallery want to see me?’

  ‘It’s a bit of a long story. That’s why I thought it would be easier to tell you face-to-face.’

  There was a moment’s silence on the other end of the line. Then he said, ‘All right, why not? When did you have in mind?’

  ‘Now, if you’re not too busy.’

  ‘Now? Where are you, exactly? Not in London, I assume.’

  I said, ‘No, I’m in Paris. Right outside, actually. In the rue d’Assas.’

  Monsieur Rigaut gave a snort of laughter. ‘You’d better come in, then. I’ll give you the number – no, I’ll come out and find you, that’ll be easier.’

  He rang off, and three minutes later the door opened to reveal one of the tallest, thinnest young men I’d ever seen. He had floppy brown hair, matching olive skin, and bright grey eyes, and his jeans and T-shirt made a perfectly straight line from head to toe.

  Whatever I’d been expecting, it wasn’t this. My assumption, for some reason – perhaps because I associated the name with Antoine Rigaut, whom I’d never met, but who was certainly not young – had been of middle age. He glanced around, spotted me, noted (I suppose) the phone in my hand and said, ‘Regina Lee?’

  ‘Monsieur Rigaut?’

  ‘Manu,’ he said, holding out a hand for me to shake. I wondered who the J. was. His father, perhaps. With the other hand he held the door open. ‘Come in. I assume this isn’t a joke?’

  ‘No, it isn’t a joke.’ I dug a business card from my bag. He glanced at it, stuffed it into a pocket, and motioned me through.

  Inside was the usual dark foyer, with its staircase and lift cage and concierge’s window. But my thin young man strode straight through into the court beyond, in which stood a row of tiny houses, each with its own patch of garden, as if a village street had been set down in the middle of the city. I followed him past trim gates and bil-lowing greenery to a perfect, double-fronted miniature villa of pale stone, trim and sprucely painted, with a shiny black iron gate and mansard windows in a grey slate roof. Big bushes of strongly scented magenta roses grew on either side of a neat gravel path, and tubs of pink geraniums flanked the front door, which was approached by a flight of three steps and painted black to match the gate. Manu bounded up the path, and pushed the door open; evidently he had left it on the latch. It was taller than him, but only just.

  The door led directly into a small, white-carpeted salon, whose manicured perfection exactly matched that of the villa’s exterior. It was panelled in two shades of blue-grey, pale and paler; under the window stood two small armchairs and a two-seater sofa upholstered in cream and blue stripes; further back there was a round glass table and two chairs of tubular steel and white leather. Three plates depicting explicitly drawn lovers in various permutations hung on the back wall. They looked like Picassos, but of course that was out of the question. What young man has Picasso ceramics on his wall? None I had ever met. Above a small grey marble fireplace, a gilt-framed mirror reflected a somewhat dishevelled and crumpled Reggie. My linen suit, in the annoying way of linen, had acquired deep creases, and my cheeks were distressingly pink.

  Manu disappeared behind a sort of breakfast bar, which divided the salon from a small kitchen area, opened a large fridge and burrowed inside it. That, at least, showed the young man’s touch, being quite empty except for several bottles of beer. ‘Eh bien, Dr Regina Lee from the National Gallery in London. Why don’t we have a beer while you tell me what this is all about?’

  ‘That would be wonderful,’ I said gratefully. The walk had been longer and hotter than I had imagined.

  On the table – apart from the beer, the only sign of independent life in this almost over-perfect space – lay two letters addressed to M. Emmanuel Rigaut, and bearing the logo of INSEAD, the European business school at Fontainebleau. He must be a student there – or a member of staff, of course, but that seemed unlikely. I couldn’t imagine this languid young man teaching people about flowcharts and branding opportunities.

  Emmanuel Rigaut – didn’t I know that name? But before I could identify it my host reappeared with two open beers. He handed one over, and flopped back into one of the arm-chairs. ‘Alors?’

  I dropped into the other chair and took a pull. After the hot, dusty walk the icy beer tasted wonderful. ‘I’m trying to think where to begin.’

  ‘Unfortunately, there I can’t help you. You speak excel-lent French for an Englishwoman,’ he observed. ‘Mostly they’re hopeless. I take it you are English?’

  ‘I had a French grandmother. She was called Régine, I’m named after her. But everyone calls me Reggie.’

  ‘Reggie.’ He tried it round the tongue, pronouncing it in the French manner, with equal emphasi
s on both syllables. ‘Like me. That’s to say, I’m named after my grandfather. Emmanuel Rigaut.’

  This time I remembered where I’d heard the name. ‘The Surrealist photographer?’

  ‘Exactly.’ He nodded.

  That would explain the Picassos. Emmanuel Rigaut must have known Picasso – all the Surrealists did. Including Robert de Beaupré.

  I waited for some further remark, but none came. If there was explaining to be done, Manu evidently felt I was the one to do it – not unreasonable, in the circumstances. ‘So, you were going to tell me what all this is about,’ he finally said.

  What, indeed. Where, in all this complex saga, was I to begin? At the rue d’Assas, perhaps, since here we were. I took a deep breath and plunged in.

  ‘It’s to do with an exhibition I’m trying to organize. It’s about a painting by Caravaggio. There’s more than one version, and one’s in the Louvre, and in 1937 it was stolen. It was returned after a few weeks, and a famous pamphlet was printed about it, showing it photographed in all sorts of places around Paris. It was called Partir, c’est mourir un peu. And a little while after that a young man named Robert de Beaupré was found hanging at 72 rue d’Assas, with a copy of the pamphlet beside him. If your grand-father was Emmanuel Rigaut you must know all this.’

  Manu nodded.

  I couldn’t believe my luck. Chance, or my Angel, had led me to the very person I needed. What luck he wasn’t ex-directory! Nearly everyone seemed to be, these days. I hurried on with my explanation. ‘They never found out officially who stole the picture, but it was almost certainly Beaupré. I’ve always thought the whole thing was a sort of Surrealist artwork, with the suicide as the climax . . . That’s it, really. That’s why I’m here. I was hoping I might be able to see the room where he – where he –’

  At this point I stopped. The whole thing suddenly seemed so crass. I wondered if Robert de Beaupré had lived in this very house. It seemed quite probable, given the Surrealist connection. If so, which had been the fatal room? This one? This neat and overfinished bourgeois space? The very notion seemed unthinkable. Though doubtless it hadn’t looked like this, then. And anywhere will do to hang yourself, so long as there’s something to hang from and it’s taller than you are.