Night Train to Paris by Fliss Chester (scary books to read .TXT) 📕

night, that he would call for Fen the next day and the two of them would head over the river and buy back the painting that had been stolen from Rose.

‘I suppose,’ Fen said as she tightened the fashionable scarf around her neck a little more to keep off the chill wind as she and James crossed the Pont des Arts, ‘we could just tell the gendarmes that we’ve located some stolen artwork and it could help them trace the murderer?’

‘We could… but then it would be confiscated as evidence and end up locked in some police station for evermore, or worse, end up in the undeserving hands of some crooked police inspector.’

‘Well, when you put it like that…’ Fen was unsure if James really believed what he was saying, or if he was just talking himself into thinking he was doing the right thing. It was admirable that he wanted to buy a piece of Rose’s estate back for Simone, even if Fen was secretly rather jealous that she couldn’t afford it herself.

‘Tell you what is interesting though,’ James cut across her thoughts.

‘Oh yes?’

‘When I got back to my hotel last night, guess who I saw in the reception area?’

‘Henri Renaud again?’ Fen glanced across at James as the wind caught both of their hair in a mad twirling dance.

‘Bingo. He didn’t notice me, even though he was sitting by the bar with another man.’

‘Who?’

‘That Lazard chap. They were talking about a meeting at four o’clock this afternoon.’

‘A handover perhaps?’ Fen remembered the brown paper-covered parcel she’d seen Henri carrying.

‘The man is an art dealer, after all.’

‘Yes… not one that Henri usually deals with though…’ Fen was deep in thought still when they arrived at the kiosk where she had spotted Rose’s painting. James nudged her back into the present and she pointed it out to him.

‘I recognise it, you’re right,’ he agreed with her, but kept his voice down in case the dealer could hear. ‘What price did he offer it to you at yesterday?’

‘Fifteen hundred by the time he really wanted me to clear off.’

‘Mademoiselle,’ the art dealer appeared from behind his stand, his voice making them both jump, ‘have you come to buy this time?’

James interceded and started negotiations, which they were surprised to find out started much higher than Fen had assumed.

‘Well,’ the dealer argued. ‘There’s been more interest in it since I last saw you, mademoiselle, and look, you are back with your young gentleman to buy it for you, too.’

‘What tosh,’ Fen harrumphed as James haggled him down from an overinflated three thousand francs, finally handing over two thousand francs for the painting. ‘You should have held out, James. I swear he was just stringing you a line.’

‘I don’t mind. Rather him than me standing out here in all weathers selling tat. A few extra francs is no skin off my nose but might pay his rent for a few more weeks.’

Fen felt slightly chastised and walked a few steps ahead as James waited for the dealer to wrap the painting up in brown paper and string. James’s generosity paid off too as the dealer, when handing over the package, slipped James a few postcards.

‘These are rather, er, risqué, thank you,’ James stammered as he poked the postcards into his coat pocket.

‘Always popular with my gentleman customers,’ the vendor winked, and Fen shook her head as James blushed slightly. Then she remembered the other reason for their visit and turned back to join James and the kiosk owner.

‘Just out of interest, from whom did you buy that painting? Have you had it long?’

‘Eh, la…’ the vendor took his cap off and scratched his head. ‘A day, two days perhaps.’

‘And your supplier?’ Fen wondered if she’d used the right word. It had been hard not to say ‘fence’. But the vendor must have read between the lines and turned his back on Fen and James and started to pull down the shutters of his stall. Fen was about to ask him again when he turned around and spoke to them.

‘It was a young man, I think, it was hard to see.’

‘How can you be sure it wasn’t stolen from someone?’ Fen couldn’t help it, the thought of all the stolen art, sold just like this but on a greater scale. The buyers not questioning where their new purchases had come from. With the Germans doing the thieving for you, how easy it must have been to get your hands on paintings you had only ever dreamed of owning…

‘I must close now, the painting is yours, thank you for your custom.’ The street vendor turned his back on them, saying the words quickly and mechanically and not answering Fen’s question at all, and continued locking up his stall. Fen wanted to quiz him and opened her mouth to ask him the question again but before she could speak she felt James’s hand on her arm.

‘Fen,’ he whispered to her. ‘It doesn’t matter now. We know where the painting is from, no point pushing him. I don’t think we’d get much more out of him anyway.’

Fen looked at where the two-bit art dealer was shaking the padlock on his shuttered stall, checking it was locked, and then half ran, half skipped off down the quayside before they could ask any more questions.

They were almost halfway back across the Seine when Fen, who had been mulling things over as they’d walked, spoke.

‘James, would you do me a favour?’

‘Of course.’

‘Could you bring Simone to Henri’s gallery this afternoon, at four o’clock.’

James stopped on the bridge and looked at Fen. ‘I could…’

‘And could you possibly find Antoine Arnault and bring him there too?’

‘Fen…’ There was a tone of warning in James’s voice.

‘Trust me, I think I know what I’m doing. I need to check one more thing, and then I’ll meet you there.’

‘Be careful, Fen, whatever it is you think you know, there is one thing that’s certain. There’s a murderer out there who’s killed two people already—’

‘And I don’t want