Night Train to Paris by Fliss Chester (best romantic novels to read txt) 📗

By now Fen knew her way through the labyrinthine corridors of the Louvre palace rather well. She was still astounded, though, that the little door at the side of the vast building was never kept locked. Using people like Gervais to cart their treasures around the châteaux of France to save them from the Nazis was one thing; just letting someone walk out with them via the back door was quite another.

Fen fantasised for just one moment about nonchalantly walking out of the museum with her own stolen masterpiece… a Vermeer perhaps or a small Byzantine icon? Either would look super above the mantelpiece in Father’s study. The notion made her smile, but then she frowned. How easy it was to imagine these things… how easy would it actually be to follow through on an idea like this? And take your opportunity when it was presented?

Fen still felt uncomfortable doubting the integrity of her friend, but she had to get to the bottom of who killed her and she felt that Henri, despite needing to know about his inheritance, might be able to shed some light on her questions. But how much should she reveal to Rose’s partner? The worry being that if Rose was being blackmailed, was Henri being targeted too?

Sadly for Fen, her trip to the Louvre was a waste of time. The secretary who sat in the office next to Henri’s informed her that it wasn’t his day to be in the gallery and that he was no doubt at his own premises. The secretary handed Fen a note of the address and wished her good day.

Luckily, the address of Henri’s gallery, the eponymous Galerie Renaud, was in the arcades of the Jardin du Palais Royale, only a few hundred yards from the Louvre.

Fen walked the route confidently and navigated her way through the colonnaded gardens, remembering her history lesson on how the arcades had been some of the first in Paris to have glazed windows, to help the emerging middle class of the eighteenth century to window-shop. The area had always been associated with luxury goods, and a high-end private art gallery like Henri’s fitted right in with the feel of the area.

Fen, like many Parisiennes before her, couldn’t help but be attracted by the expensive wares in the windows and wondered how these shops had kept their doors open during the occupation. James’s words about his new friends and some of their black-market dealings echoed in her mind. Before she could ponder too long on the provenance of a rather lovely pair of red leather gloves, Fen saw the shopfront she was looking for. Like the others in the arcade, the Galerie Renaud had one large deep-silled window with a door next to it. In the window, there were various watercolours, framed in thin gold frames and hung, suspended in the air, by wires.

Fen took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

‘Ah Fenella,’ Henri greeted her from behind a desk at the back of the gallery. ‘I must say it is a pleasure to see you. You remind me of my dear friend, even if you have decided not to carry on the tradition of those flamboyant turbans of hers.’

Fen smiled, Henri’s stab at humour had hit the spot and relaxed her somewhat. ‘I don’t think they’d look so chic on Midhurst’s High Street. We’re more tweed skirt than silk turban there, I’m afraid.’

‘True, true. Come, sit yourself down. What can I do for you?’ Henri gestured to a chair in front of his desk. Unlike the ones in his Louvre office, these were modern and far less fussy. In fact, the whole gallery, even though it was situated in an old building, had a real air of modernity to it. The walls were painted white and the paintings were mostly very contemporary: works by the Fauves, Cubists and abstract artists hung from thin chains and made striking statements against the stark white of the walls.

Fen glanced around and then addressed the matter at hand. ‘Monsieur Renaud, Henri… I come bearing news in a way. About Rose, actually. You see, I hope you don’t mind, but I called her solicitor, a Monsieur Blanquer, who was able to come over to the apartment pretty smartish and let me know the contents of her will.’

‘Ah…’ Henri pressed his hands together and rested his chin against his fingers for a moment. Then he said something that surprised Fen a little. ‘The apartment that is now mine, I take it.’

‘Oh. You knew?’

‘As I said before, Rose and I had no secrets, well, until recently it seems. When you lived like we did, on a knife-edge, you have to absolutely trust the other person. We decided, during the war and at the height of our work, that we would bequeath each other our estates. It was the ultimate sign of faith in each other. Of course, it helped that neither Rose or I have any immediate family.’

‘I see. Well, there you go. I’m sure Monsieur Blanquer will be in touch officially, but, Henri, may I ask you a small favour?’

‘Of course, dear girl, what is it?’

‘It’s not so much for me, I can be on the next train out of here, if I must, although I do want to find out what happened to Rose… but me aside, would you allow Simone to carry on living in the apartment? I know she hasn’t much in the way of family left and, from what she’s said, they never had more than a bean to rub together anyway…’

Henri pressed his chin to his hands again, so that he could have been mistaken for praying as much as thinking. He barely took a moment’s contemplation, however, before replying, ‘I see, I see. Yes, she must stay on. A young woman like that cannot be ousted onto the streets. I shall speak to Blanquer and arrange an agreement with her, some sort of rental contract. Dear Rose, she was always