had once been in a mental institution?
From what Laura now remembered hearing, Rosa had led a troubled life…there had been a painful childhood in France, growing up during the war, the loss of her family in the Allied bombing raids, later a volatile marriage to Pierre Lavillard, then emigration to the States in the 1950s, where Philippe was born. Their only child. The doctor. The prize-winning virologist whom the medical world called a genius.
Claire had once said in a moment of anger that Rosa was a crazy woman, and should have been kept in the mental hospital. She had been very vehement about it at the time.
Laura closed her eyes, her thoughts settling on Claire Benson: her best friend and confidante, the elder sister she had never had, her role model. Claire had been living in Paris for a number of years, which was one of the reasons she liked to come here, to spend time with Claire.
Opening her eyes, Laura stood up. She began to stroll down the long gallery, determinedly pushing aside all thoughts of the Lavillards, mother and son. Within seconds she had forgotten them, once more enjoying the Renoirs hanging there. Soon she was lost in the paintings, soothed by their beauty.
And then once again she was no longer alone. Unexpectedly, there was Claire standing by her side, taking hold of her arm.
‘What are you doing here?’ Laura exclaimed, startled to see her friend, filling with a rush of anxiety. Oh God, had Claire run into the Lavillards? She hoped not; they usually upset her. She searched Claire’s face, looking for signs.
Claire explained, ‘You told me you were coming to the museum after your lunch, so I thought I’d join you.’ She peered at Laura. ‘What’s wrong? You look odd.’
‘Nothing, I’m fine,’ Laura answered. ‘You took me by surprise, that’s all.’ She was relieved to see that Claire was calm; obviously she had missed the Lavillards. But probably only by a few moments. Forcing a smile, she went on, ‘So, come on then, let’s walk around together.’
Claire tucked her arm through Laura’s. ‘I like seeing paintings through your eyes. Somehow I get much more pleasure from them when I’m with you.’
Laura nodded, and they moved on, gazing at the masterpieces on the walls, not speaking for a short while. At one moment, Laura lingered in front of a painting of a mother and child, frowning slightly.
Claire, always tuned into her best friend, said, ‘Why are you looking so puzzled?’
Shaking her head, Laura replied, ‘I’ve often wondered lately if any of these paintings are stolen –’
‘Stolen! What do you mean?’ Claire asked.
‘Thousands and thousands of paintings were stolen by the Nazis during the war, and that art, looted by them, hangs on museum walls all over the world. It’s from some of the world’s greatest collectors, such as the Rothschilds, the Kanns, and Paul Rosenberg, who once owned one of the most prestigious galleries in Paris, to name only a few.’
‘I read something about that recently. I guess it’s hard for the heirs of the original owners to get their paintings back if they don’t have proof of ownership.’
‘That’s it exactly. And so many records were lost during the war. Or were purposely destroyed by the Nazis in order to blur provenance.’ Laura grimaced, and said, ‘A lot of museums are fully aware of the real owners, because many of the paintings are coded on the back of the canvases. It all stinks. It’s morally wrong, but try and get a museum to give a painting up, give it back. They just won’t…At least, most of them won’t…Some are starting to get nervous, though.’
‘Can’t any of the original owners sue the museums?’ Claire asked.
‘I suppose they could,’ Laura answered. ‘But only if they have proof a painting is theirs. And even then it’s dubious that they’d ever get it.’
Claire nodded, ‘I remember now, Hercule knows something about this…He mentioned it only recently. I believe he has a client who is the heir to art stolen by the Nazis from his family in 1938.’
‘Oh, who is it?’
‘I don’t know…He didn’t say.’
‘A great deal of the looted art is in private hands, and try and get them to give it back. They never will, not when they’ve paid millions for it. There’s going to be a lot of trouble in the next few years, now that it’s all coming to light. You’ll see.’
Claire said, ‘You’re repeating what Hercule was telling me not long ago. Maybe you should talk to him about it.’
‘I’d like that.’
‘Maybe we can get together with him this weekend. Anyway, do you represent someone with a claim to stolen art?’ Claire asked curiously.
‘Not at the moment, but I may well do so in the not too distant future.’
They fell silent as they continued to stroll around the museum, at ease with each other. Laura, forever worried about Claire, stole a quick look at her. In her years of living in Paris Claire had acquired a certain kind of chic that was uniquely French. This afternoon she wore a dark purple wool coat, calf length and tightly belted, over matching pants and a turtleneck sweater. The purple enhanced Claire’s large green eyes and auburn halo of curls. Big gold hoop earrings and a dark red shoulder bag were her only accessories, and she looked stylish, well put together. Laura admired Claire’s style, which seemed so natural and uncontrived.
Glancing at Laura, Claire came to a halt and said, ‘I’m glad you’re in Paris for a while, Laura, I miss you.’
‘I miss you too,’ Laura answered swiftly.
Looking at her watch, Claire went on, ‘I think I’d better be getting back to the photographic studio. I’m doing a shoot for the magazine, as you know, and Hercule’s coming over later. I need his advice about one of my sets.’
‘He’s turned out to be a good friend,’ Laura said. ‘Hasn’t he?’
‘Yes. But not my best friend. That’s you, Laura Valiant. Nobody could take your place.’
Laura squeezed Claire’s arm. ‘Or yours,’ she said.
Laura heard the phone ringing above the sound of the water pouring into the bath, and she reached for the receiver on the wall.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, sweetie.’
‘Doug! Hello, darling.’ She sat down on the small bathroom stool near the make-up table, and glanced at her watch. It was six here. Noon in New York.
Her husband said, ‘I called you earlier but you weren’t there. I’m off to lunch with a client in a few minutes, and I wanted to catch you before you went out again.’
‘It’s such a clear line, you sound as if you’re around the corner!’ she exclaimed warmly, happy to hear his voice.
‘I wish I were.’
‘So do I. Listen, I’ve got a great idea! Why don’t you come in for the weekend? Tomorrow’s Friday, couldn’t you take it off and fly over?
