Murder in the Bastille by Cara Black Page A

master craftsman apprenticed in the seven-year program that dated back to the Middle Ages. A compagnard wouldn’t touch unprovenanced pieces. Not even with a barge pole.
    Envy . . . yes, Mathieu felt a soupçon of envy for the compagnards. But after years of working with his father, even though he stayed a faubourg artisan, he knew his craft rivaled that of a compagnard .
    The Comte would know that someone like Mathieu, an ébéniste from the Bastille quartier , would remain discreet, too glad of the work to raise questions. And the Comte had trusted his father, knew the Cavour tradition.
    So he had to play this right. Not appear anxious. The Comte needed him. And Mathieu needed the francs to buy his building in order to save it.
    “Me, I repair. There’s a lot of this work,” he shrugged. “You expect me to sell it, too?“
    “You know people who can,” the Comte said. “And even you can see it’s Louis XVI . . . worth, well, a lot.”
    “What’s in it for me?” he said.
    “Your father wasn’t this difficult,” the Comte said. “Or didn’t you know?”
    Mathieu hadn’t.
    “Listen,” the Comte said, understanding in his eyes. “Once, sometime ago, your father helped me. He benefited. It’s not complicated.”
    Mathieu remembered the Comte visiting the shop, his servant in tow, and how they’d gone out for Bertillon crème glacée , the best ice cream in Paris. His father had bought the truck afterward. A Renault, top of the line. Still in perfect shape.
    “Don’t think I won’t be generous. Back the truck up, take whatever fits inside,” the Comte said, as if referring to sides of beef. “I count on you.”
    Mathieu noticed the once-manicured, now overgrown, lime trees in planters lining the vaulted walls as he carefully wrapped and dollied several pieces of furniture to the truck. When he drove out, the Comte waved to him as if they were friends.
    In the rearview mirror, the Comte, standing in the graveled court, looked solitary and sad, as if diminished by the furniture’s departure. How pathetic even very rich people could look, Mathieu thought. Even a count with a château, who had only a magnificent collection of priceless antique furniture left.
    Mathieu would need help to sell the pieces. And he knew where to go.
    The thudding sound of a flic pounding on the glass-paned courtyard door brought him back to the present. He dropped the flat-edged scraper, swore, and took a step back.
    Get a grip. Don’t lose control, he told himself.
    “Forgive me, officers,” he said, opening the door of his workshop. “The older I get, the louder I play the radio.”
    Keep calm. They’d ask questions, nose around and they’d be gone. He gestured for the three men to come inside. One, wearing a jacket too big for him, with patches on the elbows, flashed his ID.
    “Sorry for the trouble, monsieur,” he said with a small smile, one hand in his pocket. He shrugged, as if to intimate these intrusions inflicted on citizens were simply a part of life. His socks were mismatched, one brown, the other gray.
    Mathieu saw the flics surveying the cans of putty, the varnish bottles on his shelves, and the chairs hanging from the ceiling, drying.
    “Any trouble, officers?” Mathieu asked, wiping his hands on his apron.
    “We’re investigating a homicide,” he was told.
    Mathieu’s emotions were in turmoil. An irrational urge to babble about the past and point them downstairs welled up in him. To rid himself of his guilt, to get it over with.
    Instead he reached for the turpentine-soaked rag and wiped his work table.
    “Cut yourself badly?” asked the one in the ill-fitting jacket. He was older, with bags under his eyes and a bland expression. He pointed to Mathieu’s bandaged finger.
    “A hazard of the trade,” Mathieu said. “Happens more the older I get.”
    “We have a search warrant, Monsieur Cavour,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “So if you don’t mind . . .”
    “A search warrant?”