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http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Brueghel_the_elder_-_Hunters_in_the_snow.jpg
It was too bloody
cold. Pieter Breughel looked out across the wintry scene that he was painting.
He was already thinking he should have set up his easel closer to the inn and
the bonfire that was flaming so attractively outside
it. Sure, the view was better from here but it was, as he had already decided,
too bloody cold.
The mobile phone
in his pocket went off. Its piercing ring tone, a rip from Hocus
Pocus by Focus, startled the hunting dogs as they
passed following their masters down to the lake. Breughel fumbled in his
overcoat for the phone and answered it.
“Ya,” he said, “is Breughel.” He
was famously abrupt and his telephone manner did nothing to dispel the
impression that answering telephone calls was not one of his great life
pleasures.
“Pieter?” He recognised the voice at the other end
as Janine Schenk, the British super-realist.
“Ya,” he said. “What can I do for you, Janine?”
“I have a friend,”
she said. “He needs some help.”
“We all need some
help sometimes.”
“This is rather
specialised help. The sort of help you gave me recently.” Pieter felt weary.
The trip to
“I dunno, Janine,” he responded warily, “I’m working on
‘Hunters in the Snow’. It’s a commission for the
“Oh, come on
Pieter,” Janine sounded impatient. “Another of those genre paintings?
You know you don’t have to stand around out of doors to do them. You must have
enough snow scenes in your gallery to recreate the arctic. This will be more
interesting. And it will be warmer.”
“Warmer?” said
Pieter. Suddenly the opportunity that Janine was presenting sounded more
interesting. His breath was already turning to ice in his beard.
“Come to
A group of small
boys ran past where Breughel was painting. Their snow fight managed to shower
him with cold white powder. His fingers were already getting numb. It had been
a stupid idea to try to paint this outside. It was alright for those
impressionists in their nice, warm, south of
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Mona_Lisa.jpg
The ‘plane touched
down at
Janine was waiting
in the arrival hall when he had collected his baggage. She waved as he came
through the barrier. He smiled back. All right, he was probably old enough to
be her father but that didn’t stop him appreciating her dark, slight good looks
in a most un-fatherly way. He’d never gone in for painting women in the nude.
Maybe he was making a mistake, he thought. He pushed the trolley with his bag
on across to where she was standing.
“Hi, Pieter,” she
smiled. “He’s sent a car. Just through here.” Janine waved a set of car keys
and pointed to the exit. Outside Pieter could see a Lamborghini Miura.
“I wouldn’t have
thought that was his style,” Pieter said. “I had him down as more of an
aesthete.” Janine shrugged. Pieter guessed, given Janine’s current enthusiasm
for super-real pictures of classic cars, that she was more than happy with
their assigned transport. He followed her out to the car. She climbed in and he
followed suite, balancing his bag on his lap. It wasn’t an easy manoeuvre –
either the getting in or the balancing of his bag. The cockpit of the car was
hardly roomy. He just hoped they hadn’t far to go.
Janine swung the
car confidently out of the airport and on to the A12 Autostrada
Azzura. They were heading north, Pieter decided. The
Miura growled as Janine slipped through the afternoon traffic. Comforted by her assured handling of the car, Pieter relaxed and
started to enjoy the ride. “Where are we going?” he asked.
“Tarquinia,” Janine replied slicing between two enormous
trucks. Pieter looked up at the cab of the truck. The driver’s foot board was
above his head. The relaxed feeling evaporated. “He’s got a villa near there,”
Janine went on. “He’ll explain all about it when we get there.”
“If we get there,”
thought Pieter, clutching his bag tighter as Janine slipped though another
disturbingly small gap.
By the time Janine
skidded the car to a halt outside the villa, Pieter was convinced he had lost
several pounds in fright-induced sweat but they arrived without a scratch on
the car or themselves. Pieter unfolded himself from inside the car,
straightening up with care, his joints still stiff from the flight. The warmth
of the afternoon was adequate compensation for the terrors of the drive. As he
looked around a bald man with a long flowing beard came bustling out of the
villa. “Hey, Pete, hey!” the figure called.
“Leonardo!” Pieter
acknowledged. “Good to meet you!”
“Please,” the
other said, “it’s Leo. To my friends it’s Leo.
Everyone else it’s ‘Mr Da V’ but to friends it’s
Leo.”
“Leo,” said Pieter
taking his hand. He looked around. “Nice place.”
Leo was looking at
Janine as she bent over the car, pulling her handbag from where she had wedge
it between the seats. “Nice arse,” he hissed conspiratorially then, as Janine
stood up. “Come in both of you. Come in.”
A rather effete
looking man was waiting at the door and offered to take their bags. Leo
introduced him as il Salaino. Pieter wasn’t sure what the relationship was
between them. Leo didn’t bother to explain.
The building was
old but the interior was packed with electronics and other gadgetry. Leo showed
them though into a large sunlit lounge. He pressed a few buttons, blinds closed
the window and a screen dropped from the ceiling.
“Here,” said Leo.
“Do you get to watch TV?”
Pieter shook his
head. He had cable in one of the flats in
“You should, you
should, Pete. You paint the man in the street – this is what he does; what he
watches.” Leo thumbed a remote control
and the screen flickered into life. “Now this is one big show….”
“
“Leo, you’re not
planning to launch a line of designer clothing are you?” Janine cut in.
Leo looked puzzled
for a moment but then scribbled a note on a pad of paper. “Interesting thought,
Miss Schenk,” he said. “Interesting thought. No, just watch for a moment. It’s
not that sort of model.”
The program went
on. A group of girls were sitting in a room, listening to a presentation by
another girl and then the scene dissolved to an artist’s studio. “Twelve
girls,” the commentary began, “one ambition. To be part of the world’s greatest
painting. This is the race to find
“World’s
greatest painting. Pah!” grunted Leo. “In
The programme
continued. Each girl was being asked to show her abilities to pose and to
remain motionless. The camera panned along the line. The soundtrack was giving
a short biography of each. Telephone numbers appeared on the screen inviting
the audience to vote for their choice. As the camera reached one girl with dark
waving hair Leo froze the frame. “Look,” he said pointing to the girl’s blank
look.
“Very attractive,”
said Breughel. “She should do well, within the limits of the programme.”
“That’s not the
point,” said Leo. “That’s my model. I am half way through her portrait. She
disappeared two weeks ago. Now she turns up there. Something must be done.” He
reached behind the couch on which he was sitting and pulled out a half finished
canvas.
Janine looked at
it. Even in its current state it was impressive. The girl in the picture was
staring out of the frame at the viewer, a curious half smile on her lips. Leo
had obviously been having trouble with representing it; clipped to the
stretcher of the canvas were a series of sketches of the girl’s mouth as he had
tried to work out exactly how to show it.
Pieter turned to
Leo. “So, your model decides to take off. She turns up in the
“It’s not like
that,” said Leo with a determined look on his face. He tugged irritably at his
beard. “No, something else is going on. There have been others. Not seen on
this show but there have been others. Ingres has lost
a model. Velazquez too. Perhaps
three or four more. There is the welfare of these girls to consider.”
“And
the inconvenience of the artists too?” Janine interjected.
Leo scowled at
her. “Of course. But you should understand that. Or do
you just work from photographs these days?”
Janine nearly came
back with some remark to the effect that at least her paintings didn’t fade the
minute they got up on the walls but, in the end, ignored the jibe at the way
that she and many super-realists approached their work. Pieter cut in to stop
the thing descending into an argument over artistic technique. “So, Leo,” he
said. “What do you want me to do?”
“Find her,” he
pointed to the screen. The programme had run on and now Leo’s model was draped
across a couch in a state of undress. The pose she was adopting didn’t really
fit with the prim individual in Leo’s portrait. “and
bring her back here.”
“Maybe I can do
the first. The second? Who knows? I can try. What can
you tell me about her?”
“She’s a local girl, Donna Vellani.”
“I’d heard you
were painting Lisa Gherardini – that’s not this
picture then?
“I’m still arguing
with Francesco Del Giocondo about that one. He’s a
difficult man. You know what these Florentine’s are like!”
Il Salino came back into the room clutching a telephone. “It’s
for you,” he said. “It’s …” He looked at Breughel and Janine, “well, it’s….you
know.”
Leo tutted and took the phone from him. “Hello,
“So, it is all a
myth then? Just a hoax as many claim?”
“Certainly for Plantard,” said Leo with a wink. “But what good would a
secret society be if you let people find out about it?”
Breughel felt
himself warming to the man. Janine was sitting quietly listening to all that
was being said and watching the television programme as the various tasks the
girls were being given were played out.
“Well, Leo, if I
wanted to help. I say IF. If I wanted to help, will the others talk?”
“Perhaps. I will do what I can to persuade them.
Here,” he gave Pieter a paper with an address on it, “Donna Vellani
was staying in
“Who is that?”
“Victorine Meurent.” Janine sat up
at the sound of the woman’s name. She was a famous beauty, whose cool elegance
had transfixed
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Manet%2C_Edouard_-_Olympia%2C_1863.jpg
Victorine Meurent lounged
back on her chaise-longue, looking towards Breughel
with barely concealed contempt. She was naked apart from a thin black ribbon
around her neck. One hand was draped decorously across her lap but her gaze dared
the man to look away from her pale body. “So,” she said, “suddenly the artists
wish to take an interest in our affairs. Freezing studios, weak absinthe, poor
wages were all good enough before. Now, though, now they want to give us a
detective!”
“Mister Da V is very concerned for the welfare of the models,”
Pieter responded. “He is only trying to help.”
“Mister Da V is concerned for the welfare of Mister Da V. He knows that without models he would have to go back
to painting fruit or, worse still, landscapes.” Breughel held his tongue; he
knew the girl’s taunt was directed at his own work.
Breughel shrugged.
“Well, perhaps you are right. If you don’t feel I can help then….” He made to
pick up his cap and started turn to the door.”
“No. Wait.” Victorine said. She reached out for a small bell on the
table beside her and rang it.
Her black maid
servant appeared clutching a vast bunch of flowers. “From Monsieur Manet,” the maid said. “He hopes you will see him later.”
Victorine looked bored. “Perhaps,” she said. “I will
think about it, but for now I want no callers.”
“Very good madam,”
the maid said, putting the flowers down beside Victorine’s
couch.
Victorine swung her pale legs down from the couch
gathering her robe about her. As she did so she disturbed the black cat that
was sitting near her feet. It hissed and buried itself under the couch. “Come,”
she said, gesturing to a group of armchairs arranged around the fire on the far
side of the room. “I shall give you a hearing and we shall see. You’ll take
some tea?”
Breughel nodded.
He gestured towards Janine. “I should introduce my associate, Miss Schenk.”
“Associate?” said Victorine sceptically. “A new word for
it.”
“I am an artist in
my own right, mademoiselle,” Janine responded feeling prickly. “Members of your
organisation have sat for my works.”
“An innovation!”
exclaimed Victorine. “A woman
behind the easel instead of in front of it. Whatever will things come to
if the world is exposed to women’s views instead of views of women?” Her voice
was heavy with irony and she looked at Janine with an evident degree of
distaste.
The maid arrived
with a tray of tea things and poured each of them a cup. Victorine
pulled her wrap more closely about her. “There have been six girls to my
knowledge. At least two of them have turned up on the programme that you talk
of but of the others, no trace. We have tried to get messages to them but there
have been no replies. There may be nothing to worry about. Mr Da V and the others have been inconvenienced but that is
hardly our concern. I am more worried about the welfare of my members, though.
If there is any suggestion that these girls have not gone of the own accord…”
“Do you believe
that to be the case?”
Victorine shrugged. “It is hard to say. Our members
are often impulsive. The life of a model is hardly one of stability and
conventional morality.” She granted Janine an acidic look. “It mirrors that of
our employers.” Janine returned it. “I do know that at least one was planning
to be in
“Go on,” Breughel
urged.
“One
of the girls at least.
I was surprised that she would go off without at least a word to others. She
was working with Buonarotti. In
Breughel felt no
enthusiasm for a meeting with Michelangelo. A mercurial figure at best, he was
too prone to solving problems with his fists for the quiet Belgian.
“In fact,” said Victorine. “Two of the others were last heard of in
Breughel grunted.
“You’ll let me have a list?” he asked. “Names, employers, date and place last
seen.”
Victorine nodded and reached for her bell. The maid
appeared again. “The ledger,” Victorine called. The
girl left and returned with a large black leather
bound book. Victorine copied out some details from it
and passed the paper to Pieter. He got to his feet and Janine followed suite.
“Do call me,” Victorine said to Janine, “if you ever
decide to hang up your brushes. I’m sure there are many that would love to …..”
“Of course,” said
Janine in as sweet a voice as she could muster, “though I don’t think it
likely.” She and Breughel took their leave.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:God2-Sistine_Chapel.png
Pieter and Janine
headed back towards
“Bitch,” she
muttered under her breath.
Pieter heard her
but chose not to be drawn. It was obvious that Janine and Victorine
hadn’t seen eye to eye. Whatever her views on the emancipation of women might
be, it was clear which side of an easel Victorine
thought a woman should be.
They picked up the
autostrada just before
At the edge of the
city, Janine took the circonvallazione north to pick
up the Via Aurelia. The Carabinieri were less than
impressed with the way that Janine swung the Lamborghini into St Peter’s
Square. A contingent of Swiss Guard approach them as
Janine and Pieter climbed out. “Friends of Mr Da V,”
Janine called as they reached the car. The guards stiffened at the mention of
the artist and engineer. She tossed the cars keys to the first guard. “Can you
park it please?” she smiled, winsomely. “We’ll be in the Capella
Sistina.”
The guard smiled.
“Sure,” he said. “But watch out. We’ve got workmen in there. They’re doing some
stuff to the ceiling.”
“Thanks,” called
Janine, leading Pieter to the door to the chapel. Pieter looked back to the
scene in the square. The guards were arguing about which of them would actually
get to park the car. Pieter thought there might be a few more kilometers on the clock than was strictly needed by the
time they got it back.
Pieter had heard
great things about the Sistine Chapel but right now the place resembled a
building site more than an artist’s studio. A large hydraulic platform stood at
one end of the chapel, its legs extended so that those working on it could
easily reach the ceiling 60 feet above the ground.
“Hey Mike,” Janine
called up. “Are you going to be up there all day?”
“Janine, hey!” the
artist responded with spontaneous warmth. “Hold on, I’ll be right down.” He
barked some orders to the others working on the platform alongside him, and
scrambled down the ladder from the platform to the floor of the chapel. He
picked up a cloth to wipe the paint from his hands and then embraced Janine
affectionately. “Still keeping it real?”
“Better than
that,” she laughed. “Do you know Pieter?”
Breughel extended
his hand. “It’s an honour to meet you,” he said sincerely.
“Naturally,” Michelangelo
responded in the manner of a man known for his lack of modesty. Janine gave him
a scolding look. “And, of course, you. Your work with
the everyday is as great in its field as is mine with the divine.”
Breughel’s natural
tendency to the taciturn made him wary of the Italian’s over blown manner. “We
hear that one of your models ran off. Mr da V thought
it might help if he could find her.”
Michelangelo
looked annoyed. “Inconsiderate slut!” he snapped. “If Eve cannot be relied upon
what chance is there for the rest of womankind? Look!” He pointed to a drawing
on a sheet of paper hanging on one wall of the chapel. In the picture the head
and shoulders of a woman were peering out from under the arm of God at the act
of creation. “It was almost complete, I was ready to
transfer it to the ceiling. The plaster was already applied and wet, She should have been on hand if I needed to check any
slight detail. And what do I find?”
“What?” said Pieter.
“Nothing! I come back from lunch to find she has
gone. No letter, no message, nothing. We’ve had to chip the plaster off again.
I don’t know what we will do if she doesn’t come back. Sure I can get on with
the rest for now but it will have to be done soon.”
“You’ve tried to
find her at home?”
“Of
course! At home, her parents, her – how you say – ‘significant other’.
No sign. None of them know where she has gone or that she was planning to go
anywhere.”
“And
the police?” Janine
asked.
“Why should they
be interested? She’s a model. They come and go, they say. How can you expect anything else, they say. They took the
details but I don’t think they took much notice.”
“But you have
friends in high places. Didn’t you try Julius?” Pieter thought that the Pope
ought to have been able to help.
“You think he can spare
his time worrying about one girl. You know what he said? Mikey,
baby, he says, you do the pictures, you worry about the fucking girls. I gotta church to run. You think you got problems with girls,
let me tell you how many nuns I gotta worry about. That’s
what he said. So I got a ceiling with a big hole in it right now. If you can find her, then great.”
Pieter listened.
He could understand why Luther was pushing things the way he was. “Can you tell
us where she was staying?” He’d already concluded that he wouldn’t learn much
from Buonarotti.
Michelangelo gave
them an address for his model, Gina Perdice. She’d
been living in an apartment down near the Piazza Navona.
Pieter said he’d do what he could. He and Janine left the painter climbing back
up to the ceiling, haranguing his assistants and yelling at the plasterers for
putting up more than the painters could hope to cover before it dried. Back in
the sunlight that streamed down on St Peter’s Square. Pieter confided in
Janine, “I’m not sure this is getting anywhere yet.”
She shook her
head. “No, the artists take little interest in the models apart from peering at
them when they are painting or fucking them when they’re not.”
Pieter was
sometimes affronted by Janine’s language but he didn’t disagree with her
analysis. They walked together slowly. “I think we should try the addresses
that Victorine and Leo gave us,” Pieter said. “If you
take these three, I’ll do the others. Just try to see if anyone knows when they
went missing; if they remember anything odd about the girls; if they had any
callers. Let’s check these out and then we’ll go see Gina Perdice’s
place.”
Janine nodded.
“Sure,” she said. “Where will I meet you?”
Pieter thought for
a moment. “How about by the Trevi Fountain at
Janine said,
“Fine.” She waved and headed off across the street dodging between the hooting
traffic of the late afternoon.
Pieter trudged off
in the opposite direction with his own list. He knew that leg work was the
heart of detection but that didn’t make it any more interesting.
When they met
again they were both feeling despondent. The views of those they had spoken to
were remarkably consistent. “She was a model. They come and go don’t they? How would I know where she is? No she hasn’t paid the
rent – either before she left or after. No I don’t remember any callers. I
don’t let the girls bring guests in here. What sort of a house do you think
this is?”
“What we need,”
said Janine, “is to get closer to things. Listen. When
we get to Gina Perdice’s apartment let me talk to the
landlady. I’ve got an idea but you’ll need to go along with it.”
Spontaneity wasn’t
Breughel’s strongest suit but he was happy to let Janine take the lead.
The apartment
block was a big rambling building, the made their way through the warren of
corridors until they found an old woman carrying bundles of washing. “We’re
looking for Gina Perdice.”
The woman
responded immediately. “She’s not here. I told Buonarotti
already. I don’t know where she is.”
“I know,” said
Janine, “he suggested I could take her room.”
The woman
shrugged. “I don’t mind who pays the rent.” She looked her up and down. “You working for Buonarotti?”
Janine shook her
head. “No. For this man.” She grabbed Pieter by the
arm and smiled warmly at him.
The old woman
grunted. “Another artist, eh?” She prodded Breughel
inquisitorially. “Is she going to earn enough posing for you to pay her rent?”
Breughel, taking
his cue as promised, nodded.
“What do I care?”
she said. “As long as she has the money! It’s that
room there.” She pointed across the corridor. “And you! Artist!” she waved at
Pieter. “You wanna fuck your model you do it
somewhere else.”
Pieter doffed his
hat at the woman and muttered an assurance of probity. The two of them left her
and went into the room. Pieter looked as if he was sucking a lemon.
Janine collapsed
on the bed laughing. “Your face!” she giggled.
“I am not used to
being accused of sexual impropriety,” Breughel said stuffily.
“Well,” said
Janine, “you have now installed your devastatingly attractive model in her
sordid apartment. You shall take a small studio somewhere. I shall model for
you. We shall see what happens. Maybe I will find things out from some of the
other girls.”
“I am not a fan of
these under-cover operations,” Breughel said. “This could be very risky for
you.”
“I can look after
myself, Pieter,” Janine responded.
Pieter felt like
reminding her that she hadn’t been able to look after herself when she was
snatched from the Delacroix exhibition and that he’d ended up pulling her out
of that with the death of three of her guards. He looked at her determined
face. It was obvious that she’d made up her mind. “I’d better find some paints
and a canvas, then,” Breughel said.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Ingres%2C_Odalisque_with_a_slave.jpg
Pieter Breughel
was taking a morning coffee on the Piazza Navona. He
winced at the sight of Janine Schenk as she approached him across the square.
She was wearing an
acid green blouse of a material that was sheer enough to make it plain she was
wearing a black bra beneath it. Her skirt stretched to below her knees but was
so tight that it provided all those watching with a perfect appreciation of the
line of her buttocks and thighs. The black satin material glinted in the
morning sunlight.
He was sitting
outside the café where they had arranged to meet. We need to be seen, she’d
said. The artist and his model. He looked at his
canvases, brushes and easel, propped ostentatiously beside his seat. He looked
back at the girl advancing towards him. There wasn’t much risk that they
wouldn’t be noticed, he thought. Worst luck!
Now she strode
straight up to him and sat down, giving the hem of her skirt an exaggerated tug
downwards as she crossed her legs. Seeing Pieter’s response, she smiled at him
and blew him a kiss. The smirks of the men and the scowls of the women at
adjacent tables told Breughel exactly what they thought about his companion.
Pieter picked up
the tiny cup of espresso coffee and peered over it at Janine’s back-combed and
teased hair. “Very convincing,” he said quietly.
“I thought so,”
laughed Janine. “Relax. It will do your reputation the world of good.”
“I hadn’t realised
that ‘model’ was a synonym for ‘prostitute’ these days.”
“You’re reading
the wrong papers.”
She was right,
thought Breughel. He was feeling increasingly out of touch with the man in the
street.
Janine grinned at
Pieter’s discomfort. It got worse as Pieter realised that a girl in an
exceptionally abbreviated skirt and a low cut top seemed to be waving at him.
His relief was evident as he realised that she was waving at Janine rather than
himself.
“Ciao!” the girl
exclaimed as she arrived at their table. She sat down and tossed her capacious
shoulder bag onto the table. As she leant forward to pull a pack of cigarettes
from the bag, Pieter realised that he was being afforded a view of her cleavage
that practically allowed him to see her navel.
“This is Francesca
Corone,” Janine announced. “We met at the apartments
and I’ve got a job!” Janine leapt forward and clutched Pieter around the neck
in an exaggerated show of affection. “We could have a clue,” she hissed quietly
in his ear as she hugged him.
“Si,” said Francesca. “We have a real chance to be in an
important picture. For Mr Ingres.
You know him?”
Pieter nodded. Who
hadn’t heard of the painter of the debauched pictures that had outraged Paris
in spite of his attempt to justify them as a sociological study of girls
involved in the sex industry in the near and middle east. “More
odalisques?” Pieter asked.
Janine nodded but
seeing his concern said, “It’s all very proper. Mr Ingres
has assured us. We shall be chaperoned at all times.”
“I’m pleased to
hear it,” said Brueghel stuffily.
“Come and see,”
said Janine, “we are starting this morning.”
Breughel grunted
acceptance, downed the last of his coffee, tossed a few coins on the table,
picked up his easel and canvases and followed Janine and Francesca across the
piazza. In spite of himself, he found he was enjoying
the site of the two girls’ backsides as they strode out as well as their tight
skirts would allow them.
Ingres studio, in a tall Moorish building at the
back of the Spanish Steps, looked more like a Turkish harem than an artist’s
workplace but he greeted Breughel warmly. He shooed the girls away to change,
smiling at the way they giggled and grabbed at the bolts of brightly coloured
and embroidered silks that were draped around the room. “I’m surprised to see
you in
“It was cold in
Ingres gave him a sideways look, not certain
whether or not he was being humorous. Pieter noticed a rather serious looking
woman sitting in the corner of the room. Ingres waved
her forward, “Pieter, do you know Madame Berthe Morisot”
Pieter nodded.
They had met some time ago in
“Berthe will be keeping an eye on me to make sure I am not
taking any liberties with the girls. She is quite incorruptible, I am sure you
will agree,” Ingres said, evidently irritated by the
need to employ a chaperone as well as the models.
“You are right. I
am sure that with Madame Morisot in attendance the
good reputation of the girls and yourself should be well assured.” Pieter took
his leave of Ingres, Janine, and Berthe
Morisot. He had work to do.
He spent the day
trying to talk to some of the other girls that had worked for Michealangelo. Sure they knew “Eve” but no one had seen her
since she disappeared. Too many girls were going missing they said. It wasn’t a
safe job any more. They were all looking for other things to do, working in
cafes, jobs in the clubs or the theatres, anything was better than modelling at
the moment.
Breughel didn’t
feel that he was getting very far. It would probably be useful to see if Janine
had discovered anything, he thought and headed for the flat she was sharing
with Francesca. The place was deserted.
Pieter called
Dominique. “Dom,” he said, “Is Janine still with you? She didn’t show up at her
flat yet.”
“I left her with
Francesca and Berthe They were
getting dressed, I had to be over here, I had a call to meet with some guys.
They didn’t show up either.”
Now Pieter was
worried. “Meet me at the studio,” he said, “as quickly as you can.”
The two of them
arrived at Ingres’s Spanish Steps studio at almost
the same time. Dominique fumbled with his keys trying to open the door. As soon
as they got in, the muffled moans coming from upstairs confirmed Pieter’s
anxieties. The two of them bounded up the stairs. In
the room that Dominique used to let his models change they found Madame Morisot.
She had been
blindfolded, bound and gagged and tied to a large, heavy wooden chair. She was
struggling against the ropes that held her to the chair. Dominique ran forward
and tried to prise the cloth that gagged her from across her mouth but without
effect, it had been tied too tightly. He turned his attention to the blindfold
and wrenched it off. Berthe Morisot
blinked in the light with relief at the sight of her rescuers. Pieter pulled a
small folding knife from his pocket and managed to saw through the cloth. As he
pulled that clear he saw that another cloth had been tied tightly between her
lips holding further packing deep inside her mouth. He cut that too and pulled
the packing clear as Dominique fumbled with the ropes. Berthe
coughed and spluttered as the mouth filling wadding came clear.
“Oh, thank you,” Berthe gasped as Pieter removed the last of the gag.
“They’ve taken the girls. I couldn’t stop them.” Dominique had managed to untie
the ropes around her waist and across her lap and now started on her wrists. Berthe gave a groan as the ropes came loose. She pulled her
arms free and tried to massage some life back into her red raw wrists.
“Tell me what
happened,” said Pieter.
“There were three
of them,” Berthe began. “Masked, carrying guns. They
burst in and made us all stand with our hands up. They wouldn’t let poor Janine
dress. They forced Francesca to tie me up on this chair and then Janine. Then
they tied up Francesca too. They gagged all of us and then they blindfolded me.
After that I could only tell what happened by what I heard.”
“It must have been
terrifying,” said Breughel sympathetically, “please go on.”
“Well one of them
said he thought there was only supposed to be one and one of the others said
they might as well take them both. There would be enough room in the truck, he
said. The girls were making a lot of noise in spite of their gags. I think the
men were pawing at them. They seemed to be waiting for something or someone.
They took quite a long time. Then there was another voice. A
woman’s voice. She was speaking in English but she was French, I am
almost certain. She sounded angry. Said that there should
only have been one of them and that one of them wasn’t really a model.
One of the men argued back saying what did it matter.
In the end the woman calmed down and they all left.”
“What time was
this?”
“Perhaps around
Dominic nodded. “I
am sure,” he said. “Please do not concern yourself. Herr Breughel here will do
all that needs to be done to obtain their safe return.”
This version © Freddie Clegg 2007
No posting or reproduction without permission
All characters fictitious
© 2007 Freddie
Clegg
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