Read Caravaggio's Angel for Free Online

me to the very person I needed. What luck he wasn’t ex-directory! Nearly everyone seemed to be, these days. I hurried on with my explanation. ‘They never found out officially who stole the picture, but it was almost certainly Beaupré. I’ve always thought the whole thing was a sort of Surrealist artwork, with the suicide as the climax . . . That’s it, really. That’s why I’m here. I was hoping I might be able to see the room where he – where he –’
    At this point I stopped. The whole thing suddenly seemed so crass. I wondered if Robert de Beaupré had lived in this very house. It seemed quite probable, given the Surrealist connection. If so, which had been the fatal room? This one? This neat and overfinished bourgeois space? The very notion seemed unthinkable. Though doubtless it hadn’t looked like this, then. And anywhere will do to hang yourself, so long as there’s something to hang from and it’s taller than you are.
    Manu considered his beer, then said, after a while and without looking at me, ‘And you thought I might know something about it?’
    ‘It seemed possible.’
    ‘But why? There are lots of people in this building. Why did you call me?’
    I took another pull at my beer. After all that talking my mouth felt dry, and I needed to sort out my thoughts. ‘Well. You know I told you I was organizing this exhibition.’
    He nodded.
    ‘OK, I’d arranged to borrow the picture that’s in the Louvre, or I thought I had. That’s why I’m here in Paris – to talk to the people there about the details. But when I got here, it turns out they won’t lend it after all. The person in charge just said no. No reason – just no. That happened a week ago, and he hasn’t been in the office since. So I thought I might try and find him at home. But no one would give me his home address. Perhaps it’s policy – that wouldn’t be surprising. Anyhow, he’s called Rigaut – Antoine Rigaut. So I was looking through the Rigauts in the phone book, and I saw that one lived here. And I’d been meaning to come here anyway, because of Robert de Beaupré. So I called.’
    He nodded absently, but gave no other sign that he’d heard a word of what I’d just said. He had finished his beer and was lying back in the little armchair, long legs stretched out in front of him, pale brown hair flopping over his pale brown forehead, fixing me somewhat unnervingly with those bright grey eyes. Above his head the lovers on the Picasso plate beatifically fondled each others’ private parts. It felt as though we were engaged in a sort of game: I had to ask the questions, and if they were the right questions, he might give me the answers. I wondered if he was like that all the time – in bed, for instance. Not much fun for his partner, if so.
    ‘Was this Robert de Beaupré’s house?’
    The fruit machine whirred: ker-ching, three in a row. Manu nodded. ‘Yes.’
    ‘And was this – the room?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘But it did happen here?’
    ‘Yes, upstairs.’ He nodded towards an open-tread stair-case at the back of the room. ‘He had his studio there.’ He paused, then (perhaps wanting to move the discussion along a little) volunteered a piece of information. ‘My grandmother found him. She was his sister.’
    ‘His sister!’
    He nodded. I tried to imagine what it must have been like – to walk into your house and find your brother . . . ‘God! How awful.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Your grandmother – then Robert de Beaupré’s sister married Emmanuel Rigaut?’
    ‘Bravo!’
    I opened my mouth to make some sharp reply, but caught myself in time. He was doing me a favour, after all. If he wanted to play games, then I’d just have to play along.
    ‘Did she know – I mean, presumably he was the thief?’
    ‘ Naturellement . Everyone knew who was involved. Everyone’s always known.’
    ‘Except the police,’ I said, glancing surreptitiously at my watch. It was after five: soon it would be too late to catch Charles