‘Good evening, Sir. Ready for your rendezvous?’
He gave me a cool look. ‘This isn’t a rendezvous, Mr Linton. This is a business matter.’
‘Of course, Sir. Certainly.’ I lifted the wicker basket I’d brought with me. ‘I brought a picnic, just as you asked.’
‘Marching rations, Mr Linton. Those are marching rations.’
‘Of course, Sir. Just as you say, Sir.’
I pushed open the door, and together we stepped out into the mild Paris evening. In passing, I smiled and nodded at the doorman, who was halfway into nodding back—when suddenly, his eyes widened with recognition, he gave a squeak and jumped backwards to duck behind the nearest column.
Mr Ambrose looked from me to the doorman and back again. One eyebrow lifted about a quarter of a millimetre. I acted as if I didn’t notice and, whistling, strolled off into Paris.
We made our first stop at a beautiful, wrought-iron bridge spanning the Seine. For several minutes, we just stood there, gazing over the water glittering in the last light of the sinking sun, and taking in the fact that we were both here, side by side, in this beautiful place. Finally, the little ifrit in me reared its head and asked:
‘So…what are we here to inspect?’ One corner of my mouth lifted. ‘What real estate do you want to buy?’
Mr Ambrose’s little finger twitched. Quickly, he glanced around from right to left, and then said, as if that should be evident to anyone and he was surprised I’d asked, ‘This bridge, of course.’
‘You want to buy the…what is it called?’ Doubtfully, I glanced at the massive iron construction connecting two public roads. Couples were strolling up and down everywhere, holding hands, enjoying the fresh evening air.
‘The Pont des Arts.’
‘Pardon my saying so…but won’t the city of Paris object to your buying a public bridge?’
In answer, he pulled a measuring tape out of his pocket and started examining the bridge, mumbling and taking notes in a little notebook. I looked on with a little smile and let him be. Firstly, because it was adorable how hard he was trying to be businesslike, and secondly, because there was a tiny chance that he was actually planning to buy up all of Paris’ public bridges. This was Mr Rikkard Ambrose were talking about, after all.
‘Where next?’ I enquired when he put his measuring tape away.
Mr Ambrose pointed across the bridge, to where an imposing two-wing palace with a lavish park rose high above the Seine.
‘There.’
‘Err…Mr Ambrose?’
‘Yes?’
‘Pardon me if I’m mistaken, but isn’t that the Louvre?’
‘Yes.’
I blinked. ‘The Louvre is part of your real estate inspection tour.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Just so I get this right – you want to buy the Louvre.’
‘I am not in the habit of repeating myself, Mr Linton. The building in question is prime real estate near the waterfront that wastes a lot of space — space that could be used as building sites — on greenery and open spaces.’ Cocking his head, he gave the museum a critical look. ‘Also, I have heard that for some reason, a number of eccentric people consider the contents of the building to also be of considerable value.’
Covering my eyes, I gave a dismissive wave. ‘Forget I asked.’
‘Well, what are you waiting for, Miss Linton? Let’s go.’
He marched off towards the Louvre, and I followed. I had to say, it was quite an interesting visit. It was probably the first time that the museum’s guides and curators had been asked questions like ‘How thick is the wall behind that ugly painting there?’ and ‘How much rent does an average flat bring in this quarter of the city’ or ‘Excuse me, is that a water pipe behind that chunky statue? How much would it cost to get running water in this whole place if you partitioned the rooms?’
Of course, most of the conversations happened in French, so I wasn’t really sure what was said most of the time, but I could deduce pretty much everything from the way the curators’ faces turned first white, then red, and maybe even a little bit blue in a fit of enraged patriotism. One of these artistic gentlemen finally tried to have Mr Ambrose removed from the building after he started to check the wall behind the Mona Lisa for structural soundness. I, meanwhile, leaned against a column next to an ancient Greek fellow in a marble bedsheet, watching the whole scene with relish. This was exactly what I needed to relax.
‘And?’ I asked innocently when Mr Ambrose came over, his lips tight and his hand clenched around his measuring tape. ‘How is the wall behind dear Lisa?’