Chapter 1

They met in the Palais Orsay the next morning. It was a short, efficient conversation. Vautrin scanned the collected reports and clippings. He lingered over the Aero Guard comments. Faure told him what was needed – debunk the phantom, determine if there was more to the dead thief, provide a name regarding the breached tunnel. The constraints were not exceptional: no press, no reference to the President, no paper trail, no unnecessary bodies.

Faure passed over a briefing folder, along with an envelop containing an advance of ten thousand francs. A negotiated balance, depending on the resolution, would follow. They agreed Vautrin would return in a week – Friday, the seventeenth. As he walked to the door, the President warned him of the consequences of allowing the folder to fall into the wrong hands. Fifteen minutes after being shown in, the detective set out for the Aeroport du Louvre.

Vautrin clung to a minor vanity regarding his physical fitness. Moving at the Soldats Ciel’s brisk marche double, he covered the kilometer in nine minutes. Midway across the pedestrian bridge, he paused to look at the building rising before him.

Until 1870, the Louvre served variously as royal, consular and presidential palaces. When le Presidente departed in disgrace, his successors selected other residences, with fewer grand associations. The debate about what to with those thousands of square meters of space alternately raged and slumbered. Opinions ranged from demolition for a public square, to housing the whole of government ministries, to creating a permanent national art gallery, to selling it off to commercial interests. More than a decade later, the final determination was something altogether different.

In 1886, it was decided to refurbish the main palace and convert the vast Place Carousel into an aero dock. The resulting hotel and aeroport were opened in conjunction with the 1889 centennial celebrations. Many felt this new Louvre was worthy of celebration on its own account.

While the Roeblings left the streetface unchanged, the internal alterations were far-reaching. The great courtyard of the palace was glassed over as an arboretum. The former rooms of state, compartmented, became the ninety finest guest suites in the world. Shops, services and restaurants, exclusively for the patronage of Louvre guests, lined arcades on ground level.

The facilities for aeros to dock and depart were equally grand. Again the street view was unaltered. The former parade ground was roofed over in copper and glass. Along the courtyard side of the palace wings, rows of iron columns soared forty meters high. A double row of iron lattice arches divided the space into two massive caverns – one hundred meters wide by two hundred fifty deep - opening on to the Tuileries Gardens. The Times said the effect was of a double row of colossal croquet hoops, dressed in the materials of the progressive industrial age. An apt companion for Eiffel’s Tower and Dutert’s Galerie, the Louvre would surely prosper as long as the wealthy arrived in Paris by air.

Vautrin was under no illusion he would ever qualify to enter the Louvre as either passenger or guest. On retiring out of the Soldats Ciel, he followed his father in becoming an exclusive confidential investigator. Somewhat to his surprise, he found himself very proficient and, consequently, agreeably well off. But he could never aspire to the class or cash necessary to have those portico doors opened for him.

Yet today they were. But only because the Aeroport’s deputy chief of security met him at the entrance. The man introduced himself, then guided him to The Chief. Vautrin heard the capitalization. They left the scowling doormen behind to descend service stairs.

A handful of workers queued at the foot of the stairs, waiting to pass through a security gate. The deputy waved his badge to have the turnstile rotate without questions. He gestured down a long wide hallway, and set a fast pace. Vautrin smiled at the challenge as he easily matched stride for stride. Up another staircase, and they entered the outer office of the Louvre’s head of security.

The Chief de Securitie was dictating a letter when they were shown in. Etienne Becque had often been described as being a man of great presence. Vautrin felt that did faint justice to the sheer mass of the man. After introductions were made, Becque dismissed the others, telling the clerk to return in an hour to complete the letter.

Alone, the two men conducted silent assessments of each other. Each had a detailed profile of the other, but both were of the “to see the man is to know the man” school. Considering his size, age and condition – Vautrin knew him to be some one hundred-thirty kilos, sixty-three years old and partially blind on the left – Becque exuded an air of both physical and intellectual nimbleness.

Vautrin asked for his preliminary thoughts on the mysteries. Becque spoke in a clear, even voice, with a hint of accent. Answering the query in Vautrin’s eyes, he called it the legacy of his service with the Ministry of Marine and Colonies - twenty-six years in the United States and au Mexique. He said young and ambitious men in their trade look to leave their mark. But far more often the places they are stationed mark the men far more. Vautrin knew then they would get on well.

At a large table, Becque unrolled a stack of plans for the aeroport, one for each level. Above ground, three floors of offices and workshops, plus attics. Below ground, the basement and a scattering of sub-basements. As he spoke, Becque placed small ivory markers at locations he knew unauthorized persons had been. Vautrin asked what made him think persons rather than person.

“It is how we find door handles not returned to their proper positions – in two different manners. It has to do with different lengths of stride in the corridors, which is revealed in the carpet pile. Earlier this week, a steward told me he carried out a cutlery and plate count prior to an inspection. The inspector found the count two settings short. Not passenger quality settings, mind you, only what the crew uses.”

He laid two plates on top of the plans. One was well-figured fine china. The other was a plain white, utilitarian plate typical of cheap suburban cafes. Its sole distinction was the Aero Authority logo stamped on the back. Vautrin asked if the steward was sure of his count.

Becque laughed “The Authority’s attention to inventory is second only to its attention to profitable operations. I had to sign for those, and promise to return them by five o’clock.”

Vautrin moved on to the sightings. Becque had a definitive explanation, but said Vautrin should hear it from the source. He touched a buzzer on the wall, and the clerk’s head appeared around the opened door. Becque told him to show M. Pelletier in. The slight, precise maintenance chief was only in his thirties, but carried himself with the gravity of an elderly commune mayor. Without preamble he said the phantom was no more than one of his own workmen.

Pelletier produced a two-column sheet. The longer left-hand column listed roof work over the last month. On the right, the sightings reported by the press. Every sighting matched a work party. Frowning at the frequency of those parties, Vautrin asked if there were problems with the roof. Becque said that in addition to constant, and minor, maintenance, there was ongoing enhancement work. He offered a bland smile. Vautrin remained silent. Ignoring Pelletier, he stared directly at Becque and waited for the real explanation. Becque read the look, then sighed.

Every venerable building in Paris, he said, was graced with verdigris domes and planes. Left to nature, it took as much as thirty years to develop a respectable patina. As Vautrin knew, the aeroport was only third that age. A process was found to promote oxidation, using a chemical solution sprayed on at regular intervals. Winter-time applications were made on nights with little or no rain. Admittedly, the next rain washed the solution away. But the approach accelerated the process at the rate of four years for every year of application.