A Letter from Paris: MRS DUCHESNEY MYSTERIES

By Peggy Kopman-Owens

Cover Art © Roger Kopman. In desperation, she wrote, "Meet me in Paris." He would have said, "Yes." But, he never received her letter.

Who did? Bon Voyage! Les grandes vacances, the six-week summer exodus, is about to begin, taking Paris sleuth Louie Bertrand to the sunny beaches of Deauville and leaving his sleuthing partner Mrs. Duchesney alone in Paris to investigate not one, but four new mysteries! The stamp market provides a perfect setting for a shadowy figure from Moscow, whose real interest in Paris may not be collecting stamps. A cold case involving a dead diplomat and his dubious widow simply refuses to remain cold, when evidence surfaces suggesting an Egyptian statue may not be the only priceless item missing from the couple's apartment. While Louie searches for two married sisters, traveling sans husbands, Mrs. Duchesney receives a coded invitation to rendezvous with a dead poet. As if that weren't enough intrigue, both Paris sleuths are compelled to investigate one of their oldest friends, when his unauthorized biography reveals a hidden past and secrets taken to his grave. It's another busy summer of Paris Mysteries. Pack your bags!

• Language: English
• Publisher: PKOBOOKS LLC
• Release date: Mar 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215013106

Peggy Kopman-Owens

Peggy Kopman-Owens writes suspenseful fiction, gentle mysteries with touches of romance that inspire readers to search for their passports. Her literary properties, reflecting her work in 35 countries, include three series set in Paris. SIMON PENNINGTON MYSTERIES, MRS. DUCHESNEY MYSTERIES, and SEVEN PARIS MYSTERIES now available in eBook, paperback, hardcover, and / or audiobook. (author's photo: © Michael D. Owens)  Cover Art © Roger Kopman. Online gallery at KOPMANPHOTOS.com "My mother wrote stories and songs, becoming my inspiration, teaching that passion and patience are inseparable partners. From my father and mother, both musicians who loved to travel, I learned to embrace a world full of diversity and endless possibilities. I can never thank them enough for bestowing this lovingly unselfish gift of intellectual freedom."

Book preview

Chapter 1

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Bats in the Belfry

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Louie knew it was better not to bother Mrs. Duchesney on this particular day of the week, and so, he had taken to spending it in a different, but equally pleasurable pursuit. In fair trade, she no longer asked where Louie spent his Thursdays, having found out over the past ten years that it was better not to delve too deeply into Louie’s private life. The candidness of his answers was not always quite appreciated, and in the past, his raw honesty had led to long arguments. He often defended himself by reminding her, If you don’t want to know the truth, don’t ask!

Louie had learned to keep Mrs. Duchesney’s inquisitive mind and overly active imagination at bay, it was better not to say anything at all, rather than to reveal too much or to do worse and attempt a lie. He could always spot a liar and so, naturally he assumed she had acquired this talent by apprenticing at his side. After all, the woman, a decade his junior, was becoming one of the more notable female sleuths in Paris, and the agency’s reputation, which fed his bank account, had been built upon their shared best instincts.

His high opinion of her was not one spoken aloud merely to flatter her in front of clients. In a city like Paris, where there were more female private detectives than there were cats, the young Francesca Robinsworth Duchesney had proven herself, becoming somewhat a legend. While Louie thought female sleuths and female cats, spent far too much of their time sitting on roofs, staring into other peoples’ windows, he could not argue with the prey both caught.

For Mrs. Duchesney, today was a special Thursday, more than a routine visit to the stamp market. Today, she was on a mission with a singular purpose, a promised look at the very rare Bat over the Belfry stamp from Bulgaria, which had eluded Monsieur Gaudier for four years. She wondered if others might consider she had bats in her belfry, for pursuing so hotly this elusive scrap of paper. However, she was not alone in her quest. The competition among collectors was keen for this one particularly rare stamp, which had not been circulated or seen by collectors for over fifty years.

Collecting stamps was still relatively new to her, causing her to rely on catalogues, stamp magazines, and ultimately, the advice of stamp dealers, whom she did not know well. This latter challenge was addressed by recruiting one particular stamp dealer, whom despite the dubious circumstances of their first meeting, was now acting upon her behalf. Monsieur Gaudier was committed to locating the stamp, although, the search had reached several dead-ends, figuratively and literally.

Was it worth it? She wondered. Who was she to assume the stamp still existed for sale anywhere? Or that those who had it were willing to part with it? Who was she, to think it might be casually purchased, and added to her collection? She was an amateur.

A most amicable stamp dealer, an expert in his peers’ estimation, Monsieur Gaudier assured her, In Paris, everything was obtainable for a price and if she did not become the one who pursued this little paper treasure, there were others who would. Setting a price of two hundred and fifty Euros, he said, It’s a steal."

Did he mean literally – a steal? As much as, Mrs. Duchesney disliked his choice of words, she loved a solid challenge. The difficulty of this acquisition only added to the intrigue, feeding her passion for a good mystery. It did not matter, that in this case, she was not being paid to solve it. The chase had lasted four years.

From the beginning, she was hooked. Later, when an unexpected package, containing a 40-year old stamp catalogue, arrived at her door, she was thrilled to discover a message slipped inside. A torn envelope had been used as a page marker, and upon it was written a message from Monsieur Gaudier. On the page, a photograph of her elusive stamp appeared, and a short article about its history. Scribbled across the backside of the envelope was the one word she had waited four long years to read.

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Succès.

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Inside, a quickly scribbled note gave the name of a man, who was in Paris on a stop during his once-a-year tour of France. Her first clue, as to where the stamp might have been found, was the man’s surname, one suggesting eastern European descent. A recent communication with Monsieur Balakov..., Monsieur Gaudier had written, confirming the rare stamp had been located in Moscow, and that it had been secured by this same man. Was Monsieur Balakov an agent for Monsieur Gaudier or a complete stranger? Why had Monsieur Gaudier not said, My friend in Moscow or better still my trusted associate in Moscow... and why had he not said, il a été obtenu (It has been obtained) rather than Il a été sécurisée, which implied it was secure, protected, safe? Safe from what? From whom? Did secure mean it was now in Monsieur Gaudier’s possession or simply in the pocket of Monsieur Balakov?

Sometimes the French language seemed too vague on such details. Monsieur Gaudier’s note did not give a new price, although, she anticipated the earlier one of two hundred and fifty Euros no longer applied. It had been four years. There was inflation to consider, and she could not ignore the fact, that Monsieur Gaudier had begun referring to this figure as an estimate, rather than their agreed upon price. It seemed, even hundred-year old stamps had a shelf life, and an expiration date.

This simple stamp purchase was beginning to reveal all the necessary clues of a long-legged cloak-and-dagger mystery in Moscow. How delightful! Was Monsieur Gaudier just playing a game with her? Was the stamp actually found in an estate book in France? The man knew she was a professional sleuth. Was this his idea of some sort of a joke, something to break his summer boredom, or hers? She wondered. He was a sly old fox, as closed-mouth and secretive on the one hand as he was loquacious and careless on the other.

When Mrs. Duchesney called Monsieur Gaudier, to inquire a third time about when she might actually see the stamp, he could not assure her of anything, not when it would be delivered to him; not even to confirm it was in Paris, yet. He did assure her, however, that her money had been received by Monsieur Balakov’s bank.

Fine thing, she thought. They have my money and I have nothing! However, she did not say this aloud.

Then, Monsieur Gaudier revealed a clue to this man’s character, calling Monsieur Balakov, a mysterious fellow.

Ah Ha! Mrs. Duchesney had muttered under her breath. In his own words, Monsieur Gaudier was admitting it was true. A summer mystery was afoot, its legitimacy yet to be determined.

Not understanding her response, Monsieur Gaudier continued, saying that he could never be certain, whenever Monsieur Balakov visited Paris, if the man would keep an appointment, as he had a habit of breaking appointments. Monsieur Balakov also refused, on any day he was in Paris, to allow his exact whereabouts to be known.

Another, Ah ha!

Of course, Monsieur Gaudier said, as if confessing his suspicions for the first to Mrs. Duchesney, there would be a woman to blame for such inconveniences. He said if she chose to continue doing business with Monsieur Balakov, she would have to accept that some men had exceptional tastes and not a great deal of willpower, especially when it came to French cuisine and... Well, other things. Some men could become easily distracted.

(Like yourself?) She wanted to ask, but instead, said more bluntly than Monsieur Gaudier expected, That is no mystery! This was Paris. Monsieur Balakov was a man. It made sense he would not be immune to this summer’s epidemic of overly stimulated hormones. The scent of romance, if not pheromones, was being carried all over town on the slightest breeze, and no one could expect the affects might escape him. She became lost in her own thought, Monsieur Gaudier as well.

Mrs. Duchesney had spit out the words no one with a bit more emphasis and saliva than was needed to make her point. Monsieur Gaudier contemplated this, his lips screwed into a question mark, but withholding his words. Was she admitting to him – what he imagined? Did this strange little woman have romantic notions of her own? (Possible?) Fantasies about him? (Incroyable!) No, he could not possibly make room in his busy schedule for this strange little American woman. He had enough women, demanding his time. He had enough women in his life already creating problems. Was two mistresses and one wife not enough to break the back of any man? As for the idea that Mrs. Duchesney might add some magic to his summer... Well, some women were too complicated to consider as lovers.

Monsieur Gaudier continued in this delusional manner, until suddenly – even he could see the value of staying on message. Yes, clearly, it was decided. Mrs. Duchesney would remain a customer – and only a customer. With that settled in his mind, he returned to a recital of his more pressing complaints. He was unaware of her failure to keep up, moments later, finishing his speech almost where he had begun. His focus had been on the making of excuses for Monsieur Balakov’s erratic pattern of behaviour. Yes, that was it. Monsieur Balakov was to blame for his present misery.

A disbelieving Mrs. Duchesney listened, fascinated, but not buying whatever it was that Monsieur Gaudier was selling. It was a tedious test of her patience. She had only wanted to acquire a stamp, not finance an expedition across the Urals and back.

The excuses continued. A late night of gourmet delights might very well result in another unexplained no-show, Monsieur Gaudier said, before apologizing in advance for wasting her time. Yes, he had indicated that the search had ended in success, but success did not necessarily mean he actually had the stamp in his possession, at least, not yet. Yes, he did understand that this was the third time she had called about the stamp, and if Monsieur Balakov failed to deliver it as promised, Monsieur Gaudier would be forced, of course, to look for another stamp elsewhere. He had agreed to find the stamp for her. He would stand by his word. However, securing a second copy of the rare stamp might take longer than the wait for the elusive Monsieur Balakov. She had waited for four years. What was a day or two more?

Her silence was profound. What did he expect her to say? Bravo! Well done! She stared at him with a knitted brow. He looked at her, expecting some sort of expression of sympathy. None was forthcoming. She felt justified in her discontent. He was supposed to do his job. He and Monsieur Balakov had already received her money. It was that simple, really. They owed her the merchandise that was now legally hers. In addition, the acquisition should not have taken four years! Did he really expect her to respond? You poor, poor man... so overworked, so tasked with the impossible. Well, that wasn’t going to happen.

The silence continued. Her eyes grew larger, the message clearly impossible to ignore. He looked down to hide the truth of his embarrassment. Taking great pains to emphasize the degree of his dilemma, he fumbled his words. If this deal should fall through, exactly as he suspected it might, and exactly as he predicted the possibility... Well ...well, then, it would not be his fault!

Pleading non Reus (not guilty) seemed important to him. Then, he made a terrible mistake, attempting to flirt with her as he did with most women. He had forgotten that this was Mrs. Duchesney, and she was not like most women. Batting his eyes as if he were a thirteen-year old school-boy asking a girl to forgive him for stealing her lunch, his smile betrayed him. She immediately saw the arrogance that had and would lead him into trouble.

He had misinterpreted their friendship. In his way of thinking, if Mrs. Duchesney had confessed earlier to possessing a lascivious nature, and therefore, flirting would be the first step in the dance, which only he knew too well. This distracting ploy had worked in the past, buying him more time to resolve problems with women. All was fair in love and war, and this included business, when his customer was of the fairer sex.

In this case, he could not have been more mistaken, as his inappropriate advances made Mrs. Duchesney appear extremely uncomfortable, and Monsieur Gaudier - utterly ridiculous. Had the man learned nothing about her in the past five years? Even she could see that she was not like other women. She was not susceptible to flattery and his plethora of superficial compliments. Did he not remember their first year as merchant and customer, when he tried to loosen her purse strings, by repeatedly inviting her to lunch? Had the man lost his memory, along with his pride? What in the world was he thinking to behave in such a manner?

When he leaned in for a kiss and she mirrored his movement, but in the opposite direction, he must have sensed his error, finally. It was the first and last step of a dance that would end quickly. Without either of them acknowledging the awkwardness, he dispensed with idle conversation and she made hurried excuses about other errands. Thus, they were able to part successfully, both physically and verbally, with a little bit of their dignity still intact.

Pushing pass this moment of embarrassment, Mrs. Duchesney took the high road, reassuring him that she had no expectations or false hopes, then, adding to erase any doubt as to the subject they were discussing... regarding his negotiation with Monsieur Balakov. She finished by thanking him, yet another cursory time, for exacting such great pains in locating this stamp. By the amount of time that he had invested, it was clear to her - the cost of the stamp had just doubled. However, she did not acknowledge this, aloud.

Yes, she wanted the little rarity for her collection, but there was a monetary limit to her desires, even if Monsieur Gaudier preferred to call them needs. A woman needed to protect her assets, a term that she now knew held several meanings for Monsieur Gaudier. Thinking he was reading her mind, once again, he blundered. A young woman might not think of this, but an... He was going to say older woman, but managed to stop himself, and substituted, but a woman of an indiscernible age is much wiser. There, he had saved himself from further embarrassment.

As she recalled their very first discussion of the stamp, she had inquired if Monsieur Gaudier might have the time, to look into the possibility of obtaining the stamp. At that time, she had no idea if the stamp still existed, anywhere, or if it did, whether or not she could afford to buy it. She had not sent the stamp dealer off in search of the Holy Grail. Evidently, he had taken her words quite literally, misinterpreting yet another important aspect of their initial agreement. Going off half-cocked, she would learn, was an innate part of his true nature.

How the man could maintain a successful business, given that the mere suggestion of a quest could send him off in all directions, was a wonder. Truffle-hunting pigs could stay on point with less incentive. Monsieur Gaudier, on the other hand, could be focused on finding the stamp one day, and then, disappear the next, running with a tug on his leash from his mistress. If his behaviour exemplified the true nature of all Frenchmen, then, Mrs. Duchesney could understand why the hundred-year war had taken... well, a hundred years. Perhaps, she should be happy that his hunt for her stamp had taken only four.

With some people, it took time to learn their character flaws. This one had surfaced early, showing itself to be the cause of his many misunderstandings with women. Mrs. Duchesney wanted to tell him, what his other women would not, Stop talking long enough to listen! She also wanted to tell him that he was not nearly as charming as he believed himself to be, but it was not her place to do so. She was not a deliberately hurtful person, and since Monsieur Gaudier was not getting any younger, this old warrior probably needed his fantasies as much as anyone did. It was a shame that some female in his youth had not dampened his narcissistic self-indulgence, but now it was too late.

While being the target of his bored, but over-active libido had proved quite embarrassing for that moment, she did not perceive him as a particularly dangerous threat. She knew too much about the man. Monsieur Gaudier had a wife and at least one mistress, so, unless he was some sort of superman, how could he seriously solicit for another? No, the man was just a man, not unlike many others she had met, since moving to Paris. He lived his life as they did, assuming if twenty women were asked for a kiss, one would pucker up. Mrs. Duchesney wasn’t puckering. She had no idea what the final cost might be for so rare a stamp, but she would pay in cash, not kisses.

She wished now that she had not made the third telephone call to Monsieur Gaudier. If she could have reined in her own worst character flaw, impatience, this whole scene could have been avoided. She could have done better things with her time, like find a new client. A summer slowdown in the private investigation business arrived each year on the heels of the annual exodus from the city. The gaps in steady income, which inevitably followed, were always of concern. Like actors, private investigators were considered only as good as their last successful performance. Keeping new clients lined up for the annual September 1st re-entry, a ritual celebrated by all Parisians, required vigilance during the summer, trips to the police stations, scans of every news article, chats with antique dealers and museum curators. Her efforts rarely failed to produce at least one unsolved case, and reward of this was that she slept better.

Renewing her pursuit of the stamp had filled up a few empty hours, between business appointments. She scribbled a note, a reminder to call her contact at police headquarters upon return home. Perhaps, Claude had a lead for her on a new case. Monsieur Lebec had sent her a clipping from a Swiss newspaper regarding an art theft. The news article reported that the main subject of interest in the investigation, a thief from Denmark, was thought to be in the Paris area. Monsieur Lebec was warning Mrs. Duchesney to keep a look out for the Dane, as was he and all the other antique dealers, who were often the first contacts for anyone fencing artwork.

Given the extenuating circumstances of Monsieur Gaudier’s search for the elusive stamp, with his long story growing much longer, she had worried the cost of her request four years earlier might now empty her savings account in the same manner his long litany of excuses was exhausting her patience. Ten years in Paris had taught her some of the more costly nuances of conducting business here. Patience was more than a virtue. When a French vendor continued to complain loudly of the difficulty of acquisition, when he detailed every step of the ordeal, then, the trophy of his chase always carried expectation of a great reward, one befitting his pain. It was not unlike a man’s lustful chase for romance. I bought the woman a drink, dinner, and took her dancing.

In Paris, a buyer’s desire for a prized object and his tolerance for the aggravation involved in obtaining it were both weighed in gold... or by the measure of other things believed to be equally satisfying. It was only in the end, when a customer’s tolerance for delay had bottomed out, that the buyer could establish the true worth of one’s desires. Sellers counted on a few buyers paying any price asked, if only to be done with the foreplay! For the sellers, there were wholesale prices, there were retail prices, but then, there was, in the end, the agreed upon cost of total possession, and this – Mrs. Duchesney was learning – was priceless.

In her particular circumstance, she had been assured that compensation had already been calculated behind the scenes for Monsieur Balakov’s pain, which would be referred to in all future conversations as his commission. Then, the cost of Monsieur Gaudier’s tedious search for the Bulgarian dealer would need to be renegotiated, as in – Were it not for me, you would not have found this little treasure.

True.

Then, there would be the immeasurable cost of safely transporting the little piece of paper to Paris, he said, emphasizing, again, its rarity and an ever-present possibility of theft.

Was this true? Could they simply cut to the chase? How much was this going to cost her? At this point, would it be better for everyone involved, if the imaginary thieves succeeded? Monsieur Gaudier would be off the hook. Monsieur Balakov could return to Moscow. She could take up another pursuit, one less aggravating.

Monsieur Gaudier had reached her last nerve, and she was teetering upon her last thin thread of civility. It was a simple little piece of paper. Somewhere in the world, a country had printed images, images that had been put through a press, glued, adhered, smeared, dropped into one mailbox, dirtied, and then, another and another. When an envelope finally reached its destination, where no one except a stamp collector might appreciate the fleck of artistic effort on the corner, chances were very good that it would be discarded. It was the contents of an envelope, which most people treasured, not the wrapper.

It was a wonder that any stamps remained intact, a miracle that they survived wars, winter, and innumerable other abuses. However, she knew that her stamp had existed, despite all this, and after all, it was not as if she had ordered it from The Holy Grail catalogue. Therefore, Monsieur Gaudier’s search should not have become a four-year Crusade. If she had known this quest was going to create so much trouble for the man, she would have devoted these past four summers to collecting seed catalogues. With discarded empty flowerpots from the florist on the corner, she could have taken up growing flowers on a windowsill for a lot less money.

Why was this Bulgarian stamp so difficult to acquire? Yes, it existed. Yes, it had a price. Yes, there were fees attached to everything bought and sold, even those for which cash was discreetly exchanged. This was France. Was it not? There are still places a person must pay to pee! A superfluous transaction fee for everything else was hardly unexpected. It seemed to her that most countries’ GNP could be made up, comfortably, of nothing more than service fees. Did any physically manufactured product make so generous a profit with such low overhead? If so, it could not compare to the cousins of service fees, masquerading as shipping and handling fees, processing fees, and return fees.

She was convinced that modern financial institutions would go out of business, if they had to resort to simply storing and protecting their customers’ money, like in olden days. Perhaps, Monsieur Gaudier was right. Hiding your savings in less noticeable ways was the best form of investing for old age. Gold coins, precious gems, rare stamps, these could be easily transported on short notice; easily hidden from tax collectors.

Still, there was something that did not feel quite right about it. Without taxes, wouldn’t all the bridges fall down? Before meeting Monsieur Gaudier, when not searching for clients or art thieves or both, she had searched for the best way to make money on her meagre savings. After a lengthy investigation of the most obvious options: stocks, bonds, annuities, she found none of these provided her with the intrigue of collecting stamps.

Collecting valuable art took more knowledge than she could hope to acquire in this lifetime, required installing security systems, and took up room on shelves and walls. Although, she had become a very good sleuth in matters of stolen art, her education had been acquired on the job. Since the value of artwork was established by insurers, she did not need to be an art expert, only an exceptional investigator. The exorbitant, if often dubious, prices of stolen art had taught her, it was better not to possess art, but rather, to visit it at museums. Louie was the expert on which ones were real, and which ones were forgeries. Through Louie, she had learned, there were too many questionable art dealers, to pick one as a confidant for personal financial matters. Even Monsieur Lebec, the antique dealer upon whom they occasionally relied for information, had a chequered past.

The entire business of collecting stamps was far more interesting to her, and required far less room in her small apartment. The two paintings, presently gracing her walls, were Bertrand originals. They were perfect for the spaces they occupied. In addition, she knew the artist personally. This imparted an intrinsic value to them that made them priceless. There was room for one or two more, should Louie decide to make further gifts of his work.

There was also a spot on her bookshelves saved for stamp albums. Now, she wondered if that space should remain empty. How could she have known that stamp collecting would bring such drama? If she were to believe the stories of Monsieur Gaudier, the history of rare stamps was far more exciting, than that of art thefts, making the profession of art thievery seem a bit boring. However, the stamp vendor was a dramatic storyteller, who loved an audience as much as did any stage actor. How much was truthful and how much was pure fabrication for the amusement of his customers?

Indeed, it had been his enthusiasm for storytelling, which first brought him under her radar in another, earlier mystery. Monsieur Gaudier had been described to her, at that time, as a person of interest in a chain of stolen art thefts. His police file and her investigation of him from afar had allowed her to learn a great deal about him, before she was to transact any business with him.

To his credit, and as a result of her investigation, nothing had surfaced to incriminate him, or corroborate complicity in the art robbery. The one suspect arrested did happen by odd coincidence to be a legitimate stamp collector as well as a thief. As Monsieur Gaudier would testify in his deposition, stamp collecting appealed to a great many people. He had never thought to interview his customers, before accepting their money.

It was a reasonable thing to say, Mrs. Duchesney thought, wondering now, if this might explain why so many of his regular customers were revealed in that investigation to be prostitutes. Had his speech, Stamps are a great way to build your savings worked on these women as easily as it had on her? The vision in her head of scantily dressed women in brothels, peering through magnifying glasses at stamps, left her wondering. However, she had said the same thing that Monsieur Gaudier would say in his police interview. Women had to look after themselves in this world. They needed to save for the unexpected, and prepare for old age. She had to agree. Looking at it from this point of view, collecting stamps did not seem such an unusual choice for Ladies of the evening, or even a struggling female sleuth.

Actually, Mrs. Duchesney quite liked Monsieur Gaudier. As men in general go, he could be quite charming, occasionally self-deprecating, too often arrogantly honest, heroically patriotic (when defending French culture), and always dramatic (if slow) when telling a story. He was, without a doubt, an expert on stamps, having acquired a vast knowledge in childhood. Stamps were for him a passion rather than simply his business. He had inherited this business, which continued to thrive in spite of the third-generation’s laissez-faire management style. Monsieur Gaudier punctuated his already erratic hours with spontaneous disappearing acts. His mistress, who apparently, kept him on a short leash, knew when to tug and when to release. His wife had given up trying, having fallen to third or fourth on her husband’s list of priorities. Monsieur Gaudier enjoyed professing that business always came first, but all evidence was to the contrary.

Mrs. Duchesney viewed stamp collecting as a newly acquired passion, each tiny curiosity leading her into a new chapter in her education. History books covered half her desk, and stamps now fascinated her so much, that she wondered how she had overlooked this hobby in her youth. Collecting stamps in childhood might have taken the sting out of her loneliness, focusing her mind on far more rewarding things than did snooping on her silly neighbours. Perhaps, instead of reading the guilty looks on the faces of the minister and his married lover, she might have read the latest stamp catalogue. However, then, she might not have become a sleuth, might not have ended up in Paris, and would not have met Louie.