Found and Lost in Paris: SIMON PENNINGTON MYSTERIES

By Peggy Kopman-Owens

Cover Art © Roger Kopman. "Do you carry any weapons, Monsieur Pennington?" "Only my wits." A modern-day Casanova is targeting American tourists in Paris, stealing their hearts, and leaving odd clues as to his identity. A few victims have hired a private detective to find the rogue. However, Paris sleuth Simon Pennington would never interrupt someone dining at his favorite French restaurant, not even to arrest him for stealing a priceless treasure. Here, the waiters are trusted informants and the Chef, an expert marksman. However, tonight, there is no need for a gun. A fork will do. "Tell Chef, the man seated at table two is a thief." "What did he steal, Monsieur Pennington?" "A woman's heart." "Mon Dieu!" "By the way, what did the thief order for dinner?" "The goose." "S'il vous plaît, tell him his goose is cooked."  "Tout de suite!"

• Language: English
• Publisher: PKOBOOKS LLC
• Release date: Mar 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215260210

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

I hid in the shadows. The man stopped rummaging through the trash bin for only a moment to examine the shiny object in his hand before placing it inside his worn leather jacket to search for something else. What? From my position across the street, under the canopy of a boulangerie that would not open for another three hours, his jacket with shadows of missing patches appeared to be military surplus. If I could have moved closer, I might have seen also a few threads remaining of another life he had led, before falling from grace. However, I did not wish to disturb him to accuse him of being a common street thief and I could be mistaken. People were often careless in discarding the most intriguing souvenirs of their lives.

His face bore witness to too many days in the sun and his hands were deeply stained, leading me to see this as evidence of a man’s time in sub-Saharan Africa, where so many who served from France had spent their youth. An artist I once knew had hands like his, permanently stained from years of working with oil-based paints, memories of a happier time that no longer could be washed away. The mortician who prepared the artist’s body for burial gave up, deciding instead to leave the poor fellow’s hands as they were in life, a visual reminder of his identity for all who arrive to mourn him. At rest, but not at peace after suffering a burst appendix his slightly pained expression and paint-stained fingers insisted, In death, I am yet an artist and my masterpiece is not yet finished. 

I had watched the ambitious vagabond across the street repeat his act of rescuing discarded items for several minutes, before he suddenly stopped and searched the shadows for someone watching. I stepped back and a minute or two later, he continued. Keenly aware of the time, he worked quickly as whatever treasures remained would be dumped soon into a collection truck. Indeed, we both could hear the grinding gears and groans of a motorized lift echoing in the stone canyon of a nearby street. Was his a desperate attempt to save things from certain destruction, to offer them a second life? I could not assume the purpose of his rescue. Once discarded, could things or people really be resurrected?

In the pre-dawn light this morning, he stopped short of completing his unexplained mission, sensing again that I was watching him. When he glanced up this time, I could not look away, regrettably robbing him of the joy of his latest discovery and replacing it with an all too familiar fear. My intrusion and unwanted curiosity had made his hand to shake and his toes to twitch. I felt guilty for having invaded his privacy, seeing the panicked gesture of both hands grabbing the outside of his bulging jacket pocket to ensure whatever he had hidden inside was still there. In one sleepy blink of my eyes and a deep yawn, I momentarily lost sight of him as he darted away with the energy of a much younger man.

Twice, from a safe distance and still running, he glanced back to see if I were in pursuit, fearful that I might yell, Stop Thief! I had given the idea of chasing him only a fleeting second thought, because the hour was too early and my energy not at all in tune with his. What had he found? In response to his distress and my lost opportunity, I pivoted on one heel and quickly walked in the opposite direction. The homeless and hungry routinely searching through garbage cans for half-eaten baguettes had nothing to fear from me, nor from the Paris police. Only thieves did. With his sudden retreat, he had suggested he was one of the latter and by his appearance, maybe both. The real question was what sort of thief was he? My curiosity about the stranger grew with each step. I was not entirely unsympathetic to his situation, but I am no thief and by the grace of God, I am not yet homeless. Therefore, this morning, true empathy escaped me.

S’il vous plaît, allow me to introduce myself to those of you who might not recognize me at this early hour. I am Simon Pennington, Paris sleuth. By all circumstantial evidence this morning, my choice of wardrobe for an example, I am not terribly different from that fellow whose hurried footsteps can still be heard echoing off of distant cobblestones. You see, I also make my living rummaging through the remnants of other people’s lives, employed to find their lost, forgotten, or stolen treasures. Occasionally, a missing object becomes something more, although I resist the business of finding missing persons. Today, however, my resistance would be challenged once again and my question would be one often repeated in Paris. Did this person wish to be found?

Unlike those who seek scraps of other people’s lives to sell or barter, who rescue what others discard without regret, I enjoy the luxury of being paid to rummage about in the rubbish of other people’s lives, to search most often for their coveted lost or stolen works of art. What I rescue and return is received with a generous amount of gratitude and an adequate reward paid in cash. Therefore, you see, I am not unlike the man who ran away in fear of whom I might be. He assumed I looked upon him with contempt or suspicion. Likewise, there are those who look down upon me, and my profession, in the same fashion with disdain and distrust.

Would it come as a surprise to learn that French tax collectors are not unlike art thieves, in that they both take a keen interest in what certain individuals own and what others report they have lost, albeit – cleverly or carelessly? Therefore, you see, the fellow who runs with something to hide may share similar feelings with me, that the government authorities take too keen an interest in one’s affairs. How are any of us so very different from each other? 

My days and nights are spent, by the nature of my business, searching through the remnants of artists’ lives, searching for objets d’art that once dressed the walls of the wealthy, but now keep thieves busy and clever sleuths busier. I am proud to be counted among the latter group, but acquiring a respectable reputation has not been easy. As is the case with the most coveted of professions, I had to pay my dues and face my failures. Fortunately, I was invited to apprentice under the tutelage of two experts who have taken their nearly spotless reputations into retirement.

I say nearly because one could not consider Monsieur Louie Bertrand’s reputation without first taking into serious consideration his intriguing past in Rome and Paris as both artist and entrepreneur. There are missing chapters to his story punctuated by questionable behavior, times when he accepted the financial support of generous patrons, many of whom were beautiful, rich, and not always principled. This is not shared here to further the rumours of Monsieur Bertrand’s youth being spent as a gigolo. Only he can attest to what were his intentions during these years. No one can be certain what he received was or was not in exchange for his talents in the boudoir, rather than the studio. His paintings speak for themselves and the truth of his talent as a painter is often muddied by those who desire to malign a competitor. I did not know Monsieur Bertrand in his youth and therefore, should not be speaking of such things, even to you. However, you did seem curious about me and to explain who I am, I must first explain in whose shadows I now walk.

Mrs. Duchesney’s reputation was unquestionably fine. In fact, one might say her historic rise as a respected private detective in Paris was positively stellar. She modestly declines such flattery, insisting that there are still those from a long-ago childhood who would disagree, who do claim her success was a fluke. I, personally, have never met anyone who would dare expound such nonsense, never met one who was certain she would fail. However, I have been told of one police officer here in Paris, who – although purporting to be on the right side of the law – had dared (without apology) to affect the outcome of some of her investigations. I write this off to professional jealousy. Whenever I mention this man’s name to Mrs. Duchesney, she quickly puts his memory to rest.

I was taught not to speak ill of the dead.

I gathered from Monsieur Bertrand’s stories, this man’s ego was threatened by Mrs. Duchesney’s keen wits. I suspect, too, that she rather enjoyed challenging his disparaging opinion of all women sleuths and took pleasure in disproving his beliefs by solving, in particular, his cold cases. I benefited from the luck of the draw when as a young journalist I was sent to Paris to interview both Monsieur Bertrand and Mrs. Duchesney. I was honored, later, when asked to stay here to become their assistant. Few would argue that I was given a privileged opportunity to learn my craft from the best. They continue to coach me from their shared bench in the park and so, it is to their credit that I continue to grow into my long pants.

Thieves do not improve, Mrs. Duchesney enjoys reminding me, only their skills at creating illusions. Her words bring forth the memory of our first encounter in the park, when a clown’s charade had nearly caused my heart to stop.

Not every actor holds larceny in his heart, Monsieur Bertrand added, but in most dwells a happy opportunist. The question for you to answer is – Does one steal the rubbish of our lives because it might become treasure or rob us of our treasures because they might otherwise become trash?

This morning, they were his words I remembered, not Mrs. Duchesney’s, a mistake I would later regret. 

By evidence of my meager inventory of possessions, I demonstrate to the world that one man needs very little to be content. A roof, a bed, a book, these served me well. On one wall is hung a small painting, a gift painted many years ago by the artist Monsieur Louie Bertrand. On a nearby shelf sits an antique Swiss clock, a gift from Mrs. Duchesney, and a constant reminder to Be on time! I had inherited from the previous tenant an old sofa, a chair, and desk.

There is no T.V., as there is no desire to own one, as even in our 21st Century Paris many still prefer obtaining the news from a paper purchased at the corner kiosk or a neighborhood Tabac. The act of buying is itself a ritual and a chance to hear the seller’s abridged version of what has occurred in the city during the past 24 hours. Cafés serve neighborhoods as shared living rooms, where both friend and stranger can be entertained properly over a favorite beverage and the chef’s plat du jour. Problems with children, spouses, lovers, or politicians are discussed and solutions offered over something cold, something hot, or something more comforting. Truly. What more does a man need?

Oui, you are quite right - a faithful companion. The snoring beneath my desk is Monsieur Grinauldo and he is mine. With several large parks, providing a host of squirrels to chase and an occasional cat to lick, life here is quite satisfying for man and beast. He and I agree to keep our expectations reasonable and our curiosities fed. He amicably settles for a walk twice a day, while I require a bit more stimulation. Fortunately, there is no better place on the face of the earth, than is Paris for stumbling across unexpected mysteries.

I would have been happy to spend my hours, paid or unpaid, solving most any intrigue, as this seems my purpose in life. By following in the footsteps of my mentors, I have become firmly committed to making a business of finding lost and stolen works of art. Last year’s serendipitous recovery of a long-lost Sciarelli did jumpstart my career and while nothing promotes success more than does actual success, I could not claim to have found that legendary masterpiece without some assistance. Monsieur Grinauldo must be given his due. Had he not thought himself in love (temporarily) with a lovely little poodle who belonged to an ardent collector of Sciarellis, I might never have suspected that the poodle was aiding and abetting an art thief. However, that is another story for another time.

I blame just such ardent art collectors for much of the thievery that exists in the art world, as there is voracity for owning what should belong to everyone. Many collectors are highly respected for their generous loan or donation of an artist’s works, but there are more whose sole purpose is to selfishly possess what others desire. There is an inexplicable egotism in the act of owning that offends my philanthropic sense of measured pleasure. How can I enjoy something, if I must first deny someone else that enjoyment? How long can one stare at the Mona Lisa without noticing she is being held hostage?

Objets d’art may be more difficult to find than are the people who own them, legitimately or illegitimately, but I much prefer finding things rather than their owners. A person who does not wish to be found can become very clever in a city such as Paris. It should not surprise anyone that many people come here for that exact reason, to fade into the tapestry that hides many threads. Objects, however, can disappear, only to reappear at the most intriguing moment. For your amusement, I offer as evidence the story of one emerald-encrusted letter opener that once belonged to a Pope, but centuries later (for no readily apparent reason) was found lying on the desk of a Mother Superior in a tiny village outside of Paris.

To assume the object was a dubious donation was a logical assumption, causing both villagers and sisters of the Holy order to anguish over what they might offer as a forgivable explanation to the Vatican’s archivist, who thought the object looked strangely familiar. May I add? No Mother Superior from this small convent had ever traveled to Vatican City; neither had any Pope of record visited this small spot on the map. Therefore, how an object belonging on the private desk of one of his predecessors had come to be found here in this remote village was, as it was described to me, embarrassing.

Wandering about in search of one particular canvas, admittedly, I had trouble even locating this village on a map and relied solely on the aid of the internet and my cell phone. I arrived on site with as many unanswered questions as the villagers were ready to present to me, the first of which – Why was a private sleuth from Paris being called to launch an investigation? Were there no more reputable detectives already on the Vatican’s payroll? Were there no Catholic sleuths on police rosters?

Divine intervention (if one dares to call it such) provided the only answer, as this mystery might have laid in wait for another 100 years, were it not for one very ambitious mouse. A letter exhibiting tiny teeth marks was found by a carpenter called in to repair a hole in the base of a wooden altar, wherein a family of mice had left evidence of a nest. By the time that the carpenter arrived upon the scene, and the beleaguered Mother Superior had concluded a private investigator would best serve the convent’s needs, the mice had abandoned the scene of their crime and left behind their treasure.

The carpenter had remembered that I had been there only a day earlier, asking a great many questions about a missing painting belonging to one of my clients in Paris. The artist had been born nearby. Inspired, he gave my card to the woman most likely to be called upon for a proper defense of her dead predecessors. In suggesting that the matter be kept quiet, he had allowed me to receive this advance notice about the discovery, before the media and my competitors were alerted to the rumours. I gave the repairman a small reward and due credit for finding such an historic document, knowing that the publicity that would follow would not hurt his business or mine. 

The present-day Mother Superior swore on her oath that she had no idea how the Pope’s priceless treasure, now known to be a personal gift to him from the King of France, had been passed down so casually from one head of the convent to another without being added to the enclave’s inventory of prized relics. Oddly, no one had ever noted the objet d’art in the well-kept inventory in which every gifted centime had been meticulously recorded for the past 500 years! No one could offer a reason why the letter had remained hidden for decades in an altar hand-carved by a local parishioner during WWI.

The carpenter became the village’s hero as his discovery provided the provenance that would vindicate the Sisters and allow the convent to retain their rare possession, that is, once I arranged for its return from the archivist holding it hostage at the Vatican. Once returned to the village, placed in a glass case, and secured to the wall of the church to discourage both mice and thieves alike, the curiosity brought visitors from far and wide, thus ensuring a new infusion of well-needed revenue.

Although, much undeserved praise was given for my role, I was quite insignificant, serving as little more than a custodian during the object’s first return to Rome in more than 499 years. I made certain that photographs taken were stored in the National Archives in Paris and at Avignon (once home to the Papal leadership), and that those overly curious members of Vatican City, who might have wanted it to remain there, had not replaced the original with a less valuable reproduction. I returned the original letter opener, which now was properly authenticated, to its honored place in the French village. All of these tasks for which I would be paid were within the general description of the job of a sleuth. I find things. I return them to their rightful owners. My motivation is plain and simple.

In return for overseeing these mundane administrative tasks, I did receive a small token of the 21st Century Pope’s appreciation, a less valuable letter opener, and a lovely dinner prepared by the nuns upon my return. There was, of course, enough money left in the Vatican’s bank to cover my expenses for an enjoyable, if all-too-short vacation in Rome.

No one is so clever in hiding evidence, as is a thief, or more specifically, an art thief. They could be called artists of a different design, exhibiting great ingenuity in devising hiding places for transporting and storing stolen booty. As do we sleuths, thieves build reputations based upon their successes. Build a reputation and one can begin stealing on commission, rather than speculation. When a buyer recruits a thief to steal a specific piece of artwork, he helps the thief by eliminating a lot of the risk and stress of cold calling. As in – I have a Renoir inside my coat. Want a peak? While the common thief steals that which will attract a large group of potential buyers, a specialist knows the right object stolen for the right buyer can set him up for life. With a small chalet in the Alps where he can retreat between crimes, a clever entrepreneur need never again risk opening the wrong window at the wrong time.

Art thieves rewrite history by moving from one country to another, small portions of national treasures. A Van Gogh stolen from the Netherlands might rest in a dark vault in Switzerland for 100 years before being sold or stolen, again, but when it happens, Vincent’s unframed wonder might travel around the world and back. What might have bought the artist a loaf of bread in his lifetime, will sell now for millions at an auction in a secret boardroom - only to be whisked away and hidden from the world for another century.

I do not mean to boast. Not all items I find and return are priceless masterpieces nor enjoy so curious a history. Some are worth only a few thousand Euros, but nonetheless, I do not complain. Money is money and a commission is a commission. My clients have been grateful; the terms of their contracts generous enough to keep me housed and fed, my companion Monsieur Grinauldo, too. We are both, he and I, happy mutts.

Why specialize in art thefts, you ask? Unlike precious jewels, which steadily increase in value over the centuries, an artist’s work may fall into and out of fashion over the course of his lifetime and on into perpetuity. The rich are truly fickle creatures. Thus is the expectation of starving artists, whose stories bring them nearer to accolades of sheer genius in deathly repose, rather than while still breathing their regrets of unrequited love. Only in death are most of us remembered as masters of our craft and usually, by those who do not have appreciation for the cost of an artist’s life. Not all artists suffer the loss of an ear, a heart, a soul... but nonetheless, they must suffer.

From great pain, comes great art, Monsieur Bertrand enjoyed saying, suggesting only he might understand the true extent of such profound passion.

A canvas lost and forgotten for centuries may be found only to become barter for mansions and yachts, again, denying the artist of genuine appreciation. Thieves search for art created for the world’s eyes, only because it sells to buyers who have no interest in displaying it publicly and because they have no choice, but to hide the treasure quickly. Thusly, they are complicit in also hiding the identity of the thief, or risk revealing their own role in the crime. That these bandits no longer forewarn their victims by flying black flags does not lessen the validity or the vulgarity of their piracy.

A long history of greed is woven tightly into this ancient tapestry of Paris, every thread telling a tale of a secret battle between saint and sinner, artist and thief. Once cradling a fishing village, the banks of the Seine have been desecrated and hallowed over and over again by hero and villain, each fighting to possess whatever the rich of their time coveted as a divine feast for the eyes. When thieves win, masterpieces disappear forever. When those with a higher calling win, recovered art finds sanctuary on the walls of churches and museums, wherein they may be protected and upon which they may be appreciated by the world. That is, until once again a thief’s methods improve, as Mrs. Duchesney would remind me.

Such is the cycle of life for a masterpiece, Monsieur Bertrand would add. One does not own what he creates. God loans one this talent and for only a moment in time, a blink, does His servant possess it.

Thieves will be thieves, but that a masterpiece should be hidden away where the world cannot show proper appreciation, this seems the far greater crime. Therefore, I curse not the thieves, but those who commission the theft. Their evil robs history of its continuity. A creation should exist, not just while the artist lives, but rather - forever after he and we are gone.

Forgive me, once again, I have wandered past the point I was making. Let me say simply, to do my work properly, I do not ask any of my clients, May I see your receipt? Sorting out a 500-year custody chain of thieves, buyers, and sellers can be at the very least - daunting, but then, that is what I am hired to do, to accept daunting tasks, and to solve unsolvable mysteries.

I am Simon Pennington, Paris Sleuth. You may assume, occasionally, thieves lose and I win, and when masterpieces are returned to the walls of museums, instead of to hidden vaults.

So does the world.

Chapter 2

This latest mystery began seven months ago, when a woman searched for me in Paris as I sat in one of my favorite restaurants and chatted amicably with a waiter, my friend Sébastien, who is also a member of my network of informants. I was not expecting to meet a client at Le Pinceau de l’ Artiste on this particular day. It was Sébastien who first alerted me to the stranger’s presence, pointing at a femme fatale staring from across the room.

You are meeting someone here?

Non.

The woman over there, he nodded slightly, "wishes to speak to