The Caves of Périgord: A Novel

bar. He sounded pleased to hear from her.
    “It looks like the real thing,” she told him. “Two of the top experts in Europe are coming in this week to look at it on the basis of the photos I sent them. They both think it is from the Lascaux time and period. One suspects that it comes from an undiscovered cave. The other thinks it comes from part of a known cave that has not yet been fully explored. But I think you’ll find the French authorities very determined to recover it, since they are convinced it comes from one of their caves.”
    “You have been working fast, Miss Dean. I’m very grateful to you, and think I owe you that lunch I offered. But when you said the French are very determined, you sounded a touch ominous.”
    “Well, Mr. Manners, the French museum experts naturally told the Ministry of Culture, who are considering their legal position. They would have to show that your rock came from France, and while most experts would probably agree that it does, there must be some doubt about that so long as they cannot point to the cave from which it is supposed to have come. Then they have to show that it was removed from France at a time when it would have been against the law to do so. And if your father obtained it in 1944, there was then no such law in France. And as the Dordogne region was then territory under German military control, different courts might find that your father’s souvenir is legitimate war booty, or legally the property of the British Army. Our own legal department says it’s a bit confused. It is clearly in your hands, and you are equally clearly blameless. This is a case where possession is a large part of the law.”
    “Do I need a lawyer?”
    “I think you might want some legal advice. If you want to hang on to the painting, you’d find that fighting this kind of case could be expensive. But you may want a lawyer who can negotiate a settlement, or our auction house can act for you. If the French calculate the costs, they will find an uncertain legal action far more expensive than paying you a finder’s fee or an honorarium.”
    “What sort of sum might that be?”
    “Negotiable. But if the French are convinced that it is real and they want it, they may be persuaded to offer ten thousand pounds or so. Perhaps rather more.”
    “If you were to act for me, your commission would be what?”
    “The standard rate is twenty percent. But that would be the firm’s commission. It’s the firm’s expertise you would be hiring.”
    “What if I were to hire someone privately to act for me?”
    “Still twenty percent. I can give you the names of some good independent agents.”
    “I’ve got one. The deal is done. You are appointed my agent. I’m quite happy for it to go back to the Frogs, but the more they can be induced to pay, the better. And now you really must let me buy you lunch.”
    “Thank you, but probably not this week, which promises to be rather hectic. And I couldn’t just take off my company hat and act for you privately. It doesn’t work like that. Now, how do you feel about publicity? I think it might help. Sensational find, British war hero, that kind of thing. Since we both know that we want the painting to go back to France, what we want to do now is jack the price up, which is where publicity comes in.”
    “Fine by me. It’s in your charming hands, Miss Dean. But take care of the dear old rock for me, and get the best price you can. And I’ll see you on Friday at twelve, and possibly your European experts too.”
    She rang down for a janitor to take the rock to the strong room, filled in the deposit slip, and where it asked for an estimated value, she boldly scrawled “ten thousand pounds.” She saw it removed and signed for, and then feeling far more confident than she had for some weeks, walked into Justin’s office without knocking to inform him that she might just have the publicity coup he had been looking for. Finally, after a busy half hour with Justin, a lawyer, the publicity manager, and two interested directors, she left them telling the janitor that they wanted the rock brought back up so they could all look at it, while Lydia went off to ring the Arts correspondent of The Times .

    Clothilde Daunier stood five feet tall, with an extra three inches for a splendid skein of auburn hair piled atop her head so carelessly that the cut must have been expensive, and she was dressed to match. She had a bustling manner, a wide grin, and