Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (12)
Chiara winced. “It looks dreadful.”
“Yes,” said Gabriel gloomily. “But you should see the other guy.”
7
San Polo
“Have you tried to hold a paintbrush?”
“I’m not sure I ever will again.”
“How bad is the pain?”
“At the moment,” said Gabriel, “I can’t feel a thing.”
He was perched on a stool at the kitchen island, his hand submerged in a bowl of ice and water. It had done nothing to reduce the swelling. If anything, it appeared to be growing worse.
“You really should have it X-rayed,” said Chiara.
“And when the orthopedist asks how I broke it?”
“How did you?”
“I assume it was the knifehand strike.”
“Where did it land?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Are you sure you didn’t kill him?”
“He’ll be fine.”
“Will he?”
“Eventually.”
With a sigh of dismay, Chiara took up Madame Valerie Bérrangar’s letter. “What do you suppose she wanted to tell Julian?”
“I can think of several possibilities,” said Gabriel. “Starting with the most obvious.”
“What’s that?”
“The painting was hers.”
“If that were the case, why didn’t she contact the police?”
“Who’s to say she didn’t?”
“Surely Julian checked the Art Loss Register before taking it to market?”
“No dealer ever acquires or sells a work of art without first checking to see whether it’s been pinched.”
“Unless the dealer doesn’t want to know whether it’s stolen.”
“Our Julian is far from perfect,” said Gabriel. “But he has never knowingly sold a stolen painting.”
“Not even on your behalf?”
“I don’t believe so.”
Chiara smiled. “Possibility number two?”
“The work was seized from the Bérrangar family during the war and has been missing ever since.”
“Do you think Valerie Bérrangar was Jewish?”
“Did I say that?”
Chiara set aside the letter. “Possibility number three?”
“Unlock my phone.”
Chiara entered his fourteen-digit hard password. “What am I looking at?”
“A detail image from Portrait of an Unknown Woman.”
“Is there a problem?”
“What does the craquelure pattern look like to you?”
“Tree bark.”
“And what does that tell you?”
“I will defer to your superior knowledge.”
“Surface cracks resembling tree bark are typical of Flemish paintings,” explained Gabriel. “Van Dyck was a Flemish painter, of course. But he worked with materials similar to those being used by his contemporaries in Holland.”
“So his surface cracks appear more Dutch than Flemish?”
“Correct. If you look at Lady Elizabeth Thimbelby and Her Sister on the website of the National Gallery, you’ll see what I mean.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” answered Chiara, her thumbnails clicking against the surface of Gabriel’s phone.
“What are you looking for?”
“The article in Sud Ouest.” She dragged the tip of her forefinger down the screen. “Here it is. The accident happened yesterday afternoon on the D10, just north of Saint-Macaire. The gendarmes seem to think she somehow lost control of her car.”
“How old was she?”
“Seventy-four.”
“Married?”
“Widowed. Apparently, there’s a daughter named Juliette Lagarde.” Chiara paused. “Perhaps she’ll agree to see you.”
“I thought I was supposed to be resting.”
“You are. But under the circumstances it’s probably better if you leave Venice for a few days. With any luck, you’ll be airborne before General Ferrari realizes you’re gone.”
Gabriel removed his hand from the ice water. “What do you think?”
“A splint should suffice. You can pick one up at the pharmacy on your way to the airport. But I would advise you to avoid striking anyone while you’re in Bordeaux.”
“It wasn’t my fault.”
“Whose fault was it, darling?”
It was Madame Bérrangar’s, he thought. She should have simply telephoned Julian’s gallery in London. Instead, she had sent him a letter. And now she was dead.
8
San Polo
Exhausted, Gabriel crawled into bed and, with his hand cradled gently against his chest, fell into a dreamless sleep. The pain roused him at four o’clock. He lay awake for another hour, listening to the barges making their way up the Grand Canal toward the Rialto Market, before padding into the kitchen and pressing the power button on the Lavazza automatico.
While waiting for the coffee to brew, he stirred his phone into life and was relieved to discover he had received no overnight correspondence from General Ferrari. A check of Sud Ouest confirmed that Valerie Bérrangar, seventy-four years of age, was still dead. There was a small update to the story regarding the arrangements for her funeral. It was scheduled for 10:00 a.m. on Friday, at the église Saint-Sauveur in Saint-Macaire. Regardless of Madame Bérrangar’s religious affiliation at the beginning of her life, thought Gabriel, it appeared as though she had ended it as a Roman Catholic.