Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (18)
“Which one is better?” asked Juliet Lagarde. “This one or your friend’s?”
“I’ll let you be the judge.” Gabriel held his phone next to the painting. On the screen was a photograph of Julian’s version of Portrait of an Unknown Woman. “What do you think?”
“I must admit, your friend’s is much better. Still, it’s rather unsettling to see them side by side like that.”
“What’s even more troubling,” said Gabriel, “is that both paintings passed through the same gallery.”
“Is it possible it’s a coincidence?”
“I don’t believe in them.”
“Neither did my mother.”
Which is why, thought Gabriel, she was now dead.
He slipped his phone into the breast pocket of his jacket. “Have the gendarmes returned her personal effects?”
“Last night.”
“Did anything appear out of the ordinary?”
“Her mobile phone seems to be missing.”
“She didn’t have it with her when she was driving to Bordeaux?”
“The gendarmes say not.”
“You’ve searched the house?”
“I’ve looked everywhere. The truth is, she rarely used it. She much preferred her old landline phones.” Juliette Lagarde pointed toward the room’s elegant antique writing table. “That’s the one she used the most.”
Gabriel went to the table and switched on the lamp. Stored in the phone’s memory he found five incoming calls from Galerie Georges Fleury and three more from a Police Nationale number in central Paris. He also discovered, in Madame Bérrangar’s desk calendar, a reminder for an appointment at four in the afternoon, on the last day of her life.
M. Isherwood. Café Ravel.
He turned to Juliette Lagarde. “Have you tried calling her mobile phone recently?”
“Not since this morning. I have a feeling the battery is dead.”
“Do you mind if I give it a try?”
Juliette Lagarde recited the number. When Gabriel dialed it, the call went directly to voice mail. He severed the connection and held the unfaltering gaze of the unknown woman, certain for the first time that Valerie Bérrangar had been murdered.
“Did your mother have a computer?”
“Yes, of course. An Apple.”
“It’s not missing, is it?”
“Non. I checked her email this morning.”
“Anything interesting?”
“On the same day my mother died in an automobile accident, she received a notification from her insurance agency that they intended to raise her rates. For the life of me, I can’t imagine why. She was an excellent driver,” said Juliette Lagarde. “Never so much as a parking ticket.”
The skies poured with rain during the drive back to Saint-Macaire. Gabriel checked into his hotel, then walked to La Belle Lurette for dinner, a book beneath his arm for company. After placing an order of poulet r?ti and pommes frites, he rang Chiara in Venice. Their phones were Israeli-made Solaris models, the world’s most secure. Even so, they chose their words with care.
“I was beginning to get worried about you,” she said.
“Sorry. Busy afternoon.”
“Productive, I hope.”
“Quite.”
“She agreed to see you?”
“She made me tea,” answered Gabriel. “And then she showed me a painting.”
“Attribution?”
“Follower of Anthony van Dyck.”
“Subject matter?”
“Portrait of an unknown woman. Late twenties or early thirties. Not terribly pretty.”
“What was she wearing?”
“A gown of gold silk trimmed in white lace.”
“Sounds like there might be a problem.”
“Several, actually. Including the name of the gallery where her father purchased it.”
“Do you think her mother was—”
“I do.”
“Did you tell her?”
“I didn’t see the point.”
“What are your plans?”
“I need to go to Paris to have a word with an old friend.”
“Do give him my best.”
“Don’t worry,” said Gabriel. “I will.”
12
Bordeaux—Paris
Gabriel slept poorly, awakened early, and set out for Bordeaux before it was properly light. A kilometer north of the village of Sainte-Croix-du-Mont, his headlamps picked out the gray-white stain of a spent safety flare. The tire marks appeared a few seconds later, two black slashes across the opposing lane.
He eased onto the grassy verge and surveyed his surroundings. On the right side of the road, columns of vines marched down the slope of a steep hill. On the left, nearer the river, there were vineyards as well, but the land was tabletop flat. And largely treeless, observed Gabriel, with the exception of a coppice of white-barked poplar toward which the tire marks led.
He fished an LED torch from the glove box and waited for a cargo truck to pass before climbing out and crossing to the opposite side of the road. He didn’t venture much beyond the broken white line at the edge of the tarmac; it wasn’t necessary. From his vantage point, the damage was plain to see.