Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (21)

“Five pictures is quite a haul. And yet I don’t recall reading about the robbery in the newspapers.”

“Evidently, Monsieur Fleury never reported it to the police.”

“Unusual.”

“I thought so.”

“But you went ahead with the sale nevertheless.”

“What choice did I have?”

“When did things go sideways?”

“About two months after Monsieur Didier took possession of the painting, he demanded a refund.”

“Also unusual,” said Gabriel. “At least in your line of work.”

“Unheard of,” murmured Durand.

“Why did he want his money back?”

“He claimed the Valenciennes wasn’t a Valenciennes.”

“He thought it was a later copy?”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“And another?”

“Monsieur Didier was convinced the painting was a modern forgery.”

Of course he was, thought Gabriel. A part of him had known it was leading to this from the moment he spotted the incongruous Flemish-style craquelure in the photograph of Julian’s painting.

“How did you handle it?”

“I explained to Monsieur Didier that I had fulfilled my end of our arrangement and that he should take his complaints to Galerie Georges Fleury.” Durand gave a faint smile over the rim of his glass. “Fortunately, he didn’t take my suggestion.”

“You returned his money?”

“Half of it,” answered Durand. “It turned out to be a wise decision. I’ve done a great deal of business with him since.”

Gabriel raised the glass of calvados to his lips for the first time. “You wouldn’t happen to have it lying around, would you?”

“The fake Valenciennes?” Durand shook his head. “I burned it.”

“And the four other paintings?”

“I sold them at a steep discount to a dealer in Montreal. They covered René’s fee, but barely.” He exhaled heavily. “It was a wash.”

“All’s well that ends well.”

“Unless one is a paying customer of Galerie Georges Fleury.”

“The phony Valenciennes wasn’t a fluke?”

“Non. Apparently, selling forgeries is the gallery’s business model. Don’t get me wrong, Fleury sells plenty of genuine paintings. But that’s not where he makes his money.” Durand paused. “Or so I have been reliably told.”

“By whom?”

“You have your sources, I have mine. And they have assured me that Fleury has been selling worthless fakes for years.”

“I have a terrible feeling a friend of mine might have purchased one.”

“He’s a collector, this friend?”

“A dealer.”

“Not Monsieur Isherwood?”

Gabriel hesitated, then nodded slowly.

“Why doesn’t he simply return it and demand his money back?”

“He sold the painting to a litigious American.”

“Is there any other kind?” Durand eyed a window shopper in the video monitor. “May I ask you one other question, Monsieur Allon?”

“If you insist.”

Durand made a face. “What in God’s name happened to your hand?”



After leaving Maurice Durand’s shop, Gabriel walked south on the rue de Miromesnil to the rue la Boétie. He lingered for a moment outside the building at Number 19, then made his way along the elegant, gently curving street to Galerie Georges Fleury. Displayed in its window were three large oil paintings. Two were in the Rococo style. The third, a portrait of a young man by Fran?ois Gérard, dated from the later period known as Neoclassicism.

Or so it appeared at first glance. But an inspection carried out by a trained professional—an art restorer, for example—might tell a different story. It could not be hurried, this appraisal. The restorer would have to take his time with each work in the gallery, engage in the time-honored tradition of connoisseurship. He might touch the paintings, examine their surfaces with a magnifying glass, even speak a few words to them in the hope they spoke to him. It would be advantageous if the gallery’s owner—who was likely engaged in criminal conduct and therefore would be naturally vigilant—were not looking over his shoulder as he was conducting this ritual. Better still if he were distracted by the presence of someone else in the room.

But whom?

This was the question that Gabriel pondered as he made the short walk from the gallery to the Bristol. After checking into his room, he rang Chiara and described his quandary. She replied by immediately forwarding him a list of upcoming performances by the Orchestre de Chambre de Paris.

“Your girlfriend is in town all weekend. Perhaps she has a few minutes tomorrow afternoon to serve as your distraction.”

“She’s perfect. But are you sure you don’t mind?”

“If you spend the weekend in Paris with a woman you were once madly in love with?”

“I was never in love with her.”

“Please remind her of that fact the first chance you get.”

“Don’t worry,” said Gabriel before the connection went dead. “I will.”