Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (25)
He placed a hand to his chin and tilted his head to one side. A moment passed before Fleury noticed his interest in the work and joined him before the canvas.
“I acquired it a few months ago.”
“May I ask where?”
“An old private collection here in France.”
“Dimensions?”
Fleury smiled. “You tell me, Monsieur Ziegler.”
“One hundred and twelve by one hundred and forty-four centimeters.” He paused, then added with a disarming smile, “Give or take a centimeter or two.”
“Very close.”
Only because Gabriel had deliberately misstated the painting’s actual dimensions. Any fool could see that the work measured 114 by 148 centimeters.
“It’s in remarkable condition,” he said.
“I commissioned the restoration after purchasing it.”
“May I see the conservator’s report?”
“Now?”
“If you wouldn’t mind.”
When Fleury withdrew, Anna approached the painting. “It’s beautiful.”
“But too large to transport easily.”
“You’re not thinking about buying something, are you?”
“Not me,” said Gabriel. “But you certainly are.”
Before Anna could object, Fleury reappeared, empty-handed. “I’m afraid Bruno must have misfiled it. But if Madame Rolfe is interested in the painting, I can forward you a copy by email.”
Gabriel produced his phone. “Would you mind if I photographed her standing next to it?”
“Of course not. In fact, I would be honored.”
Anna inched closer to the painting and, turning, adopted the smile she wore when acknowledging the applause of a sold-out concert hall. Gabriel snapped the photograph, then moved to the neighboring painting.
“A follower of Canaletto,” declared Fleury.
“A very good one.”
“I thought so, too. I acquired it only last week.”
“From where?”
“A private collection.” The Frenchman treated Anna to a watery smile. “In Switzerland.”
Gabriel leaned closer to the canvas. “How certain are you about the attribution?”
“Why do you ask?”
Because the painting, at just 56 by 78 centimeters, was easily transportable. Especially if it were to be removed from its stretcher. “Do you think Bruno mislaid the condition report for this one, too?”
“I’m afraid the painting is already spoken for.”
“Is there no way Madame Rolfe can make a competitive bid?”
“I’ve already accepted the buyer’s money.”
“Is he a dealer or a collector?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because if he’s a dealer, I’d be interested in taking it off his hands.”
“I can’t reveal his identity. The terms of the sale are entirely private.”
“Not for long,” said Gabriel knowingly.
“What do you mean, monsieur?”
“Let’s just say I get a funny feeling when I look at this painting.” He snapped a photograph of it. “Perhaps you should show us the good pictures now, Monsieur Fleury.”
17
Galerie Fleury
Fleury escorted them up a flight of stairs to the second-floor exhibition room. Here the walls were somber gray rather than red, and the paintings, by all appearances, were of a decidedly higher quality. There were several examples of Dutch and Flemish portraiture, including two works executed in the manner of Anthony van Dyck. There was also A River Scene with Distant Windmills, oil on canvas, 36 by 58 centimeters, bearing the distinctive initials of the Dutch Golden Age painter Aelbert Cuyp. Gabriel was doubtful the initials were authentic. In fact, after a moment of undisturbed reverie, he reached the conclusion, wholly unsupported by technical analysis, that the painting was a forgery.
“You have a very good eye,” said Fleury from the opposite side of the room. He added a slice of lemon to Anna’s mineral water and asked, “Something for you, Monsieur Ziegler?”
“The attribution for this painting would be nice.”
“It has been firmly assigned by numerous experts to Cuyp himself.”
“How do these experts explain the lack of a complete signature? After all, Cuyp generally signed the works he painted with his own hand and placed only his initials on paintings that were produced under his supervision.”
“There are exceptions, as you know.”
Which was indeed the case, thought Gabriel. “How’s the provenance?”
“Lengthy and impeccable.”
“Previous owner?”
“A collector of exceptional taste.”
“French or Swiss?” asked Gabriel dryly.
“American, actually.”
Fleury handed the glass of water to Anna and escorted her from painting to painting, leaving Gabriel free to carry out a second private inspection of the gallery’s inventory. Eventually they all three convened before A River Scene with Distant Windmills, oil on canvas, 36 by 58 centimeters, by a forger of indisputable talent.
“Do you mind if I touch it?”
“I beg your pardon?”