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“Because you were craving the olives at Harry’s Bar?”
“Actually, I was wondering—”
“Whether you might prevail upon me to find out what Valerie Bérrangar wanted to tell you aboutPortrait of an Unknown Womanby Anthony van Dyck.”
“Youdohave friends in high places in the French government,” said Julian. “Which will enable you to conduct an inquiry with absolute discretion and thus reduce the chance of a scandal.”
“And if I’m successful?”
“I suppose that depends on the nature of the information. If there is indeed a legal or ethical problem with the sale, I will quietly refundPhillip Somerset’s six and a half million quid before he drags me into court and destroys what’s left of my once glittering reputation.” Julian offered Gabriel Madame Bérrangar’s letter. “Not to mention the reputation of your dear friend Sarah Bancroft.”
Gabriel hesitated, then accepted the letter. “I’ll need the attribution reports from your experts. And photographs of the painting, of course.”
Julian produced his smartphone. “Where shall I send them?”
Gabriel recited an address at ProtonMail, the Swiss-based encrypted email service. A moment later, secure mobile phone in hand, he was scrutinizing a high-resolution detail image of the unknown woman’s pale cheek.
At length he asked, “Did any of your experts take a close look at the craquelure?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You know that funny feeling you got when you saw this painting for the first time?”
“Of course.”
“I just got it, too.”
Julianhad booked a room for the night at the Gritti Palace. Gabriel saw him to the door, then made his way to the Campo Santa Maria del Giglio. There was not a tourist in sight. It was as if a drain had opened, he thought, and washed them out to sea.
On the western side of the square, next to the Hotel Ala, was the entrance to a narrow, darkenedcalle. Gabriel followed it to the vaporetto station and joined three other passengers—a prosperous-looking Scandinavian couple in their late sixties and a world-weary Venetian woman of perhaps forty—waiting beneath the shelter. The Scandinavians were huddled over a map. The Venetian woman waswatching a Number 1 crawling up the Grand Canal from the direction of San Marco.
When the vessel nudged against the jetty, the Venetian woman boarded first, followed by the Scandinavians. All three claimed seats in the cabin. Gabriel, as was his habit, stood in the open-air passage behind the pilothouse. There he was able to observe a single late-arriving passenger emerging from thecalle.
Dark hair. Slim-fitting trousers. A quilted Barbour jacket.
The man from Harry’s Bar.
