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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?”
