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“The work was seized from the Bérrangar family during the war and has been missing ever since.”
“Do you think Valerie Bérrangar was Jewish?”
“Did I say that?”
Chiara set aside the letter. “Possibility number three?”
“Unlock my phone.”
Chiara entered his fourteen-digit hard password. “What am I looking at?”
“A detail image fromPortrait of an Unknown Woman.”
“Is there a problem?”
“What does the craquelure pattern look like to you?”
“Tree bark.”
“And what does that tell you?”
“I will defer to your superior knowledge.”
“Surface cracks resembling tree bark are typical of Flemish paintings,” explained Gabriel. “Van Dyck was a Flemish painter, of course.But he worked with materials similar to those being used by his contemporaries in Holland.”
“So his surface cracks appear more Dutch than Flemish?”
“Correct. If you look atLady Elizabeth Thimbelby and Her Sisteron the website of the National Gallery, you’ll see what I mean.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” answered Chiara, her thumbnails clicking against the surface of Gabriel’s phone.
“What are you looking for?”
“The article inSud Ouest.” She dragged the tip of her forefinger down the screen. “Here it is. The accident happened yesterday afternoon on the D10, just north of Saint-Macaire. The gendarmes seem to think she somehow lost control of her car.”
“How old was she?”
“Seventy-four.”
“Married?”
“Widowed. Apparently, there’s a daughter named Juliette Lagarde.” Chiara paused. “Perhaps she’ll agree to see you.”
“I thought I was supposed to be resting.”
“You are. But under the circumstances it’s probably better if you leave Venice for a few days. With any luck, you’ll be airborne before General Ferrari realizes you’re gone.”
Gabriel removed his hand from the ice water. “What do you think?”
“A splint should suffice. You can pick one up at the pharmacy on your way to the airport. But I would advise you to avoid striking anyone while you’re in Bordeaux.”
“It wasn’t my fault.”
“Whose fault was it, darling?”
It was Madame Bérrangar’s, he thought. She should have simply telephoned Julian’s gallery in London. Instead, she had sent him a letter. And now she was dead.
