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“With the original close at hand?”
“It was probably on a nearby easel.”
“So the artist forged it?”
“It would have only been a forgery if he had tried to sell his version as an original Van Dyck.”
“Have you ever done it?” asked Juliette Lagarde.
“Copied a painting?”
“No, Monsieur Allon. Forged one.”
“I’m an art conservator,” said Gabriel with a smile. “There are some critics of our profession who claim that we restorers forge paintings all the time.”
The room had turned suddenly cold. Juliette Lagarde closed the French doors and looked on while Gabriel secured the painting to its frame. Together they carried it into the adjoining room and returned it to its place on the wall.
“Which one is better?” asked Juliet Lagarde. “This one or your friend’s?”
“I’ll let you be the judge.” Gabriel held his phone next to the painting. On the screen was a photograph of Julian’s version ofPortrait of an Unknown Woman. “What do you think?”
“I must admit, your friend’s is much better. Still, it’s rather unsettling to see them side by side like that.”
“What’s even more troubling,” said Gabriel, “is that both paintings passed through the same gallery.”
“Is it possible it’s a coincidence?”
“I don’t believe in them.”
“Neither did my mother.”
Which is why, thought Gabriel, she was now dead.
He slipped his phone into the breast pocket of his jacket. “Have the gendarmes returned her personal effects?”
“Last night.”
“Did anything appear out of the ordinary?”
“Her mobile phone seems to be missing.”
“She didn’t have it with her when she was driving to Bordeaux?”
“The gendarmes say not.”
“You’ve searched the house?”
“I’ve looked everywhere. The truth is, she rarely used it. She much preferred her old landline phones.” Juliette Lagarde pointed towardthe room’s elegant antique writing table. “That’s the one she used the most.”
Gabriel went to the table and switched on the lamp. Stored in the phone’s memory he found five incoming calls from Galerie Georges Fleury and three more from a Police Nationale number in central Paris. He also discovered, in Madame Bérrangar’s desk calendar, a reminder for an appointment at four in the afternoon, on the last day of her life.
M. Isherwood. Café Ravel.
He turned to Juliette Lagarde. “Have you tried calling her mobile phone recently?”
“Not since this morning. I have a feeling the battery is dead.”
“Do you mind if I give it a try?”
