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“Anything good?”
“Pierre Révoil. Nicolas-André Monsiau.” Durand shrugged. “A couple of portraits by Ingres.”
“Five pictures is quite a haul. And yet I don’t recall reading about the robbery in the newspapers.”
“Evidently, Monsieur Fleury never reported it to the police.”
“Unusual.”
“I thought so.”
“But you went ahead with the sale nevertheless.”
“What choice did I have?”
“When did things go sideways?”
“About two months after Monsieur Didier took possession of the painting, he demanded a refund.”
“Also unusual,” said Gabriel. “At least in your line of work.”
“Unheard of,” murmured Durand.
“Why did he want his money back?”
“He claimed the Valenciennes wasn’t a Valenciennes.”
“He thought it was a later copy?”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“And another?”
“Monsieur Didier was convinced the painting was a modern forgery.”
Of course he was, thought Gabriel. A part of him had known it was leading to this from the moment he spotted the incongruous Flemish-style craquelure in the photograph of Julian’s painting.
“How did you handle it?”
“I explained to Monsieur Didier that I had fulfilled my end ofour arrangement and that he should take his complaints to Galerie Georges Fleury.” Durand gave a faint smile over the rim of his glass. “Fortunately, he didn’t take my suggestion.”
“You returned his money?”
“Half of it,” answered Durand. “It turned out to be a wise decision. I’ve done a great deal of business with him since.”
Gabriel raised the glass of calvados to his lips for the first time. “You wouldn’t happen to have it lying around, would you?”
“The fake Valenciennes?” Durand shook his head. “I burned it.”
“And the four other paintings?”
“I sold them at a steep discount to a dealer in Montreal. They covered René’s fee, but barely.” He exhaled heavily. “It was a wash.”
“All’s well that ends well.”
“Unless one is a paying customer of Galerie Georges Fleury.”
“The phony Valenciennes wasn’t a fluke?”
