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16
Rue la Boétie
Gabriel rang the gallery at ten o’clock the following morning and, after a testy exchange with a male receptionist called Bruno, was connected to Monsieur Georges Fleury himself. Not surprisingly, the crooked French art dealer had never heard of anyone named Ludwig Ziegler.
“I advise a single client with a passion for Neoclassical paintings,” Gabriel explained in German-accented French. “She happens to be in Paris for the weekend and would like to visit your gallery.”
“Galerie Georges Fleury is not a tourist destination, Monsieur Ziegler. If your client wishes to see French paintings, I would suggest a visit to the Louvre instead.”
“My client isn’t here on holiday. She’s performing this weekend at the Philharmonie de Paris.”
“Is your client—”
“Yes.”
Fleury’s tone was suddenly more accommodating. “What time would Madame Rolfe like to stop by?”
“One o’clock this afternoon.”
“I’m afraid I’ve already arranged to see another client at that time.”
“Reschedule him. And tell Bruno to take a long lunch. I find him annoying, and so will Madame Rolfe. In case you were wondering, she drinks room-temperature mineral water.Sans gaz, with a slice of lemon. Not a wedge, Monsieur Fleury. A slice.”
“Any particular brand of water?”
“Anything but Vittel. And no photographs or handshakes. For understandable reasons, Madame Rolfe never shakes hands before a performance.”
Gabriel rang off, then dialed Anna’s number. Her voice, when at last she answered, was heavy with sleep.
“What time is it?” she groaned.
“A few minutes after ten.”
“In themorning?”
“Yes, Anna.”
Swearing softly, she killed the connection. Madame Rolfe, Gabriel remembered, never rose before noon.
Gabrielleft the Bristol at half past twelve and walked beneath a leaden Parisian sky to the Crillon. It was one fifteen when Anna, in jeans and a zippered sweater, finally descended from her suite. Outside, they slid into the back of the Maybach for the short drive to Galerie Georges Fleury.
“Any last instructions?” she asked while appraising her face in the vanity mirror.
“Be charming, but difficult.”
“Act naturally? Is that what you’re saying?”
Anna glossed her heart-shaped lips as the car turned onto the rue la Boétie. A moment later it stopped outside the gallery. Its owner and namesake was waiting on the pavement like a doorman. His hands remained rigidly at his side as Anna emerged from the back of the limousine.
“Welcome to Galerie Georges Fleury, Madame Rolfe. It is truly an honor to meet you.”
Anna acknowledged the art dealer’s greeting with a regal nod. Unnerved, he thrust a hand toward Gabriel.
“And you must be Herr Ziegler.”
“I must be,” said Gabriel evenly.
Fleury regarded him for a moment through a pair of rimless spectacles. “Is it possible we’ve met somewhere before? At an auction, perhaps?”
