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19
Queen’s Gate Terrace
Sarah checked the status of her Deliveroo order and saw it was still open. “Tagliatelle with ragù or veal Milanese?”
“I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“My husband is away. I could use the company.”
“In that case, I’ll have the veal.”
“Tagliatelle it is.” Sarah placed the order, then looked down at the frameless, stretcherless canvas lying on her counter. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for this. And for that swollen hand of yours as well.”
“Where would you like me to begin?”
“Why not the hand?”
“I assaulted a plainclothes Carabinieri officer after meeting with Julian in Venice.”
“And the painting?”
“I acquired it this afternoon at Galerie Georges Fleury.”
“I can see that.” Sarah tapped the envelope. “But how in the world did you pay for it?”
Gabriel removed the sales agreement from the envelope and pointed toward the practiced signature of the buyer.
“That was very generous of her,” said Sarah.
“Generosity had nothing to do with it. She expects to be repaid in full.”
“By whom?”
“You, of course.”
“So the painting is mine? Is that what you’re saying?”
“I suppose it is.”
“How much did I spend on it?”
“One million euros.”
“For that kind of money, I should have got a frame.” Sarah tugged at the frayed corner of the canvas. “And a stretcher as well.”
“The management of the Bristol Hotel might have found it odd if I had left an antique picture frame behind in my room.”
“And the stretcher?”
“It’s in a rubbish bin outside the Gare du Nord.”
“Of course it is.” Sarah sighed. “You should probably put it on a new one first thing in the morning to stabilize the image.”
“If I do that, it won’t fit in my carry-on luggage.”
“Where are you planning to take it?”
“New York,” said Gabriel. “And you’re coming with me.”
