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“You’re the detective, Ménard. I’m sure you’ll be able to find him if you put your mind to it.”
“And who are you these days, Allon?”
“I’m the director of the paintings department at the Tiepolo Restoration Company. And I’d like to go home now.”
Ménard insisted on keeping the forged painting and the original copies of the documents, including Valerie Bérrangar’s letter. Gabriel, who was in no position to make demands of his own, requested only anonymity—for himself and for Isherwood Fine Arts.
The French detective rubbed his jaw noncommittally. “You know how these things go, Allon. Criminal inquiries can be hard to control. But don’t worry about the German passport. It will be our little secret.”
By then it was approaching eight o’clock. Ménard escorted Gabriel downstairs to the courtyard, where Sarah waited in the backseat of the same unmarked Peugeot. It delivered them to the Gare du Nord in time to make the evening’s last Eurostar to London.
“All in all,” said Sarah, “a rather disastrous turn of events.”
“It could have been worse.”
“Much,” she agreed. “But why is it that things always explode whenever I’m around you?”
“I just seem to rub certain people the wrong way.”
“But not Jacques Ménard?”
“No,” said Gabriel. “We got on famously.”
“So much for handling the matter quietly. But I suppose that you got exactly what you wanted in the end.”
“What’s that?”
“A formal investigation by the French police.”
“No one will be spared?”
“No one,” said Sarah as she closed her eyes. “Not even you.”
