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“Lucien had no complaints.”
“How much money did he earn?”
“Over the lifetime of the deal?” Françoise Vionnet shrugged. “Six or seven million.”
“Spare me,” said Gabriel.
“Maybe it was in the neighborhood of thirty million.”
“Which side of the neighborhood? The north or the south?”
“The north,” said Françoise Vionnet. “Definitely the north.”
“And Monsieur Toussaint? What was his take?”
“Two hundred million, at least.”
“So Lucien got screwed.”
“That’s what the Spanish woman told him.”
“Miranda Álvarez?”
“That’s what she called herself.”
“Where did you meet with her?”
“Here in Roussillon. She sat in the same chair where you’re sitting now.”
“She was a dealer?”
“Of some sort. She was quite guarded in how she described herself.”
“What did she want?”
“She wanted Lucien to work for her instead of Toussaint.”
“How did she know that Lucien was forging paintings?”
“She refused to say. But it was obvious she knew her way around the dirty side of the business. She said Toussaint was selling more forgeries than the art market could absorb, that it was only a matter of time before Lucien and I were arrested. She said she was part of a sophisticated network that knew how to sell forgeries without getting caught. She promised to pay us twice what Toussaint was paying us.”
“How did Lucien react?”
“He was intrigued.”
“And you?”
“Less so.”
“But you agreed to consider her offer?”
“I asked her to come back in three days.”
“And when she did?”
“I told her we had a deal. She gave us a million euros in cash and said she would be in touch.”
“When did the deal fall apart?”
