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“Yes, of course. But fortunately they sent Inspector Clouseau.” She removed another painting, a version ofComposition in Blueby Roger Bissière. “I’ve always liked this one. Do I really have to give it up?”
“Keep going.”
The next painting was a Matisse. It was followed by a Monet, a Cézanne, a Dufy, and, finally, by a second Chagall.
“Is that all of them?”
She nodded.
“Do you know what’s going to happen if I find any more?”
Sighing, she produced two additional paintings—a second Matisse and a stunning André Derain. Twelve in all, with an estimated market value of more than €200 million. Gabriel photographed them with his phone, along with the Chagall in the sitting room. Then he removed all thirteen canvases from their stretchers and piled them on the grate. Christopher handed over his gold Dunhill lighter.
“Please don’t,” said Françoise Vionnet.
“Would you rather I give them to the French police?” Gabriel ignited the lighter and touched the flame to the canvases. “I suppose you’ll have to make do with the thirty-four million.”
“There’s only twenty-five left.”
“And you can keep it so long as you never tell anyone that I was here.”
Françoise Vionnet saw Gabriel and Christopher to the door and waited until they were nearly inside the Renault before unleashing the dog. They made their escape without resort to violence.
“Tell me something,” said Christopher as they sped across the picturesque valley. “When did you realize that you were going to do that Herr Ziegler routine?”
“It came to me while you were needlessly lecturing me about the likelihood that Françoise Vionnet might have been Lucien’s front woman.”
“I have to say, it was one of your better performances. You did, however, make one serious tactical mistake.”
“What’s that?”
“You burned the bloody evidence.”
“Not all of it.”
“The Cézanne?”
“Idiot,” murmured Gabriel.
