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35
Le Train Bleu
They jettisoned the rented Peugeot in Marseilles and caught the two o’clock TGV from the Gare Saint-Charles to Paris. An hour before they were due to arrive, Gabriel dialed the number for Antiquités Scientifiques on the rue de Miromesnil. Receiving no answer, he checked the time, then rang a nearby shop that sold antique glassware and figurines. Its proprietor, a woman named Angélique Brossard, seemed slightly out of breath when she picked up the phone. She offered no expression of surprise or evasiveness when Gabriel asked to speak to Maurice Durand. Their longtimecinq à septwas one of the worst-kept secrets in the Eighth Arrondissement.
“Enjoying yourself?” asked Gabriel when Durand came on the line.
“I was,” answered the Frenchman. “I hope this is important.”
“I was wondering whether you might be free for a drink at, say, half past five.”
“I believe I’m having open-heart surgery then. Let me check my schedule.”
“Meet me at Le Train Bleu.”
“If you insist.”
The iconic Paris restaurant, with its garish gilded mirrors andpainted ceilings, overlooked the ticket hall of the Gare de Lyon. At five thirty Maurice Durand was seated in a plush royal-blue chair in the lounge area before an open bottle of champagne. Rising, he hesitantly shook Christopher’s hand.
“If it isn’t my old friend Monsieur Bartholomew. Still caring for widows and orphans, or have you managed to find honest work?” Durand turned to Gabriel. “And what brings you back to Paris, Monsieur Allon? Another bombing in the works?” He smiled. “That’s certainlyoneway to put a dirty gallery out of business.”
Gabriel sat down and handed Durand his mobile phone. The diminutive Frenchman slipped on a pair of gold half-moon reading glasses and contemplated the screen. “A rather interesting reinterpretation of Braque’sHouses at L’Estaque.”
“Swipe to the next one.”
Durand did as he was told. “Roger Bissière.”
“Keep going.”
Durand dragged the tip of his forefinger horizontally across the screen and smiled. “I’ve always had a soft spot for Fernand Léger. He was one of my first.”
“How about the next one?”
“My old friend Picasso. Quite a good one, in fact.”
“The Chagalls are better. The Monet, the Cézanne, and the two Matisses aren’t bad, either.”
“Where did you find them?”
“In Roussillon,” answered Gabriel. “In the atelier of a failed painter named—”
“Lucien Marchand?”
“You knew him?”
“Lucien and I weren’t acquainted, but I knew of his work.”
“How?”
“We both did business with the same gallery in Nice.”
“Galerie Edmond Toussaint?”
“Oui. Quite possibly the dirtiest art gallery in France, if not the Western world. Only a fool would buy a painting there.”
Gabriel exchanged a glance with Christopher before returning his gaze to Durand. “I thought you dealt directly with collectors.”
“For the most part. But I occasionally filled special orders for Monsieur Toussaint. He did a brisk trade in stolen art, but Lucien Marchand was his golden goose.”
