Page 62 of Portrait of an Unknown Woman

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San Polo

For the remainder of that glorious April, as French police and prosecutors sifted through the ruins of Galerie Georges Fleury, the art world looked on in horror and held its collective breath. Those who knew Fleury well were guarded in their comments, in private and especially to the press. And those who had done business with him said little if anything at all. The director of the Musée d’Orsay called it the most unsettled month for the arts in France since the Germans entered Paris in June 1940. Several commentators criticized the remark as insensitive, but few took issue with its sentiment.

Becausel’affaire Fleuryincluded a bomb and two dead bodies, the serious crimes division of the Police Nationale—the so-called Central Directorate of the Judicial Police—controlled the investigation, with Jacques Ménard’s art sleuths reduced to a supporting role. Veteran crime reporters immediately sensed that something was amiss, as their sources at the Quai des Orfèvres seemed incapable of answering even the most basic questions about the probe.

Did thepolice judiciairehave any leads on the bomber’s current whereabouts?

If we did, came the terse reply from the Quai des Orfèvres, we would have arrested him by now.

Was it true that Fleury and his assistant were killed before the bomb exploded?

The Quai des Orfèvres was not in a position to say.

Was theft the motive?

The Quai des Orfèvres was pursuing several leads.

Were others involved?

The Quai des Orfèvres had ruled nothing out.

And what about the man of late middle age and the attractive fair-haired woman who were seen smashing their way out of the gallery seconds before the bomb detonated? Here again, the Quai des Orfèvres was at its most elusive. Yes, the police were aware of the eyewitness reports and were looking into them. For now, they would have nothing more to say on the matter, as it was part of an ongoing investigation.

Gradually, the press grew frustrated and sought out greener pastures. The flow of new revelations slowed to a trickle, then dried up entirely. Quietly the inhabitants of the art world breathed a collective sigh of relief. With their reputations and careers intact, they carried on as though nothing had happened.

Such was the case, to a lesser extent, for the man of late middle age. For several days after his return to Venice, he tried to spare his wife the details of his most recent brush with death. He revealed the truth while attempting, with limited success, to accurately reproduce her honey-and-gold-flecked irises on canvas. His task was made more difficult by the late-afternoon light falling across the underside of her left breast.

“You violated every possible rule of tradecraft,” she admonished him. “The field officer always controls the environment. And he never allows the target to set the time of a meeting.”

“I wasn’t debriefing a deep-penetration agent in the backstreetsof West Beirut. I was attempting to return a forged painting to a crooked art dealer in the Eighth Arrondissement of Paris.”

“Will they try again?”

“To kill me? I can’t imagine.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ve told the French everything I know. What would be the point?”

“What was the point of trying to kill you in the first place?”

“He’s afraid of me.”

“Who?”

“You really must stop talking.” He loaded his brush and placed it against his canvas. “It changes the shape of your eyes when you open your mouth.”

She seemed not to hear him. “Your daughter dreamed of your death while you were away. A terrible nightmare. And quite prophetic, as it turns out.”

“Why?”

“You were lying on a sidewalk when you died.”

“She must have been dreaming of Washington.”

“Her dream was different.”