Page 8 of Portrait of an Unknown Woman

4

San Marco

In the Piazza San Marco, a string quartet wearily serenaded the day’s last customers at Caffè Florian.

“Are they incapable of playing anything other than Vivaldi?” asked Julian.

“What have you got against Vivaldi?”

“I adore him. But how about Corelli for a change of pace? Or Handel, for heaven’s sake?”

“Or Anthony van Dyck.” Gabriel paused before a shop window in the arcade on the square’s southern flank. “The original story inARTnewsdidn’t mention where you found the painting. It didn’t identify the buyer, either. The price tag, however, received prominent play.”

“Six and a half million pounds.” Julian smiled. “Now ask me how much I paid for the bloody thing.”

“I was getting to that.”

“Three million euros.”

“Which means your profit was in excess of one hundred percent.”

“But that’s how the secondary art market works, petal. Dealers like me search out misattributed, misplaced, or undervalued paintingsand bring them to market, hopefully with enough flair and panache to attract one or more deep-pocketed buyers. And don’t forget, I had my expenses, too.”

“Long lunches at London’s finest restaurants?”

“Actually, most of the lunches took place in Paris. You see, I bought the painting from a gallery in the Eighth. The rue la Boétie, of all places.”

“Does this gallery have a name?”

“Galerie Georges Fleury.”

“Have you done business with him in the past?”

“A great deal. Monsieur Fleury specializes in French paintings from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, but he deals in Dutch and Flemish works as well. He has excellent relationships with many of France’s oldest and wealthiest families. The ones who live in drafty châteaux crammed with art. He contacts me when he finds something interesting.”

“Where did he findPortrait of an Unknown Woman?”

“It came from an old private collection. That’s all he would say.”

“Attribution?”

“Manner of Anthony van Dyck.”

“Which covers allmannerof sins.”

“Indeed,” agreed Julian. “But Monsieur Fleury thought he saw evidence of the master’s hand. He called me for a second opinion.”

“And?”

“The instant I laid eyes on it, I got that funny feeling at the back of my neck.”

They emerged from the arcade into the fading afternoon light. To their left rose the Campanile. Gabriel led Julian to the right instead, past the ornate facade of the Doge’s Palace. On the Ponte della Paglia, they joined a knot of tourists gawking at the Bridge of Sighs.

“Looking for something?” asked Julian.

“You know what they say about old habits.”

“I’m afraid that most of mine are bad. You, however, are the most disciplined creature I’ve ever met.”