Page 24 of The Collector
“I wouldn’t mind frogs, so long as they’re edible, of course.”
“Plague frogs aren’t edible, Maurice. That’s why they’re plague frogs.”
Durand frowned. “Something bothering you, Monsieur Allon?”
“Besides the imminent collapse of Western civilization?”
“Oui.”
“I’m a bit miffed that my confidential informant found time for his daily rendezvous with his mistress but hasn’t been able to determine where my girl is fencing her stolen jewels.”
“Antwerp,” said Durand. “Where else?”
It made sense, thought Gabriel. Eighty percent of the world’s diamonds passed through Antwerp. And Belgium, with its weak central government and largely incompetent national police force, had a well-deserved reputation as Europe’s destination of choice for criminals looking to buy or sell goods on the black market.
“Do you know the fence’s name?” asked Gabriel. “Or should I just go door to door in the Diamond Quarter?”
“I believe there are at least twenty-four hours remaining on my deadline clock.”
Gabriel spent most of those hours locked away in Martin’s apartment, reading a French-language edition ofCharlotte Grayby Sebastian Faulks. He finished the novel while sipping a glass of excellent Côtes du Rhône at Brasserie Dumas. Maurice Durand joined him at six thirty, wearing a glassy-eyed expression of incredulity and, it seemed to Gabriel, utter defeat.
“Why so blue?” he asked.
“Angélique,” muttered the Frenchman.
“She’s unwell?”
“In love.” Durand paused, then added, “With someone else.”
“After all these years?”
“I asked her the same thing.”
“How did she possibly find the time?”
“Trust me, I asked her that as well.” Durand handed Gabriel a slip of paper. On it was written a name and an address. “He’s connected to the European branch of the Armenian mafia. They have anger-management issues, the Armenians. Therefore, I would be grateful if you didn’t mention my name when you speak to him. I have enough problems.”
Outside, Gabriel bade farewell to his lovelorn confidential informant and returned to the apartment on the Île Saint-Louis. He rang the owner and requested another favor.
“How much are we talking about?” asked the Swiss financier.
“Enough to turn the head of a dirty diamond dealer in Antwerp.”
“He’s not one of yours, is he?”
“Armenian, actually.”
“I’m sure he’d find Monique’s jewelry to his liking.” Monique wasMartin’s glamorous French-born wife. “She only keeps a small collection in Paris, but everything is quite valuable.”
“Diamonds?”
“My darling Monique doesn’t set foot outside the house unless she’s dripping with them.”
“Where might I find them?”
“The safe in our dressing room.”
“Combination?”
