Page 15 of The Collector
“And the second explanation?”
“The Van Gogh is a Van Gogh, but it wasn’t worth stealing.”
“And why would that be?”
“Because the other painting was more valuable.” Gabriel lowered his voice. “Much more.”
“How much, hypothetically speaking, of course, wouldSelf-Portrait with Bandaged Earfetch at auction? Two hundred million? Two hundred and fifty?”
“In the shade.”
“Is there another missing painting worth more than that?”
“Only one.”
“First things first,” said General Ferrari. “Is it, or is it not,Self-Portrait with Bandaged Earby Vincent van Gogh?”
Gabriel placed a hand to his chin and tilted his head to one side. It was the right ear, of course, that was encased in the heavy dressing. Vincent had taken a razor to it on the evening of December 23, 1888, following a heated quarrel with Paul Gauguin in the Yellow House in Arles. He had produced the self-portrait after his release from the hospital in January 1889. In his haste to complete the work, he had failed to apply paint to portions of the canvas, including a patch beneath his cheekbone and another where the collar of his woolen coat fell against the side of his neck. The bare spots on the painting before Gabriel were identical to the ones on the painting that had been stolen from the Courtauld Gallery. They were Vincent’s bare spots, thought Gabriel. So were the brushstrokes.
“Well?” asked General Ferrari after a long moment.
“I should probably have a look at the back of the canvas just to be certain.”
“But it isn’t necessary?”
“No,” said Gabriel, and turned his attention once more toward the empty frame and stretcher leaning against the wall—and the twenty or so copper-plated canvas tacks littering the floor. No razor for this thief, he thought. It was the mark of a professional. And a cool one at that.
He reached for the stretcher.
“Don’t,” said General Ferrari. “Not unless you’d like us to take a set of elimination prints from you.”
Gabriel withdrew his hand.
“How old is it?” asked Ferrari.
“The stretcher? Twenty years, maybe less. It’s laminated pine, with a five-eighths setback. Quite common. It could have come from any artists’ supply shop in Europe.”
“The measurements suggest it was custom-made to someone’s exact specifications.”
“Seventy-two-point-five by sixty-four-point-seven centimeters?”
Ferrari nodded. “You wouldn’t happen to know a missing painting of those dimensions that’s worth more thanSelf-Portrait with Bandaged Earby Vincent van Gogh, would you?”
“Only one,” said Gabriel.
“I thought so, too.” The general smiled. “Would you like to go back to Venice now? Or should we have a look at the rest of the crime scene?”
8
Amalfi
Upstairs, Gabriel stood at the foot of Lukas van Damme’s bed and extended his right arm. “Bang,” he said softly.
“Actually,” said General Ferrari, “there were two shots. And the killer undoubtedly used a suppressor.”
Gabriel lowered his arm. “Caliber?”
“Nine-millimeter.”
