Page 17 of The Collector
Gabriel looked down at the photograph. “Is this the only one?”
“It’s the best we’ve found so far. She seems to have a knack for avoiding cameras. And for cleaning up after herself,” added Ferrari. “She wiped down every surface of her villa before leaving. There are no fingerprints here, either. At least none we’ve been able to find.”
“What about a vehicle?”
“A Volkswagen Passat estate car, Munich registration. We were able to track her movements on the autostrada. She reached Florence shortly before sunrise yesterday and promptly disappeared from the grid.”
“The sun rose at approximately seven thirty yesterday, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You’re not.”
“And it’s a five-hour drive from Amalfi to Florence, which means she probably left around two in the morning.”
“Well within the window of the estimated time of death.”
“But there’s just one problem with your theory of the case, General Ferrari.”
“And what’s that?”
“Art thieves rarely kill people. Especially an art thief who charms her way into the victim’s home and allows herself to be seen by his household staff.”
“In that case, who killed Van Damme?”
“The man with a silenced nine-millimeter handgun who entered the villa after the thief left. As for the painting in the vault room,” said Gabriel, “you can return it to the Courtauld Gallery with complete confidence that it’s the missing Van Gogh.”
“Actually, I’m inclined to retain possession of it for the foreseeable future.”
“But surely you plan to tell the Metropolitan Police that you’ve found it.”
“Not anytime soon, no.”
“Why not?”
“Because alerting the British authorities will only make it harder for you to find the painting that the thief so carefully pried from that custom-made stretcher measuring seventy-two-point-five by sixty-four-point-seven centimeters.”
“Isn’t that your job?”
“Finding stolen paintings? Technically speaking, yes. But you’re much better at it than we are, especially in cases involving thieves who aren’t Italian. If I were you, I’d start by showing that photograph to some of my contacts on the dirty side of the art trade.” The general paused, then added, “The dirtier, the better.”
Gabriel did not bother to refute General Ferrari’s assertion regarding his links to certain unsavory elements of the art world. In his previous life he had sometimes found it necessary to associate with such creatures and, on occasion, to commit crimes against art himself, some spectacular, others less so. In the process, he had managed to recover numerous stolen or looted paintings, including Caravaggio’sNativity with St. Francis and St. Lawrence. He had made certain that General Ferrari and the Art Squad received the credit.
“And if my contacts prove unaccommodating?” asked Gabriel.
“You will squeeze them until they see the error of their ways. And you will do it quickly,” added Ferrari. “The fact that she left behind aVan Gogh would suggest that she stole the painting at the behest of a wealthy client. Which means you have a limited amount of time to find it before it disappears again. A few days at most.”
“How much leeway do I have to make a deal?”
“Considerable.”
“How considerable?” pressed Gabriel.
“In order to recover one of only thirty-four surviving works by one of the greatest painters who ever lived? I’d be willing to overlook almost anything.”
“A dead body?”
General Ferrari shrugged. “Lukas van Damme was hardly a pillar of our expatriate community.”
“Anything specific?”
