Page 19 of The Collector
“I’m quite certain it didn’t.” With a pair of small, dark eyes he watched the pedestrians filing past the window. “Do your friends in the Police Nationale know you’re in Paris?”
“I certainly hope not.”
“As do I.”
Just then the door of the brasserie opened, and in walked AngéliqueBrossard, owner of a nearby shop that sold antique French crystal and glass figurines. The table she chose was on the opposite side of the room—as far away from Durand as possible, noted Gabriel.
“You’re not fooling anyone, Maurice. The entire arrondissement knows that the two of you have been involved in the longestcinq à septin French history.”
“A slanderous rumor, I assure you.”
“When are you going to marry her?”
“Angélique is married. Just not to me.”
“And when she tires of you?”
“I’m confident she won’t. You see, I’m rather good at what I do.” Durand smiled. “As are you, Monsieur Allon.”
“I’m an art restorer. And you—”
“Are a dealer of antique scientific and medical instruments.” He pointed toward the shop across the street. “It says so in the window.”
But Maurice Durand was also one of the greatest art thieves who ever lived. These days he operated solely as a broker in the process known as commissioned theft. Or, as Durand liked to describe it, he managed the acquisition of paintings that were not technically for sale.
“What brings you to Paris?” he asked.
“An interesting development in a high-profile case.”
Durand accepted Gabriel’s phone and examined the photograph displayed on the screen, his expression inscrutable. At length he asked, “Do you think it hurt when he did it?”
“He’s lucky he didn’t die. The razor severed an artery in his neck. There was blood in every room in the Yellow House.”
“But the result was a masterpiece. And to think it’s gone forever.” Durand gave a slow shake of his head. “A tragedy, truly.”
“But with a happy ending, as it turns out. You see, Maurice, that photograph was taken yesterday.”
“C’estimpossible.”
“The painting was discovered at a luxury villa on the Amalfi Coast. The owner is a man named—”
“Lukas van Damme.” Durand lowered his gaze toward the screen of Gabriel’s phone. “Where is he now?”
“An Italian morgue.”
“What a pity.”
“I take it by your entirely disingenuous expression of grief that you and Van Damme were acquainted.”
“We were introduced by a common associate.”
“When?”
“Let’s call it five years ago.”
“Let’s be precise instead.”
Durand made a show of reflection. “I believe it was the autumn of 2017.”
