27 Cheval Blanc

27 Cheval Blanc

When Gabriel returned to the Cheval Blanc, there was no sign of Ingrid in her room. Ninety minutes went by before she finally

reappeared, clad in sweat-drenched spandex. She had been working out in the hotel's fitness center.

"How was your meeting?" she asked.

"It went about as well as could be expected. The only way I was able to get what I needed was to offer him your head. Your

execution is scheduled for tomorrow in the Place de la Concorde."

Frowning, she closed the communicating door between their rooms and worked late into the night. She was back at it early the

next morning, when she hacked into the Freeport's network to run a few diagnostic programs. By one o'clock she was ready for

a lunch break, so they walked along the Seine to Chez Julien. Gabriel's phone vibrated the minute they sat down at their table.

"Your friend Inspector Clouseau?" asked Ingrid.

"My wife."

"Does she know where you are?"

Gabriel typed a brief message and tapped the send icon. "She does now."

"She doesn't mind the fact that you're staying in a fancy Paris hotel with a beautiful young woman?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because fancy hotels and beautiful women were always part of my job."

"Care to explain?"

"Office doctrine," said Gabriel. "I never operated alone in a city like Paris or Rome or Zurich. I was always accompanied

by a female escort officer."

"And they were always pretty?"

"The prettier, the better. My wife was one of those officers. That's how I met her."

A waitress appeared and Gabriel ordered a bottle of Chablis.

"Speaking of pretty girls," said Ingrid quietly.

"Was she? I didn't notice."

"You notice everything, Mr. Allon." Ingrid lowered her eyes toward the menu. "Have you figured it out yet?"

"I'm leaning toward the risotto with truffles."

"I was talking about the Picasso. How did the killer know it was going to be in Ricard's gallery on Thursday afternoon?"

"Ricard must have mentioned it to the wrong person."

"Who?"

"I'm guessing it was the owner of the Picasso."

"But the owner agreed to the trade."

"Maybe he did, maybe he didn't."

"Are you saying Ricard made the deal with Anna without telling his client?"

"Stranger things have happened, Ingrid. The art world is a murky swamp. And with a few notable exceptions, dealers are the

slimy green scum that floats on the surface."

The waitress returned with the wine, and they placed their orders. An hour later, after finishing their coffee, they went into the cloudy afternoon. The Cheval Blanc was to the right. Ingrid turned to the left instead. She made another left into the rue Geoffroy l'Asnier and slowed to a stop outside the entrance of the Mémorial de la Shoah.

"I'd like you to take me inside," she announced.

"Why?"

"Because I want to know what happened to the man who owned that Picasso."

"He was murdered at Auschwitz along with more than a million other innocent Jews, including my grandparents."

"Please, Mr. Allon."

They entered the memorial along a luminous white passageway inscribed with the names of more than seventy-six thousand men,

women, and children. The exhibition rooms told the story of their detention, deportation, and murder. In the crypt, where

a flame burned in their memory, Ingrid clung to Gabriel's arm and wept.

"Maybe this was a mistake," he said quietly.

"I'm fine," she sobbed.

"Should we leave?"

"Yes, I think so."

Outside in the street she scrubbed the tears from her face. "I never knew."

"About what?"

"The Paris Roundup of 1942. Jeudi noir ."

"Most people don't."

"They were arrested by the French police? Thirteen thousand people on a single day?"

Gabriel was silent.

"Where did it happen?"

"All over Paris. But most of the Jews who were arrested lived a short distance from here. I can show you, if you like."

They walked through the shadows of the rue Pavée and turned into the rue des Rosiers. Once the heart of Jewish life in Paris,

it was now one of the most fashionable streets in the arrondissement. Chic clothing boutiques lined the pavements. Gabriel

pointed out the apartments on the upper floors.

"The French police went door to door on the morning of July 16, 1942. They had a list of names. A few were shown mercy and

allowed to escape, but not many. Just five days later, three hundred and seventy-five of them were murdered at Auschwitz.

Nearly all the others would be dead by the end of the summer."

"What about the children?"

"There were about four thousand in all. They were separated from their parents and loaded into cattle cars. The number who

perished during the journey to Auschwitz is not known. Those who somehow survived were gassed upon arrival."

Gabriel slowed to a stop outside a boutique that specialized in designer jeans. It had once been a famous kosher restaurant

called Jo Goldenberg. Gabriel had dined there a single time, on a dark and rainy afternoon, with a colleague from his service.

They had been discussing a woman whose grandparents were arrested on jeudi noir . Her name was Hannah Weinberg.

Gabriel's phone disturbed the memory. He drew it from his coat pocket and stared at the screen.

"Your wife?" asked Ingrid.

"No," said Gabriel. "Inspector Clouseau."

***

Gabriel dropped Ingrid at the Cheval Blanc, then headed across the Seine to the ?le de la Cité. This time he met Jacques Ménard

in a café in the Place Dauphine. The French detective had brought along a manila envelope filled with photographs. He laid

the first on the table. It depicted a fire-blackened Peugeot 508.

"They ditched it off the D30 in the Haute-Savoie. There were no traffic cameras nearby. They must have switched to another

vehicle."

"I don't suppose the forensic team found the charred remnants of a Picasso in the boot."

"I didn't ask."

Ménard reclaimed the photograph and laid another in its place. It was the man from the Freeport navigating passport control

at Charles de Gaulle Airport. The time stamp read 11:52 a.m. The date was Tuesday, January 17.

"How did you know?" asked Ménard.

"He murdered an Oxford professor named Charlotte Blake in Cornwall the day before. The safest escape route, in my humble opinion,

is a ferry to the Irish Republic."

"He caught the eight forty Air France flight at Dublin Airport. German passport."

"Name?"

"Klaus Müller."

"I assume you had a look at his prior travel."

Ménard nodded. "He spends a lot of time on airplanes."

"Where does he make his home?"

"Leipzig. Or so he says."

The next photo Ménard laid on the table was of lesser quality. It showed the same man walking over the paving stones of the

rue Lepic in Montmartre. The time was 7:32 p.m., about an hour before Emanuel Cohen's murder.

"Is there video of the fall itself?" asked Gabriel.

" Non ," replied Ménard. "Which is the only reason why I didn't immediately report this matter to the Police Judiciaire. They are,

however, looking into the burned-out car in the Haute-Savoie. It's only a matter of time before they make the connection to

the art dealer's murder in Geneva." He paused, then added, "And to your Picasso."

"The only way they'll find out about that painting is if you tell them."

"Good point." Ménard returned the photographs to the envelope and handed it over. "Try not to kill anyone, Allon. And call

me the minute you have a lead on the whereabouts of either the Picasso or the man who pushed Dr. Cohen down those steps."

"That would be a violation of my agreement with my friend from Swiss intelligence."

Jacques Ménard smiled. " C'est la vie ."

***

The sun had set by the time Gabriel returned to the Cheval Blanc. Upstairs, he found Ingrid tossing her clothing into her

suitcase.

"Going somewhere?" he asked.

"Cannes."

Gabriel went into his room and began to pack. "I'm quite fond of the Carlton, you know."

"So am I. But I'm afraid it's out of the question."

"How about the H?tel Martinez?"

"You can't be serious."

"The Majestic?"

"Not a chance, Mr. Allon."