“Did he ask to see the provenance?”
“Of course. But the dealer said the painting wasn’t for sale and refused to let him see it.”
“And the dealer’s name?”
“Dr. Cohen refused to tell me.”
“Why?”
“He thought it might taint my investigation if I knew the painting’s whereabouts in advance. He wanted an unimpeachable provenance report from a leading expert that he could present in court.”
There was a certain logic to it. “And when you told him that you weren’t available?”
“He asked me for the name of someone who was up to the job. Charlotte Blake was the obvious choice. She was a world-class historian and provenance researcher, and her book on Picasso and the Occupation was extraordinary. She was also quite disdainful of the business of art, especially the so-called collectors who acquire paintings strictly for investment purposes and then lock them away in places like the Geneva Freeport.”
They had reached the end of the Allee Centrale. Evening traffic was careening around the Place de la Concorde. They turned to the right and headed toward the Jeu de Paume.
“Scene of the greatest art heist in history,” said Naomi Wallach. “Tens of thousands of paintings now worth untold billions of dollars. But it is important to remember, Monsieur Allon, that the Nazis were not the only perpetrators. They had willing accomplices, men who took advantage of the situation to line their pockets or adorn their walls. Those who retain possession of paintings they know to be looted are not blameless. They are accessories to a crime in progress. Charlotte Blake shared my opinion. That’s why she was willing to take Emanuel Cohen’s case.”
“And when you learned that she had been killed?”
“I was shocked, of course, as was Dr. Cohen.”
“I’d like to have a word with him.”
“I imagine you would. But I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“Why?”
“Because last evening, while walking home to his apartment in Montmartre, Dr. Emanuel Cohen fell to his death down the steps
of the rue Chappe. The police seem to think he slipped somehow.” Naomi Wallach’s hand shook as she lit another cigarette.
“Perhaps it wasn’t an accident, after all.”
10
Rue Chappe
The death of Dr. Emanuel Cohen, a widower with no children, went unrecorded by the Paris press. Naomi Wallach had heard the news that morning from a friend at the Weinberg Center and wasn’t certain as to the details, including the precise location of Cohen’s fall. Gabriel, after engaging his waiter at Café Chappe in a few minutes of small talk, discovered that the incident had taken place at the summit of the famous steps near the basilica. The waiter, whose name was Henri, had come upon the scene while walking home at the end of his shift.
“What did you see?”
“A couple of cops and EMTs looking down at a body.”
“You’re sure he was dead?”
“Oui. He was covered by then.”
“Where was he?”
“The first landing. Next to the lamppost.”
At the southern end of the rue Chappe, where the café was located, the street was typical of Montmartre, narrow and cobbled and lined with small apartment buildings. The steps began at the rue André Barsacq. There were two separate flights, each with a pair of landings and an iron handrail down the center. The second flight, the one nearest Sacré Coeur, was the slightly steeper of the two. Gabriel paused on the uppermost landing and, crouching, examined the paving stones by the inadequate light of the streetlamp. If there had been blood the night before, there was none now. Nor was there anything to indicate there had been much in the way of a criminal investigation of the matter.
Rising, Gabriel climbed to the top of the steps. To the right was a small café, and beyond the café was the upper station of the Montmartre funicular. A group of tourists were gazing up at the floodlit domes of Sacré Coeur. Two young women were scrutinizing the counterfeit designer handbags arranged on a tarpaulin at the feet of an African migrant.
Gabriel turned and gazed down the steps of the rue Chappe. Something made him place a hand on the frigid lamppost. A fall, even a minor one, would doubtless result in serious injury. Still, most pedestrians managed to make the ascent without incident, especially lifelong Parisians and residents of Montmartre like Dr. Emanuel Cohen.
Gabriel moved away from the top of the steps and looked in both directions along the street. There were no surveillance cameras in sight, nothing to record how Cohen might have lost his balance. If there had been an eyewitness, he surely told the police what he had observed. Unless, of course, the eyewitness had been engaged in low-level criminal activity at the time of the incident and had therefore chosen to remain silent.
Gabriel walked over to the African street vendor, a towering figure, thin as a reed, with weary eyes that gazed out from an otherwise noble face. They exchanged pleasantries in French. Then Gabriel asked the African if he had been selling his wares on this spot the previous evening.
The weary eyes grew suspicious. “Why do you ask?”
“A friend of mine fell down the rue Chappe. I was wondering if you were here when it happened.”
“Oui. I was here.”
“Did you see anything?”
“Are you a cop?”
“Do I look like a cop?”
The towering African said nothing. Gabriel looked down at the counterfeit handbags lying at the man’s feet.
“How much for that one?”
“The Prada?”
“If you say so.”
