“Is there a single luxury hotel in Paris where you haven’t committed a crime?”

“The Cheval Blanc.”

“In that case,” said Gabriel, “I suppose we have no choice but to rough it at the Cheval Blanc.”

*  *  *

The hotel was located on the Quai du Louvre, a few steps from the museum. Their adjoining rooms were on the fourth floor. Gabriel stayed long enough to drop off his luggage and download two photographs of Edmond Ricard’s killer to his phone. He poked his head into Ingrid’s room before leaving.

“Are you sure you can restrain yourself?”

“Quite,” she answered, and opened her laptop.

Outside, Gabriel crossed the Pont Neuf to the Île de la Cité, then made his way to a brasserie on the Quai des Orfèvres. Seated alone at a table in the back was a darkly handsome man in his early fifties who might have been mistaken for a French movie idol, the sort of fellow who looked good with a cigarette and spent his afternoons in the bed of a beautiful young woman before returning home to his equally beautiful wife. In truth, Jacques Ménard was the commander of the Central Office for the Fight against Cultural Goods Trafficking, which is how the French referred to their art squad. His office was located a few paces up the street at 36 Quai des Orfèvres, the iconic headquarters of the criminal division of the Police Nationale.

Ménard had taken the liberty of ordering a bottle of Sancerre. “A little something to celebrate your latest coup,” he explained.

“The Van Gogh? All I did is clean it, Jacques.”

“You don’t really expect me to believe that, do you?”

Gabriel smiled. “Perhaps we should try the wine.”

“Be my guest.”

He drank some of the Sancerre. It was otherworldly.

“Well?” asked Ménard.

“I think we should have lunch together more often.”

“I couldn’t agree more. In fact, I was beginning to think I would never see you again.”

Gabriel had made Jacques Ménard’s acquaintance while researching the authenticity of a painting acquired and sold by Isherwood Fine Arts. The resulting scandal had ruined lives and reputations from Paris to New York. But not Ménard’s. He had been fêted in the French press, and his department had seen a marked increase in its funding. Which explained the warm welcome and the exceptional bottle of Sancerre.

“When was the last time you were in town?” he asked.

“You tell me, Jacques.”

“I think you were here about a month ago.”

“Was I?”

The Frenchman nodded. “A few days before that as well.”

“Sounds to me as though you’re monitoring my movements.”

“Should I be?”

“If you had any sense.”

The waiter reappeared to take their order. Gabriel glanced at the menu and selected the mushroom tarte and the sole meunière. Ménard, after a moment’s deliberation, chose the same. When they were alone again, Gabriel awakened his phone and showed the Frenchman the two photographs.

“Who is he?”

“The professional assassin who killed that art dealer in the Geneva Freeport the other day. I was hoping you might be able to help me find him.”

“Why am I receiving this request from you and not the Police Cantonale de Genève?”

“Because the head of Swiss intelligence has asked me to investigate the matter quietly on his behalf.”

“Why you?”

“We’re old friends. For some reason, he still trusts me.”

Ménard looked down at Gabriel’s phone again. “What can you tell me about him?”

“He called himself Andreas Hoffmann. He and his driver headed for France after leaving the Freeport. The Bardonnex crossing. The Swiss say they cleared the checkpoint at two forty-nine p.m.”

Ménard drew a small leather-bound notebook from the breast pocket of his suit jacket. “Vehicle?”

“A Peugeot 508. French registration.”

“Number?”

Gabriel recited it and Ménard wrote it down. “Is there anything else you can tell me about him?”

“I have a feeling he flew from Dublin to Paris on Tuesday, January seventeenth. I also have a hunch he murdered a man named Emanuel Cohen two nights later in Montmartre.”

Ménard laid down his pen. “Why would he have done a thing like that?”

“The Picasso, Jacques.”

“What Picasso?”

“The one he stole from that gallery in the Freeport. It belonged to Emanuel Cohen’s grandfather, a man named Bernard Lévy. You’re going to help me find it and return it to his rightful heirs.”

Ménard took up his pen again. “Subject matter?”

“A portrait of a woman in the surrealist style.”

“Dimensions.”

“Ninety-four by sixty-six.”

“Oil on canvas?”

“Oui.”