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“Perhaps we should phone him,” she said.
Gabriel dialed the gallery’s number and after several rings was invited to leave a message. He killed the connection and rang Ricard’s mobile. There was no answer.
“He must be with another client,” suggested Anna.
“As far as Edmond Ricard is concerned, you’re the only client in the world that matters right now.” Gabriel tried the door but it was locked tight. Then he glanced at Ingrid and asked, “I don’t suppose you have a magic bump key in your handbag?”
“Personal assistants to world-famous musicians don’t carry bump keys, Mr. Allon.”
Gabriel drew a pair of lockpick tools from the breast pocket of his coat. “I suppose these will have to do.”
Ingrid shielded the view from the security camera while Gabriel inserted the tools into the barrel of the lock. Anna was beside herself. “What happens if the alarm goes off?” she whispered.
“A global icon will be arrested for breaking into an art gallery in the Geneva Freeport.”
“Along with her assistant,” murmured Ingrid.
Gabriel moved the lockpick in and out of the barrel, expertly manipulating the pins.
“How much longer is it going to take you?” asked Anna.
“That depends on how many more times you interrupt me.”
He turned the lock to the right and the latch gave way.
“Not bad,” said Ingrid.
“You should see him with a gun,” replied Anna.
“I have, actually.”
Gabriel opened the door. There was no audible alarm.
“Perhaps there’s hope for us yet,” said Anna.
“Unless the alarm is silent,” Ingrid pointed out. “Then we’re totally busted.”
Gabriel followed the two women into the gallery’s vestibule and allowed the door to close behind them. Anna cheerfully called out Ricard’s name and received only silence in reply.
“Perhaps you should play him a partita instead,” remarked Gabriel, and entered the first exhibition room. The same four paintings were on display, including the Pollock, which in Gabriel’s hurried opinion was authentic. Two of his six forgeries, the Van Gogh and the Modigliani, were propped on the baize-covered easels in the second room. The other four works—the Renoir, the Cézanne, the Monet, and the Toulouse-Lautrec—were leaning against the walls. There was no sign of an untitled portrait of a woman in the surrealist style, oil on canvas, 94 by 66 centimeters, by Pablo Picasso.
Ingrid tried the latch on the door to Ricard’s office.
“Don’t tell me it’s locked,” said Gabriel.
“It appears so,” she replied, and moved aside.
Gabriel went to work, and the lock surrendered in less than thirty seconds. His hand hovered motionless over the latch.
“What are you waiting for?” asked Anna.
“Do you really want me to answer that question?”
Gabriel turned the latch and slowly opened the door. The familiar odor hit him at once, metallic and rusty, the smell of blood. It had spilled from the bullet holes in the man slumped behind the sleek black desk. Lying before him was a blood-soaked sales agreement bearing the name of the world’s most famous violinist, and on the carpeted floor was an empty frame. Gabriel didn’t bother taking the measurements. Any fool could see that the dimensions of the missing painting were 94 by 66 centimeters.
“Your Picasso?” asked Anna.
“No,” answered Gabriel. “It was my Picasso.”
