All the Devils Are Here (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #16) - Louise Penny Page 0,97

the first time in his life, about to step into the frame.

The professor listened and nodded.

Monsieur and Madame Faubourg, the concierges, had told them that the flics had left.

Just before he unlocked the door, Armand’s phone buzzed. He snatched it up and looked at the text. Reine-Marie understood his speed.

It might be the hospital. It might be about Stephen.

But it was from Mrs. McGillicuddy and read, We’re here. Will let you know.

He replaced the phone and opened the door.

The apartment was a shambles. No surprise there, though as he looked around, Armand had the impression it was even worse than when he was last there.

The investigators, of course, would do a thorough search. But a well-trained unit, while not tidying up, did not generally make a crime scene worse.

The curator walked in, curious, as though looking at a new exhibition. Until he saw the stain on the floor. And the outline of the body. Like skin around a hollow man.

De la Coutu stared. Overcome with the realization that somewhere between standing and hitting the ground, a person had become a corpse.

And someone else had done it.

He began to sway, and felt a hand on his arm, leading him away.

“Come over here. Sit down.”

A chair was righted, and when he sat, the same large hand was placed on his back and firmly, carefully, bent him over until his head was between his knees.

“Breathe.”

And he did.

When he raised his head, he was a different man. No longer would he look at a scene of violent death as though it was simply a series of brushstrokes.

“Better?” asked Armand.

He nodded and stood, a little shakily. And looked around. He knew he was there to evaluate the paintings.

Professor de la Coutu took a deep breath, almost a gasp.

“Is that a Rothko?” He went right up to it, his nose almost touching the oil paint. “The one that sold at auction twenty years ago? We had no idea who bought it. Look at all this.”

The curator turned full circle, in wonderment.

“They’d been taken off the walls and their backing ripped,” said Reine-Marie.

“They slashed the paintings?”

He ran over to another one. His arms out in front of him, like a parent rushing to save a falling infant.

He picked up the Vermeer and turned it around.

The brown framer’s paper had indeed been slashed, but not the painting itself.

Holding it at arm’s length, he studied the work, his eyes luminous.

It was a classic Vermeer domestic scene of a kitchen table with fruit and meat, and a calloused hand just reaching into the frame.

“You can tell not just by the subject matter, but by Vermeer’s use of light,” said de la Coutu, almost in a whisper. “By the pigments. Oh, my God, what a find.”

“How much would that be worth?” Armand asked.

“Armand!” said Reine-Marie, shocked.

“Priceless,” said the curator under his breath, shaking his head in wonderment.

He rubbed his hand over the engraved dark wood frame, caressing it.

Then he replaced it on the wall and took more paintings off their hooks, turning them around, too.

None of the actual art had been damaged.

Finally, after walking from room to room, examining the works of Old Masters, Impressionists, Modern Masters, he turned to the Gamaches.

His excitement, at first bordering on hysteria, had died down.

“This apartment belongs to Stephen Horowitz, am I right?”

“How do you know?” Reine-Marie asked. They hadn’t told him.

“The collection. He’s a huge financial contributor to the Louvre, and every now and then we’d hear rumors of another of his acquisitions, mostly through auctions. He was never named, but the world of high-end collectors and collections is small, tight-knit. I heard the news, but I thought it was a car accident. Not …” He looked at the outline on the floor.

“That wasn’t Stephen,” said Gamache. “We need you to be discreet about what you’re seeing.”

“Do you know what I’m seeing?” The curator turned from reexamining the Vermeer to examining Gamache.

“I believe I do, but tell us.”

Professor de la Coutu rested his critical gaze on them. “I take it you asked me here for an evaluation. In the event of his death.”

Armand remained silent.

“I’m afraid these are all copies. Excellent ones, certainly. Able to fool most people, though I’m surprised they fooled Monsieur Horowitz. Worth thousands each, even as copies, but not tens of millions. Not priceless as I first thought.”

“All of them?” Reine-Marie looked at Armand and saw that he looked grim, though not surprised. “You knew?”

“I suspected. I knew that most originals from the Renaissance, as many of these would be,