Page 67 of A Death in Cornwall

“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 Hôtel Martinez?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“The Majestic?”

“Not a chance, Mr. Allon.”

28

Rue d’Antibes

Ingrid had traced the hack of the Geneva Freeport to an apartment building on the rue d’Antibes, the exclusive shopping street that flows through the heart of Cannes’s centre ville. The small hotel located opposite the hacker’s dwelling did not live up to the splendor suggested by its name. Gabriel requested adjoining rooms on an upper floor and in short order was handed a pair of keys and a brochure describing the hotel’s amenities, of which there were few. He told the clerk he was a resident of Montreal and showed him a false Canadian passport to prove it. His Danish colleague supplied the required credit card. They planned to stay for three nights, they explained. Perhaps a night or two longer if circumstances required it. The clerk did not foresee a problem, as vacancy was not an issue.

Upstairs, they unlocked the communicating door between their rooms and opened the blinds to the fading afternoon light. Three floors beneath them was the rue d’Antibes. It was one way and scarcely wide enough for a single vehicle. Perhaps fifteen meters separated their rooms from the windows of the opposing apartment building.

“This won’t do,” said Ingrid.

“I shouldn’t think so,” agreed Gabriel.

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