Page 28 of A Death in Cornwall

They left the café at half past twelve and headed for Claridge’s. Nicholas Lovegrove, in a dark suit and open-necked dress shirt, occupied a green leather booth in the hotel’s famed restaurant. He was contemplating the label of an excellent bottle of Montrachet, to which he had already done significant damage.

The maître d’ showed Sarah and Gabriel to the table, and Lovegrove rose to greet them. He could not hide his disappointment that he would not be lunching alone with one of the London art world’s most alluring and mysterious women. Still, he was quite obviously intrigued by Gabriel’s presence.

“Allon,” he blared, turning heads at a nearby table. “What an unexpected surprise.”

They all three sat down and the waiter filled their glasses with the Montrachet. Lovegrove ordered another bottle, but Sarah requested a Belvedere Bloody Mary as well.

“That’s the spirit,” said Lovegrove.

“Dinner with Oliver and Julian last night,” she explained.

“I heard.” Lovegrove turned to Gabriel and regarded him warily for a moment. “Shall we discuss the newest exhibit at the Tate Modern, or am I allowed to interrogate you at length about your rather remarkable career?”

“I’m more interested in yours, Nicky.”

“I’m afraid the dealings of an art adviser are more classified than those of a professional spy. My clients demand absolute discretion, and I’ve never betrayed one.”

But Nicholas Lovegrove, one of the art world’s most sought-after consultants, made demands of his clients as well, namely, a percentage of all transactions, be they sales or acquisitions. In return, he vouched for the authenticity of the paintings in question and, more often than not, their prospects for a profitable resale. He also served as a cutout between seller and buyer, ensuring that neither knew the other’s identity. And if he happened to be representing both parties to a sale, Lovegrove could expect to double his commission. It was not uncommon for him to earn more than a million dollars on a single deal—or eight figures if the piece was something stratospheric. It was, as the old jazz standard went, nice work if you could get it.

“I have no interest in any of your clients,” said Gabriel. “I’d just like to ask your opinion of a dealer.”

“I’ve never met an honest one in my life.” Lovegrove smiled at Sarah. “Present company excluded, of course. But what’s this scoundrel’s name?”

“Edmond Ricard. His gallery is inside the Geneva—”

“I know where it is, Allon.”

“You’ve been, I take it?”

Lovegrove was slow in offering a response. “What is the nature of this inquiry of yours?”

“That’s a rather difficult question to answer, actually.”

“Try.”

“It involves a Picasso.”

“A fine start. Please continue.”

“A Picasso that belonged to a French businessman who was murdered in the Holocaust.”

“A restitution case?”

“More or less.”

“Which means there’s more to the story.”

Gabriel sighed. The negotiations had begun. “Name your price, Nicky.”

“The Gentileschi.”

“I’ll do it for five percent of the hammer price.”

“Three percent.”

“Highway robbery.”

“You would know.”

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