Page 64 of A Death in Cornwall

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.”

27

Cheval Blanc

When Gabriel returned to the Cheval Blanc, there was no sign of Ingrid in her room. Ninety minutes went by before she finally reappeared, clad in sweat-drenched spandex. She had been working out in the hotel’s fitness center.

“How was your meeting?” she asked.

“It went about as well as could be expected. The only way I was able to get what I needed was to offer him your head. Your execution is scheduled for tomorrow in the Place de la Concorde.”

Frowning, she closed the communicating door between their rooms and worked late into the night. She was back at it early the next morning, when she hacked into the Freeport’s network to run a few diagnostic programs. By one o’clock she was ready for a lunch break, so they walked along the Seine to Chez Julien. Gabriel’s phone vibrated the minute they sat down at their table.

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