“No,” Lia mumbled. “She wasn’t. The Grandmère I knew grew lilies, fed the feral cats in the park across the way, and walked the same stretch of beach alone every morning. All of her neighbours played bocce ball on the last Tuesday of every month, but she always declined their invitations. She said she didn’t need the company, and aside from that, she found the noise intolerable. She didn’t drive, she didn’t smoke, she didn’t drink. She was in bed by eight p.m. sharp. She favoured high collars, sensible shoes, and polyester slacks.”

“This picture was taken a long time ago,” Gabriel said, handing the photo back. “People can change.”

Lia made a funny sound.

“Who is this?” Gabriel picked up a photo of an officer in an old German uniform.

“I have no idea. There was nothing written on the back.” She winced. “I think…” She trailed off, her hands twisting in front of her.

“You think what?” Gabriel prompted.

“I think my grandmother was a Nazi collaborator during the war.”

Given what he still held in his hands, Gabriel wasn’t completely surprised by her words. “Because of this?”

“Partially. There were also pro-Nazi magazines. Receipts from the bars at the Paris Ritz Hotel. A postcard signed by Göring himself.”

He set the photo down. “I’m not sure you should jump to conclusions just yet,” he ventured. “There could be other explanations.”

“That’s kind of you to say, and it’s what I tried to tell myself. But experience has taught me that when one hears hooves, one does not generally look for zebras.” She tried to smile and failed. “The evidence is pretty convincing. And I think that this was why she kept this—this apartment, and everything in it—all hidden. Who in their right mind would want to admit to being a collaborator?”

A silence fell.

“And there’s more.” Lia sounded distinctly uncomfortable. “Art, that is.”

“Why don’t you show me?”

She nodded and led him deeper into the apartment, stopping in a formal dining room. She gestured wordlessly at the long wall covered in framed canvases.

Gabriel maneuvered himself past her to examine this collection. The portraits were extensive, an assortment of nineteenth- and twentieth-century compositions peppered by a handful that were far older. John Singer Sargent was represented for certain, along with at least two works that appeared to be the product of Henry Fuseli’s artistic brilliance. Gabriel didn’t even want to dare guess at the rest without proper examination.

“If these were stolen, would you be able to determine from where? And from whom?” Lia asked.