Gabriel blew the material from his fingertip. They were heading westward along a two-lane road through the Polden Hills. Directly ahead, a bright orange sun hung low above the horizon suspended between two thin strata of cloud.

“You’re suggesting Liddell fought back?”

Gabriel nodded. “The evidence was all there in his studio.”

“Such as?”

“The broken glass and chemical residue, for starters.”

“You think it was spilled during a physical struggle?”

“Unlikely. Liddell was smart enough to know not to get into a wrestling match with a well-armed thief. I think he used his solvent as a weapon.”

“How?”

“Based on the residue on the floor, I’m guessing Liddell threw it in the thief’s face. It would have burned his eyes badly and left him blinded for several seconds—enough time for Liddell to run. But he made one mistake. He took her with him.”

“The Rembrandt?”

Gabriel nodded. “It’s too big to hold with one hand, which means he would have had to grasp it by both vertical lengths of the stretcher.” Gabriel demonstrated by gripping the steering wheel at the three o’clock and nine o’clock positions. “It must have been awkward trying to carry it down that narrow staircase, but Liddell almost made it. He was just a couple of steps from the landing when the first shot hit him. That shot exited the front of Liddell’s neck and, if I’m correct, pierced the painting before entering the wall. Judging from the composition and color tone of the paint flakes, I’d say the bullet passed through the right side of her face.”

“Can a bullet hole be repaired?”

“No problem. You’d be surprised at the idiotic things people do to paintings.” Gabriel paused. “Or for paintings.”

“What does that mean?”

“Christopher was a romantic. When we were in Venice together, he was always falling in love. And invariably he would end up with a broken heart.”

“What does that have to do with the Rembrandt?”

“It’s all in his restoration notes,” Gabriel said. “They’re a love letter. Christopher had finally fallen for a woman who wouldn’t hurt him. He was obsessed with the girl in that painting. And I believe he died because he wouldn’t let her go.”

“There’s just one thing I don’t understand,” Chiara said. “Why didn’t the thief take any of the other paintings, like the Monet or the Cézanne?”

“Because he was a professional. He came there for the Rembrandt. And he left with it.”

“So what do we do now?”

“Sometimes the best way to find a painting is to discover where it’s been.”

“Where do we start?”

“At the beginning,” said Gabriel. “In Amsterdam.”

CHAPTER 12

12

MARSEILLES

If Maurice Durand were inclined toward introspection, which he was not, he might have concluded that the course of his life was determined the day he first heard the story of Vincenzo Peruggia.