“Seville?” Gabriel lifted an eyebrow.
“I’m in consulting. Which means I go wherever the work is and stay as long as the job lasts. I don’t spend a lot of time here in Paris.”
“Well, this might make it easier for you to pick and choose your jobs. You know that if this proves to be an authentic Munch, and you wish to sell, it’ll be worth a fortune.” He ran a finger along the edge of the frame.
“It might not be mine to sell.” Her words were quiet. “And if that’s the case, I want it returned to its rightful owner.”
“Let’s cross that bridge if and when we come to it,” Gabriel said, straightening. “It’s strange though,” he mused, his eyes lingering on the canvas.
“What is?”
“That this is the only piece composed by an Expressionist. It certainly doesn’t fit with the rest of the collection in the apartment.” He turned back to her. “You didn’t find any others like this?”
Lia lifted her hands helplessly. “No.”
He turned in a slow circle. “There was no art in this room?”
“Not the painted kind. But there was an obscene amount of vintage couture clothing. Most of which I’ve donated to the Palais Galliera and the Museum of Decorative Arts.” She gestured at the arched entrance beside the wardrobe. “That dressing room was overflowing.”
Gabriel left the painting and ducked into the tiny space. “Mmm.”
“What does ‘mmm’ mean?” Lia followed him and stopped at the opening.
Gabriel was peering at the walls of the now-empty dressing room. “Artists like Munch were labeled as degenerate by the Nazis. Which didn’t prevent some Nazis from stealing their work, of course, but most works were either auctioned internationally or destroyed. Over the years, I’ve personally appraised and restored a half-dozen paintings that were found hidden from the Nazis in attics and cellars and barns.” He had his phone out now and was running the beam of the flashlight toward the back.
Lia frowned. He couldn’t possibly be suggesting what she thought he was. “I don’t have an attic or cellar or barn.”
“No. But you have an oddly short dressing room.”
“What?”
“This dressing room’s back wall is not plaster. It’s painted wood.”
“So?”
“Come here.” Without turning, he gestured for her to join him.
Lia did as he asked. He was examining a gap between the floor and the back wall.
“This wall was added,” he said. He ran his light up the wall to reveal a seam that divided the back wall into two equal panels. “I don’t know when, but it’s not original.”
“You’re seriously suggesting that there’s a hidden space behind this wall?”
“It’s likely.” He said it like she had simply asked him if he thought it might rain later on.
“For what?” she asked incredulously.
“I don’t know. Would you like to find out?”
“Um.”
He caught her hand in his and pressed his phone into her palm. “Let me fetch my tools.” He didn’t give her time to answer but simply ducked back out of the dressing room and reappeared a half minute later with his bag.
“Hold the light over my shoulder,” he instructed as he got down on his hands and knees to study the gap along the floor.
“Does this sort of thing happen to you often?” Lia asked weakly. “Secret rooms and whatnot?”
“First time.” His answer was muffled as he worked a flat bar beneath the left panel.
She crouched down beside him, feeling the warmth of his body against her bare arms. His presence was comforting. “What if—”
There was a quiet snap, and the edge of the panel abruptly released. “Ah. It just slides.”
They both got to their feet, and Gabriel slipped his fingers under the seam. He glanced at Lia with an unspoken question, waiting until she nodded before he pulled the panel free.
Lia put a hand out to steady herself, and her stomach plummeted as the beam of the flashlight exposed a hidden space—an extension of the dressing room—just as Gabriel had suggested. And inside, stacked upright on the floor and on a single shelf above that spanned the space, were dozens of paintings in a wide range of sizes. These had been removed from their frames, apparently for storage. Parts of the larger canvases were visible, and Lia could see that they were Expressionist and Impressionist works. A complete departure from what hung on the apartment walls.
Gabriel slid the second panel free and set it down behind them with the first. In the additional light, the hoard looked even more extensive.
“Oh God, Grandmère, what did you do?” Lia whispered.
“Don’t think the worst,” Gabriel said quietly, rejoining her.
“How can I not?” She looked up at him, the backs of her eyes burning. “Why else would a woman who received a goddamn thank-you note from Hermann Göring have a hidden hoard of art if it wasn’t stolen?” She thrust the phone back at Gabriel and spun, hurrying out of the dressing room and every horrible secret in it. She stopped in front of the wardrobe, trying to settle the despair and distress that were constricting her chest and making it hard to breathe.
“Lia.”
She hadn’t heard him follow her out. “I’m sorry. This is all…it’s just…” She tried to put her thoughts in order. “It’s horrifying. And unforgivable.”
“Hey.” He caught her hand in his for the second time and gently pulled her around. “Whatever this is, whatever your grandmother may or may not have done, it has nothing to do with you. You did not do this. If the worst turns out to be the truth, it is not your fault. Do you understand?”
Lia nodded miserably, looking down to where their fingers joined. “I’m sorry.”
“Please don’t be. This is a lot. For anyone.”
“I’m glad you’re here.” The words slipped out before she could stop them. It was the truth but not something she should be saying to a man she had only just met.
“Me too.” If he found her confession inappropriate or strange, he hid it well. “We’ll figure this out.”
Lia nodded again and withdrew her hand from his, trying to regain her composure.
Gabriel seemed to hesitate. “Is there anyone else…is anyone else helping you? Sibling? Parents?”
“No siblings,” Lia told him. “And when I told my parents about the apartment, they were more relieved that they were not required to return to France than interested in what it might contain. This is my problem.” She looked up at him and made an effort not to embarrass herself further. “Honestly, I’ll be fine. I’m used to dealing with things on my own.”
“You’re not on your own.” He held her gaze, his grey eyes giving none of his thoughts away. “Whatever side your grandmother may have been on, we’ll figure out the truth together.”
Chapter
6
Estelle
Paris, France
12 September 1940
The Ritz Hotel had been divided into two when the Germans had marched into Paris. In truth, it was already two edifices long before the red-and-black flags had unfurled over the city but the physical had also become the social when the Nazis commandeered the Parisian landmark. The Ritz went from simply a catch basin for the wealthy and the royal, the artistic and the intellectual, to the official headquarters of the Luftwaffe.