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The brown framer’s paper had indeed been slashed, but not the painting itself.

Holding it at arm’s length, he studied the work, his eyes luminous.

It was a classic Vermeer domestic scene of a kitchen table with fruit and meat, and a calloused hand just reaching into the frame.

“You can tell not just by the subject matter, but by Vermeer’s use of light,” said de la Coutu, almost in a whisper. “By the pigments. Oh, my God, what a find.”

“How much would that be worth?” Armand asked.

“Armand!” said Reine-Marie, shocked.

“Priceless,” said the curator under his breath, shaking his head in wonderment.

He rubbed his hand over the engraved dark wood frame, caressing it.

Then he replaced it on the wall and took more paintings off their hooks, turning them around, too.

None of the actual art had been damaged.

Finally, after walking from room to room, examining the works of Old Masters, Impressionists, Modern Masters, he turned to the Gamaches.

His excitement, at first bordering on hysteria, had died down.

“This apartment belongs to Stephen Horowitz, am I right?”

“How do you know?” Reine-Marie asked. They hadn’t told him.

“The collection. He’s a huge financial contributor to the Louvre, and every now and then we’d hear rumors of another of his acquisitions, mostly through auctions. He was never named, but the world of high-end collectors and collections is small, tight-knit. I heard the news, but I thought it was a car accident. Not …” He looked at the outline on the floor.

“That wasn’t Stephen,” said Gamache. “We need you to be discreet about what you’re seeing.”

“Do you know what I’m seeing?” The curator turned from reexamining the Vermeer to examining Gamache.

“I believe I do, but tell us.”

Professor de la Coutu rested his critical gaze on them. “I take it you asked me here for an evaluation. In the event of his death.”

Armand remained silent.

“I’m afraid these are all copies. Excellent ones, certainly. Able to fool most people, though I’m surprised they fooled Monsieur Horowitz. Worth thousands each, even as copies, but not tens of millions. Not priceless as I first thought.”

“All of them?” Reine-Marie looked at Armand and saw that he looked grim, though not surprised. “You knew?”

“I suspected. I knew that most originals from the Renaissance, as many of these would be, don’t have framing paper at the back. And the frames themselves, while clearly good, aren’t old. Even if Stephen had them reframed, he’d make sure they were from the same era.”

“That’s what made me suspicious, too,” said the curator. “The fake Vermeer has a staple in its frame. Monsieur Horowitz would never stand for that, for an original.”

Armand walked over to the smallest painting and, taking it off the wall, handed it to the curator. “Is this original?”

“It’s nice,” said de la Coutu, bending close to it. “Watercolor. Landscape. Probably from the early to mid-twentieth century. Signed VM Whitehead.” The professor turned it around. “Funny that it has a nylon thread at the back and plastic eye hooks.” He handed it back to Gamache. “Probably original, but worthless.”

“Not completely,” said Armand as he replaced it on the screw.

“What a shame,” said the curator. “Someone must’ve come in while Monsieur Horowitz was away from Paris, and methodically replaced originals with copies. Probably done over time. I’ve never seen anything like it. What a loss. Did the dead man surprise the forger, do you think?”

“And was killed,” said Armand. “Could be. Any idea how much this would all be worth, if they were originals?”

The curator frowned, thinking. “Vermeer did very few paintings. This one? In London or Hong Kong, probably close to a hundred million.” He turned full circle. “All told, there might be half a billion dollars’ worth just here, never mind what he must have in his other homes and offices.” Now he turned shocked eyes on Armand. “You don’t think—”