Caravaggio's Angel Read Online Free PDF

apartment blocks, with small shops on the street frontage. Number 72 was a cliff-like structure of blackened post-Haussmann stone. It had the usual big black porte cochère with a smaller door inset. Once all you had to do to get into these buildings was press a buzzer, and the door unlatched. Now, though, the doors are mostly controlled by a keypad, whose combination only the residents know.
    I hate phoning people I don’t know. Still, now I was here it would be ridiculous not to try. Students from nearby university buildings eddied around me as though I was a lamp standard. I took out the sheet of paper with J. Rigaut’s number and dialled.
    I didn’t expect an answer. But to my surprise, after two rings the phone was picked up. ‘ Oui, allo? ’ said a bored male voice.
    Absurdly, this unexpected development left me some-what at a loss. I had my approach to the concierge all prepared, but I’d been so certain my immediate quarry would be out, that I hadn’t really thought how I was going to explain myself to him or her.
    ‘Monsieur Rigaut?’ I said, feebly.
    ‘ Oui .’ He sounded impatient – as though he might ring off at any moment. He probably thought I was a double-glazing salesperson.
    I said, very quickly before he could cut me off, ‘You don’t know me – my name’s Regina Lee, I work for the National Gallery in London. It’s a bit complicated – would it be possible to come and see you? Or I could buy you a cup of coffee, if you prefer.’
    ‘The National Gallery in London?’ He sounded startled, which was hardly surprising.
    ‘Yes. I know it sounds strange.’
    ‘Why the devil does the National Gallery want to see me?’
    ‘It’s a bit of a long story. That’s why I thought it would be easier to tell you face-to-face.’
    There was a moment’s silence on the other end of the line. Then he said, ‘All right, why not? When did you have in mind?’
    ‘Now, if you’re not too busy.’
    ‘Now? Where are you, exactly? Not in London, I assume.’
    I said, ‘No, I’m in Paris. Right outside, actually. In the rue d’Assas.’
    Monsieur Rigaut gave a snort of laughter. ‘You’d better come in, then. I’ll give you the number – no, I’ll come out and find you, that’ll be easier.’
    He rang off, and three minutes later the door opened to reveal one of the tallest, thinnest young men I’d ever seen. He had floppy brown hair, matching olive skin, and bright grey eyes, and his jeans and T-shirt made a perfectly straight line from head to toe.
    Whatever I’d been expecting, it wasn’t this. My assumption, for some reason – perhaps because I associated the name with Antoine Rigaut, whom I’d never met, but who was certainly not young – had been of middle age. He glanced around, spotted me, noted (I suppose) the phone in my hand and said, ‘Regina Lee?’
    ‘Monsieur Rigaut?’
    ‘Manu,’ he said, holding out a hand for me to shake. I wondered who the J. was. His father, perhaps. With the other hand he held the door open. ‘Come in. I assume this isn’t a joke?’
    ‘No, it isn’t a joke.’ I dug a business card from my bag. He glanced at it, stuffed it into a pocket, and motioned me through.
    Inside was the usual dark foyer, with its staircase and lift cage and concierge’s window. But my thin young man strode straight through into the court beyond, in which stood a row of tiny houses, each with its own patch of garden, as if a village street had been set down in the middle of the city. I followed him past trim gates and bil-lowing greenery to a perfect, double-fronted miniature villa of pale stone, trim and sprucely painted, with a shiny black iron gate and mansard windows in a grey slate roof. Big bushes of strongly scented magenta roses grew on either side of a neat gravel path, and tubs of pink geraniums flanked the front door, which was approached by a flight of three steps and painted black to match the gate. Manu bounded up the path, and pushed the door open;