The Fallen Angel

aristocrats wandered aimlessly from Chopard to Gucci to Chanel to Bulgari, along with film stars, supermodels, politicians, tycoons, and all their entourages and assorted hangers-on. They fought over the best tables at La Marmite or the Terrace and at night smiled their way into the private rooms at Dracula or the King’s Club. Only a handful ever bothered to put on a pair of skis. In St. Moritz, skiing was the pastime of those who didn’t have something better to do.
    But tucked away on a quiet side street like an island of reason was the stately old Jägerhof Hotel. She was dowdy and dour and, most of all, unfashionable, which troubled her not one whit. Indeed, she seemed to revel in it. Her restaurants were without note; her amenities, such as they were, were second to everyone. She had no spa or indoor swimming pool and no nightclub to lure those who liked to see their names in boldface. The only music one ever heard at the Jägerhof was the sound of the string quartet that sawed away in the salon each afternoon during the drowsy lull euphemistically referred to as après ski.
    Her rooms, like her manners, were dusty relics from another time. Returning guests tended to request the lower floors because the lift was forever breaking down, while those seeking a bargain gravitated to the cramped garrets. Staying in one was a tall, lanky Russian with gray eyes and bloodless skin the color of the snow atop the Piz Bernina. Sadly, he had severely twisted his knee on the first day of his holiday and had been largely confined to his room ever since. Occasionally, he would sit in the tiny arrow slit of a window and gaze longingly into the street, but for the most part he remained in his bed with his injured leg elevated. To pass the time, he watched movies and listened to music on his notebook computer. The chambermaids described him as polite to a fault, which was unusual for a Russian.
    The same could not be said, however, of the doctor who appeared at the Jägerhof four days after the Russian’s unfortunate accident. He was of medium height and build with a full head of silvery hair and watchful brown eyes that were partially concealed by thick spectacles. Those members of the Jägerhof staff who were unfortunate enough to encounter him during his brief visit would later remark that he seemed better suited to inflicting wounds than healing them.
    “How’s your knee?” asked Gabriel.
    “It still hurts if I put too much weight on it.”
    “It doesn’t look so good.”
    “You should have seen it two days ago.”
    The knee was propped upon a pair of pillows embroidered with the Jägerhof’s discreet crest. Gabriel winced mildly as he inspected the swelling.
    “Where did all those bruises come from?”
    “I had to hit it a few times.”
    “With what? A sledgehammer?”
    “I used the bottle of complimentary champagne.”
    “How was it?”
    “As a blunt instrument, it was fine.”
    Gabriel went to the window and peered down at the postcard-perfect Swiss square. On one side, a limousine was docking with the slowness of a luxury liner at the doorway of one of the resort’s pricier hotels. On the other, three fur-drenched women were posing for a photograph next to a horse-drawn carriage. After a moment, the carriage moved off to the gentle clatter of snow-muffled hoof beats, revealing the understated entrance of Galleria Naxos. Through the large front display window, Gabriel could see David Girard speaking to a customer about one of the gallery’s better pieces, a first-century Roman statue of a now-limbless adolescent boy posed in recline. The soundtrack of the conversation, which was being conducted in German, issued softly from the speakers of Mikhail’s notebook computer.
    “Where’s the transmitter hidden?”
    “On his desk.”
    “How did you manage that?”
    “During my one and only visit to the shop, I left behind a very costly gold pen. Monsieur Girard has been good enough to hold on to it for me until I have a chance to drop by again. The only problem is that it’s right next to the telephone. Every time someone calls the gallery, it sounds like a fire alarm is going off.”
    “How’s business?”
    “Slow. He generally sees one or two customers in the morning and a few more in the late afternoon when the slopes start to close down. By five o’clock, the place is dead.”
    “Any employees?”
    “The wife usually spends a couple of hours in the gallery after she drops off Hansel and Gretel