Chapter 33 #2
“And what if the person who brought me that piece is … not someone one can compel so easily?”
Interesting. It is almost as though Delacroix is, maybe not afraid, but certainly wary of whoever brought him the painting. That might help to narrow down our search.
“A threat?” I ask mildly.
“An observation.”
“We are not interested in causing difficulty,” she says softly. “We only want to understand the route. Purely academic curiosity.”
He studies her again, for longer this time. “You are lying,” he says quietly.
She doesn’t flinch. “Obviously.”
A slow smile spreads across his face. At least he respects honesty about dishonesty.
“I can tell you that the piece that passed through here was authenticated,” he continues. “Undeniably real. The condition was excellent. It had been hidden well.”
“Hidden where?” I press.
“I did not ask.”
“Yes, you did,” I say calmly. “You always ask.”
His jaw tightens slightly. “I was told it came from a private European collection that had recently dissolved.”
“Convenient,” Jo murmurs.
“And you believed that?” I ask.
“I believed it was profitable.”
Fair enough. “And the intermediary?” I press again.
He shakes his head slowly. “You are pursuing something that will not end cleanly.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is the only one you will receive.”
I slide the folder closer to him. The number inside would buy most people’s loyalty.
“For a name,” I say quietly.
He looks at it. Really looks at it this time. Temptation flickers across his face, then calculation overtakes it.
“You assume I fear poverty more than I fear consequence,” he says softly.
“And do you?”
He holds my gaze. “No.”
The refusal is final. Jo exhales slowly.
“You’re protecting someone,” she says.
“I am protecting myself.” He walks to the door and opens it, a clear sign that this meeting, this discussion, is over.
“Your money is generous,” he says. “But not generous enough. If it gets out that I have given out the kind of information you require, my reputation will be ruined.”
Jo rises gracefully, and I do the same.
“Should the piece resurface,” she says calmly. “You have my husband’s details. Please contact us.”
He inclines his head slightly. “If it does, I will be sure to.”
It won’t. Not through him. Likely not through anyone if it was bought by a private collector. We walk down the short hallway again and step back into the gallery space; the warm lighting suddenly feels artificial. Hollow.
We leave the gallery without looking back. We walk half a block before either of us speaks.
“You were very good in there,” I say.
“He was afraid,” Jo says quietly.
“Yes.”
“Of the intermediary.”
“Yes. He said he’s worried about his reputation, but I think he’s more worried about what might happen to him if his clients find out he is less than one hundred percent discreet.
People deal with the likes of him because they want to remain underground.
And people who have the sort of money to do deals with him are people who can make someone disappear. ”
She stops walking. I turn to her.
“So, it has to be someone that Delacroix knows is the type who would be willing to get his hands dirty,” she says.
“That was my initial thought.”
“He’s still hiding something,” she says quietly.
“Yes.”
She bites her bottom lip, and God help me. Paris was supposed to stay in Paris. Instead, it’s unravelling me, and I have no idea how I will turn this off when we return to New York.
I take her hand, firm, possessive, and lead her down the street, my mind already turning. Delacroix is not going to break. Not for money. Which means we need a new plan.
Jo squeezes my hand. “I have an idea, but I don’t know how successful it will be.”
“Go on,” I tell her.
“The friends of my father’s, the ones on our list. Do you know them well enough to socialize with them?”
I think for a moment.
“We’re acquaintances. They aren’t people who would expect me to call and invite them around for a cup of tea.”
“Ok, then this may take a bit longer, but it can still work. Give me time to clean up a few more paintings, and then we can contact the suspects together, plus a few others, so it’s not obvious that it’s just them.
We’ll tell them we are having an art exhibition.
We won’t come out and say we’re selling off the paintings, but we’ll heavily imply it.
That will get them for sure. Either because they care about the art or because they want to sniff around and see why we’re selling.
To see if my father died broke and left us to clean his mess.
And then it’s a matter of chipping away and hoping one of them fucks up and says something they shouldn’t when they find out the Gainsborough is also there. ”
I smile slowly. “Jo Button, you are a sneaky little genius.”
She beams under my praise. “We’ll give them some fine, strong whiskey, loosen their tongues.
We’ll pretend we don’t know what paintings we have or what they are worth because Joseph didn’t catalogue them accurately, so we are going to get valuations done by Christies.
And we’ll watch their reactions carefully.
Even the best psychopath won’t be able to stop himself from betraying some sign of his guilt. ”
I nod. “Sounds like a plan.”