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“No, not today. Until next time, Monsieur Leet.”
29
INSPECTOR POPIL, IMPATIENT with the genteel tones of the door chime, banged upon the door of Galerie Leet in the Rue Saints-Pères. Admitted by the gallery owner, he got straight to the point.
“Where did you get the Guardi?”
“I bought it from Kopnik, when we divided the business,” Leet said. He mopped his face and thought how abominably French Popil looked in his ventless frog jacket. “He said he got it from a Finn, he didn’t say the name.”
“Show me the invoice,” Popil said. “You are required to have on this premises the Arts and Monuments advisory on stolen art. Show me that too.”
Leet compared the list of stolen documents to his own catalog. “Look, see here, the looted Guardi is described differently. Robert Lecter listed the stolen painting as ‘View of Santa Maria della Salute,’ and I bought this painting as ‘View of the Grand Canal.’ ”
“I have a court order to seize the picture, whatever it’s called. I’ll give you a receipt for it. Find me this ‘Kopnik,’ Monsieur Leet, and you could save yourself a lot of unpleasantness.”
“Kopnik is dead, Inspector. He was my associate in this firm. We called it Kopnik and Leet. Leet and Kopnik would have had a better ring to it.”
“Do you have his records?”
“His attorney might.”
“Look for them, Monsieur Leet. Look for them well,” Popil said. “I want to know how this painting got from Lecter Castle to Galerie Leet.”
“Lecter,” Leet said. “Is it the boy who does these drawings?”
“Yes.”
“Extraordinary,” Leet said.
“Yes, extraordinary,” Popil replied. “Wrap the painting for me, please.”
Leet appeared at the Quai des Orfèvres in two days carrying papers. Popil arranged for him to be seated in the corridor near the room marked Audition 2, where the noisy interrogation of a rape suspect was under way punctuated by thumps and cries. Popil allowed Leet to marinate in this atmosphere for fifteen minutes before admitting him to the private office. The art dealer handed over a receipt. It showed Kopnik bought the Guardi from one Emppu Makinen for eight thousand English pounds.
“Do you find this convincing?” Popil asked. “I do not.”
Leet cleared his throat and looked at the floor. A full twenty seconds passed.
“The public prosecutor is eager to initiate criminal proceedings against you, Monsieur Leet. He is a Calvinist of the severest stripe, did you know that?”
“The painting was—”
Popil held up his hand, shushing Leet. “For the moment, I want you to forget about your problem. Assume I could intervene for you if I chose. I want you to help me. I want you to look at this.” He handed Leet a sheaf of legal-length onionskin pages close-typed. “This is the list of items the Arts Commission is bringing to Paris from the Munich Collection Point. All stolen art.”
“To display at the Jeu de Paume.”
“Yes, claimants can view it there. Second page, halfway down. I circled it.”
“ ‘The Bridge of Sighs,’ Bernardo Bellotto, thirty-six by thirty centimeters, oil on board.”
“Do you know this painting?” Popil said.
“I have heard of it, of course.”
“If it is genuine, it was taken from Lecter Castle. You know it is famously paired with another painting of the Bridge of Sighs.”
“By Canaletto, yes, painted the same day.”
“Also taken from Lecter Castle, probably stolen at the same time by the same person,” Popil said. “How much more money would you make selling the pair together than if you sold them separately?”
