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“Yes, under Article Forty-six, we have talked about it,” Hannibal said, glancing at Lady Murasaki and licking his lips to appear avaricious.
“But we talked about a lot of options, Hannibal,” Lady Murasaki said.
“What if I do not want to sell, Monsieur Trebelaux?” Hannibal said.
“You would have to wait your turn before the commission. You may be an adult by then.”
“This painting is one of a pair, my husband explained to me,” Lady Murasaki said. “They are worth much more together. You wouldn’t happen to know where the other one is, the Canaletto?”
“No, Madame.”
“It would be very much worth your while to find it, Monsieur Trebelaux.” She met Trebelaux’s eyes. “Can you tell me how I can reach you?” she said, with the faintest emphasis on “I.”
He gave the name of a small hotel near the Gare de l’Este, shook Hannibal’s hand without looking at him, and disappeared into the crowd.
Hannibal registered as a claimant, and he and Lady Murasaki wandered through the great jumble of art. Seeing the tracing of Mischa’s hand left him numb, except for his face where he could feel her touch, patting his cheek.
He stopped in front of a tapestry called “The Sacrifice of Isaac” and looked at it for a long time. “Our upstairs corridors were hung with tapestries,” he said. “I could just stand on my tiptoes and reach the bottom edges.” He turned up the corner of the fabric and looked at the back. “I’ve always preferred this side of a tapestry. The threads and strings that make the picture.”
“Like tangled thoughts,” Lady Murasaki said.
He dropped the corner of the tapestry and Abraham quivered, holding his son’s throat taut, the angel extending a hand to stop the knife.
“Do you think God intended to eat Isaac, and that’s why he told Abraham to kill him?” Hannibal said.
“No, Hannibal. Of course not. The angel intervenes in time.”
“Not always,” Hannibal said.
When Trebelaux saw them leave the building, he wet his handkerchief in the men’s room and returned to the picture. He looked around quickly. No museum officials were facing him. With a little thrill he took down the painting and, raising the glassine sheet, with his wet handkerchief he scrubbed the outline of Mischa’s hand off the back. It could have happened from careless handling when the painting went into escrow. Just as well to get the sentimental value out of the way.
31
THE PLAINCLOTHES OFFICER RENE Aden waited outside Trebelaux’s hotel until he saw the light go out in the third-floor walk-up. Then he went to the train station for a fast snack and was lucky to return to his post in time to see Trebelaux come out of the hotel again carrying a gym bag.
Trebelaux took a taxi from the line outside the Gare de l’Este and crossed the Seine to a steam bath in the Rue de Babylone and went inside. Aden parked his unmarked car in a fire zone, counted fifty and went into the lobby area. The air was thick and smelled of liniment. Men in bathrobes were reading newspapers in several languages.
Aden did not want to take off his clothes and pursue Trebelaux into the steam. He was a man of some resolution but his father had died of trench foot and he did not want to take off his shoes in this place. He took a newspaper on its wooden holder from a rack and sat down in a chair.
Trebelaux clopped in clogs too short for him through successive rooms of men slumped on the tile benches, giving themselves up to the heat.
The private saunas could be rented by the fifteen-minute interval. He went into the second one. His entry had already been paid. The air was thick and he wiped his glasses on his towel.
“What kept you,” Leet said out of the steam. “I’m about to dissolve.”
“The clerk didn’t give me the message until I’d already gone to bed,” Trebelaux said.
“The police were watching you today at the Jeu de Paume; they know the Guardi you sold me is hot.”
“Who put them onto me? You?”
“Hardly. They think you know who has the paintings from Lecter Castle. Do you?”
“No. Maybe my client does.”
“If you get the other ‘Bridge of Sighs,’ I can move both of them,” Leet said.
“Where could you sell them?”
