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"A couple of two-bit thieves who do my bidding—they break in and take the paintings, then meet Williams and hand them over to him in exchange for a fifty-pound note. But in the case of the Rembrandt, there was no need for forced entry—not when I was already inside the Mannering house. I merely left the rear door unlocked for them when I took Emily up to bed. They slipped in, took the Rembrandt, and made off with it. The job was done by the time I left, just before dawn."
An adamant note crept into Baricci's voice. "There was no violence. None was necessary. Emily was, as I told you, asleep in her bed the whole time the theft was taking place." A glimmer of hesitation. "The only fact I omitted from my original accounting to you—simply to protect myself from further suspicion—is that Emily did awaken before I left, to bid me good-bye. It was then she noticed the empty space on the music-room wall and realized the Rembrandt had been stolen. She was distraught—as one would expect—and urged me to leave immediately so she could summon the police. I, of course, did as she asked. Obviously, she never did manage to reach the authorities. She must have been killed first."
Ashford raked a hand through his hair, searching for answers. So far, every word of Baricci's story rang true. They also coincided with the few tidbits Blackstreet had provided.
Dammit. There had to be another piece to this puzzle. But what?
That brought another unanswered question to mind.
"So other than these thieves, no one is involved in this illegal operation except you and Williams?" Ashford pressed, knowing full well what Baricci was about to reply.
The older man didn't disappoint him, throwing his last remaining cohort to the wolves.
"And Sardo," he supplied.
"Ah, yes. Sardo." Ashford uttered the name offhandedly, continuing in this deliberately roundabout—and hopefully disarming—fashion, hoping to trap Baricci in a lie. "Tell me, how much do you pay Williams for the risks he takes?"
"Twenty percent of the profits."
Beside his employer, Williams nodded a mute confirmation.
"Twenty percent. A generous sum," Ashford conceded. It was time to go in for the ever-so-subtle kill. "What about Sardo? He must receive lavish payments, even more so than Williams, given that he's the one who furnishes all those paintings. What does he get—twenty-five percent?"
To Ashford's surprise, Baricci answered candidly and without pause. "No. He only gets money for food, lodgings, and art supplies—plus an occasional bonus."
Another truth. And this time one that illuminated the reason why Williams was living comfortably while Sardo was dirt poor. What it didn't shed light on was why Sardo would tolerate this discrepancy.
If nothing else, Ashford was about to get an explanation to the question that had nagged at him for days. "Then why the hell does he do it? Sardo is not the benevolent type. Do you pay him through other means? Or do you have some uglier way of keeping him in line?"
"The latter," Baricci replied without a trace of guilt or remorse. "I have something substantial over Sardo."
"Do you? I'm curious to know what that something is. Because I've investigated the man thoroughly and found no prison record or shady dealings of any kind—not here or in France."
"I'm not surprised. He was never arrested, nor questioned by the police. In fact, to my knowledge, no one is aware of his guilt but me."
Guilt. So there had been a crime—a crime over which Baricci was blackmailing Sardo. "This offense—you were involved with it, as well?"
"No. I was Sardo's confidant of sorts." Baricci pursed his lips, recounting the details. "Sardo and I became reacquainted six years ago when he came to England."
"Reacquainted?" Ashford interrupted. "I thought that's when you met."
"No. We met a year earlier, in Le Havre. It was summer, and I was spending a few months in France. I met Sardo at an outdoor art show. He was a student at the time, intent on perfecting his craft. He was also a magnet for beautiful women; they were drawn to him like bees to honey. Several of them aided him by participating in portrait sittings so as to help him refine his skills. There was one girl in particular—her name was Catherine—with whom he became deeply involved. She was incredibly lovely, and he was thoroughly smitten with her—almost to the point of obsession. Unfortunately, her tastes were more diverse than his. He wanted only her, she wanted to sample many men. I should know; I was one of them."
Ashford squelched his disgust. "Did Sardo know this?"
"No. He knew only that Catherine was unfaithful, several times over. But she was so young, far too young to commit herself to one lover. Anyway, I ran into Sardo one day when I was strolling by the Seine. He was staring into the distance, his eyes glazed, faraway. I asked him what was wrong, and he babbled something about Catherine betraying him, about how much he loved her, about how he never meant to hurt her, but that she'd forced his hand. There was something eerie about his words, his mood, something that struck me as more than just inane rambling. Sure enough, I read a snippet in the newspaper a few days later that Catherine had apparently thrown herself into the river and drowned."
A hard knot had formed in Ashford's throat. "You think Sardo killed her?"
Baricci shrugged. "Either he killed her or he just imagined he did. Sardo is a dreamer. Sometimes I think he confuses reality with truth. In any case, it was all I needed to keep him in line. Between that and the li
keness of her that he painted—"
"What likeness?" Ashford demanded.
"I'll show you." Baricci took a step—and was halted by Conyers's pistol in his back.
"It's all right," Ashford told the detective quietly. "We need to know the full extent of this artist's involvement."
