Pepin welcomed us at the door of the Galerie Vachey with his customary bonhomie. "I cannot understand why you are unable to make your visits in the afternoons, when the exhibition is open. And you cannot see Monsieur Vachey-Monsieur Christian Vachey. Inspector Lefevre is with him."
"Take heart, Monsieur Pepin," I said. "It's Madame Guyot I want, and it's the last time I'll bother you." I lifted my head and sniffed the air. "Do I smell something burning?"
"Madame Guyot has asked me to get rid of some old packing material. I'm burning it in the kitchen fireplace downstairs. You needn't concern yourself; every precaution is being taken."
"I never doubted it," I said with a comradely smile. Now that I had Anne beside me, was I going to let Marius Pepin get under my skin?
Ten minutes later, with the necessary locks unlocked and alarms disarmed, Anne and I stood alone in front of the Rembrandt. I resisted the temptation to deliver an explanatory lecture and let her look at the painting in peace, which she did for a couple of minutes.
"It's wonderful, Chris," she said simply. "It's as if you're looking into that old man's soul. And he's looking into yours." She turned to me. "Are you going to accept it?"
"Yes, I think so. It's not the painting Mann was talking about. Now that I've seen the Flinck for myself, I can stop worrying about that."
"And you think this is really painted by Rembrandt?"
"I do, yes. Where Vachey did get it, I don't have a clue. I'm starting to wonder if he didn't actually pick it up in that junk shop."
"Is that possible? Do things like that really happen?"
"If they happened to anybody, they'd happen to Vachey."
She wanted to see the other pictures, too, so we walked around the gallery for a while. Her tastes being a bit more modern than mine, we spent most of the time in the French section, where the twentieth-century works were.
"And this is the Leger?"
I nodded. "Violon et Cruche"
"It's quite handsome, isn't it?"
"Yes," I said. She'd been gratifyingly appreciative of the Rembrandt. I figured I could afford to be generous about the Leger.
She stepped closer to it. "It's not in very good condition, though, is it? Look here, where the paint's come away, and you can see signs of another picture underneath. I think I can see part of an ear or something…"
I smiled indulgently. "No, you just think you see what's underneath," I explained. "The juxtapositions and perspectives can be a little startling if you're not familiar with his techniques, and sometimes you get the illusion that you're looking at more than one layer."
"How interesting," she said. "And do his techniques include peeling paint?"
"Peeling-" I took a hard look at the painting and let out a long breath. "You're right."
Except that it wasn't the paint that was peeling, it was the gesso underneath; the smooth white undercoat that provided the actual surface to which the oil paints were applied. An inch-wide curl stood out from near the center of the canvas like a wood paring, with another crack just erupting a few inches away.
There were some blisters in the surface as well, and in two places along the edges the gesso, along with its film of paint, had begun to pull away from the frame. On the wooden floor at my feet there were flecks of sloughed-off pigment. It was as if the surface of the painting were molting. Underneath it, as Anne had said, another painting peeked through.
"I think the other shoe just hit," I said quietly, my eyes on the picture. "This is the stink bomb. It has to be."
"Vachey's stink bomb? Do you mean he knew this would happen? I don't understand."
I didn't either, not entirely, but I was getting close. Gingerly, I touched the curl of paint. It came away and spiraled to the floor.
Anne caught her breath. "Chris, be careful! It's so fragile!"
"Trust me," I said. "But tell me if you hear Pepin coming. I wouldn't want him to have a fit." I picked away a little more.
"Chris-"
"You're right, that's an ear, all right." A bit more judicious scratching and a few more square centimeters of the underpainting emerged. "And an eye."
Anne watched closely over my shoulder. "It's another Leger, isn't it? Or am I wrong?"
"You're wrong," I said. I shook my head slowly back and forth. "My God, have I been dense."
She looked in confusion from the painting to me. "You wouldn't care to tell me what's going on?"
"In a minute. I still need another couple of pieces." I grabbed her hand. "Come on, let's go find Clotilde Guyot."
Madame Guyot hadn't wasted any time in following my suggestion about taking over Vachey's study. We found her there behind a large but nondescript desk. (Christian, true to form, had removed all the furnishings of value.) She was in conference with Lorenzo Bolzano and Jean-Luc Charpentier. Madame Guyot, it seemed, thought that she might be able to arrange the purchase of a painting by Odilon Redon to add to Lorenzo's expanding Synthetist collection, and Charpentier was along to provide counsel.
Lorenzo, an old friend of Anne's as well as mine, leaped sprawling out of his chair to embrace her, then made her take his seat. "Don't worry, don't worry, we were getting ready to leave anyway."
"Is something the matter?" Clotilde asked, clearly puzzled by our barging in.
"There's seems to be a problem with the Leger," I said. Her friendly eyes became more alert, more expectant. "Oh?"
"The gesso's beginning to slip."
Lorenzo's jaw dropped. "Inherent vice!" he exclaimed.
This was not a mere Lorenzoism. "Inherent vice" is conservator-talk for the deterioration of a work due to the use of inferior materials.
"I don't think so," I said. "Not exactly."
"Well, I wouldn't worry too much," Charpentier said, looking at his watch. "These things can be remedied. Leger was not always the most painstaking of preparers, you know." He stood up, joining Lorenzo. "I think our business here is concluded. Madame, you'll let us know if Monsieur Boisson will consider our offer?"
"Of course," she said. "I have every hope." The two men bowed. "We'll find our own way out," Charpentier said.
Clotilde waited until they were gone. "So it's happened," she said. She was bubbling with excitement, her pink face glossy.
I took Charpentier's seat. "It's no accident, is it? That gesso was meant to crumble."
She beamed happily at me. I took it as a "yes."
"That's why the temperature in the gallery was kept so high, isn't it? To destabilize it. That was what Vachey wanted to happen, right?"
"Well, of course."
"What was he doing, settling some old scores?"
She continued to smile radiantly at me. "Tell me, Monsieur Norgren, do you intend to accept the Rembrandt?"
"What? Yes, why?"
"We'd like to have a small ceremony at the signing," she said. "Would five o'clock be convenient?"
I wondered if everyone had as much trouble as I did keeping to the subject with Madame Guyot. "Fine, but right now it's the Leger-"
"You will come, too, my dear," she said to Anne, who replied with a smiling nod, although I wasn't sure how well her rudimentary French was tracking the conversation.
"Madame-" I began, but Clotilde had picked up the desk telephone.
"Marius, will you-ah, Marie. Please tell Monsieur Pepin that the little gala that we have been planning will be held tonight at five. Will you ask him to prepare accordingly? I'm sure he'll need your help."
She hung up and smiled at me. "Now, monsieur, you were saying.. .?"
"I was saying that I'm beginning to understand what's been going on here. The scrapbook-it had nothing to do with Vachey's purchases during the Occupation or any other time, did it? That wasn't what was in it at all. Christian lied to me about it, you lied to me about it-"
"I beg your pardon," Clotilde said. "I did not lie to you about it. I didn't say anything at all to you about it."