Page 78 of The Stipulation
“Where did you get it?” I ask, keeping my voice measured, casual.
There it is. The question that matters.
His eyes cool. “Provenance in certain circles is … fluid.”
“Fluid is not the same as not existing.”
He doesn’t answer. Jo leans forward slightly, putting her elbows on the desk. “We understand discretion, Monsieur Delacroix. We understand completely. But the painting did not surface through … traditional channels.”
His gaze sharpens. “And how would you know that?”
She smiles faintly. “Because if it had, we would have acquired it already.”
A flicker of appreciation passes across his face. He enjoys competence.
“It came to me through a private intermediary,” he says carefully.
“Name?”
“No.”
“Nationality?”
“No.”
“Gender?”
A pause.
“No.”
I let the silence stretch deliberately. Then I reach into my coat and place a slim leather folder on the desk. Inside is an offer worth six figures in exchange for the information. I don’t need to explain it to Delacroix. He knows how these things work. Immediate transfer. For information only.
Delacroix looks at the folder, but he doesn’t open it at first. He simply looks at it. Then he looks back at me.
“You believe money compels everything, Monsieur Laurent?”
“It compels most things.”
“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.
