The man who opened the door was tall and flabby, an unhealthy-looking combination. He was wearing white slacks and a white peasant blouse with yellow and red decorations around the scoop neck and short sleeves. He was barefoot and standing on the balls of his feet, as though he were a ballet dancer prepared at any instant to go up on point. Parker said, “Jacques Renard?”
The man looked at Parker and Mackey and Devers, the three of them practically filling the small foyer in front of the elevator doors, and he gave a little smile which combined sardonic humor with a touch of nervousness. “I’m not at all sure how I should answer that,” he said. “Who shall I say is calling?”
Parker said, “Friends of Leon Griffith.”
“Leon?” Wariness came into the man’s eyes. “I must say you don’t look like friends of his.”
Mackey, as usual, was made irritable by impatience. He said, “Let’s get off the dime. If you’re Renard. we want to talk about some paintings. If you aren’t him, tell him we’re here.”
The man gave Mackey a jaundiced look. “My, my,” he said, “aren’t we impulsive. Leon usually talks about paintings himself.”
Mackey said, “He couldn’t come this time.”
“Pity. I’d rather speak to friends of mine than friends of his.”
Parker said, “He’s dead. You want us to stand here in the hall and tell you about it?”
The man looked startled. “Dead?” Then fright showed on his face, and his left hand gripped the edge of the door as though he might slam it. “Did you—?”
“Suicide,” Parker said. “Slit his wrists in the bathtub. Money worries. Are you Renard or not?”
“Good God. I never thought he’d—” Releasing the door, the man stepped back a pace, saying, “Come in, come in.”
The three of them stepped into the apartment, and the man shut the door. They were in a square vestibule hung with paintings. An arched doorway on the right led to a room full of Early American furniture; beyond it, a terrace could be seen, filled with plants.
“I am Renard, of course,” the man said, turning toward them from the door. “I knew Leon was troubled about money, but—” He gestured toward the room on the right. “Won’t you go in? Do sit down.”
They all went into the room. Mackey and Devers sat down, but Parker and Renard remained on their feet. Parker said, “We were getting some paintings for Griffith. Now that he’s dead, we’d like to find the buyer he had in mind.”
“Ah, I see.” Renard smiled around at them, having gotten his composure back. “May I offer you anything to drink?”
Parker said, “The main thing is the buyer. We had the idea maybe you were him.”
Renard looked doubtful. “A buyer? I deal in art, of course, but I’m only marginally a collector.”
“The idea we have,” Parker said, “is that you and Griffith had a business deal together, where he’d get these paintings for you and maybe you’d sell them to somebody else.”
Renard smiled vaguely, as though trying to think. “That does seem unlikely,” he said. “So many intermediaries. I normally do my purchasing myself. If you could tell me exactly what paintings we’re talking about, perhaps it would refresh my memory.”
Mackey said, “Come on, Renard, you know what we’re talking about.”
Renard lifted an eyebrow at him. “Do I, Mr.—?” He glanced smilingly at Parker. “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me.”
“I’m Edward Latham,” Parker said.
“Mr. Latham.” Renard bowed his head.
Parker pointed first at Mackey, then at Devers. “That’s Mr. Morrison, and Mr. Danforth.”
“Gentlemen.” Renard smiled around at them all.
Parker said, “The paintings we’re talking about are twenty-one pictures that weren’t available until this week.”
“Well, I just don’t know.” There was some mockery now in Renard’s puzzled frown. “It really doesn’t ring any sort of bell at all.”
Parker frowned back. Renard acted as though he were lying, and enjoying doing it—but why? To get more specific about the stolen paintings could be dangerous, if Renard turned out after all not to be Griffith’s buyer. Parker believed that Renard was the one they wanted, but he couldn’t be absolutely sure, and there was no way to make himself sure other than to get the story from Renard. Why was Renard being so coy?
Devers suddenly said, “Well, maybe we made a mistake. Anyway, there’s other buyers.”
Parker knew that Devers’ idea was to push Renard into making up his mind, but he doubted it would work. He wasn’t surprised when Renard turned a bland face to Devers and said, “That
Parker said, “Maybe you weren’t the buyer Griffith had in mind, but you might be interested anyway.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Renard said. Behind all his expressions—puzzlement, friendliness, and now polite regret—lurked the same glint of mockery.
Parker said, “You’re a dealer in paintings, aren’t you? How do you know you don’t want to buy these before you find out what they are?”
Renard gave him a sudden flat look, as though to say there’d been enough fooling around. He said, “Do you have photos of the merchandise?”
