“No.”
“Reputable dealers carry photographs of the paintings they wish to sell. Are these paintings on display anywhere?”
Mackey said angrily, “You know damn well they aren’t.”
Renard turned an unfriendly face Mackey’s way. “I don’t know anything at all,” he said. “My ignorance is utterly invincible. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me—”
All at once, Parker understood what was wrong. He said, “Renard, we aren’t law.”
Renard was amused at that. “Really?” he said.
Mackey frowned at Parker. “What the hell?”
Parker told him, “Renard thinks we’re cops. He thinks we came here to trap him into talking about his deal with Griffith.”
Mackey pointed at himself in disbelief. “Me a cop? Nobody’s that stupid.”
“Perhaps I’m the one who isn’t stupid,” Renard said. “The three of you come here full of hints and suggestions, without ever saying anything out in the open. And there are three of you, one to ask the questions and two to witness my answers. Now who’s stupid?”
“You are,” Mackey told him.
“Wait a minute,” Parker said. To Renard he said, “We aren’t law. We’re the ones who hijacked the truckload of paintings.”
“Hey,” Mackey called. “Take it easy.”
Parker told him, “Renard doesn’t have any witnesses.”
“But you still do,” Renard said. “Why on earth should I believe you?”
Parker said, “Will you talk to me alone?”
Renard looked very suspicious. “I’m still not sure we have anything to talk about.”
”We’ll see.” Parker turned to the other two. “You wait downstairs. Give me ten minutes.”
“Good,” Devers said, getting to his feet.
Mackey stayed seated. “Anybody with a brain in his head could see we aren’t cops,” he said.
Devers grinned at him. “You did a pretty good imitation the other night,” he said. “Come on, let’s go.”
Grumbling, Mackey got to his feet. He and Devers left the room, and Renard went with them, to make sure they got into the elevator. Parker strolled over to the open terrace doorway and stood looking out at Central Park far below.
Renard came back a minute later. “Why don’t we go out there?” he said. “The air is better.”
The two of them stepped out onto the brick floor of the terrace, and Renard gave Parker an arch look, saying, “You wouldn’t have a tape recorder hidden on your person, would you?”
“No.”
“Nevertheless . . .” Renard switched on a small plastic radio sitting on the window sill, and Vivaldi rippled out amid the plant leaves. Renard turned the radio up, and spoke over it: “You don’t mind if I’m cautious, do you?”
“Just let me know when you feel safe enough to talk.”
“Why don’t you stand near the radio, and I’ll stand over here.”
They shifted positions, and Parker said, “You satisfied now?”
“I think so.” Renard looked sharper and less playful now. “I want you to know,” he said, “I still think you’re a policeman.”
“I’m not. We have the paintings. You were the buyer, weren’t you?”
Renard pursed his lips. He said, “Didn’t Griffith pay you ahead of time? Are you trying to collect twice?”
“Griffith was to pay us when we delivered. He killed himself when he read about the two that were caught.”
“Premature, eh? But Leon was around looking for cash just recently. Why did he need it beforehand if he wasn’t going to pay you till afterward?”
“We needed proof he had the money.” Parker took the three passbooks from his jacket pocket and handed them across. “Take a look.”
Renard frowningly studied the passbooks, and finally looked up with hesitant belief on his face. “Rather clever,” he said. “I take it the idea was he’d withdraw the money when you gave him the paintings.”
“Right.” Parker reached out for the passbooks.
Renard handed them over. “These are useless now, of course.”
“I know.” He put them away in his pocket again.
“The next question, naturally, is how you happened to come to me. Surely Leon didn’t mention my name.”
Out of another pocket Parker took the letter Devers had found and handed it over. “We searched Griffith’s house and found this.”
