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“Please sit down,” the woman said, taking her place behind a small desk.
Pendergast seated himself, placed his briefcase on his knees, and waited. He knew that Dr. Morin was one of the most notorious dealers in “unprovenanced” antiquities in Europe. He was, essentially, a high-level black-market dealer, one of many who received looted antiquities from various corrupt Asian countries, supplied them with phony paperwork, and then sold them on the legitimate art market to museums and collectors who knew better than to ask questions.
A moment later Morin appeared in the doorway, a neat, elegant man with exquisitely trimmed and polished fingernails, tiny feet encased in fine Italian shoes, and a carefully barbered beard.
“Mr. Pendergast? How delightful.”
They shook hands. “Please come with me,” the man said.
Pendergast followed him into a long salone, with a wall of Gothic windows looking out over the Grand Canal. Like the foyer, it was filled with extraordinary examples of Asian art. Morin indicated a seat and they settled down. The man slipped a gold cigarette case from his pocket, snapped it open, offered it to Pendergast.
“No, thank you.” “Do you mind if I do?”
“Of course not.”
Morin plucked a cigarette from the case and threw one elegant leg over the other. “Now, Mr. Pendergast. How may I be of service to you?”
“You have a lovely collection, Dr. Morin.”
Morin smiled, gestured around the room. “I sell only through private placement. We are not, obviously, open to the public. How long have you been collecting? I haven’t run across your name before, and I pride myself in knowing most everyone in the field.”
“I’m not a collector.”
Morin’s hand paused as it was lighting the cigarette. “Not a collector? I must have misunderstood you when we spoke over the phone.”
“You did not misunderstand me. I lied.”
Now the hand had gone very still, the smoke curling into the air. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’m actually a detective. Working privately, tracing a stolen object.”
The very air in the room seemed to freeze.
Morin spoke calmly. “Since you admit you are here in no official role, and as you have gained entrance under false pretenses, I am afraid this conversation is at an end.” He stood up. “Good day, Mr. Pendergast. Lavinia will show you out.”
As he turned to leave the room, Pendergast spoke to his back. “That Khmer statue in the corner comes from Banteay Chhmar in Cambodia, by the way. It was looted only two months ago.”
Morin paused halfway to the door. “You are mistaken. It comes from an old Swiss collection. I have the papers to prove it. As I have for all the objects in my collection.”
“I have a photograph of that very object, in situ, in the temple wall.”
Morin called out. “Lavinia? Please call the police and tell them I have an undesirable in my house who refuses to leave.”
“And that sixteenth-century Sri Chakrasamvara and Vajravarahi from Nepal was exported with a forged permit. Nothing like that could have left Nepal legally.”
“Shall we await the police, or are you on the way out?”
Pendergast checked his watch. “I’m happy to wait.” He patted his briefcase. “I’ve got enough documents in here to keep Interpol busy for years.”
“You have nothing. All my pieces are legal and carefully provenanced.” “Like that kapala skull cup, trimmed in silver and gold? It’s legal—because it’s a modern copy. Or are you trying to pass it off as original?”
Silence descended. The magical light of Venice filtered in through the windows, filling the magnificent room with a golden sheen.
“When the police come, I will have you arrested,” Morin said finally.
“Yes, and no doubt they will confiscate the contents of my briefcase—which they will find most interesting.”
“You’re a blackmailer.”
“Blackmailer? I seek nothing. I am merely stating facts. For example, that twelfth-century Vishnu with Consorts allegedly from the Pala dynasty is also a forgery. It would bring you a small fortune if it were real. Pity you can’t sell it.”
“What the devil do you want?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“You come here, you lie, you threaten me in my own home—and you want nothing? Come now, Pendergast. Do you suspect that one of these objects is stolen? If so, why don’t we discuss it like gentlemen?”
“I doubt the stolen object I seek is in your collection.”
The man dabbed his brow with a silk handkerchief. “Surely you came to visit me with some goal in mind, some request!”
“Such as?”
“I have no idea!” the man erupted furiously. “You want money? A gift? Everybody wants something! Out with it!”
“Ah well,” said Pendergast diffidently. “As long as you’re insisting, I’ve a little Tibetan portrait I’d like you to look at.”
Morin turned swiftly, the ash falling from his cigarette. “For God sakes, is that all? I’ll look at your damned portrait. There’s no need for all these threats.”
“I’m so glad to hear it. I was concerned you might not be cooperative.”
“I
said,
I’d cooperate!”
“Excellent.” Pendergast took out the portrait given him by the monk and handed it to Morin. The man unrolled it, flicked open a pair of glasses and put them on, then examined it. After a moment, he pulled the glasses off and handed the scroll back to Pendergast. “Modern. Worthless.”
“I’m not here for an evaluation. Look at the face in the portrait. Did this man visit you?” Morin hesitated, took back the painting, and examined it more closely. A look of surprise crossed his face. “Why, yes—I do recognize this man. Who in the world made this portrait? It’s done in perfect thangka style.”
“The man had something to sell?”
Morin paused. “You’re not working with this . . . individual, are you?”
“No. I’m looking for him. And the object he stole.”
“I sent him and his object away.”
“When did he come?”
Morin rose, consulted a large daybook. “Two days ago, at two o’clock. He had a box with him. He said he’d heard I was a dealer in Tibetan antiquities.”
“Was he selling it?”
“No. It was the strangest thing. He wouldn’t even open the box. He called it an Agozyen, which is a term I’d never heard of—and I know as much about Tibetan art as anyone alive. I would have thrown him out immediately, except that the box was real, and very,very old—quite a prize in and of itself, covered with an archaic Tibetan script that dated it to the tenth century or before. I would have liked to have that box, and I was very curious about what was inside it. But he wasn’t a seller. He wanted to go into some kind of partnership with me. He needed financing, he said. To create some kind of bizarre traveling exhibit of the item in the box, which he claimed would astound the world. I thinktransfigure was the word he used. But he absolutely refused to show the item until I met his terms. Naturally, I found the whole proposition absurd.”