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 is a fortunate thing, isn’t it? That there are always other buyers. And other sellers, as well.”
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?”
“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.”
Renard read the letter as though he’d never seen it before. “Hmmmm,” he said, as though acknowledging the seriousness of something he’d been ignoring up till now. “This could be somewhat incriminating, couldn’t it?”
“Maybe.”
“It’s the original, I see.” Renard smiled brightly. “You don’t mind if I keep it.”
“No. I’m not law, like I said.”
“I must admit I’m beginning to believe you.” Renard started ripping small pieces from the letter and throwing them over the terrace railing. “You see? I’m littering in front of you.”
“All right,” Parker said. “So now let’s talk. We’ve got the paintings, and you’re the buyer.”
“Not precisely.” Renard was still ripping the letter, throwing one small piece at a time out into the air; a fitful breeze took the pieces this way and that. “I was the buyer for six of the paintings,” he said. “Only six. What Leon planned to do with the others, I really couldn’t say.”
”What were you going to pay for the six?”
Renard hesitated slightly, then said, “Fifty thousand.”
“No. You were going to pay more.”
“Was I?”
“You’ll pay me more.”
“I doubt it,” Renard said. Only a third of the letter remained in his hands.
Parker said, “You saw those passbooks. Griffith was going to pay us one-fifty for the whole batch. We’ll make the same deal with you.”