Seth stood back at the edge of the sidewalk and looked at the front of the store. He had expected a cluttered and dimly lighted shop with a display window filled with elbows of framing molding that had faded in the sun. Instead, he found an establishment that looked, for all he could tell, like one of the jewelry stores down on the Bahnhofstrasse. “Jacob Yost & Sons, Fine Art,” read the discreet polished brass letters set into the cut-stone walls of the first floor of a Renaissance-era structure. It was a gallery now, not just a frame shop. Set into the stone facade at window level were half a dozen glassed-in display cases containing framed works of art. There were no prices on any of them. Either they were not for sale or they were for people who knew how to bid on fine art.

Doing his best to quell his excitement, Seth stepped quickly across the sidewalk to Yost’s gallery and pushed through the double glass doors.

Inside, Seth found an elegantly warm room whose high-ceilinged walls were hung from floor to ceiling with art of every description. The fact that each work looked extravagantly expensive was the only unifying characteristic that ran through the art. The floor space of the room was empty save for a collection of dark mahogany furniture: half a dozen chairs upholstered in wine-red velvet, several piecrust end tables, and a marble-top casual table in the middle to unify it all. Two of the chairs had fur coats draped over their arms like dead animals.

A cut-crystal decanter filled with what looked like sherry rested on a silver tray in the middle of the marbletop table surrounded by a circle of crystal sherry glasses. The circle of glasses had two gaps in it, and as Seth scanned the room he quickly spotted two white-haired women lifting glasses to their lips. They stood on either side of a short, fat man in his thirties who pointed at first one picture and then another, speaking in hushed, respectful tones. Both women nodded as he spoke.

“May I help you, sir?” asked a voice in English.

Startled, Seth whirled toward the voice. A younger but equally fat version of the man who guided the two women seemed to have materialized from the right The man’s formal dark suit and muted tie made him look like an undertaker. Seth stared at the man for a long moment, trying to collect his thoughts. He hadn’t expected Jacob Yost and Sons to be anything as elaborate and… elegant as this.

“I’m sorry if I startled you,” the man said, and then he paused. “You are American, aren’t you?” His eyes appraised Seth’s casual attire: gray wool slacks, black leather walking shoes, navy-blue crew-necked sweater under a red down ski jacket. The man’s eyes said that while he didn’t approve of such attire in his establishment, he respected the eccentricities of Americans who might very well be rich.

“Yes,” Seth finally managed as his pulse pounded in his ears. “I mean, yes… I am American, but I understand German clearly, if that would be more comfortable for you.”