Ben was standing nearest to the area where the man had motioned. On the wall, he noticed a small painting and leaned in to study it. The painting was surrounded by photos, many of them disturbing vintage nudes. The canvas was the same size and style as Sylvie on the Steed, but this one featured a silver-haired woman wearing a pink striped leotard on the second rung of a ladder. She was gazing at the painter, a small smile on her lips, her body bending as he imagined it would with the movement of a soft ladder. Ben could tell there was more detail in this painting than the one in Barrow’s office. While the other had featured the relationship between the horse and the trick rider, Sylvie, this painting had only one subject: the girl.

In one swift movement, Barrow pushed Ben out of the way. “It is the second painting.” The excitement in his voice was audible as he leaned down to examine it. Turning back to the man, he said, “This painting was done by Émile Giroux.”

The man put his cigarette out in the full ashtray next to him. “Why should I care about who painted it?”

“Because it’s a very important painting.” Barrow seemed exasperated. “It’s quite valuable. It should be protected and placed in a museum, not hanging on your wall, especially when you don’t keep the building cool in the summer. This painting is a national treasure.”

“My father was quite a collector of cirque memorabilia,” said the man. “He found that painting in a little shop in the Latin Quarter. Someone had sold it off to pay debts along with paints and other equipment. They told him the artist had died suddenly, leaving the stuff in his small apartment. My father was only interested in that painting. It has hung on that wall safely for seventy years. There it will remain.”

“Our colleague has gone missing,” said Gaston.

“That is not my concern. If your colleague saw this painting a few days ago, then they broke into this building. Perhaps they have done this again and this time it did not fare so well for them. If there is nothing more, gentlemen, I have some work to attend to.” He pointed to a written ledger.

Barrow took out a card from his pocket. “If you are interested in parting with this painting, the institute would be grateful.”

The man did not reach out to take the card, so Barrow placed it on the desk.

Ben could tell that Barrow was eager to touch the painting again, but each of them had to settle for one last glance of Cecile Cabot as they exited the office. They were a few steps from the office when the door shut tightly behind them.

“Anyone notice anything odd about that painting?” Ben said outside on the street.

“The entire room was creepy, if that’s what you mean,” said Gaston.