A woman in her sixties opened the door, elegant and crisp-looking in a beige straight skirt and blouse. Smith displayed his INTERPOL ID, introduced me as his “associate,” and I felt it again, a thrill that went even further back than my posse, something primal: the little boy who loved playing with toy soldiers.

Smith told her we were there on old but official business and added “rien de sérieux,” his French pretty good to my ear, but the woman answered in English, the way the French always do, and she looked wary, eyeing Smith suspiciously. “Are you Madame Leblond, the present owner of this house?”

She nodded, and he asked if we could come in. She hesitated, opened the door, then led us through a foyer that opened into a large sitting room with modern furniture and abstract paintings on the walls, incongruous in such a stately old home. She indicated a sleek leather sofa for us and arranged herself on a stiff-backed chair tentatively, eyes narrowed, mistrustful.

Smith asked if she had lived there long, and she said, “Why?”

“It’s a simple question, Madame.”

“Yes,” she said. “I’ve lived here much of my life. It was my grandfather’s home, then my father’s.”

“Does anyone else live here with you?” Smith asked.

“No. I live alone. Is this really necessary?”

I wanted to tell Smith to take it easy, use a little finesse. It was clear he was a researcher, someone unused to questioning people, his technique, such as it was, a tad less than charming.

Smith told her it was just routine, asked again if she lived alone.

“Yes,” she said, “I am divorced. I have a son, but he lives with his wife on the Île Saint-Louis. Now what is this about?”

“Your grandfather was Georges Fournier?”

“My mother’s father. He died before I was born.”

“May I ask how—”

“Monsieur.” Madame Leblond cut Smith off and stood up. “You will have to explain why you are here and what this is about before I answer another question.”

I tapped Smith’s arm, but he ignored me.

“You’re not in any trouble, Madame.”

“I should hope not! I know nothing of my grandfather’s affairs.”

“But you live in his house.”

“Is that a crime?”

“Of course not.”

“I don’t think I want to talk about this any further,” she said.

“It’s nothing to be alarmed about,” Smith said, “just a few more questions. Please, sit.”

Madame Leblond sat, though she did not look happy about it. She said she had inherited the house when her parents died. Smith asked how, and she hesitated, then said “In a car accident, a long time ago.” He said he was sure her grandfather had been admirable and honest, just that he may have come in contact with a painting that had a dubious provenance, not that he would have known.

“It’s only lately”—I made it up as I spoke—“that this painting has come to light. That’s all we are checking.”

She looked surprised but also, for the first time, interested. “I am afraid my grandfather’s collection is long gone,” she said, “except for the joke.”