I knew Lapine was suspicious. But a calm had come over me.

Until he told me a fingerprint had been discovered on the frame left in the stairwell! Like every Louvre employee I knew my fingerprints were on record.

Lapine inked my hand and took new prints.

But luck was on my side. The museum had only printed each employee’s right hand. And the print on the frame was from my left thumb and not a match!

Lapine had me sign a statement of innocence. He laid the document onto the very tablecloth that covered the trunk. I signed the paper picturing the painting only inches below.

The police were about to leave when I had a thought. I asked Lapine if he knew the poet Guillaume Apollinaire. I said how much I admired the man—the whole time thinking of the cruel things he had written about my artwork. I told Lapine how I had just read Apollinaire’s column in L’Intransigeant. How he had called for the burning down of the Louvre. I quickly added I was sure he must be joking. I did not want Lapine to think I was trying to implicate the poet. Which of course I was. I added that Apollinaire might have sold some sculptures to the artist Pablo Picasso. And it was possible those sculptures might have come from the Louvre. I said this all in the most casual manner.

Lapine’s eyes grew wide. He asked me how I had this information. I said I did not want to get anyone in trouble. I waited until Lapine demanded I tell him. Then I said I had seen the objects in Picasso’s studio. Lapine was immediately anxious to leave.

It was soon after that I heard Apollinaire and Picasso had been arrested. I pictured the arrogant poet and the self-important Little Spaniard sweating while the police interrogated them. I took pleasure in it. And when I heard that Ticolat and the Louvre director had been fired I took pleasure in that too.

Days passed. And I waited. Waited to hear from Valfiero. And for the next part of the plan to begin.

36

I knew about Picasso’s arrest and Apollinaire’s humiliation. I had read lengthy descriptions—the artist and poet detained, stripped naked, interrogated for a full week, then tried. Now I knew it was Vincent’s payback.

I took a moment to mull over all I had read and what I hoped to learn. I looked down at the journal, then up at Chiara and Beatrice. That thought again, my fingers practically itching, though I knew I could not get away with it. But could I possibly smuggle my cell phone in and photograph the remaining pages? But where would I hide it, and how would I take pictures without being seen?

I glanced over to the far end of the table, what I had to come to think of as Alexandra’s seat: empty. I replayed the other night—missed our banter, her smile, the smell of her perfume, the way she held herself like a dancer—then her last-minute bolt from the restaurant. I still couldn’t figure it. Maybe it was better that she wasn’t here. I didn’t need the game-playing, the disruption. A lie. I missed her and knew I’d sign up for more game playing if I got the chance.