The gallery had also played a prominent role in the history of Rembrandt’s Portrait of a Young Woman. Of the three known times that the painting changed hands in the twentieth century, two of the sales had been conducted under the auspices of De Vries Fine Arts. The first sale had occurred in 1919, the second in 1936. Both had been private, meaning that the identity of buyer and seller were known only to the gallery itself. Under the rules of the art trade, such transactions were to remain confidential for all eternity. But in some circumstances—with the passage of enough time or for the right amount of money—a dealer could be cajoled into opening his books.

Gabriel entrusted that delicate task to Julian Isherwood, who had always enjoyed a cordial professional relationship with the De Vries gallery despite its questionable past. It took several hours of heated telephone negotiations, but Isherwood finally convinced Geert de Vries, great-grandson of the founder, to surrender the records. Isherwood would never tell Gabriel the exact price he had paid for the documents, only that it had been steep. “Remember one thing about art dealers,” he said. “They are the lowest of God’s creatures. And economic times like these bring out the worst in them.”

Gabriel and Chiara monitored the final stages of the negotiations from a charming suite at the Ambassade Hotel. After receiving word that the deal had been finalized, they left the hotel a few minutes apart and made the short walk along the Herengracht to the gallery, Chiara on one side of the canal, Gabriel on the other. Geert de Vries had left photocopies of the records at the front desk in a buff envelope marked ROSSI. Gabriel slipped it into his bag and bade the receptionist a pleasant afternoon in Italian-accented English. Stepping outside, he saw Chiara leaning against a lamppost on the opposite bank of the canal. Her scarf was knotted in a way that meant she had not noticed surveillance of any sort. She followed him to a café in the Bloemenmarkt and drank hot chocolate while he worked his way laboriously through the documents.

“There’s a reason why the Dutch speak so many languages. Their own is impenetrable.”

“Can you make it out?”

“Most of it. The person who bought the painting in 1919 was a banker named Andries van Gelder. He must have been hit hard by the Great Depression. When he sold it in 1936, he did so at a considerable loss.”

“And the next owner?”

“A man named Jacob Herzfeld.”

“Are Dutch boys ever named Jacob?”

“They’re usually called Jacobus.”

“So he was Jewish?”

“Probably.”

“When was the next sale?”

“Nineteen sixty-four at the Hoffmann Gallery of Lucerne.”

“Switzerland? Why would Jacob Herzfeld sell his painting there?”

“I’m betting it wasn’t him.”

“Why?”