But that Indian guy was going to ruin her sale. He was leaning his whole weight on her window now, pressing his head and open palms against it with his hands out and above his shoulders. He was just out there in the snow, staring in at a primitive native painting on hide that was stretched out for display on willow sticks with leather thongs like a trampoline. It wasn’t a good painting, but Esme figured it would pull in the idle rich winter tourist who wanted to take home some native art. It looked good there in the window on its own, classy against the beechwood panels, lit by concealed spots.

Esme had called it ‘The hunt’, not in the least shamed by her lack of imagination, and was pleased the way it looked. It was scraped onto the skin in red ochre dye, and showed three highly-patterned stick figures spearing some large animal. Typical stuff. Always sold well.

But she didn’t need some big, mad-eyed Indian staring at it like she’d mugged him for it in the street. She couldn’t call the police. It was Katie’s husband, and he wasn’t doing anything wrong except acting weird. Nor could she go outside and chase him. To leave these two for a second would mean losing the sale. She could feel it.

‘I think we saw a Lanson exhibition in New York. Did we?’

The American was talking to his wife who was watching the big man slumped on the other side of the glass absently.

‘Mmm. I guess.’

Esme was in there. ‘Wow! No kidding! Well that’s a coup. We thought we were keeping him to ourselves, but he has exhibited internationally so I guess we can’t keep him secret from real art lovers forever.’

Lanson had, of course, never exhibited outside Canada, but so phooey. A sale was a sale.

Katie Hunt’s husband had sunk to his knees in the snow now, his face still against the glass. This was getting embarrassing.

‘Do you think that man needs help?’

The woman was fingering her gold charm bracelet, addressing the question casually to her husband rather than to Esme, but it was Esme who answered. ‘I’ll go check. Why don’t you walk around the buffalo a few more times? Touch it and see what you get from that. I tell you it’s almost spiritual, running your hands over it with your eyes closed.’

She turned and headed for the door down a corridor of white wood that blocked her view of the window, wondering what she was going to do. But by the time she’d opened the door and peered out into the darkening snowy street he was gone, leaving behind only an oily mess of smears on the glass to prove he had ever been there.