A Matter of Honor

“I don’t think we have ever met, Herr Rosenbaum,” said the chairman courteously. “You must have dealt with my father.”

“No, no,” said Mr. Rosenbaum. “I dealt only with your grandfather, Helmut.”

A look of respect came into Herr Daumier’s eyes.

“I saw your father only on the one occasion and was sad to learn of his premature death,” added Rosenbaum. “He was always so considerate. You do not wear a rose in your lapel as he did.”

“No, sir, a tiny rebellion.”

Rosenbaum tried to laugh but only coughed.

“I wonder if you have any further proof of identity other than your passport?” Herr Daumier asked politely.

Emmanuel Rosenbaum raised his head and, giving Herr Daumier a tired look, turned his wrist so that it faced upward. The number 712910 was tattooed along the inside.

“I apologize,” said Daumier, visibly embarrassed. “It will take me only a few minutes to bring your box up, if you will be kind enough to wait.”

Mr. Rosenbaum’s eyes blinked as if he were too tired even to nod his agreement. The two men left him alone. They returned a few minutes later with a flat box about two feet square and placed it on the table in the center of the room. Herr Daumier unlocked the top lock while the other partner acted as a witness. He then handed over a key to Rosenbaum saying, “We will now leave you, sir. Just press the button underneath the table when you wish us to return.”

“Thank you,” said Rosenbaum, and waited for the door to close behind them. He turned the key in the lock and pushed up the lid. Inside the box was a package in the shape of a picture, about eighteen by twelve inches, covered in muslin and tied securely. Rosenbaum placed the package carefully in his old suitcase. He then shut the box and locked it. He pressed the button under the table, and within seconds Hcrr Daumier and the junior partner returned.

“I do hope everything was as you left it, Herr Rosenbaum,” said the chairman, “it has been some considerable time.”

“Yes, thank you.” This time the old gentleman did manage a nod.

“May I mention a matter of no great consequence?” asked Herr Daumier.

“Pray do so,” said the old man.

“Is it your intention to continue with the use of the box? Because the funds you left to cover the cost have recently run out.”

“No, I have no need for it any longer.”

“It’s just that there was a small charge outstanding. But in the circumstances, Herr Rosenbaum, we are happy to waive it.”

“You are most kind.” Herr Daumier bowed, and the junior partner accompanied their client to the front door, helped him into a taxi, and instructed the driver to take Mr. Rosenbaum to Zurich airport.

At the airport, the old man took his time reaching the check-in desk, because he appeared to be frightened of the escalator, and with the suitcase now quite heavy the flight of steps was difficult to negotiate.

At the desk he produced his ticket for the girl to check and was pleased to find that the passenger lounge was almost empty. He shuffled over toward the corner and collapsed on to a comfortable sofa. He checked to be sure he was out of sight of the other passengers in the lounge.

He flicked back the little knobs on the old suitcase, and the springs rose reluctantly. He pushed up the lid, pulled out the parcel, and held it to his chest. His fingers wrestled with the knots for some time before they became loose. He then removed the muslin to check his prize. Mr. Rosenbaum stared down at the masterpiece Man Gathering in Corn by Van Gogh—which he had no way of knowing had been missing from the Vienna National Gallery since 1938.

Emmanuel Rosenbaum swore, which was out of character. He packed the picture safely up and returned it to his case. He then shuffled over to the girl at the Swissair sales desk and asked her to book him on the first available flight to Geneva. With luck he could still reach Roget et Cie before they closed.

The BEA Viscount landed at Geneva airport at eleven twenty-five local time that morning, a few minutes later than scheduled. The stewardess advised passengers to put their watches forward one hour to Central European Time.

“Perfect,” said Adam. “We shall be in Geneva well in time for lunch, a visit to the bank, and then back to the airport for the five-past-five flight home.”

“You’re treating the whole thing like a military exercise,” said Heidi, laughing.

“All except the last part,” said Adam.

“The last part?” she queried.

“Our celebration dinner.”

“At the Chelsea Kitchen again, no doubt.”