Silence. "Pardon me?"
Ashford veered about, stalked to the far wall and pointed at the abstract. "That's the painting I had in mind."
An icy stare. "Impossible."
"Why? As I understand it, Mr. Sardo painted that work as well. Thus, it's a different painting, but the same—to echo your phrase—relatively unknown artist. So isn't five hundred pounds still considered to be a very generous offer? Ah. The painting is larger, more intricate. I can empathize with that." Ashford gazed at the abstract, seemingly weighing his options. "Still, the lady has her heart set on this one. She adores the muted colors. I'll tell you what. I'll double the offer. One thousand pounds. How would that be?"
"Still impossible."
"You're so quick to refuse," Ashford noted dryly. "Isn't it customary to check with Mr. Baricci before rejecting such a lavish profit?"
"Not in this case." Williams cleared his throat. "You see, that particular painting has already been sold."
"Ah. A pity." Ashford circled the painting, rubbing his chin in dismay. "Do you mind telling me what the buyer paid?"
"That's confidentia
l information, Lord Tremlett."
"Of course it is. Very well. Please go to Mr. Baricci. Tell him I'll triple his offer, and add to that my original five hundred pounds." A tight smile. "I'm a very rich man, Williams. Knowing Baricci's inherent greed, my guess is he'll magically nullify the current sale once he hears what I'm willing to pay for it."
"No, sir, he won't. Mr. Baricci is a man of his word."
Ashford had to choke back an ironic shout of laughter. "I see. That is a problem." He snapped his fingers. "I have an excellent idea. Why don't you give me the buyer's name, and I'll speak with him myself'? That way we can work it out between us without involving Mr. Baricci. I'm sure this fellow, whoever he is, will appreciate my predicament. Lady Noelle really does have her heart set on this specific painting."
"I can't do that, Lord Tremlett. The buyer's name is confidential, as well."
"In that case, you contact him. I'll put my offer in writing and show it to you so you know it's genuine. Then I'll wait while you address the envelope—in private. After which, we'll send the messenger off together. What's more, I'll even pay Baricci a five-hundred pound fee if his mystery buyer accepts my written offer. How would that be?"
Beads of sweat broke out on Williams's brow. "I can't do that."
"Why not? It's done every day. It's called business. Good business."
"Mr. Baricci would never approve. It just wouldn't be ethical."
"Ethical—an ironic trait to ascribe to Baricci." Ashford rubbed his palms together, his last bit of ammunition now in place. "I'll tell you what, Williams. Now you may give your employer a different message for me. Tell him he's not going to win, not this time. Nor is he going to absolve himself by implicating Sardo—which I'm sure was his intention should I put two and two together."
With a taunting expression, Ashford ran his thumb over the edge of the abstract, then turned away. "You see, I'm not going to play into Baricci's hands. Nor am I going to yank off that veneer and reveal the Rembrandt we both know is underneath. What I am going to do, now that I've determined that my lavish offer is acceptable for one of Sardo's paintings but not another, is to return tomorrow morning—with the police. And Mr. Baricci had better have his records available; records that demonstrate how ethical he truly is, that he's never reneged on an offer after receiving a better one.
"He'd also better have receipts—the best damned receipts known to mankind—for this abstract. Not only for the purchase from Sardo, but for the sale of the abstract to whomever bought it. He'd better have paid Sardo a fair price and asked a fittingly higher price of this mystery buyer. Because if anything is out of order, it's Baricci's head I'll have on a platter when I uncover that Rembrandt, not Sardo's. Tell that to your employer."
Watching the color drain from the curator's face, Ashford tipped his hat, strode towards the door. "Good day, Williams. See you at ten o'clock tomorrow morning."
* * *
Baricci swore violently, lashing his arm across his desk and sending the contents flying in a rare fit of temper.
"Dammit," he ground out, vaulting to his feet and pacing about the office. "Damn that cunning, relentless bastard. He's like a deadly plague I can't escape."
"But he's right, sir." Williams was still mopping his brow, as he had been since he burst into Baricci's office a quarter hour ago. "If the police ask for more intricate records than we've already provided them, we're doomed."
With somber intensity, Baricci weighed his options. "A receipt on the sale of Sardo's abstract," he muttered. "We'll have to fabricate one. But who to name as the buyer…" He made a harsh, trapped sound. "There's not enough time to pressure one of my contacts into cooperating. Besides, I'm not sure any of them would, even if I threatened to expose their illicit dealings. This investigation involves a lot more than fraudulent purchases. It involves an exorbitant theft—and worse, murder. No, Williams. We can't possibly manage that by morning."
"Then why don't we remove the Rembrandt from behind the abstract?" Williams managed, grasping at straws. "We could do it immediately, hide the painting somewhere else."
"Like where?" Baricci snapped. "In the entranceway door? Or maybe on my desk, with a confession propped alongside it." He gave a hard shake of his head. "No, Williams. In order to successfully remove the Rembrandt, we'd need another painting behind which to conceal it. Something that's at least three feet by four feet. We have nothing of that size in the gallery. Nor can we pressure Sardo into painting such a large canvas, not overnight."
"But…"