The Rembrandt Affair

brocade stood sedately about, thick velvet curtains hung in the windows, and an ormolu clock ticked quietly on the mantel. The effect of the décor was to create the impression of a bygone era. Indeed, for a moment Durand felt as though he were standing in an annex of Antiquités Scientifiques.
    Durand formally presented Hannah with her opera glasses and informed her about a number of interesting pieces that might soon be coming into his possession. Finally, he opened his attaché case and in an offhanded tone said, “I stumbled upon some interesting documents a few days ago, Madame Weinberg. I was wondering whether you might have a moment to take a look.”
    “What are they?”
    “To be honest, I have no idea. I was hoping you might know.”
    He handed the sheath of old wax paper to Hannah Weinberg and watched as she removed the delicate sheets of paper.
    “It was hidden inside a telescope I purchased a few weeks ago,” he said. “I found it while I was doing some repair work.”
    “That’s odd.”
    “I thought so, too.”
    “Where did the telescope come from?”
    “If it’s all right with you, Madame Weinberg, I’d rather not—”
    She held up a hand. “Say no more, Monsieur Durand. You owe your clients absolute discretion.”
    “Thank you, madame. I knew you would understand. The question is, what is it?”
    “The names are clearly Jewish. And it obviously has something to do with money. Each name is assigned a corresponding figure in Swiss francs, along with an eight-digit number of some sort.”
    “It looks like wartime paper to me.”
    She fingered the edge of one page carefully. “It is. You can tell by the shoddy quality. In fact, it’s a miracle the pages are even intact.”
    “And the eight-digit numbers?”
    “Hard to say.”
    Durand hesitated. “Is it possible they’re account numbers of some sort, Madame Weinberg?”
    Hannah Weinberg looked up. “ Swiss bank accounts?”
    Durand gave a deferential smile. “You’re the expert, madame.”
    “I’m not, actually. But it’s certainly plausible.” She studied the pages again. “But who would assemble a list like this? And why?”
    “Perhaps you know someone who might be able to answer that question. Someone at the center, for example.”
    “We really don’t have anyone who focuses purely on financial matters. And if you’re right about the meaning of the numbers, these documents need to be reviewed by someone who knows a thing or two about Swiss banking.”
    “Do you happen to know someone like that, madame?”
    “I’m sure I can track down someone qualified.” She looked at him for a moment, then asked, “Is that your wish, Monsieur Durand?”
    He nodded. “But I have a small favor. I would appreciate it if you would keep my name out of it. My business, you understand. Some of my clients might—”
    “Don’t worry,” Hannah Weinberg said, cutting him off. “Your secret is safe with me, Maurice. This will be strictly entre nous. I give you my word.”
    “But you’ll call if you learn anything interesting?”
    “Of course.”
    “Thank you, madame.” Maurice Durand closed his attaché case and gave her a conspiratorial smile. “I hate to admit it, but I’ve always loved a good mystery.”

    H ANNAH W EINBERG stood in the window of her library and watched Maurice Durand recede into the gathering darkness along the rue Pavée. Then she gazed at the list.
    Katz, Stern, Hirsch, Greenberg, Kaplan, Cohen, Klein, Abramowitz, Stein, Rosenbaum, Herzfeld …
    She wasn’t at all sure she believed Durand’s story. Regardless, she had made a promise. But what to do with the list? She needed an expert. Someone who knew a thing or two about Swiss banks. Someone who knew where the bodies were buried. In some cases, literally.
    She opened the top drawer of her writing desk—a desk that had once belonged to her grandfather—and removed a single key. It opened a door at the end of an unlit corridor. The room behind it was a child’s room, Hannah’s old room, frozen in time. A four-poster bed with a lace canopy. Shelves stacked with stuffed animals and toys. A faded pinup of an American heartthrob actor. And hanging above a French provincial dresser, shrouded in heavy shadow, was a painting, Marguerite Gachet at Her Dressing Table, by Vincent van Gogh. Several years earlier, she had lent it to a man who was trying to find a terrorist—a man from Israel with the name of an angel. He had given her a number where he could be