Free Offerings by Richard Smolev Page B

may be others who could lay claim to this painting. I’ve read of claims being successful on the basis of less proof than you hold in your hand.”
    Chloe’s voice was gentle. “This is all a remarkable coincidence.” Kate looked puzzled.
    “Mister Hitler fancied himself quite the collector. He wanted to build the biggest museum in the world to house all of his stolen goods.” She pointed once again at the receipt. “It is quite the coincidence that Herr Hirsch was from Linz. That’s where Hitler wanted to build the museum.” Chloe continued. “It’s also somewhat ironic you’re tracking down a painting by Gustave Courbet.”
    “Ironic?”
    “When he was younger, Courbet couldn’t get his work shown by the Salon, so he held his own exhibitions. I believe he was the first artist to do that.” Chloe slid all of the copies of the receipt toward Kate. “Hitler considered Courbet’s work degenerate. He wouldn’t put it in his museum.” She reached to whisk away a bit of a cobweb from below the windowsill.
    Chloe swept some of the dust the ancient paper left on the table into her right hand. She shook the dirt into a red trashcan next to her desk. “Poor Gustave. First they wouldn’t let him into the Salon because his pictures were too scandalous and then they wouldn’t let him into Linz on the Danube. The dear man knew no peace.”

FOURTEEN
    Ed asked to see Kate at ten. He and Steve needed to be in Boston by seven for cocktails and dinner with the head of the Harvard endowment fund. They had slightly less than ninety minutes before they needed to leave to catch the Acela.
    The city looked like a postcard, but Kate was too exhausted to appreciate it. Ed wasn’t looking anywhere except at the copy of the receipt on the conference table in front of him. He buzzed Margaret King, asked her to bring him an Alka-Seltzer and then drank it as though she’d brought him hemlock. Steve sat somewhat rigidly next to Ed.
    Clive Daley, the general counsel Ed had plucked from Barrington & Carlyle, fingered a copy of the Hirsch receipt. Clive was perhaps fifty, but an old fifty, in need of both an exercise program and hair plugs. But as the only lawyer in a room full of legal problems, what he had to say counted.
    “Technically, this proves nothing. A man bought a painting several generations ago. He might have sold it. He might have traded it for another painting. Or a boat. Or a team of horses. His house might have burned down,” Clive said. He was an expatriate Brit who spoke in a clipped accent.
    Kate hadn’t been able to shake the image that came into her mind somewhere over the Atlantic when she flipped on the light above her seat and put one of the receipts Chloe had printed on her tray table. It was as though Schindler’s List was streaming before her eyes. A well-dressed family rushing through their home, grabbing whatever they could while fierce men with guns drawn and snarling dogs at their side shouted they would be shot if they didn’t move faster. She said nothing, though. She wanted to see where Clive was taking this conversation.
    “But given the need to get cash into this company for the Christmas season, we need to verify as quickly as possible both that the painting is authentic and that no one in this Hirsch family or otherwise can lay claim to it as quickly as possible. With all the publicity and suits over stolen artwork floating around these days, if we simply dropped the painting into the deal with knowledge of this receipt we’d be an easy target for litigation.”
    Ed looked at Kate as though she were to blame for doing exactly what he’d told her to do. But even he couldn’t find a way to criticize her for being successful.
    “Then let’s see if we can find any heirs. If none remain, our path at least should be clearer.” Ed turned to Steve. “God, I wish we had other things on our plate so we could jettison this deal. The timing of our trip to Cambridge couldn’t be worse. We need