Rembrandt's Ghost by Paul Christopher Page A

stuffy old chairman of the board hired on merely for my escutcheon on the creamy linen letterhead and my portrait in the boardroom.”
    “You,” said Finn, “are a very silly man.”
    Derlagen came back with the papers. He placed them in a manila envelope, which he handed to Billy, who in turn handed it on to Finn. “She’s the CEO,” he explained blandly. “I’m just chairman of the board.”
    Derlagen looked a little perplexed. He frowned and opened up the box. Inside was a key, something that looked like a fat guitar pick, and a delicate, half-inch-high figure of a man mounted on a horse. It was obviously very old. Just as obviously, it was made of solid gold.
    “It is from Mali,” explained Derlagen. “Experts at the Rijksmuseum say it is from the reign of Mansa Musa, who was apparently the king of Timbuktu.”
    “It’s beautiful,” said Finn, turning it over in her hand. “But what does this have to do with us?”
    “
Meneer
Boegart left it in our vault for safekeeping. It was purchased from an antiquities dealer named Osterman in Labuan, just off the coast from the sultanate of Brunei, which was the last place
Meneer
Boegart was seen. According to this man Osterman the gold figure was to be given to you in the event that he… disappeared. The figurine is for you specifically,
Vrouwe
Ryan. The other two items are the key to the front door of the house and the device used to disarm the security system. The panel is on the right as you enter. Simply place the narrow end of the device in the appropriate spot and squeeze. The light should turn green. Everything else is automatic. There is a cleaning service we have hired, which comes every Wednesday morning for three hours. If there is anything else you need to know, I am, of course, at your service, day or night.” It didn’t sound like much of an invitation. Derlagen went on, voice droning and uninflected. “As the documents describe you are not allowed to sell either the house or any of its contents for at least twelve months, and if you do the Boegart Family Trust has the right of first refusal, that is to say—”
    “We know what it means,” said Billy.
    “Then if that is all… ?” answered Derlagen. He pushed away from his chair. They were being dismissed. Finn carefully put the little gold figure back into the box. She put the box into her bag.
    “How do we find the house?” Finn asked.
    “Nothing could be simpler,” said Derlagen. “Walk back up to the
Dam
, turn left on the
Raadhuistraat
, cross one bridge, and turn right onto the
Herengracht
. It is the first block, before
Driekonigenstraat
, number 188. It cannot be missed. It is dark stone with a green door.”
    “Thanks,” said Finn, holding out her hand. Derlagen ignored it.
    “Geen dank,”
he responded, giving her a little bow.
    A moment later, when they were back on the street, Billy said, “Not the friendliest type in the world, was he?”
    “What did you expect?” said Finn. “He’s a lawyer, and I don’t think he understands any of this any more than we do.”
    “And there’s nothing that makes a solicitor more unhappy than not knowing what’s going on.” Billy nodded. “I see one of those brown cafés or what do you call them? Let’s gird our loins with some coffee and then go see the house.”
    “Fine by me.”
    The coffee was excellent once again, and the walk was pleasant and just about as simple as Derlagen had described it. The weather was perfect and the streets were full of tourists, bicycles, and bright yellow tram cars. There was an enthusiasm in the air Finn hadn’t felt in London, and after a few blocks, she thought she knew what it was. The people here, the ones in the sidewalk cafés, or walking by, seemed less interested in business and money than they did in just enjoying themselves. Instead of being on cell phones or busily tapping away at laptops, they were actually reading books and talking to one another face-to-face. The overall