Menchu’s perfume and the sound of her high heels preceded them into an office with walls of fine wood, a huge mahogany table, and ultramodern lamps and chairs, where Paco Montegrifo advanced to kiss the hand of each of them, smiling the trademark smile that displayed his perfect teeth, a flash of white against his bronzed skin. They sat in armchairs offering a splendid view of the valuable Vlaminck that dominated the room; Montegrifo sat beneath the painting itself, on the other side of the table, with the modest air of someone who deeply regretted being unable to provide them with a better view, a Rembrandt, perhaps. At least that could have been the implication behind the intense look he gave Julia, once he’d cast an indifferent eye over Menchu’s ostentatiously crossed legs. Or perhaps a Leonardo.

He lost no time in getting down to business once his secretary had served coffee in china cups from the East India Company, coffee that Menchu sweetened with saccharin. Julia took hers black, bitter and very hot and drank it in small sips. By the time she’d lit a cigarette -Montegrifo leaning impotently across the vast table with his gold lighter – he’d already outlined the situation. And Julia had to admit that he could certainly not be accused of beating about the bush.

At first sight, the situation seemed crystal-clear: Claymore’s regretted that they were unable to accept Menchu’s conditions as regards equal shares in the profits from the Van Huys. Menchu should know that the owner of the painting, Don – Montegrifo calmly consulted his notes – Manuel Belmonte, with the agreement of his niece and her husband, had decided to cancel the agreement made with Dona Menchu Roch and transfer all rights in the Van Huys to Claymore and Co. All of this, he added, was set out in a document, authenticated by a notary public. Montegrifo gave Menchu a look of deep regret, accompanied by a worldly sigh.

“Do you mean to say,” said a shocked Menchu, her cup rattling in its saucer, “that you’re threatening to take the painting away from me?”

Montegrifo looked at his gold cuff links as if it were they who had uttered some unfortunate remark and tugged fastidiously at his starched cuffs.

“I’m afraid we already have,” he said in the contrite tone of someone regretting having to pass on to a widow the bills left by her dead husband. “However, your original percentage of the profits on the auction price remains the same; minus expenses of course. Claymore’s does not wish to deprive you of anything, only to avoid the abusive conditions that you, my dear lady, tried to impose.” He slowly took out his silver cigarette case and placed it on the table. “Claymore’s simply sees no reason for an increase in your percentage. And that’s that.”

“No reason?” Menchu glanced towards Julia in despair, expecting indignant exclamations of solidarity. “The reason, Montegrifo, is that, thanks to research carried out by us, the painting will vastly increase in price. Isn’t that reason enough?”

Montegrifo looked at Julia, making it silently and courteously plain that he did not for a minute include her in this sordid bit of horse-trading. Turning back to Menchu, his eyes hardened.

“If the research that the two of you have carried out” – that “two of you” made it absolutely clear what he thought of Menchu’s talent for research – “increases the price of the Van Huys, it will automatically increase the percentage of the profits you agreed to with Claymore’s.” He allowed himself an affable smile before turning away from Menchu again and looking at Julia. “As for you, the new situation in no way affects your interests. Quite the contrary. Claymore’s,” he said, and the smile he gave her left no doubt as to exactly who in Claymore’s, “considers your handling of the affair to have been exemplary. So we’d like you to continue your restoration work on the picture. You need have no worries at all about the financial aspect.”

“And may one know,” Menchu said, and her lower lip, as well as the hand holding the coffee cup, was trembling now, “how it is that you’re so well informed about the painting? Because Julia may be a little naive, but I can’t imagine that she’d pour out her life story to you over a candlelit supper. Or did she?”

That was a low blow, and Julia opened her mouth to protest. Montegrifo, however, calmed her with a gesture.

“Look, Senora Roch, when I took the liberty of putting some proposals of a professional nature your friend a few days ago, she chose the elegant option of simply saying that she would think about it. The details about the state of the painting, the hidden inscription and so on, were kindly supplied to us by the niece of the owner. A charming man, by the way, Don Manuel. And I must say that he was most reluctant to withdraw responsibility for the Van Huys from you. A loyal man, it would seem, for he also demanded, indeed he insisted, that no one but Julia should touch the painting until the restoration work was done. In all these negotiations my alliance, my tactical alliance, if you like, with Don Manuel’s niece has proved very useful. As for Senor Lapena, her husband, he raised no further objections once I’d mentioned the possibility of an advance.”

“Another Judas,” said Menchu, almost spitting the words out.

“I suppose,” he said, shrugging, “you could call him that. Although other names also spring to mind.”

“I’ve got a signed document too, you know,” protested Menchu.

T know. But it’s an unauthenticated agreement, whereas mine was made in the presence of a notary public, with the niece and her husband as witnesses and all kinds of guarantees that include a deposit as security on our part. If I may use an expression Alfonso Lapena used as he signed our agreement, it’s a whole new ball game, my dear lady.“

Menchu leaned forwards in a way that made Julia fear that the cup of coffee her friend had in her hand might just end up all over Montegrifo’s immaculate shirt front, but she merely placed it on the table. She was bursting with indignation, and, despite all the careful make-up, her anger added years to her face. When she moved, her skirt rode up still further, and Julia, embarrassed, regretted being there with all her heart.

“And what will Claymore’s do,” asked Menchu in a surly tone, “if I decide to take the painting to another auctioneer?”

Montegrifo was contemplating the smoke spiralling from his cigarette.

“Frankly,” he said, and he seemed to give the matter serious thought, “I’d advise you not to complicate matters. It would be illegal.”

“I could also sue the lot of you and tie you up in a court case that would drag on for months, putting a stop to your auctioning the painting. Have you considered that?”

“Of course I have. But you’d come off worst.” Montegrifo smiled politely. “As you can imagine, Claymore’s has very good lawyers at its disposal. You risk losing everything. And that would be a great pity.”

Menchu gave a tug at her skirt as she stood up.

“All I have to say to you” – and her voice cracked, overwhelmed by anger – “is that you’re the biggest son of a bitch I’ve ever set eyes on.”

Montegrifo and Julia also stood up, she upset, he in complete control of himself.

“I can’t tell you how much I regret this scene,” he said calmly to Julia. “I really do.”

“So do I.” Julia looked at Menchu, who was at that moment throwing her bag over her shoulder with the determined gesture of someone slinging on a rifle. “Couldn’t we all be just a bit more reasonable?”

Menchu glared at her.

“You can be reasonable, if you like, seeing you’re so taken with this swindler, but I’m getting out of this den of thieves.”

Her high heels click-clacked fast and furiously away. Julia remained where she was, not knowing whether or not to follow her.

“A woman of character,” Montegrifo said.

Julia turned towards him, still uncertain.