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coat, so it looked and smelled new. And I treated the copy to make it look older than it was. Then, disaster struck. The day before I was to return the Botticelli to the museum, the wind tore the roof off my studio. Remember how fierce the mistral was last March? It blew down buildings all along the Rhône Valley.”
    “I remember. It blew a tree onto my neighbor’s car.”
    “You see? So when it started to rip the roof off, I scooped up all the paintings and put them in the cellar of the house. I was lucky nothing blew out of my hands when I was crossing the yard. But in the confusion, I didn’t keep track of which was the Botticelli and which was the copy. So the next day, when Madame Clergue called and demanded the Botticelli back, I panicked. I couldn’t tell the paintings apart. So you know what I did, Inspector?”
    “No, but I suspect you’re about to tell me.”
    “I flipped a coin. I literally flipped a coin. ‘Heads, it’s this one; tails, that one.’ It landed on heads, so I took that one. When I delivered it, I was sure Madame Clergue and Devereaux, that smug, snobbish curator of hers, would denounce it as a fake. Instead, they went on and on about the brilliant restoration.” Dubois shook his head sadly. “I shouldn’t have given it another thought, but instead, Inspector, I became obsessed. What if I’d given them the wrong painting? Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore. So, yesterday, when I was returning another painting I’d worked on—a piece-of-crap Annunciation that was starting to crack and flake—I hid the Madonna and Child in the same crate. I arrived when I knew Devereaux and Madame Clergue were out to lunch and I’d have the shop to myself. I uncrated both paintings, left the Annunciation for Devereaux to find, and hid in the furnace room until midnight. Then—as you know—I took the painting I’d smuggled in up to the gallery and hung it alongside the other, so the museum could sort it out.”
    “But they can’t,” said Descartes. “Madame Clergue and Devereaux are both tearing their hair out. They can’t tell Botticelli’s work from yours.”
    Dubois smiled. “Well, I’ll take that as a compliment. A high compliment indeed. But yes, it’s simple to tell the two apart.”
    “How?” Descartes held the pen poised above his notepad.
    “Mine has the word Dubois in lead foil embedded under the gesso and the primer,” Dubois said. “X-ray the two, and mine will be as plain as the nose on your face. I’m surprised they haven’t already tried that. Still too cheap to buy an X-ray machine.” Descartes made a note—“lead: cf. the Brit, Keating”—then looked up and lifted a bushy, inquiring eyebrow. “It was my way of keeping myself honest, Inspector,” the painter explained. “Of making sure I couldn’t fool the museum even if I were tempted to.” He shrugged sheepishly. “It never occurred to me that I might accidentally fool myself.”
    Descartes smiled. “Well, if the camera never lies—the X-ray camera, in this case—I’m sure Madame Clergue and Monsieur Devereaux will be very relieved.”
    Dubois hesitated, then added, “Do you think they might be persuaded to return my copy to me?”
    “I’ll ask,” said Descartes, “but that might be pushing your luck.” The inspector glanced at the wall of windows in the nearer end of the building. Night had fallen, and instead of seeing outside, the inspector saw only reflections—his and the artist’s, multiplied almost to infinity by the wall of windows at the opposite end of the studio. They were in a rustic version of the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. “Shit, I’m late,” said the detective, rising from the chair, a task that took more effort than it should have. “But can I ask you a question?”
    “Isn’t that why you came, Inspector? To ask me questions?”
    “But this one’s unofficial. It’s personal.”
    “Now you’ve got me on pins and needles, Inspector.” Dubois smiled slyly, and