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on the back,
September of 38.”
              Annette
nodded again, and then stepped to Clifford’s side. She took him by the elbow
and guided him further into the room. “Let’s look at what’s over here.”
              Clifford
looked at her, puzzled. Annette gave a very quick shake of her head, hoping
Rene didn’t see the gesture. “I just want to see everything before we make any
decisions.”
              “The
Carrington is the best piece,” Rene said, following them. “I’ve already had two
people calling about it.” Just then, his phone rang. He glanced at it and
smiled. “That’s one of the gentlemen now.” He stepped away to take the call.
              “You
don’t think it’s worth ten million?” Clifford said.
              “I
don’t think it’s worth ten dollars,” Annette replied. “Go look at it again.”
              Clifford
walked back in front of the sketch. He peered at it intensely. “I’m not seeing
what you’re seeing, obviously. I really love the energy. It’s got a freshness
about it.”
              “The
reason it’s got a freshness about it is because it’s fresh,” Annette said. She
gestured toward Ernst’s arms working on the sculpture. “See those lines there?
The swoop and glide? You’ve seen them before.”
              “I
have?” Clifford asked.
              “In
your Magritte,” Annette said. “There, they were painted, and here, they’re
drawn, but the arm that made them was the same.” She gestured into empty space,
indicating the way the artist moved while creating the work.
              “Are
you sure?” Clifford said.
              “I’m
absolutely sure,” Annette said. She lowered her voice. “On top of that,
Carrington was notoriously private. She was known for destroying her
preliminary work – and her breakup with Ernst was really, really ugly. You know
she wound up in asylum after he left her.”
              “I
didn’t know that,” Clifford said.
              “She
did,” Annette said. “She had electroshock therapy, the whole nine yards. It was
what they did at the time.”
              “Horrible.”
              “It
was,” Annette agreed, “and from what I read, she never fully recovered. I find
it hard to believe she would have kept any of her work from that time –
especially this.”
              “Maybe
she didn’t,” Clifford replied. “She could have sold it then, or given it away.
Maybe she gave it to Max.”
              “After
he got away from the Nazis, he took off,” Annette said. “And who could blame
him?”
              “You
don’t think it’s real?”
              “I
know it’s not,” Annette replied. She felt absolutely certain of her position.
“I can call Feigenbaum’s if you want me to, but
they’ll tell you the same thing.” She cocked her head. “If you want to buy
something, buy those prints in the hallway.”
              “Not
the Miró ?” Clifford asked.
              Annette
shook her head. “If you like that one, there are better examples to be had.
Sotheby’s has one coming to auction at the end of the month.”
              “But
I don’t like the prints,” Clifford pouted. “I do like this.”
              Annette
nodded. “It’s a gorgeous sketch.”
              “And
you’re still telling me no?”
              “I
am.” Annette cocked her head. “The question now is if you’re going to listen to
me or not.”
              Clifford
stared at Annette for a long moment. “What if you’re wrong?”
              “I’m
not wrong.”
              Clifford
took a deep breath. “I really like this.”
              Annette
shrugged her shoulders. “You either trust me or you don’t. I’m telling you it’s
fake, and it’s fake. But at the end of