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I took the envelope he proffered and pocketed it. I picked up the phone on his desk and dialed Security. “Mort,” I said, “don’t let de Buitliér or his intern leave the building with any boxes or items until I’ve inspected them.”

De Buitliér looked aggrieved. “I am not taking anything that isn’t personal property.”

“Of course,” I said. “This is Lieutenant Tracy of the Seaboard Police Department. He would like to ask you some questions.”

“About what?”

“About the night of Heinrich von Grümh’s murder,” the lieutenant said. He kept his voice equable, almost friendly. “We can do it here, or we can go down to headquarters.”

It may have been the sound of a distant siren that made the curator say, “I think I would like to call a lawyer.”

The lieutenant inclined his head. “As you wish.”

De Buitliér hemmed and hawed. “What exactly do you want to know?”

I could tell the lieutenant was stalling for time. He said, “Where were you the night von Grümh was murdered?”

“I’ve decided to wait until I have a lawyer before answering anything.”

The lieutenant’s phone buzzed. He snapped it open. “Upstairs. Third floor. The corridor right behind the Greco-Roman exhibit.”

He looked at me. “That was Lemure. He’s coming up with the search warrant.”

De Buitliér paled visibly. The lieutenant said, “You want to talk about it.”

“I’m not saying anything without a lawyer …”

“Then we’ll just wait.”

The sergeant showed up a moment later. He took in de Buitliér and nodded to me. He handed an envelope to the lieutenant, who showed it to the curator.

The lieutenant said, “Mr. de Buitliér, please wait outside with Sergeant Lemure.”

“Are you arresting me?”

“Not yet. We’re detaining you temporarily.”

He was halfway out the door when he turned to come back. “Sorry,” the lieutenant said. “Outside.”

“But …”

“Outside.”

We gave the office a thorough going-over. There were lots of nooks and crannies, though not as many as on the boat. Nothing. No gun. No incriminating documents.

“We’ll have to search his home,” the lieutenant said at length. “Getting a warrant for that will be tougher. The probable cause is already weak.”

We were about to go outside when I noticed the jacket hanging on the chair. I took it by the collar and lifted it, surprised by its weight. I felt along the side over the pocket and smiled. Sure enough, there it was, my Smith & Wesson .38-caliber revolver.

The lieutenant put on a pair of latex gloves. He picked up the weapon carefully and delicately and put it in a plastic bag, which he sealed.

He opened the door, “Sergeant, bring Mr. de Buitliér in.”

The curator came in with a resentful, hangdog look on his face. The lieutenant launched right into a Miranda warning. Then, “You’ll have to come with us to police headquarters, Mr. de Buitliér. You can phone an attorney from here if you wish.”

De Buitliér shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. I mean we don’t have to go to police headquarters. I can explain everything.”

The lieutenant glanced at the sergeant, who shrugged. He said, “Let’s get some chairs in here.”

We settled around a small, rectangular table that was off to one side.

“Let’s start at the beginning,” the lieutenant said. “The sergeant will take notes. Mr. de Ratour will be a witness.”

“Fine with me,” said the suspect, who seemed relieved, even jaunty.

“How did you find out about LeBlanc?” I asked to get things started.

He pondered for a moment. “When the collection first arrived here, there was something about it that made me suspicious. It had been packed and repacked, but not very professionally. There were balled-up pieces of wastepaper mixed in with plastic pellets. Anyway, I noticed a piece of billing stationery with LeBlanc’s name and address on it.”

“Maybe he sent them there just to get framed.” the lieutenant said.

“There’s a much better place in Boston. And it’s closer.”

“What about the night von Grümh got murdered?” Lemure said, using his voice like a hammer.

De Buitliér nodded. “On that night I was in the Pink Shamrock when I noticed