Jacob Roos

Jacob Roos is 48 and sells paintings the way others sell stocks: with numbers, with deadlines and with a smile. He was born in Rotterdam, the son of a maritime freight broker, and inherited from his father the habit of seeing value where others see merchandise. He opened his gallery in Amsterdam at 32, on the eve of a crisis, and survived it and the war with a client list that never grew shorter.

He lives in an elegant apartment above the gallery, in a building on the canal, with a study lined with books on the market and a large desk where he dispatches the correspondence in the morning. The living room and bedroom are impeccable, without a single object out of place. The servants say he sets the wall clock every night, without fail, and complains about anyone who arrives a minute late.

He is a man with a round, clean-shaven face, thin brown hair parted in the middle and round gold-rimmed glasses. He wears a dark gray pinstripe suit with a waistcoat, a pocket watch on a gold chain and a signet ring on his little finger. He is affable and commercial, and repeats the names of famous critics the way one repeats the references on a résumé.

About the sale of the painting, his account is matter-of-fact: he bought it from a noble, bankrupt Italian family that fled the war. There were no documents, because in 1945 half of Europe lost its papers, and the painting spoke for itself. He resold it to the museum for one million six hundred thousand guildersguilder The former currency of the Netherlands, used until the euro replaced it.. Doctor Hofstede, he says, authenticated the work in two days and wept in front of it. The commission he takes, he says, is the usual one.

When the conversation turns to money, Jacob politely changes the subject, and if the tone rises, he talks about calling the gallery's lawyer. It may be the ordinary prudence of a dealer surrounded by numbers. It may be the care of someone who knows what each answer is worth. The detective will have to decide which.