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Authors: Peter Mayle

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BOOK: Chasing Cezanne
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The front boy at the clubhouse entrance who tried to persuade Andre into a golf cart so that he could be driven to the Denoyers' cottage blinked in surprise when his offer was declined. Nobody
walked
. Not at Cooper Cay; not at night. And what a night it was: warm black velvet, a sickle of moon, the wink and glitter of stars, a faint, salty breeze coming off the sea, the coarse tropical grass dense and springy underfoot, an invisible orchestra of insects whirring and chirping away in the shrubbery—Andre felt a moment of particular well-being and had to admit that perhaps, after all, there was something to be said for the Caribbean in winter.

The house—which Denoyer had promoted from a common cottage by naming it
La Maison Blanche
—was, like its neighbors, imposing and immaculate, as was the dignified butler who opened the front door. Andre was escorted down a wide central hallway and out onto a terrace that ran the length of the house. From the terrace, a lighted pathway led past a swimming pool and through
a grove of palms to a dock. Beyond that, darkness, and the lap and whisper of water.

“Monsieur Kelly!
Bonsoir, bonsoir
. Welcome to Cooper Cay.” Denoyer's feet made no sound as he came across the coral flagstones of the terrace. He was dressed informally, Andre was pleased to see, in slacks, short-sleeved shirt, and espadrilles, the only sign of affluence a bulky gold watch—of the useful kind that is waterproof to a depth of five hundred feet—on one tanned wrist. His skin shone with health and sun, a warm smile softening his lined but still good-looking face.

He led Andre over to a group of rattan chairs arranged around a low glass table. “You remember my wife, Catherine?”

“Of course.” Andre shook a slender, jeweled hand. Madame Denoyer was an older version of her daughter, elegant in a simple shift of pale-blue silk, blonde hair pulled back in a chignon, several generations of good breeding evident in her fine-boned, slightly haughty face. A graceful inclination of her head. “Do sit down, Monsieur Kelly. What will you drink?”

The butler brought wine. “Pernand-Vergelesses,” said Denoyer. “I hope you like it.” He gave an apologetic shrug. “We've never been able to get on with the Californian whites. Too old to change our tastes, I'm afraid.” He raised his glass. “It's very good of you to come.” As he sipped his wine, his eyes went to the envelope that Andre had put on the table, then they flicked away, as if it held no more interest for him than a package of cigarettes.

Andre smiled. “I was in the neighborhood anyway.” He turned to Madame Denoyer. “I hope your daughter's well?”

“Marie-Laure?” There was a brief pout, a kind of facial shrug. “When she's here, she wants to be skiing; when she's skiing, she wants to be on the beach. We spoil her.
Non
”—she shook her finger at her husband—“Bernard spoils her.” She looked at him, an equal measure of affection and mild reproach in her expression.

“Why not? It pleases me.” Denoyer turned to Andre. “In fact, you just missed her. She went back yesterday to Paris, and then I expect she'll spend the weekend at Cap Ferrat.” He smiled at his wife. “And Claude spoils her much more than I do.” The mention of Claude seemed to remind Denoyer of the reason for Andre's visit, and he leaned forward, his eyebrows raised, a casual nod of his head in the direction of the envelope on the table. “Are these the photographs you took?” The nod was a fraction too casual, the tone of voice too offhand. Neither was convincing, or so it seemed to Andre.

“Oh, those. Yes. They're probably not worth looking at.” Andre smiled.

Denoyer held up both hands, the picture of polite disagreement. “But you took all this trouble, came all this way.” He reached over and picked up the envelope. “May I?”

The butler padded out from the house and murmured into Madame Denoyer's ear. She nodded. “Can they wait,
chéri
? Because I'm afraid the soufflé can't.”

Despite its geographical location, it was a French household, with French priorities. The hideous thought of
a soufflé collapsing into no more than a desolate withered pancake took precedence over everything else, and Madame Denoyer lost no time in leading them through to the dining room. As they sat down, Andre saw that Denoyer had brought the envelope with him.

The room was far too big and grand for the three of them, and they were seated around one end of an enormous mahogany table that could comfortably have accommodated a dozen. Andre had a mental picture of the Denoyers dining alone, one at each end of the table, with salt, pepper, and conversation being ferried up and down by the butler. “I expect you entertain a great deal down here, don't you?” he asked Madame Denoyer.

Again the fleeting facial shrug. “We try not to. All people here can talk about is golf, adultery, or income tax. We prefer to have our friends from France stay with us.” She looked at the golden dome of the soufflé held out by the butler for her approval and nodded. “Are you a golfer, Monsieur Kelly? I'm told the course here is excellent.”

“No, I've never played. I'm afraid I'd be a social disaster if I lived here.” He broke through the top of his soufflé, inhaled a whiff of herbs, and spooned black
tapenade
into the fluffy cavity. “I'm not even very good at adultery.”

Madame Denoyer smiled. The young man had a sense of humor, and such unusual eyes. What a pity Marie-Laure had left. “
Bon appétit
.”

As a mark of due respect to the savory but fleeting lightness of the soufflé, there was no conversation while it was being eaten. Then came more wine, and with it Denoyer's views on the French economy, mostly gloomy, and
some polite questions about Andre's work, life in New York versus life in Paris, favorite restaurants—pleasant, banal stuff, the social glue that holds strangers together during dinner parties, nothing probing or too personal. And nothing about the photographs, although Denoyer's eyes kept returning to the envelope beside his plate.

The main course was fish, but fish that had escaped the usual Caribbean death of suffocation by batter. It had been fried—lightly fried, in a coating of pumpernickel bread crumbs, garnished with slivers of fresh lime and served with
pommes allumettes
that snapped in the mouth in the most delicious and satisfying way. It was, Andre thought, fish and chips that deserved four stars and a mention in dispatches, and he complimented Madame Denoyer on her cook. “There's hope for Bahamian cuisine after all,” he said.

Madame Denoyer picked up the small crystal bell beside her wineglass and rang for the butler. “That's kind of you.” She grinned at him, mischief taking years off her face—suddenly she looked exactly like her daughter—and tapped the side of her nose. “But the cook's from Martinique.”

Andre never ate dessert, preferring a last glass of wine, and Denoyer was quick to suggest they take coffee in the living room. This, too, was designed to hold a crowd, and they sat in a central island of armchairs under a slowly turning ceiling fan, surrounded on all sides by a sea of marble floor.

“Now,” said Denoyer, “let's see what that old rascal Claude has been up to.”

6

THE Monday night ritual of Rudolph Holtz had been strictly observed for several years. Business appointments ended at six p.m. sharp; social invitations were neither issued nor accepted. Monday evening belonged to him, and it followed precisely the same course each week. After an early light supper—the menu never varied—of smoked salmon from Murray's and a half-bottle of Montrachet, Holtz gathered together the latest sale catalogues and gallery announcements, together with his list of existing and potential clients, and climbed the steps to his four-poster bed. There, among the pillows, he plotted. It had become an invaluable part of his working week, an undisturbed period during which he had devised many profitable coups, some of them quite legitimate.

Beside him, Camilla was already asleep, her eyes shielded from the light by a mask of black satin. She was exhausted—quite drained, in fact—having spent the weekend with some madly social friends in Bucks County. She was snoring, a gentle, regular whiffle that reminded Holtz of a pug he had once been fond of, and he patted her
absentmindedly from time to time as he sifted through the catalogues, occasionally jotting down a name next to a particular painting. This part of his work, which he thought of as a benevolent service—finding a loving home for art—he enjoyed a great deal; although, of course, it couldn't compare with the deeper satisfaction of depositing a seven-figure check when the sale went through.

He was considering a small but charming Corot, which he thought might fill a gap in Onozuka's Tokyo collection, when the phone rang. Camilla whimpered softly and pulled the sheet over her head. Holtz glanced at his bedside clock. Nearly eleven.

“Holtz? It's Bernard Denoyer.”

Holtz looked at the clock again and frowned. “You're up early, my friend. What time is it over there? Five?”

“No, I'm in the Bahamas. Holtz, I've just seen something that I don't like at all. Photographs taken last week outside my house on Cap Ferrat. The Cézanne, Holtz, the Cézanne. Being loaded into a plumber's van.”

Holtz was suddenly bolt upright, his voice louder. “Where are they, these photographs?” Camilla moaned and covered her head with a pillow. “Who took them? Not those bastards at
Paris Match
?”

“No, I have them here. The photographer left them with me—a man called Kelly. He works for a magazine, the one that did the big article on the house last year.
DQ?
Something like that.”

“Never heard of it.” Camilla's moans continued. Holtz put a second pillow over her head. “Kelly—does he want money?”

Denoyer hesitated before replying. “I don't think so. He said he's going back to New York tomorrow, so I won't be seeing him again. But what's going on? I thought you were moving the painting to Zurich. That's what we agreed. To Zurich, and then to Hong Kong, and not a soul will know—that's what you said.”

Holtz had dealt with many uneasy clients in the past. In most irregular transactions such as this one, there was a period of limbo—sometimes hours, sometimes days or weeks—when one side had to rely totally on the other to fulfill an agreement. Holtz made sure that the burden of trusting others never actually fell upon himself, but he could understand the insecurity that must accompany a decision to place your fate or your money in another man's hands. He settled himself back among the pillows and assumed his best bedside manner.

There was absolutely nothing to be concerned about, he told Denoyer, providing there were no more photographs in circulation. And that, he said, glancing at the sleeping body next to him, he was in a position to verify. Cutting Denoyer's questions short, he went on: Claude was not a problem. He would do what he was told. Loyalty would ensure his silence. As for the van, it was a simple disguise. The driver was not a plumber but a Holtz employee, a courier experienced in transporting various precious items without drawing attention to himself. Would anyone suspect an artisan's grubby old Renault of containing a valuable painting? Of course not. Denoyer could be assured that the Cézanne was now making its discreet way safely across Europe. Holtz omitted to mention that it
would be stopping in Paris en route, but that was none of Denoyer's business.

“So you see, my friend,” said Holtz, “you can relax. This is a minor inconvenience, nothing more. An accident. Enjoy the sunshine, and leave the rest to me.”

Denoyer put down the phone and stared out at the soft Bahamian night. This was the first time in an honest and well-ordered life that he had worked with anyone like Holtz, and he was not enjoying the experience: the feelings of vulnerability, risk, lack of control, nervousness, even guilt. But it was too late now. He was too deeply involved. There was nothing to be done. He got up and poured himself a cognac. Holtz had sounded confident about tracking down the negatives and copies of the photographs, if indeed there were any. The young man seemed to be genuine. Perhaps he was making too much of a perfectly innocent coincidence. Even so, Denoyer would be relieved when it was all over.

As it happened, Holtz was far from being as confident as he had sounded. If what Denoyer said was true, he had only until tomorrow. Leaning over, he removed the pillows from Camilla's head and shook her awake. She pushed up her sleeping mask. One bleary eye opened, a narrow slit, looking curiously naked without its customary makeup.

“Not now, sweetie. I'm exhausted. Maybe in the morning, before the gym.” Like many short men, Holtz made up for his lack of stature with a voracious libido, which Camilla often found rather tiresome. She patted his hand. “A girl needs a night off now and then, sweetie. Really.”

It was as if Holtz had not heard her. “I've got to have the address of that photographer you use. Kelly.”

Camilla struggled into a sitting position, the sheet clutched protectively to her bosom. “What? Can't it wait? Rudi, you know what a complete disaster I am without my sleep, and tomorrow's—”

“It's important. Something's gone wrong.”

Camilla saw from the set of his mouth that further argument was useless—he could, as she knew, be quite a savage little brute sometimes—and got up to fetch her handbag, stubbing her toe on a Louis XV commode and hopping back to the bed on one leg in a decidedly unglamorous fashion. She took out her address book and turned to the Ks. “My toe's just going to balloon, I know it will. That bloody commode.” She passed the book over to Holtz. “Am I allowed to know what this is all about?”

“I dare say you'll live, my dear. Let me make this call.”

By now fully awake and highly curious, Camilla took a mirror from her handbag and adjusted her hair while she started to listen to Holtz's end of the conversation with someone called Benny. Then she rather wished she hadn't. She certainly didn't want to hear all the messy details. Not tonight anyway. Resuming her mask, she dived back into her burrow of pillows and feigned sleep.

BOOK: Chasing Cezanne
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