Chasing Cezanne (29 page)

“I can take a hint, sweetie. I'll pop downstairs and sort things out with the concierge.” She looked askance at the emerging Paradou, zipping up his fly, gave him a polite smile, and closed the door quietly behind her.

“Well, Paradou.” Holtz settled back in his chair. “Help yourself to a drink and give me the good news.”

Paradou drank an entire glass of champagne before
speaking. When he did speak, it was in the clipped, unemotional style that was customary in the Legion, whether reporting victory or defeat. Times, details, circumstances, everything in chronological order; no opinions, many facts. As he spoke, he saw Holtz's expression change from benign anticipation to stony displeasure. When he finished, there was a long, heavy silence.

“So,” said Holtz eventually, “we know where they're staying. Can anything be arranged there?”

Paradou shook his head. “Impossible.”

“Impossible.” Holtz sighed. “Would a hundred thousand dollars overcome the difficulties?”

“Monsieur Holtz, one can always kill people if one doesn't mind getting caught. Fanatics do it all the time. Yes—of course I could shoot them as they came out of the hotel. Killing is easy. Getting away, that's different. With the Algerians carrying on like they are, the police are all over Paris.” He clasped his hands across his stomach. He had nothing more to say.

Holtz got to his feet and began to pace the room. It was a setback, a serious setback, but nothing irretrievable. The explosion was no more than an accident, one of hundreds that take place in Paris every day. There were no links with Rudolph Holtz. He would have to fabricate some plausible story for Franzen when he called in, but that would be simple. Pine and his friends, however … they were altogether too close. One way or another, they would have to disappear. In the meantime, they would have to be watched.

Holtz stood by the window, arms folded, staring out at the lights of the Place Vendôme. “I want you to keep them under surveillance. Sooner or later, you'll get your chance. But remember, you must deal with all of them. We don't want a survivor running around telling tales.” He turned to look at Paradou. “Is that understood?”

“Round the clock?” Paradou shifted in his chair, feeling the weariness in his back. “I'll have to get someone else to work with me. But the new fee will cover that.”

Holtz blinked rapidly, as though he had been slapped. And then, with visible reluctance, he nodded. “All of them,” he repeated.

Paradou smiled. “A hundred thousand,
d'accord
?” He prepared to leave, feeling that the day hadn't been entirely wasted. “I'll be in touch.”

Andre came into the lobby of the Montalembert, whistling, and turned in to the bar. To his surprise, Lucy and Cyrus, their heads together, were already there. “What happened to you two?” He bent to kiss Lucy before sitting down. “Did they run out of champagne?”

“Developments, dear boy. Very curious developments.” Cyrus waited for Andre to order. “Your friend Camilla has just checked into the Ritz, and she was with a poisonous little man named Holtz. A dealer. I met him once.” He sniffed. “Which was quite enough.”

Andre leaned forward. “Did they see you?”

Cyrus shook his head. “Luckily, Lucy saw them first. Now, I have to tell you that Holtz has a reputation in the business for doing big deals, some of the biggest. He handled a forty-million-dollar Picasso, for instance. But there's something else.… Only rumor, nothing proved—but word has it that he fences on the side.” Cyrus paused as the waiter came with Andre's wine. “As I said, nothing's ever stuck, but I can quite believe it. He's an unscrupulous little brute; quite a few people in the business have been burned.”

“What's he doing with Camilla?” Andre had never seen his editor socially and knew nothing of her private life. Nobody at
DQ
did, not even Noel. It was a source of great speculation at the magazine, some of it quite scurrilous. Her hairdresser at Bergdorf's, her personal trainer, the younger Garabedian, and a variety of interior decorators had been mentioned as possible admirers. Never anyone named Holtz.

“The big question,” said Cyrus, “is what are they doing in Paris? I may be getting suspicious in my declining years, but I have a feeling there may be a connection. It can't be coincidence.”

Andre couldn't help smiling. Cyrus looked like a terrier on the scent, alert, eyebrows twitching, his fingers drumming on the table, eager to go down the nearest burrow. “Let's assume you're right,” said Andre. “The one who can probably tell us for sure is Franzen. Did he leave a message?”

The fingers stopped tapping. “No, not yet. I have every hope, though. Whether he's involved with Holtz
or not, forgers never like to turn down a job, and he thinks we've got one for him. He'll call.” Cyrus nodded to reassure himself. “I know he'll call.” He looked at the empty glass in front of him with his usual air of faint surprise, and then at his watch. “There's nothing we can do but wait. How does a shower and a modest little dinner sound?”

Lucy came out of the bathroom in a white robe three sizes too big, toweling her hair. “Do you know something? I think Cyrus is getting a kick out of all this. He's definitely wired.”

Andre slipped out of his jacket and reached in the pocket for the frame. “How about you?”

Lucy shook her hair and came toward him, a smile on legs. “You don't have to ask, do you?” She draped the towel around her neck and looked down at the package that Andre was holding out. “What's this?”

“A souvenir, Lulu. Somewhere to put that picture of you and your gendarme boyfriend.”

She held it flat in her hands, feeling the shape under the paper, her expression suddenly serious.

“Sorry about the wrapping. Go ahead; open it.”

She tore off the paper and stood transfixed, staring at the frame, stroking it. “Oh, God. It's beautiful, Andre. Thank you.” When she looked up at him, her eyes were wet.

“You don't have to put a picture of the gendarme in it.
You know, Grandma Walcott, Cyrus swinging from a lamppost—” The sentence never finished, interrupted by a mouthful of warm, damp, sweet-smelling girl.

Later, standing in the shower, the water beating on the back of his neck, he heard Lucy call out: “Where are we going tonight? I'm trying to work out what to wear.”

“Something tight would be nice, Lulu.”

In the bedroom, she stood in front of the mirror, holding up all ten ounces of the Tocca dress she had bought months before, in case the right moment came along, and called out again. “Dangerously tight?”

Franzen settled down at his table for one, tucking the napkin into his shirt collar, feeling that the world was not such a bad place after all. Anouk had been predictably surprised by his call, but not altogether unsympathetic. An optimist—and Franzen certainly qualified, both by nature and from circumstance—might have described her as warm; guarded, but warm. Or at least not frigid. He would bring her something delicious in aspic from Troisgros, and some flowers. All would be well. He allowed himself to think of the long Provençal summer that was just beginning, those months of sunshine and pink wine,
aioli
, the succulence of fresh peaches, the light. Welcoming the waiter with a smile of supreme contentment, he addressed himself to the menu. Tomorrow morning, he would attend to business. Tomorrow morning, he would call Cyrus Pine.

The decision to abandon Holtz had almost made itself. Personal feelings aside, there was the question of the shattered apartment, which was almost certainly Holtz's doing. That would have to be taken into account before the paintings were returned. And who could tell what this new commission would lead to? Several hundred thousand francs, and that might be only the beginning. Yes, first thing in the morning, he would call Pine.

PARADOU had arrived outside the Montalembert shortly after seven to take over from Charnier, who stood on the sidewalk next to the car, stretching gratefully as he briefed his boss between yawns.

There was precious little to tell. Charnier had seen them return to the hotel around midnight, and then everything had been quiet; not a peep until the fresh bread and
patisserie
were delivered just before six. A couple of guests with early flights to catch had left half an hour later. Apart from that, nothing. A quiet shift, no need to budge, easy money. He wished they were all like that.

Charnier turned up his coat collar against the chill of the morning air as he moved off. “It's all yours,
chef
. I'll call in this afternoon.”

Paradou got into the car, opening the window to let out the reek of stale tobacco smoke and garlic. A good, steady man, Charnier, but he would bring that damned
andouillette
to eat in the car, always leaving the greasy, malodorous wrapper under the seat. Paradou tossed it in the gutter and arranged his things around him: cigarettes
and cell phone on the dashboard, the nylon bag with its assorted armaments on the passenger seat, and a five-liter plastic jerrican with a screw top on the floor. After yesterday's two panics, he had no desire to be caught short again. It was one of the worst occupational hazards of long-term street surveillance; that and boredom. But after a good night's sleep, and with the prospect of a six-figure fee at the end of the job, he could put up with a little boredom.

The street was still wet from the cleaning trucks, the air fresh, the sun doing its best to break through gauzy layers of gray cloud. One of the boys from the hotel was sweeping the sidewalk in front of the entrance, while another watered the clipped evergreens that bordered the terrace. Paradou's eyes moved from them to the building next door. It was evidently unoccupied, its windows blind and dirty, a heavy chain looped across the entrance, its shabbiness accentuated by its immaculate neighbor. It might be possible to break into the empty building, Paradou thought, and then pierce the wall through to the hotel … and then what? No. Too noisy, too complicated. He needed to get them all together, off the street, away from the crowds, somewhere like the Bois de Boulogne. Why didn't they go there to jog? All Americans jogged.