was, Andre thought, fish and chips that deserved four stars and a mention in dispatches, and he complimented Madame Denoyer on her cook. âThereâs hope for Bahamian cuisine after all,â he said.
Madame Denoyer picked up the small crystal bell beside her wineglass and rang for the butler. âThatâs kind of you.â She grinned at him, mischief taking years off her faceâsuddenly she looked exactly like her daughterâand tapped the side of her nose. âBut the cookâs from Martinique.â
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.
âNow,â said Denoyer, âletâs see what that old rascal Claude has been up to.â
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 supperâthe menu never variedâof smoked salmon from Murrayâs 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 exhaustedâquite drained, in factâhaving 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 herabsentmindedly 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 serviceâfinding a loving home for artâhe enjoyed a great deal; although, of course, it couldnât 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 Onozukaâs Tokyo collection, when the phone rang. Camilla whimpered softly and pulled the sheet over her head. Holtz glanced at his bedside clock. Nearly eleven.
âHoltz? Itâs Bernard Denoyer.â
Holtz looked at the clock again and frowned. âYouâre up early, my friend. What time is it over there? Five?â
âNo, Iâm in the Bahamas. Holtz, Iâve just seen something that I donât like at all. Photographs taken last week outside my house on Cap Ferrat. The Cézanne, Holtz, the Cézanne. Being loaded into a plumberâs van.â
Holtz was suddenly bolt upright, his voice louder. âWhere are they, these photographs?â Camilla moaned and covered her head with a pillow. âWho took them? Not those bastards at
Paris Match
?â
âNo, I have them here. The photographer left them with meâa man called Kelly. He works for a magazine, the one that did the big article on the house last year.
DQ?
Something like that.â
âNever heard of it.â Camillaâs moans continued. Holtz put a second pillow over her head. âKellyâdoes he want money?â
Denoyer hesitated before replying. âI donât think so. He said heâs going back to New York tomorrow, so I wonât be seeing him again. But whatâs going on? I thought you were moving the painting to Zurich. Thatâs what we agreed. To Zurich, and then to Hong Kong, and not a