Free Chasing Cezanne by Peter Mayle

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.
    â€œNow,” 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 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 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.
    â€œHoltz? 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?”
    â€œNo, 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
?”
    â€œNo, 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.”
    â€œNever 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