Free Chasing Cezanne by Peter Mayle Page 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 itwould be stopping in Paris en route, but that was none of Denoyer’s business.
    â€œSo 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.
    â€œNot 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—”
    â€œIt’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?”
    â€œI dare say you’ll live, my dear. Let me make this