by Peter Mayle
Franzen stopped in front of the garage door and fumbled with the padlock, watched by a cat with ragged ears and wide, inquisitive eyes. He hissed at it, remembering the time his neighbor’s cat had got into his studio and sharpened its claws on a perfectly acceptable Seurat while the paint was still drying. He hated cats. No respect for art.
He pulled open the doors and switched on the light, aiming a kick at the cat as it crouched to jump on the dustsmeared hood of a Citroën DS. Stacked against the garage walls were dozens of old canvases and stretchers arranged more or less by age, the spoils of a hundred visits to flea markets and house clearance sales, the diligent forger’s raw material. The big man squeezed his bulk along the side of the car, loaded the two cases into it, started up, and pulled out of the garage. The clatter of the idling diesel engine echoed against the wall of the alley as he went back to turn out the light and lock up. The cat gave him a reproachful look from a safe distance. Franzen set off in search of a bed.
It was past one in the morning, not a time anyone would choose to be knocking on hotel doors. Franzen thought wistfully of a suite at the Crillon as he cruised the dingy streets behind the Gare de Lyon. Station hotels, he assumed, were accustomed to clients who kept curious hours. By the time he saw the flickering sign of the Hôtel Léon Tout Confort, with a vacant parking spot opposite, he was too weary to be anything but grateful.
The concierge, a sleepy Algerian with a transistor radio and a dog-eared copy of Lui magazine, took cash in advance before handing over a key and nodding toward a dimly lit flight of concrete stairs covered with balding orange carpet. Franzen made his way along a narrow, sour-smelling corridor and unlocked the door to his home for the night: an iron-framed bed, a liberally stained candlewick bedcover, two thin and defeated pillows. A barely successful attempt had been made to turn a closet into a bathroom. The surfaces of the chest of drawers and the bedside table were scarred with old cigarette burns, and above the bed hung a faded poster of the Eiffel Tower, across which a previous guest had written MERDE in emphatic, angry capital letters. It was a long way from the elegant comforts of dinner at Lucas-Carton.
Franzen slid the art case under the bed and searched through his overnight bag for the exercise book in which he kept addresses and numbers. His hand was automatically reaching toward the night table before he realized that the hotel facilities didn’t extend to room phones.
Had the bed looked faintly inviting, or even sanitary, he might have postponed the call until the morning. Instead, clutching his exercise book, he trailed back down the stairs to confront the concierge, who barely raising his eyes from the centerfold, pushed the phone toward Franzen and clicked on a switch to activate the small machine on his desk that recorded time and cost.
Holtz picked up after the first ring.
“Where are you? Give me the number.”
“Don’t bother. I’m only in this fleabag for tonight. Now, what’s the problem?”
“It’s Kelly, the man you met with Pine. He saw the painting being taken from Denoyer’s house.”
“So?”
“He’s suspicious. Why do you think he’s with Pine? Why do you think he’s in Paris? He could screw everything up.”
The concierge turned his magazine sideways, to enjoy a different view of the pneumatic young lady smiling at him from the pages, and lit a cigarette. Franzen half closed his eyes against the smoke. “I don’t understand. Pine isn’t Interpol; he’s a dealer, and if I do a job for him, he’ll be involved. He’s not going to—”
“You don’t have to understand. You’re paid to paint, not think. Now listen. I don’t want you going anywhere near your studio. Just vanish, and let me know where you are. And forget about working for Pine.”
Franzen chewed at his mustache, trying to hold down his anger. “You’re asking me to forget a lot of money.”
“I’m telling you: Work for Pine, and you’re finished.”
“I don’t like threats, Holtz. Or is that a promise?”
Holtz listened to the static coming over the line and made an effort to soften his voice. “Nico, Nico, why are we arguing like this?” The sudden geniality, prompted by the fact that the paintings were currently in the Dutchman’s possession, continued as Holtz attempted to mend his fences. “Think of all the jobs we’ve done together—all the jobs we’re going to do together. Let’s be reasonable, eh? I’m coming over to Paris tomorrow. We’ll work everything out. Leave your number at the Ritz.”
Franzen looked around the tiny, shabby reception area, the greasy plastic plant on the desk, the concierge licking a finger to turn the pages of his magazine. “The Ritz,” he repeated.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night, my friend. Don’t forget to bring the paintings.”
Franzen paid for the call and went back to his room. He emptied the contents of his pockets onto the night table, pausing to glance at Cyrus Pine’s card, with his hotel number scrawled on the back, the souvenir of a job that would never happen. Franzen looked with distaste at the bed, which appeared to have been recently occupied by several people with dandruff. Unwilling to risk immersing himself in the sheets, he lay down fully clothed, staring at the ceiling, thinking of Holtz. What a little shit he was.
“That Dutch clod,” said Holtz. He glared at Camilla, sitting with her legs tucked under her in an armchair. A chastened Camilla, who was still recovering from the tongue-lashing she had just received. She watched his manicured white fingers drumming on the top of the desk, his head sunk into his shoulders, his face pinched with anger, a furious gnome in a tuxedo.
Her voice, when she broke the silence, was tentative. “Anything I can do?”
Holtz stood up, his hands flat on the desk as though he were addressing a meeting. “Get us on the Concorde to Paris tomorrow. Call the Ritz and reserve a room.”
“You want me to come?”
“You might be useful. That would make a change.”
Camilla looked at his expression and decided that any comment from her would be ill advised. This is not the moment, she said to herself. And besides, look on the bright side, sweetie. April in Paris. She went off to make the calls and start packing. Spring was so difficult, she thought. One never knew what the weather might do.
Holtz sat down and went over his conversation with Franzen. The cretin didn’t seem to take in the gravity of the situation. That was the trouble with workmen, however skilled they might be: they didn’t think. Or, rather, they thought only of their own petty concerns, never of the big picture, never the future. No vision. If this mess was allowed to develop, if Denoyer ever found out that a second fake had been made, if Pine and that photographer talked, it could become disastrous.
Holtz reviewed the alternatives. On the one hand, a continuation of his luxurious, privileged existence, cushioned by the millions that came in each year. On the other, complications, God knew what unpleasantness with Denoyer, publicity, the reputation of Rudolph Holtz destroyed, and years of work wiped out. One had only to look at Villiers to see how unforgiving the art world could be when one of its members slipped from his pedestal. Being guilty, of course, was not the sin; being found out, that was what could ruin a man.
In fact, ruin was still a long way from staring into Holtz’s face, but he had no intention of letting it get any closer. Extreme problems called for extreme solutions. He looked at his watch and reached for the phone. What should he offer? Seventy-five? A hundred? As he waited for the call to go through, he shook his head at the punitive cost of doing business. Not even deductible, either.
Phone calls at irregular hours were an occupational hazard for Bruno Paradou. In his occupation—he was described on his business card as Security Executive—panic was normal. Clients were always impatient, sometimes desperate. Even so, he was hardly at his best at three a.m., and the growl with which he answered the phone would have discouraged any but the most determined caller.
“Paradou? This is Holtz. I have something for you.”
“Attends.”
Paradou left the bed and his gently snoring wife, and went to take the call in the living room. He looked at the time, collected cigarettes and a notepad, preparing himself—as he always had to whenever he dealt with Holtz—for a bargaining session. “Je vous écoute.”
Holtz described the job, emphasizing the urgency. Paradou mentally raised the price as he repeated the details and prepared himself for the inevitable haggle.
“It’s worth thirty thousand,” said Holtz.
“Each?”
“Are you mad? For all of them.”
“Impossible. You’re only giving me a few hours to set everything up—I have to get in, I have to look, I have to arrange the material. Big hurry, big risk, big price. C’est normal.”
Holtz sighed. He had no options, and he knew it. “Your idea of a big price—what would that be?”
“A hundred thousand.”
There was a whimper, a sound like an animal in pain, before Holtz recovered sufficiently to mutter: “Fifty.”
“Seventy-five.”
“You’re a hard man. I’ll be in Paris tomorrow night, at the Ritz. Call me there.”
Paradou dressed and began to sort through the equipment he thought he would need. He was a compact, stocky man, his black hair still cut en brosse, the way it had always been during his time in the Legion. He had first come to Holtz’s attention some years before, during his early civilian days, when he had worked as a bodyguard for celebrities. There had been a party following an art auction, and Paradou’s client of the evening, a much-divorced film actress, had objected to the persistent attentions of a gossip journalist. Holtz had been greatly impressed by the discreet efficiency with which Paradou had broken the journalist’s nose and arranged for his departure by ambulance. Since then, Holtz had employed him several times, on occasions when his business affairs had required Paradou’s particular skills.
But tonight’s job was in a different league, altogether more ambitious than routine intimidation or the breaking of a few bones, and Paradou found himself humming happily as he zipped his bag closed. Simple violence, as much as he enjoyed it, was no longer enough. He needed a challenge, something that would allow him to use everything the Legion had been kind enough to teach him. And this was his chance, a true test of planning and expertise, not to mention the fee. There was no doubt about it; he was about to move up a level in his chosen profession.
From his apartment in Montparnasse to the Rue des Saints-Pères, the streets deserted and still, took no more than ten minutes. Paradou drove carefully, respecting the traffic lights in case some officious little flic was lurking in a side street, and found a parking spot fifty meters from Franzen’s building. He looked at his watch. Four a.m. He would have liked more time. Slipping on a pair of latex gloves, he checked through the contents of his bag, locked the car, and moved off on silent, rubber-soled feet.
The building was typical of many in the neighborhood, three sides arranged around a courtyard that was sealed off from the street by a high wall and massive double doors. An electronic key pad was set into the wall, its entry code changed each month for the guaranteed security of the residents. Paradou smiled in the darkness. If only they knew, the poor suckers. Landlords in Paris were all the same: too slow and too mean to keep up with modern technology. He took a slim box from his case, placed it over the key pad, switched it on, and read off the display of six digits that flashed up on the tiny screen. Removing the box, he tapped in the entry code, and the heavy door moved inward under his hand.
Standing for a moment in the shadow, feeling the pleasant buzz of adrenaline, Paradou looked around the courtyard. It was unlit except for a lamp above the front door, the squat shapes of flower tubs a deeper black against the cobblestones, the upstairs windows shuttered and dark. So far, so good.
It took him ten seconds to cross the courtyard to the front door, and an old-fashioned lock offered no resistance to the pick. By the light coming into the entrance hall through the glass transom, Paradou could make out a bicycle leaning against the far wall, and the graceful curve of a stone staircase. He went up two flights to the top floor, came to the door on the right of the landing, and found another rudimentary lock that an eight-year-old could have picked. Paradou shook his head. The trust that people put in these flimsy pieces of junk was extraordinary.
Closing the door behind him, he placed his bag carefully on the floor. Up until now, it had been a joyride. Now came the interesting part. Paradou switched on his flashlight.
The beam of light revealed a large room, perhaps forty feet long and almost as wide. Beneath a skylight that had been set into the sloping roof stood an easel and a huge worktable, its surface cluttered with pots of brushes and palette knives, tubes and jars of paint, unmounted rolls of canvas, an old cast-iron cache-clou holding nails and tacks of various sizes, and a dented brass ashtray brimming with cigar butts. Hanging straight down from the top of the easel like a rumpled suicide was a pair of faded blue, paint-stained overalls.
Beyond the work area, a couch and armchairs were grouped around a low table that held piles of books and newspapers, an untouched cup of coffee, and a brandy balloon. Paradou moved on, past a small dining table and into the narrow kitchen, which was separated from the rest of the room by a marble-topped counter. He examined the stove with a nod of approval. He liked gas. It had possibilities.
The bedroom and bathroom, off to one side down a short corridor, provided neither interest nor inspiration, and Paradou came back to the main room. He picked up the brandy glass, sniffed, took a sip; no bite, just the spreading warmth of very good, very old cognac.
He peered through a crack in the shutter at the courtyard below, a two-story drop. If one could ever arrange for three people to join hands and take a dive, it would do the job. Broken necks all around. Fat chance. He took another sip of cognac and started pacing out the distance from the kitchen to the middle of the room. Where would they stop, all together? His eye was caught by an old, cracked painting leaning against a leg of the worktable. Picking it up, he placed it on the empty easel, draping the overalls over most of it so that one corner of the canvas was left visible. Who could resist uncovering it?
It took him an hour to rig the studio, cursing at the lack of time. Given another twenty-four hours to get hold of the right detonators, he could have booby-trapped the whole place and been back in bed when the fireworks started. But dawn wasn’t far away, and before long the building would start waking up. This would have to do. He checked the plastique again, one charge attached to the easel, another to the side of the stove, the wire connecting the two taped to the molding just above the floor or pushed into the cracks between the floorboards. He went back to the kitchen, turned the gas on low, and fixed the latch on the front door so that it could be opened with a twist of the handle. One final look around, and then he closed the door gently and went down the stairs.
They’d be arriving at ten, Holtz had said. He had just over four hours to kill, plenty of time to wait for a parking spot closer to the building. But first, coffee. He walked up to the Boulevard Saint-Germain as the night sky began to give way to the first gray signs of day.
Franzen sat on the edge of his bed. He had passed an uncomfortable and tiring night—fitful bouts of sleep interrupted by the recurring image of Holtz in the Ritz, squatting like a gargoyle over a suitcase filled with money, his finger beckoning. The little bastard didn’t deserve the kind of work Franzen did for him. The Dutchman yawned and stretched, feeling the knots in his back. And then, rubbing the stubble on his chin, he smiled, suddenly in the best of moods. The one overwhelming consolation on this otherwise squalid and depressing morning was under the bed. He had the paintings.
He was whistling by the time he went downstairs to give in his key. The concierge, having exhausted the delights of his magazine, was staring out at the street with bored and bleary eyes.
“It was a night I shall always remember,” said Franzen. “The welcome, the room, the service—exquisite, all
of it.”
The concierge lit a cigarette, not visibly moved by the compliments. “Did you take a shower?”
“There weren’t any towels.”
“I have towels. Twenty francs.”
“If only I’d known,” said Franzen. With his overnight bag in one hand and sixty million dollars in the other, he walked around the corner to the Gare de Lyon, breakfast, and an assessment of his immediate future.
17
FRANZEN sat in the café on the main concourse of the Gare de Lyon and contemplated his croissant, golden in the middle and darker brown at each tip, the way he liked them. He dipped one end in his coffee, bit it off, and chewed thoughtfully. It was surprisingly good for a station croissant, still with its early morning freshness, and the coffee was hot, strong, and restorative. The inner Franzen began to feel slightly more human. The outer man, he noticed as he looked down at his wrinkled shirt and the traces of gravy on his tie, needed some attention. A shave, a shower, a clean shirt—then he would be ready to attack the day. As soon as he finished breakfast, he would find a proper hotel.
The thought of hotels took his mind to the Ritz and, inevitably, to the prospect of seeing Rudolph Holtz again. It had never been something that Franzen enjoyed, and now, after being evicted from his apartment, the Dutchman felt resentment boiling up in him like heartburn. When they had spoken on the phone, Holtz had treated him as though he were nothing more than a lackey; in fact, their relationship, as he looked back on it, had never been much different. Holtz had the jobs, Holtz had the money, and Holtz took pleasure in making people jump. It was in his nature.
