by Peter Mayle
He finished his conversation and was reaching for his glass when the phone rang. “Yes,” he said. “Send him up.”
“Now, sweetie,” said Camilla, “where would you like to eat tonight?”
Holtz picked up his glass and brought it to his nose. “Oh, somewhere simple. Taillevent or the Grand Véfour. You choose. The concierge will get us in.” The first sip of champagne was still prickling against his tongue when there was a knock on the door of the suite.
Camilla opened it, and Paradou came in like a sheepish crab, barely nodding in greeting before he asked to use the bathroom.
Camilla waited until the bathroom door was closed. “Who on earth is he? Does he always walk like that?”
“He’s been doing a little job for me.” Holtz saw no reason to tell Camilla about it; the fewer who knew, the better. He smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid he doesn’t speak English, my dear, so you’ll find our meeting very dull.”
“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 su
mmer 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.
19
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.
Cyrus was shaving, negotiating the tricky planes and crevices just beneath the nose, when the phone rang.
“Good morning, my friend. It’s Nico Franzen. I hope you’re well?” He sounded cheerful and confident, very different from the worried Franzen who had last spoken to him.
“Delighted to hear from you, Nico. Where are you?”
“Well away from Saint-Germain, thank God. Now listen: I’m on my way to stay with a friend near Aix. Could we meet there? It’s easy from Paris. The TGV will get you down to Avignon in four hours, and you can rent a car at the station.”
Cyrus wiped shaving cream from the phone and reached for a notepad and pencil. “We’ll be there. Where do you want to meet?”
“I’ll give you the number where I’ll be. Call me when you get to Aix. We have a lot to talk about.” A brief pause, and then: “Cyrus, you didn’t notice anything yesterday? You weren’t being followed?”
Cyrus thought for a moment. If he mentioned seeing Holtz, there was a chance that he might spook the Dutchman. That could wait until they met. “No, old boy. Nothing.”
“Good, good. Do you have a pencil?” Franzen read out Anouk’s number and listened as Cyrus repeated it. “Tell me something.” There was a note of concern in his voice that made Cyrus frown. “Where did you eat last night?”
“Brasserie Lipp.”
“Choucroute?”
“Of course.”
“Excellent. Well then, à bientôt.”
Cyrus called Andre and Lucy, finished shaving, packed, and was down having coffee in half an hour. They joined him a few minutes later, flushed and slightly tousled and eager for news.
“I told you he’d call,” said Cyrus, the pink of his early morning complexion heightened by excitement. “Now we’re getting somewhere. I’m only sorry that we’re dragging young Lucy away from Paris.” His eyebrows twitched in apology. “But they tell me that Provence isn’t a bad spot. Never been to Aix myself. Have you, Andre?”
“Prettiest girls in the world. University students. Maybe even one or two rich widows. And you’ll like it, Lulu. It’s a beautiful town.”
Lucy employed the pout that she had been practicing after observing Parisian women: lower lip thrust out, mouth turned down, the full oral shrug. “Beautiful girls?” she said. “Sounds like a nightmare. Couldn’t we meet him somewhere else? What’s the French equivalent of Hoboken? There I’d be comfortable.”
By the time they had finished breakfast and settled the hotel bill, Paradou was on his fifth cigarette and wishing he had brought his magazine. When he saw them and their luggage come through the door, his heart sank. They were going to the airport. They were going home. With his hundred thousand dollars. Merde. As a taxi pulled to a stop outside the hotel, he turned on the engine, instinctively checking the fuel gauge.
The taxi crossed the river but, instead of continuing northeast in the direction of Roissy, turned sharp right. Paradou flicked his indicator, much relieved; they had to be going to one of the stations, Austerlitz or Lyon. After another five minutes, it was clear that they were going to the Gare de Lyon. Which meant he would have to leave the car in a tow-away zone. To hell with it. What was a fine compared to a hundred grand? With his free hand, he took the phone from the dashboard and stuffed it in his pocket, while he followed the taxi down to the entrance reserved for TGV passengers. If they already had tickets, it was going to be a scramble to keep up with them. Leaving the car with two wheels cocked on the curb, he took his bag and ran into the concourse.
And skidded to a stop, almost bumping into the girl as she stood looking at magazines on the newsstand. Then he saw the other two. They had joined one of the lines—the long, slow-moving, and, to Paradou, infinitely welcome lines—waiting to buy tickets. He picked up a newspaper and, averting his head, joined the line next to them.
He reached his window just before they reached theirs. The sales clerk stared at him, surly and impatient. “Alors, monsieur?”
Metz? Strasbourg? Marseille? With a muttered excuse, Paradou moved aside and pretended to look for something in his bag, keeping his back to the line next to him, straining his ears.
He very nearly missed it, expecting to hear an American accent instead of Andre’s Parisian French asking for three seats to Avignon. But then, in English: “Cyrus? The next one leaves in ten minutes.”
So it was Avignon. Paradou shouldered his way back into the line, glaring down complaints from a woman and her yapping dog, pushing money through the guichet. He had a few minutes before the train left. No point in calling Holtz yet. He would wait until he was sure all three of them were on board.
Camilla was doing her very best to be bright and cheerful, but it was frightfully hard going. Rudi’s good mood of the previous day had vanished—ruined, she was sure, by that dreadful, uncouth man who had left the lavatory seat up, one of Camilla’s pet peeves. Dinner at Taillevent, in spite of the heavenly food, had been less than sparkling. And all morning, Rudi had done nothing but growl: hardly touched his breakfast, didn’t want his massage, and was really very coarse when she had suggested
lunch with Jean-Paul and Philippe, who were such a fun couple. All in all, she was beginning to wish she hadn’t come. Look at him now, sitting by the phone like a man in a trance. But it was time to make an effort, even if one would rather be spared the sordid details.
“Would it help to talk about it, sweetie?”
Holtz didn’t take his eyes from the phone. “I doubt it.”
Camilla lit a cigarette, puffing smoke in his direction with a toss of her head. “Rudi, there are times when I find your boyish charm quite resistible. I’m only trying to help. What is it? That Dutch person?”
Of course it was that Dutch person, wandering around Paris with a thirty-million-dollar Cézanne. The same Dutch person who was supposed to have called to say where he was. Until he called, until Paradou called, Holtz could do nothing except sit by the phone, a prisoner in the Ritz. He looked up at Camilla. “You don’t really want to know, do you?”
Camilla ducked her head, unable to resist admiring the effect of her two-tone Chanel shoes against the muted pinks and greens of the Aubusson. “Frankly, sweetie,” she said, “no. No, I don’t. I think I might pop out for a stroll.”
Holtz grunted.
The train crept out of the station as the last passengers to board moved through the compartments in search of their seats. Diligent executives took off their jackets and snapped open their laptops, mothers with young children searched in their baggage for toys and distractions, holidaymakers opened their magazines and guidebooks, hardly noticing the train pick up speed—a smooth, gradual acceleration that would take them south at more than a hundred miles an hour.
