Chasing Cezanne (34 page)

“Rudi, this is ridiculous.” Camilla was feeling shattered, absolutely shattered, even though she had spent the last half hour with her eyes tightly closed. “It's just not on—I mean, guns and—”

“Shut up, woman. Paradou, what do you think?”

“The autoroute is not good for us, but they can't stay on the autoroute forever. We keep with them and wait.”

Camilla tried again. “Suppose they go to the police?”

“They have a stolen painting and a forgery in the car,” said Holtz. “I am trying to reclaim my property. I don't mind if they go to the police, but they won't. You're right, Paradou. Stay with them.”

And stay with them he did, past Brignoles and Fréjus, past Cannes and Antibes, never more than two or three car lengths behind. Camilla huddled in the corner, wishing she were back in the tranquil safety of New York. Holtz reflected on the possibilities: If he were them, he'd head
for Italy, cut up to Switzerland, and take the painting to the man in Zurich. Pine would know where to go. But that was a long way. They would have to stop for gasoline. Night would eventually fall. Paradou would get his chance. In a long and crooked career, Holtz had learned the value of patience. Sooner or later, everyone made a mistake.

There is a limit to the amount of nervous anxiety the human system can take before it adjusts, stops panicking, and reverts to some kind of logical thought. Over the course of two hours, the occupants of Franzen's Citroen had made that adjustment, but as Cap Ferrat grew closer, the white Renault was still with them, sometimes in one lane, sometimes in another, but always there in the rearview mirror.

It was Andre who suggested a detour to Nice airport. “First, the place is always crawling with cars, so we might have a chance of losing them. And when they see us turn off, they'll think we're going to take a plane. We go into one of the parking areas, straight through the other side, and out.” Franzen nodded, tightening his grip on the steering wheel.

“Goddamn it,” said Holtz. “They're going to take a plane.” Paradou did his best to stay within sight of the other car as it joined the melee of traffic fighting its way
through the labyrinth of service roads that coiled around three sides of the main bank of buildings. He was foiled by a tourist bus pulling out in front of them, lost two precious minutes, and by the time the road cleared, the Citroen was gone.

“Go straight to the terminal,” said Holtz.

But as they quickly discovered, Nice airport has two terminals, a considerable distance apart. Leaving Camilla and Holtz in the car outside one of them, Paradou ran up to the other and was rewarded by the sight of the back of Franzen's Citroen as it swerved out of the car park and took the exit road marked
Toutes Directions
.

Sweating, murderously angry, short of breath, he got back to the Renault, to find it surrounded by a knot of taxi drivers—voluble, gesticulating taxi drivers, who were shouting at the two figures cowering in the back to move their
putain
car from the rank where it was forbidden to stop, where it was trespassing on the taxi drivers' God-granted right to every parking space outside the terminal. He pushed through them, none too gently, and got into the car. “The bastards conned us,” he said. “I saw them go.”

Andre looked back at the traffic behind them on the Promenade des Anglais. Every other car seemed to be a white Renault. “I can't be sure,” he said. “But I know they weren't behind us coming out of the airport. I think we're OK.”

Franzen grunted. Cyrus stayed silent, going over in
his mind what he would say to Denoyer. Andre and Lucy continued to keep watch through the rear window as the signs for Villefranche and Saint-Jean came up and the Citroen turned down toward the sea.

Denoyer waved goodbye to his wife, pleased to have the afternoon to himself while she and Claude went into Nice. In previous years, he had always loved his first few days back on Cap Ferrat: the peace before the summer guests came, the garden with its pines and cypresses such a sculpted, orderly pleasure after the extravagant vegetation of the Bahamas, the different taste of the air, the comfort of his wine cellar and his library. There was much for a man to enjoy. But this year it wasn't quite the same. Try as he might to believe the reassuring words of Rudolph Holtz the last time they had spoken, the Cézanne was never far from his mind, and the lack of information over the past few days was disturbing. He would call Holtz again tomorrow—no, he would call him now. Surely there would be news.

He was halfway across the hall when he heard the sound of the buzzer.

“Monsieur Denoyer?” said an unknown voice over the intercom. “
Livraison
.”

Something else that Catherine had ordered. There was always a flurry of deliveries during their first days back. Denoyer pressed the button that opened the main gate and went to stand outside the front door.

The white Renault sat in the airport's short-term parking area, cooking in the sun, a situation that did nothing to improve the already overheated tempers inside the car. Camilla sulked, thoroughly bored with Rudi, Paradou, nasty little cars, France, and wild-goose chases. Her solution to the problem—to walk over to the terminal and take the first flight to Paris—had produced a predictably stinging response from Holtz. She now sat, lips firmly sealed, staring with distaste at the perspiration running down the back of Paradou's thick neck. Holtz was muttering to himself, thinking out loud.

“That might be it,” he said finally. “They think they can sell independently; they might be going to do a deal. It's all we've got anyway. Paradou? Cap Ferrat, as fast as you can.” Camilla recoiled as Holtz suddenly turned to her. “You can find Denoyer's house, can't you? You spent enough time there.”

“What are you going to say to him?” But Holtz was already far away, his imagination hard at work on a story of Franzen's theft, double-crossing, duplicity, and his own hero's role as last-minute savior.

It had been a startling, almost shocking half hour for Denoyer as he tried to absorb the details that Cyrus and Andre took turns in describing. While they talked, his eye
kept returning to the paintings propped up against a chair. Whatever else these people had done, he thought, they had at least brought back his Cézanne. And that indicated a certain honesty. Could he believe them? Could he trust them? Did he have to, with the painting back in his possession?

“It goes without saying,” said Cyrus, “that you may not want to have anything more to do with us”—a doleful look—“but should you decide to go ahead with the sale, I think I can promise you the utmost discretion, and obviously I'll be happy to provide any references you may require.”

Denoyer looked at the four attentive faces around him, looked again at the paintings—the forger had really done a formidable job—and shrugged. “You're not expecting an instant decision?”

Of course I am, thought Cyrus. “Of course not,” he said.

The buzzer sounded out in the hall, and Denoyer excused himself. He was a puzzled man when he came back into the room. “Someone who says he's with Rudolph Holtz,” he said. “I didn't open the gate.”

Through the open window, they heard the popping sound of two gunshots in quick succession, then a third. “I think he's opening it himself,” said Andre. “Is there another way out of here?”

Denoyer looked through the window. At the end of the drive, a figure was kicking at the bars of the gate. “Come with me.” Scooping up the paintings, he led them
through to the back of the house, out across a terrace, down into the tunnel to the dock. “I have to call the police,” said Denoyer. “This is outrageous.”