Chasing Cezanne (27 page)

Paradou saw the three human targets, dusty but otherwise unharmed, come out of the building and get into the back of a police car, as a
pompier
ran out to move the fire truck that was blocking their way.

“
Merde!
” Tossing the book on a table, he dashed through the door and off to his car. The bookseller watched his departure with raised eyebrows. Racine was
not to everyone's taste, as he knew, but such a vehement reaction to the great man's work was rare.

The police car drove fast through Saint-Germain, Paradou keeping up with some difficulty, swearing steadily.
Putain
police. They drove like lunatics. He shook his head and fumbled for a cigarette. How could they have walked away from a blast like that? He could see them now, all three in the back seat, the older man turning his head to say something to the girl beside him. Seventy-five thousand dollars was sitting there, not ten meters away. And now, as if he didn't have enough problems, he felt an insistent pressure on his bladder. Where the hell were they going?

With a squeal of tires, the police car turned right off the boulevard into the Rue du Bac and down the side street to stop at the Montalembert, leaving Paradou, in his mounting discomfort, to find somewhere, anywhere, to park his car.

“I don't know about you two,” said Cyrus, “but I could do with a drink.” As they were turning to go into the bar, the girl from the front desk ran across the lobby. “Monsieur Pine? This came just after you left. We tried to catch you”—she gave a charming shrug—“but you were too fast for us.”

Cyrus thanked her and read aloud from the slip of paper: “
Regret change in plans. Please call me at the Relais Christine, 43.26.71.80. Franzen
.”

“Now he tells us,” said Andre. “Do you think he knew?”

“We'll soon find out. Order me the biggest vodka they've got, would you? I'll be right back.”

Andre and Lucy went into the bar, hardly noticing the burly man in dark glasses just ahead of them, somewhat agitated, who ordered a Ricard and asked the whereabouts of the men's room in the same breath. They sat down, and Andre brushed a smudge from Lucy's cheek.

“I'm sorry about all this, Lulu. Are you sure you're all right?”

She nodded. “We were lucky, weren't we? If that old lady hadn't come out …”

Andre took her hand, a cold, still-trembling hand, in both of his. “Rum?”

She grinned. “Double. No ice.”

Paradou returned to the bar, taking a seat as far away as possible from Andre and Lucy. He hid behind a newspaper, nursing his frustration. The only success in an otherwise dismal morning's work was that he knew where they were staying. But for how long? While they remained inside the hotel, there was no chance of his arranging an accident. Holtz had said he would be in Paris by this evening. Maybe he would be able to suggest something. Meanwhile, there was nothing to be done except stay close to them. He signaled for another Ricard, watching over the top of his newspaper as the older man joined the other two.

Cyrus took a deep pull at his vodka and leaned forward, his expression serious, his voice low. “I'm afraid that didn't get us very far,” he said. “Franzen was horrified when I told him about the explosion—sounded very
shocked, asked if you were both OK—and he still wants to meet us. But not in Paris.”

“Why not?”

“Says it's too dangerous. He's got the wind up about something—or someone. But he wouldn't say what or who. Just that Paris was unhealthy for all of us.”

Andre felt Lucy's hand creep into his. “Well, he's been right so far today. Where does he want us to meet him?”

Cyrus stared into his drink, shaking his head. “He said he'd let us know, but he's leaving Paris now. We've just got to sit tight until he calls—oh, and another thing: He said we might be followed.”

Instinctively, they looked around the room, seeing nothing but normality. Couples and groups were at several of the tables—smiling, talking, ordering lunch. A gaunt, pale girl alone at a table for two glanced at her watch in between looking out at the lobby. A man in the far corner was reading a newspaper. The thought of danger in such a pleasant setting, among relaxed, ordinary people, was ridiculous.

“Tell me, Cyrus,” said Andre. “Did you believe him? Why should anyone want to follow us?”

“Here's what I feel.” Cyrus finished his vodka. “First, as I said, he sounded quite genuine. And quite scared. Second, it doesn't take a genius to work out that this has something to do with the painting. And third”—turning to Lucy—“I think it would be better if you went back to New York. You, too, Andre. I'm the one who wants to do a deal. You don't need to get involved.”

They looked at one another without speaking, the
murmur of conversation suddenly louder and more distinct. “… and so I told him,” said an American voice, “if the divorce isn't through next month, I'm out of here, promises or no promises, and screw the love nest. Jesus, these French guys. What do you think? The salmon looks good.”

Lucy giggled. “Come on, Cyrus, loosen up. It was an accident. You smelled the gas. Or maybe it was someone with a grudge against Franzen. Anyway, I'm staying.” She looked at Andre. “We're staying, right?”

Andre smiled at the determined, almost pugnacious set of her jaw. “I think Lulu's right. You're stuck with us, Cyrus.”

“I couldn't be more pleased,” said Cyrus, and indeed they could see the pleasure on his face, the return of a twinkle in his eye as he took a deep, decisive breath. “I seem to remember there's a very nice little place around here called the Cherche-Midi, and there's nothing like a good explosion to give a man an appetite. Shall we?”

Paradou gave them time to cross the lobby and go through the door before following. The pastis had made him hungry, and when, ten minutes later, he watched them go into the little restaurant, he felt hungrier still. After waiting until he was sure that they had been given a table, he went off in search of a sandwich.

FRANZEN joined the traffic on the
périphérique
, relieved to be getting away from Paris and Holtz and murderous psychotics with bombs. He suspected—no, he was almost convinced of it—that Holtz was behind the explosion, only giving him warning to protect the paintings. God bless those paintings, thought Franzen; a portable life insurance policy. What he needed now was a safe haven, time to think, time to decide. And there was, he knew, a fundamental decision to be made: Holtz or Pine. It had to be one or the other.

Without conscious thought, he found himself following the signs leading south, on the A6 that cuts down through Burgundy to Lyon. The south held good memories for him, and one of them in particular just might—with the right mixture of apology, flattery, invention, obvious desperation, and winning charm—provide the answer to his immediate problem. His mind drifted back to Les Crottins, the tiny village lost in the countryside between Aix and the mountains, and the tumbledown house with its view of Mont Sainte-Victoire. And Anouk.

He and Anouk were together—off and on, it had to be said, because of Anouk's highly volatile temperament—for six years. She was in every way an imposing woman: her voice, her height, her opinions, her mane of hair, her presence, her generous contours. Critics might have called her overupholstered. Rubens would not, nor would Franzen. On the whole, those years together had been good years, and seemed even better with the rosy tint that time imparts to these things.

The break had come eighteen months before, over what Franzen considered a trifling artistic misunderstanding. One afternoon, Anouk had returned to the house unexpectedly, to find Franzen adjusting the slender limbs of a village girl who had agreed to pose for him. All would have been well if the girl had been wearing anything more than a garland of flowers in her hair (it was for a painting in the romantic style), or if she had been reclining in a more decorous manner, or indeed if Franzen had been wearing his trousers. As it was, Anouk had jumped to conclusions and had thrown them both out. Attempts to clear up the misunderstanding had failed, and Franzen had retreated to Paris with his tail between his legs.

But time was the great healer, he told himself as the sprawl of Paris gave way to open countryside, and despite her volatile disposition she was a goodhearted woman. He would call her tonight and throw himself on her mercy, a man on the run. With the reconciliation already accomplished in his mind, his thoughts turned to more mundane matters, prompted by a capacious stomach that had been
given nothing since the early morning and that was making audible complaints.

After the squalor of the previous night and the tragedy of a missed lunch, Franzen felt he deserved the consolation of an excellent dinner and a clean bed, and a sign for Macon and Lyon triggered his memory. Somewhere between the two, off to the west, lay the town of Roanne. He and Anouk in their early days had once stopped there for a lunch at Troisgros that came back to him now, a lunch with many chilled pewter jugs of the house Fleurie and seven exquisite courses, a lunch that left them so overcome that they could barely cross the street to the small hotel opposite the restaurant. What fugitive could ask for more? As if confirming the wisdom of the decision, Franzen's foot pressed harder on the accelerator.

Paradou's afternoon was doing nothing to improve his mood. He had taken the chance of going to fetch his car and had sat in it for two hours outside the Cherche-Midi. When at last Andre and the others had left the restaurant, he had followed their taxi to the Eiffel Tower, for another interminable wait. Now they were on the top of the Arc de Triomphe, and Paradou had run out of cigarettes. He used his cell phone to call his wife and see if there were any messages. She asked him if he would be home for dinner. How in God's name did he know? The worst of it was that he knew there was no chance of doing the job on them in
such public places, but at least he would be able to tell Holtz where they had been. It was almost five o'clock. How much longer would they want to stare down at the
putain
Champs Elysées?

“There's one more sight you should see today,” Cyrus said to Lucy as they stood at the bottom of the Arc de Triomphe, the spokes of the great avenues radiating out around them. “Every girl on her first trip to Paris should have a drink at the Ritz, and I can show you the
cinq à sept
.”

Andre grinned. “You're a wicked man, Cyrus.”

“I'm ready for something wicked at the Ritz,” said Lucy. “But what is it?”

“It's an old tradition,” said Cyrus, giving his bow tie a tweak. “The two hours between five and seven are when Parisian gentlemen entertain their mistresses before going home to their wives. Very discreet, very romantic.”

“Romantic?” Lucy stiffened; if she hadn't liked Cyrus so much, she would probably have bristled. “That's
terrible
. That's the most chauvinistic thing I ever heard.”