Chasing Cezanne by Peter Mayle Page A

there,” Denoyer said. “It’s closed up for the winter—but of course, you saw that. We don’t go back until April.”
    â€œWell, the odd thing was, I did see your caretaker.”
    â€œClaude? I should hope so.” Denoyer laughed. “I wouldn’t want him anywhere else while we’re away.”
    â€œPerhaps I should say that what he was doing was odd.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œAnd I thought you should know. He and another man were loading one of your paintings—the Cézanne—into a van. A plumber’s van. I watched them from the gate.”
    There was nothing but static on the line for a few moments, and then Denoyer’s voice, sounding more amused than surprised. “Come, now, my friend. A plumber’s van? You were at the gate, no? That’s quite a distance from the house. Your eyes were playing tricks.” He chuckled. “It wasn’t after a good lunch, was it?”
    â€œIt was in the morning.” Andre took a deep breath. “And I took photographs. Everything’s very clear. Everything.”
    Another pause. “
Ah bon?
Well, I expect Claude was doing a little spring cleaning. I’ll call him.” And then, in a light, casual tone of voice, a mere afterthought, he added: “But it would be amusing to see the photographs. Would you mind sending them down?”
    Light and casual it may have been, but not altogether convincing. There had been a suspicion of interest, something more than passing curiosity, and Andre found himself wanting to see Denoyer’s face when he looked at the photographs. “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “I’llbring them.” He found the lie came easily. “I’ve got to look at a house in Miami next week. It’s only a hop over from there to Nassau.”
    After a few token protestations from Denoyer, it was agreed. Andre spent the rest of the morning arranging flights and trying to reach Lucy. She was out. Maybe the striped shirt had persuaded her to spend a rustic Sunday in the arctic wastes of Central Park. Maybe she had never come home after dinner. What a hideous thought, and what a waste. He had to stop traveling so much. He tipped the wrinkled contents of his bag into the laundry basket and played some Wagner very loud as he started packing for the Bahamas.

5
    MANHATTAN was melting. Overnight, a warm front had crept into the city, turning the piled snow into gray ooze, exposing the heaps of uncollected garbage sacks to the pale sun, bringing joy to the hearts of those responsible for the strike. Soon the garbage would begin to announce its presence to the noses of several million passersby, and with the powerful endorsement of the stench, the union men could resume negotiations.
    Andre waded through the streams and tributaries of West Broadway, stamping the worst of the slush from his feet before going up to the office. He found Lucy on the phone, a frown on her face, her voice terse. She looked up at Andre and rolled her eyes. He dug in his bag for the folder containing the shots he had taken of the icons and took a seat on the company couch.
    â€œNo.” Lucy’s frown deepened. “No, I can’t. I’m tied up this week. I don’t know when. Listen, I’ve got to go. Someone’s waiting. Yes, I have your number. Right.And you.” She put down the phone and blew out a long breath, shaking her head as she stood up.
    Andre grinned. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything,” he said, feeling sure that he had. “Not our friend in the striped shirt, was it?”
    Lucy tried to scowl at him, then relented. “I should have gone around the corner with you while I had the chance. What an evening. And I thought he was a possible.” She pushed her hands through her hair. “Have you ever been to a cigar bar?”
    Andre shook his head.
    â€œDon’t.”
    â€œToo much smoke?”
    â€œToo many