The Flanders Panel by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

happened one way and not another. Imagine the price
The Game of Chess
could reach at the auction if we managed to do that!”
    “Millions, my dear,” Cesar confirmed, with a sigh dragged from him by the sheer weight of evidence. “Many millions.” He considered the idea, convinced now. “With the right publicity, Claymore’s could increase the opening price three or four times. It’s a gold mine, that painting of yours.”
    “We must go and see Menchu. Now.”
    Cesar shook his head with an air of sulky reserve.
    “Oh no. Anything but that. Out of the question. You’re not going to involve me in any of your friend Menchu’s shenanigans. Though I’m quite happy to stand behind the barriers, as bullfighter’s assistant.”
    “Don’t be difficult. I need you.”
    “I’m entirely at your disposal, my dear. But don’t force me to rub shoulders with that resprayed Nefertiti and her ever-changing crew of panders or, if you want it in the vernacular, pimps. That friend of yours gives me a migraine” - he pressed one temple - “right here. See?”
    “Cesar…”
    “All right, I give in.
Vae victis.
I’ll see Menchu.”
    She planted a resounding kiss on his well-shaven cheek, conscious of the smell of myrrh. Cesar bought his perfume in Paris and his cravats in Rome.
    “I love you, Cesar. Very much.”
    “Don’t you soft-soap me. Fancy trying to get round me like that. At my age too.”
    *       *       *
    Menchu bought her perfume in Paris too, but it was rather less discreet than Cesar’s. She arrived, in a hurry and without Max, and in a cloud of Balenciaga’s Rumba, which preceded her, like an advance party, across the foyer of the Palace Hotel.
    “I’ve got some news,” she said, tapping her nose with one finger and sniffing repeatedly before sitting down. She had obviously just made a pit stop in the Ladies, and a few tiny specks of white dust still clung to her upper lip. That, Julia thought, explained why she was so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
    “Don Manuel is expecting us at his house to discuss the matter,” she said.
    “Don Manuel?”
    “The owner of the painting. Are you being dense? You know, my charming little old man.”
    They ordered mild cocktails, and Julia brought her friend up to date on the results of her research. Menchu opened her eyes wide as she rapidly worked out percentages in her head.
    “That really changes things.” On the linen cloth that covered the low table between them she was busily etching calculations with a blood-red fingernail. “My five per cent is far too little. So I’m going to suggest a deal with the people at Claymore’s: of the fifteen-per-cent commission on the price the painting reaches at auction, they get seven and a half and I get seven and a half.”
    “They’ll never agree. It’s way below their usual profit margin.”
    Menchu burst out laughing. It would be that or nothing. Sotheby’s and Christie’s were just around the corner, and they’d howl with pleasure at the prospect of making off with the Van Huys. It would be a question of take it or leave it.
    “And the owner? Your little old man might have something to say about it. What if he decides to deal directly with Claymore’s? Or with someone else.”
    Menchu gave her an astute look.
    “He can’t. He signed a piece of paper.” She pointed to her short skirt, which revealed a generous amount of leg sheathed in dark stockings. “Besides, as you see, I’m dressed for battle. If my Don Manuel doesn’t fall into line, I’ll take the veil.” As if trying out the effect, she crossed and uncrossed her legs for the benefit of the male customers in the hotel. Satisfied with the results, she turned her attention back to her cocktail. “As for you…”
    “I want one and a half of your seven and a half per cent.”
    Menchu gave a pained yelp. That was a lot of money, she said, scandalised. Three or four times the fee they’d agreed on for the restoration work. Julia