Chasing Cezanne by Peter Mayle Page B

Arabia, in California, in Japan. He himself had assisted once or twice in discreet maneuvers designed to minimize inheritance taxes. Paintings valued in the millions were often too expensive to keep. These days, you had to be very careful when and where and how you died. As Andre talked on, Pine began to feel stirrings of interest. Odd little incidents like this deservedto be taken seriously in a business that had once been described as shady people peddling bright colors.
    Andre finished talking and picked up his glass. “Mr. Pine, let me ask you something. What do you think that painting’s worth? Just a guess.”
    â€œAh. The same question occurred to me while you were talking. Let’s start with what we know.” Pine rubbed the side of his jaw reflectively. “A year or so ago, the Getty Museum bought a nice Cézanne—
Still Life with Apples
—for more than thirty million dollars. That was the reported price. Now, given certain obvious requirements, like proof of authenticity and the good condition of the painting, I’d have to say that
Woman with Melons
could fetch as much or more. The fact that it once belonged to Renoir doesn’t hurt, of course; nor does its long absence from the market. Collectors sometimes find those things extremely attractive. It’s difficult to put a price on them.” He gave a mischievous smile, his eyebrows twitching upward. “Although I’d love to try. But let’s be conservative and stick to thirty million.”
    â€œ
Merde,
” said Andre.
    â€œIndeed.” Pine stood up. “Let me have your number. I’ll ask around. The art business is an international village inhabited by gossips. I’ve no doubt someone will know something.” Another twitch from the eyebrows. “If there’s anything to know.”
    There was a gentle tap on the door, and Miss Fifth Avenue appeared. “Mr. Pine, you should be going.”
    â€œThank you, Courtney. I’ll be back by two-thirty.Make sure all your admirers have left by then, would you?” Courtney giggled as she opened the front door, her cheeks rosy with the faint traces of a blush.
    The two men left the house together, with Andre murmuring something complimentary about the girl as they went down the front steps. Pine buttoned his jacket and shot his cuffs. “One of the advantages of being in a business where appearances are important is that you can hire pretty girls with a completely clear conscience. And they’re deductible. I do love pretty girls, don’t you?”
    â€œWhenever I get the chance,” said Andre.
    They parted company on the corner of Sixty-third and Madison. As he was uptown, Andre decided to walk to
DQ
’s offices and see if he could catch Camilla. The last time they had spoken, she had brushed him off, and none of his subsequent calls had been returned. Her continued silence was beginning to puzzle him. It was unlike her; she wasn’t pleased when he worked for someone else, and normally she called often, even when she had no job to discuss. Just keeping you warm, sweetie, she had once admitted to him.
    The milder weather had brought out the usual rich variety of Madison Avenue street life: tourists wearing jeans and running shoes and apprehensive, about-to-be-mugged expressions; businessmen bellowing into cellular phones to make themselves heard above the din; boutique vultures, hair frosted, faces lifted, shopping bags bulging; beggars, Rollerbladers, massage parlor touts, vendors selling everything from pretzels to fifty-dollar Rolex ripoffs—and, drowning out conversation or evenlucid thought, the unremitting cacophony of hoots and squawks, horns and sirens, the pneumatic grunting of buses, the squeal of tires and gunning of engines, the mechanical bedlam of a city in a perpetual hurry.
    The midday exodus was at its height by the time Andre reached the
DQ
building, with a stream of humanity flooding across the