Chasing Cezanne Read Online Free

Yard’s Art and Antiques Squad of Norway’s most famous painting:
The Scream
, by Edvard Munch, valued at forty-fivemillion dollars. It had been stolen in 1994 and found two years later in a cellar in southern Norway, wrapped in a sheet. Holtz shook his head.
    He read on. A “conservative” estimate of the value of stolen or missing art around the world was well in excess of three billion dollars, according to the journalist, a statistic that brought a contented smile to Holtz’s face. How fortunate he had been to meet Camilla two years before.
    Their relationship had begun socially, when they had met at one of the gallery shows Holtz routinely attended in his legitimate capacity of dealer in fine arts. While he had been bored by the paintings, Camilla had intrigued him. He sensed that they might have something in common, and this was confirmed during an exploratory lunch the following week. Beneath the banalities of polite conversation ran an undercurrent, the first signs of a meeting of minds and ambitions. Dinners had followed, the verbal fencing had given way to something approaching honesty, and by the time Camilla had taken to sharing Holtz’s four-poster bed, surrounded by the splendors of Holtz’s Park Avenue apartment, it was clear to both of them that they were made for each other, soul mates in greed.
    Dear Camilla. Holtz finished his tea and stood up to look through the window at the sleet slanting down. It was past four o’clock, and in the icy murk of Park Avenue, fifteen stories below, people battled for cabs. On Lexington, they would be waiting in sodden lines for buses. How agreeable it was to be warm and rich.

2
    â€œDID you pack these bags yourself?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHave they been out of your sight since you packed them?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAre you carrying any gifts or other items on behalf of someone else?”
    â€œNo.”
    The girl at Delta’s business class desk flicked through the passport.
Name: Andre Kelly. Place of birth: Paris, France. Date of birth: June 14, 1965
. She glanced up for the first time, to check that flesh and blood resembled the photograph, and saw a pleasant, square-jawed face under cropped black hair, a face made striking by the green eyes that were looking back at her. She had never seen truly green eyes before and found herself staring into them, fascinated.
    Andre grinned. “My father’s Irish. Green eyes run in the family.”
    The girl colored slightly. “That obvious, was it?Sorry. I guess it happens a lot.” She busied herself with the ticket and luggage tags, while Andre looked around at his fellow passengers on the night flight to Nice. They were French businessmen for the most part, weariness on their faces after their having to deal with the New York weather, the New York noise and energy, the machine-gun rhythms of New York English, so different from the measured enunciations that Berlitz had taught them.
    â€œYou’re all set, Mr. Kelly.” The girl returned his passport and ticket. “Can I ask you something? If you’re Irish, how come you were born in Paris?”
    â€œMy mother was there at the time.” Andre stuck his boarding card in his top pocket. “She’s French. I’m a mongrel.”
    â€œOh, really? Great. Well, have a nice flight.”
    He joined the line shuffling onto the plane, hoping that he would have an empty seat next to him, or a pretty girl, or, a poor but acceptable third, an executive too exhausted to talk.
    He had just settled into his seat when he felt a presence hovering over him; looking up, he saw the encumbered body and tense, thin face of a young woman dressed in the standard corporate uniform of dark power suit and attaché case, a bulging black bag slung over one shoulder. Andre got up to let her through to the window seat.
    The young woman stood her ground. “They promised me aisle. I always have