The French Kiss Read Online Free PDF Page B

before they brushed their teeth. There were sudden trends and even suddener flops, and posturers and simpletons on both sides of the checkbook. As a result, some works of art were traded at unthinkable prices, but a lot more had been quietly withdrawn from sale. Some of the long-established galleries were even in serious financial difficulty.
    â€œDon’t misunderstand me, Mr. Cage,” said Bernard Lascault, “none of this has yet to have a direct effect on my organ-eye-zation. In point of fact I believe that a certain shaking-out process would be a very beneficial, a healthy, a necessary thing. Besides Art—real Art, good Art—remains one of the soundest placements an astute investor can make, the more so in precarious times.”
    Well, glad as I might have been to hear it, I still didn’t see what it had to do with me. And I was on the verge of saying so again when he changed the subject.
    â€œTell me if I may be so bold,” he said, gesturing at my pipe, “what’s that tobacco you’re smoking? It has an unusual aroma, very pleasant.”
    â€œIt’s Erinmore,” I answered. “Murray’s Erinmore Flake.”
    â€œOdd name.”
    â€œIt’s Irish.”
    â€œIrish? You’re not Irish in origin by any chance?”
    â€œNo,” I said, “but I like their tobacco.”
    â€œAnd the Scottish, I notice, for their whiskey?”
    I nodded.
    â€œAnd us French …? For our women?”
    If this lit a small warning in my brain, I paid it no attention. He stared blandly across at me, between heavy lids that looked like they were standing guard over his eyes. Then he said:
    â€œTell me, Mr. Cage, what do you know about a certain Alain Dove?”
    I did a double take over the way he pronounced the name, then a triple take and a lot of other takes besides. He was a lot cuter than I’d given him credit for.
    â€œI used to know an Al Dove,” I said, “if we’re talking about the same person.”
    â€œI think we are,” Bernard Lascault answered mildly.
    â€œI haven’t seen him in years. The last I heard of him he was up to his neck in a California real-estate mess. You could look it up, it made the headlines.”
    â€œYes. It was called Rancho del Cielo, wasn’t it?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œAnd before that? There was some sort of obscure affair concerning drugs in which you yourself were somehow involved, if I’m not mistaken?”
    â€œAn obscure affair,” I agreed. Maybe it was around in there that my palms began to sweat, just a little.
    â€œThere was a woman involved in it too, wasn’t there? Who later became Mrs. Dove?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œYes. Well then, suppose I were to tell you your friend has since become … how shall I say? … one of the hottest dealers in the field of international art?”
    I thought it over.
    â€œWell,” I said, “you yourself talked about posturers and simpletons …”
    He laughed heartily at that, all the way down to his epiglottis.
    â€œPosturer perhaps. But simpleton? I’d hardly think so.”
    According to Bernard Lascault, Al Dove was primarily a dealer’s dealer. In French they called that a courtier . He’d hit the market like a thunderstorm a few years back, and the new American boom in Europe had been largely his doing. All the established galleries had dealt with him, Arts Mondiaux included, and if there’d been one or two “disquieting” incidents, nobody had asked too many questions. But conditions had changed, the market had gone soft, and Al Dove lacked control. At least that was how Bernard Lascault put it. The way I interpreted it, in a seller’s market anything went, including your Great-Aunt Minnie’s childhood etchings, but when the buyers started staying home, then people began to worry about finer points, like maybe stolen