Chasing Cezanne by Peter Mayle

one of several hundred criminal incidents that had taken place in the city since the weekend, and on a list headed by homicides, rapes, overdoses, and the start of the hunting season in the subway, petty larceny ranked low. If Andre would like to bring the details into the precinct house, the burglary would be officially recorded. And there, barring an extraordinarily lucky break, the file would gather dust. Andre was advised to change his locks.
    The insurance company: instantly defensive, with the professional skepticism and the barrage of fine-print questions that provide such comfort in times of crisis and misfortune. Were all doors and windows locked? Was the alarm system set? Did Andre possess all the required paperwork—receipts, dates of purchase, serial numbers, estimated replacement costs? No action could be taken without this crucial information. Meanwhile, he was advised to change his locks. As Andre hung up, he remembered the company’s advertising slogan, delivered at the end of every commercial by a voice dripping with saccharine sincerity: something about a friend in need.
    Lucy: and finally some sympathy. She told him she would be there as soon as she had closed up the office.
    She stood in the living room surveying the wreckage,her face tight with dismay and anger. She was wearing the beret he had bought her in Nice. It was the best thing he had seen all day, and it made him smile.
    â€œIt suits you, Lulu. I think I’ll get you a bike and a string of onions to go with it.”
    She took it off and shook her hair. “If you’re going to be all manly and brave, I’m not going to take you out to dinner. Lord God, what a mess.”
    They started in the bedroom, Lucy quick and deft as she folded clothes, hung them up, or consigned them to the laundry basket. After seeing Andre’s labored efforts with a sweater, she sent him off to the living room, hoping his domestic education had at least included lessons on how to operate a broom. Without thinking, he picked out a Marley CD and put it on, and it wasn’t until he turned away from the stereo that something struck him as very odd: There shouldn’t have been a stereo. Why hadn’t it gone with everything else? And then, as he started to sweep up the shards of broken glass, he went over what had been taken; or, rather, what hadn’t: not the stereo, not the TV, not the shortwave bedside radio, not the mobile phone, not even the half-dozen silver Art Nouveau photograph frames that were now lying on the floor beneath the shelf where they normally stood. It didn’t make sense, unless the burglars were planning to set up as professional photographers. But if all they wanted was equipment, why take his transparencies? Why take his stock of film from the fridge? Why tear the place apart? What were they looking for?
    Two hours later, although a semblance of order had returned to the apartment, Lucy showed no signs of slowing down; nor of hunger or thirst, both of which were starting to distract Andre from his household duties. He stopped her as she came across the room balancing a stack of books that reached up to her chin.
    â€œEnough, Lulu, enough.” He took the books from her and put them down. “You said something about dinner, or are you having too much fun to stop?”
    Lucy put her hands on her hips and eased her back. “Well, it’ll do for tonight. Do you have a maid service?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNo, I thought not. I’ll get someone over tomorrow. The place could do with a good scrub. So could the windows. Have those windows ever been cleaned? And Andre? Yogurt doesn’t last forever, even in a fridge. When it starts to glow in the dark, you get rid of it, OK?”
    Andre suddenly had the feeling—a strange but pleasant feeling—that part of his personal life was coming under new management. He helped Lucy on with her coat. She picked up her beret and looked around the