Needless to say, it had been many years since Maurice Durand had personally stolen a painting. It was a young man’s profession, and he had retired after a skylight assault on a small gallery in Austria resulted in a back injury that left him in constant pain. Ever since then he had been forced to utilize the services of hired professionals. The arrangement was less than ideal for all the obvious reasons, but Durand treated his fieldmen fairly and paid them exceedingly well. As a result, he had never had a single unpleasant complication. Until now.

It was the south that produced the finest wines in France and, in Durand’s estimation, its best thieves as well. Nowhere was that more true than the ancient port of Marseilles. Stepping from the Gare de Marseille Saint-Charles, Durand was pleased to find the temperature several degrees warmer than it had been in Paris. He walked quickly through the brilliant sunshine along the Boulevard d’Athènes, then turned to the right and headed down to the Old Port. It was approaching midday. The fishing boats had returned from their morning runs and atop the steel tables lining the port’s eastern flank were arrayed all manner of hideous-looking sea creatures, soon to be turned into bouillabaisse by the city’s chefs. Normally, Durand would have stopped to survey the contents of each with an appreciation only a Frenchman could manage, but today he headed straight for the table of a gray-haired man dressed in a tattered wool sweater and a rubber apron. By all appearances, he was a fisherman who scrounged a respectable living from a sea now empty of fish. But Pascal Rameau was anything but respectable. And he didn’t seem surprised to see Maurice Durand.

“How was the catch, Pascal?”

“Merde,” Rameau muttered. “It seems like we get a little less every day. Soon…” He pulled his lips downward into a Gallic expression of disgust. “There’ll be nothing left but garbage.”

“It’s the Italians’ fault,” said Durand.

“Everything is the Italians’ fault,” Rameau said. “How’s your back?”

Durand frowned. “As ever, Pascal.”

Rameau made an empathetic face. “Mine, too. I’m not sure how much longer I can work the boat.”

“You’re the richest man in Marseilles. Why do you still go to sea every morning?”

“I’m one of the richest. And I go out for the same reason you go to your shop.” Rameau smiled and looked at Durand’s attaché case. “You brought the money?”

Durand nodded.

“It’s not wise to carry large amounts of cash in Marseilles. Haven’t you heard, Maurice? This town is full of thieves.”

“Very good thieves,” Durand agreed. “At least, they used to be.”

“A business like ours can be unpredictable.”

“Weren’t you the one who always told me that blood is bad for business, Pascal?”

“That’s true. But sometimes it’s unavoidable.”

“Where is he?”