by Thomas Swan
“Want to come with me?” Oxby asked. “They’ve destroyed three of them now, and it’s damned serious destruction that’s going on.”
“I can’t, Jack. I’ve got to meet Helen, and we leave tomorrow. It’s why I took a chance I’d catch you this morning.”
“I’d like for you to come,” Oxby said.
Tobias shook his head. “And I’d like to go.”
Oxby was assigned a standard Ford Escort with a black exterior, gray interior, both in need of a thorough scrubbing. He drove south from London over the Vauxhall Bridge, through Kensington, then on the A23 to Surrey.
Oxby and Pinkster had met at a furniture auction, but it was doubtful the wealthy art collector would remember their brief encounter. Oxby remembered. Alan Pinkster was thirty-eight years old, tenuously married to his third wife, and the father of one daughter, now ten, who lived with her mother. Wife number one, on whom Pinkster had settled a small fortune, had recently been in the news about her own remarriage. Although Pinkster had been labeled a billionaire in New York, the financial community in London wondered how much of his assets were offset by deals and heavy borrowing. Having learned the art of arbitrage from a trio of infamous Wall Streeters with whom he had worked for three years, Pinkster knew that a small percentage of a massive amount of money was a surefire route to great wealth. An expert in junk bonds, he had made megamillion-dollar leveraged buyouts by the time he was twenty-seven. There was little doubt on either side of the Atlantic that Alan Pinkster knew how to make and spend money on a grand scale.
His home was near Bletchingly, a country town in the heart of Surrey. Over several years, aided consecutively by his three wives and twice as many interior designers, he had put an old manor house through an arduous renovation. Pinkster had also built a modest-sized gallery to house his surprisingly impressive art collection.
Waiting beside an elongated Mercedes parked next to the gallery was a clearly agitated Alan Pinkster.
“Are you from the police?” he asked abruptly.
Oxby was equally abrupt. “Yes,” and offered his card.
Pinkster had an intensity about him: firm set mouth, and dark eyes that fixed on whomever he was talking with. His hair was brown and groomed, and his body was fit and covered with expensive clothes.
“I want the bloody bastard that did this to pay an awful price,” Pinkster said angrily.
“What price had you in mind?” Oxby asked.
“I’m serious. I want whoever did it to be hurt. Hurt painfully, then put away for a good long time.”
“That would indeed be a high price,” Oxby agreed.
Pinkster led the way into the gallery. There had been a gala celebration when Alan Pinkster officially opened his gallery two years earlier. A grand affair, by all accounts, replete with tents and sculpted ice and buffet tables lined with food and fine wines. CNN televised it, and the BBC put it on the news. It had been another attempt mounted on a monumental scale for Pinkster to crash into London society.
The basement of the gallery was half display, the other half given over to restoration and repair. On a large table under bright lights was the self-portrait. A glance at the painting proved to Oxby that its condition was even more grotesque than he had imagined. The face of the artist was discernible but as if drawn by an insane hand. An ear had come loose from where it belonged and was about where the nose should be. The mouth was a gaping red hole. The eyes had slid into the blackness of Cézanne’s beard. Oxby’s revulsion was as much over the painting’s hideous distortion as the cruel fact that a great painting had been senselessly destroyed.
Oxby broke the silence. “When did you learn about this?”
“First thing this morning.”
“Can you be more specific?”
Oxby looked inquiringly at the small group huddled near the door. Here was the gallery’s curatorial staff, competent by all accounts. A young man spoke up.
“Eight o’clock. I was the first to spot it. Usually Mr. Boggs is here before eight, but he hasn’t shown all day.” Boggs was Clarence Boggs, formerly the senior curator of the Wallace Collection in London and known to be conscientious and loyal.
“Eight this morning is when you discovered it,” Oxby said. “But not when someone poured acid on it.”
Pinkster was impatient, “It was perfectly fine late yesterday, and this morning—”
“I’d like to meet with Boggs,” Oxby said.
“And so would I,” Pinkster said irritably. “Where in God’s name is he?” He aimed his question at the three men and two women who constituted the group by the door.
The same young man spoke again and said that Boggs seemed upset over a phone call he had received the previous afternoon.
“When was that?” Oxby asked.
“Just as the Danish group was leaving.”
“And what happened?”
“He went off. Put on that old hat he always wears, took his stick, and went off.”
“What kind of stick?”
“Just a walking stick. Mr. Boggs is a walker. Says it helps get his mind sorted out when there’s a problem.” The young man added, “His daughter’s had problems lately.”
Oxby approached the small group. “I would like to have a brief chat with each one of you before you leave. As it is important that you tell me what you have observed in the last twenty-four hours, I’ll ask that you don’t talk among yourselves about the painting or speculate as to what might have happened yesterday.”
They looked at each other, shrugged, and began to make a silent exit from the room. When they were gone, Oxby walked to the table and stood opposite from Pinkster, the destroyed portrait between them.
“How much insurance do you carry?” Oxby asked conversationally.
“I don’t know. My collection has been assessed in astronomical numbers, but it would hardly fetch those figures, even in a good auction.”
“I recall that you paid a little over three million pounds for the Cézanne landscape. You’ve owned it for five years, and it would probably bring seven, perhaps eight million today.” Oxby’s memory was to the art world what a conductor’s mastery of a symphonic score was to music. He could match painting to purchaser, to price, to date of sale and, finally, to the auction house. “I also recall that you came across the self-portrait in a business transaction.”
“It was one of the few unemcumbered assets owned by the Weissmann brothers. We bought their brokerage company shortly after the drop in stock prices in 1987. Their business had fallen to a trickle, and they were getting old, both in their eighties. George Weissmann died in December of that year, and Louis had a stroke several years after that and has been in a wheelchair ever since.”
“Did you know they owned a Cézanne self-portrait?”
“It’s my business to know such things.”
“How much did you pay for their company?” Oxby didn’t expect an answer, and Pinkster didn’t disappoint him.
“It was a private transaction,” Pinkster replied stiffly. “The matter has no relevance to your investigation.”
“Perhaps not, for the present, at least.” Oxby gave notice that the issue was not dead.
“When do you plan to interrogate the staff?”
“Shortly,” Oxby replied. “But first I have one or two questions I hope you will answer.”
“Of course.” Pinkster crossed his arms over his chest, the dark eyes fixed intently on Oxby.
“Where did you spend yesterday?”
“In my London office. I had a brief lunch at the Connaught. Returned to Bletchingly at seven. We had guests for dinner.”
Oxby was amused that anyone could have a brief lunch at the Connaught.
“Have you received any phone calls or correspondence that have been out of the ordinary?”
Pinkster reflected for a moment, then shook his head. “Can’t say I have. But all that sort of thing is screened by my secretary.”
“Perhaps I’ll talk with her.”
Pinkster then abruptly ended the interview by turning away and walking off in the direction of his house. Oxby returned to the gallery. One by one he interviewed the staff, and once again the young man who had spoken up earlier was most anxious to share all he knew. He was slight, with blonde hair and soft features. His name was David Blaney. As he had with the others, Oxby exchanged small talk, then informally eased into a conversation centered on the previous day.
“Had you any particular assignments to deal with yesterday?” Oxby asked.
“For some weeks now I’ve been preparing a brochure designed to show off Mr. Pinkster’s collection, as well as the building. It’s quite unique to work in a small museum that has all the challenges and problems of a large gallery. Yesterday we were photographing some of the statuary. We have a Rodin and one by Henry Moore, you know.”
Oxby was impressed and said so. “A group from the Danish embassy was here. You saw them?”
“Indeed. I had the photographer take candid shots of the group. I thought I’d work one into the brochure.” Then David shook his head. “But they were nearly all women.”
“Something wrong with women?” Oxby asked with a bemused smile.
“Nothing at all,” David replied defensively. “But I was hoping to use a picture that had both men and women in it.”
“Do you have the photographs?”
“I’ll have proofs in a day or two.”
“Ask your photographer to safeguard the negatives. I’ll want to see all of the photos he took.”
“He can be the devil to get on the phone, but I’ll try.”
“When did you last take a close look at the portrait?”
“Two days ago we fussed over it for several hours. Cézanne often laid his paint heavily on the canvas, and on that portrait the impasto was very heavy, as if he had used a cement trowel to lay down the paint. ...”His voice trailed off.
Following the interviews, Oxby returned to his car to wait for Nigel Jones and to record his impressions of the time he had spent with Pinkster and his gallery staff. Suddenly there was loud shouting, and Oxby looked up to see Alan Pinkster running toward the gallery. Pinkster’s face was flushed, and agitation showed in the way his head jerked nervously. His feet clattered over the gravel driveway, and he stopped a few feet from Oxby. His lips were moving, but there was no sound. Then came the words: “The police called.” Pinkster’s eyes widened into a helpless stare. “Boggs has been murdered!”
Chapter 4
It was a minute past one on Wednesday, and the main terminal of Gatwick Airport, London’s number-two terminal, was choked with passengers. A man approached the newsstand off the south corridor. He was carrying an oddly shaped black bag, a small satchel shaped somewhat like an oversized sausage. He was tall, over six feet, and wore a dark blue suit, shirt with no tie, opaque sunglasses, and a summer straw hat with a broad brim. As he moved past the newsstand he swept up a copy of the Financial Times and the International Herald Tribune. He studied the front pages of the tabloids, chose one, tucked all three newspapers under his arm and paid for them, then went into the adjoining restaurant and bought coffee, which he took to a table against the wall where he was in clear sight of the restaurant’s entrance. He snapped open the Times to the stock listings and scanned the columns, pausing occasionally as if interested in a particular company. Next he leafed through the pages of the Tribune. It was a bold line of type running across the bottom of the Sun that had caught his attention: CURATOR OF PRIVATE GALLERY SLAIN.
On page three was a photograph of the Pinkster Gallery and another of Clarence Boggs and Alan Pinkster admiring a nude statue by Rodin taken on the day it had been placed in the gallery. The article was brief and included a statement by the Reigate police implying that Boggs had been murdered but that further details would be announced pending results of an investigation being conducted by a team from the Metropolitan Police. On the chair beside him he placed the black bag and his hat, then he leaned back and sipped the coffee. It was cold.
There was a bigness to the man: broad through the shoulders; long and thick-fingered hands; a large, somewhat handsome face. His light-brown hair was streaked with sun-yellowed strands and combed back over his ears. His lips were full and set over a wide chin in which there was a deep cleft, which was slightly off center and made one side of his face seem broader than the other. He glared up to the digital clock above the cashier: 1:14. He lowered his gaze to watch a woman push her tray forward, pay the cashier, then turn to survey the room. She was simply dressed in a sweater and slacks; her dark hair framed a pretty face that showed only a blush of pink lipstick. Astrid Haraldsen had put herself together for traveling: plain and comfortable and incognito. She walked to the table next to where the tall man sat and pushed aside the empty cups and the ashtray.
“Won’t you sit here?” he asked in a deep voice with the unmistakable singsong lilt that clearly suggested he was Scandinavian. “That table is very messy.”
“Norsk?” She asked.
“Ja,” he smiled.
She placed her tray at his table and sat. They talked amiably for several minutes, speaking in a blend of Norwegian and English. A young couple came to a nearby table. They giggled and occasionally leaned together and kissed. Astrid watched them, and she looked at the other tables and at the people waiting to pay the cashier. The smile she had brought to the table faded.
“You look tired,” he said without inflection. When he continued he spoke only in Norwegian. “Your hair is showing under the wig. Fix it before the wrong person becomes curious.”
He watched as she felt for the line of hair that covered the pale yellow of her own. She pulled a wave of dark hair over the top of her forehead. “You look pale,” he said. “Do you feel all right?”
“Why did you do it?” she said in a thin voice, ignoring his question. “Why, Peder?”
The man she called Peder put the black bag on his lap and set his hands on top of it, one across the other. “The curator was a potential troublemaker. He followed us into the gallery after I sprayed the painting, and I was certain he had smelled the solvent.”
She shook her head. “No. There was a strong odor of paint in that room. You heard someone say that the ceiling had been painted that morning.” She rubbed her hands nervously, “ A miracle, you said.”
“A coincidence,” I said. “But it was no miracle that you asked questions about one of the paintings. You were not to talk with anyone.”
“I asked a harmless question.”
“He answered it, too. And looked at you closely, then at me. Later, he can put the two of us together. And so can that damned photographer. He took pictures of everything that moved.”
“But I was wearing this,” she ran her hand through the dark hair. “They’ll look for a secretary named Muller from Copenhagen.”
“I wasn’t wearing a disguise,” Peder said.
“Nothing can happen,” Astrid said.
“One good photograph could create a big problem.”
“How do you know if they have a good photograph?”
“Find the photographer. See what he’s got.”
“You can do that?”
He nodded. “I must.”
Her eyes flashed, and she looked down to the newspaper. A finger moved back and forth beneath the photograph of Clarence Boggs. “You didn’t have to kill him.”
“He had an accident,” he said impatiently.
“You said no one would be hurt. Now someone is dead.”
“And a photographer took pictures. That changes everything.”
He leaned toward her and spoke in a quiet, urgent tone. “You have a job to do, and I expect you to do it.”
A trio of young American businessmen claimed the adjacent table. They were congratulating each other on a successful trip.
Peder eyed them, then continued, still speaking in Norwegian. “When do you see Llewellyn again?”
She smiled briefly. “I will make arrangements when I cal
l him from the airport this evening.”
“Does he live alone? A man so rich must have help.”
“Another man lives there. His name is Fraser. Just that. I learned from a delivery boy about him. He may be older than Llewellyn. But the boy said he talks in a funny way and that he is strong.”
“Are you saying that man guards Llewellyn’s paintings?”
“Maybe he does. And there’s a dog,” Astrid added. “The boy said the dog is the kind that barks all the time.”
Peder drummed his fingers on top of the black bag. “I want you to learn everything about the painting. Measure it if you can, see how it is framed, what sort of backing does it have, is an alarm attached to the frame, and what kind of an alarm if there is one. How difficult would it be to take the painting out of the frame and what tools would be needed? Most of Cézanne’s self-portraits are small.”
“If I’ve judged Edwin Llewellyn correctly, he’s put his painting into a frame that is very large, very ornate, and very expensive.”
Peder hunched forward. “Learn everything. No mistakes and no half pieces of information. Is that understood?”
“I will learn the answers to every one of your questions, and a great deal more about Llewellyn and his painting and the old man and dog.” She stared at him, almost defiantly. “How much time do I have before you want me to take it?”
“The plans have been changed. There will be a special exhibition of Cézanne’s paintings next January in the south of France. In Aix-en-Provence. I was told that Llewellyn has agreed to loan his portrait to the exhibition, and that he may want to deliver it personally. In that case it may be easier to take the painting from him while he is transporting it.” He ran his fingers across her hand, “By that time, you and Llewellyn should be very good friends.”
“I think that wherever Llewellyn goes, the dog will go.” A little laugh escaped, “And the better the dog knows me, the more it will bark when it sees me. It’s a silly problem, but a problem.”
“Perhaps I have a solution.” Aukrust unsnapped the straps on his black bag. It was made of leather and was eighteen inches long and round like a bolster pillow. It was a medicine case designed for a homeopathic physician. In it was a honeycomb of compartments that held four two-ounce glass-stoppered bottles, six three-dram, ten tendram, and twelve one-ounce vials. In all there were more than thirty homeopathic remedies with names like nux vomica, jatropha, and apis mellifica, known also as honeybee poison. There were pockets for powder papers, surgical knives in sterilized sleeves, sutures and needles, a stethoscope, tape, bandages, and miscellaneous medical supplies. The initials CRM were goldleafed on the side of the case. A British passport said he was Charles Metzger, a medical doctor. His card announced he was a practitioner of homeopathy and gave a London address. But she had called him Peder. A Norwegian passport in an inside pocket of his jacket identified him as Peder Aukrust. A French visa listed an address in Cannes.
