The Cézanne Chase

by Thomas Swan

  “This is for you.” From one of the pockets inside the medicine case he took out a lipstick and held it in front of her so she could see its soft gold color. She looked at it curiously.

  “It’s not an ordinary lipstick.” He pulled off the cover. “Let me demonstrate. Twist to the right and you have lipstick. ‘Passionately Pink’ they call it,” he grinned uncharacteristically. “Twist to the left and you see nothing. But press it against the thigh of Llewellyn’s pet and a hypodermic needle will spring out and release 2 cc’s of trianylseconal, which will silence the bark quickly... and forever.”

  Astrid stared at the lipstick case for several moments. “But, I don’t want to kill it.”

  “It’s only a dog,” he said flatly. “We can’t take chances.”

  She put the cover on the lipstick and dropped it into her purse. “I want you to come with me.”

  “That can’t be. There are matters here to settle while you are in Boston,” and for the first time he smiled as if actually enjoying himself.

  “Peder,” she began, her eyes unable to look into his, “when we started you said that three paintings would be destroyed. Now it’s four.”

  He shook his head vigorously. “The world will do nicely without a few of Cézanne’s portraits. Besides, each remaining one will be worth a great deal more than before.”

  He again reached into the black bag, took out a brown envelope and handed it to her. “Here is five thousand dollars. I’ll send a bank check for more. You’ll have it in a week.”

  She put the envelope in her purse. “I’ll call you on Sunday at the same time,” she said. She looked at him, closed her eyes briefly, then got up and went out into the terminal.

  He watched her leave and continued staring at the spot where she disappeared among the milling passengers. By his hand was the newspaper and the photograph of Clarence Boggs. He glowered menacingly. “Fucking photographer.”

  A man came to the table, put down his tray and sat. Aukrust turned to him, nodded silently, then gathered his newspapers and the oddly shaped black bag and walked out to the line of taxis.

  Chapter 5

  The Thames River may be the most famous short river in the world. Only two hundred miles in length, it is perhaps better known for its great width: three hundred yards shore to shore at London Bridge and at its estuary to the east of London the banks are nearly six miles apart. Because of the severe bomb damage to the great docks during the London Blitz in World War II, and because of the dramatic changes in the way goods were shipped in and out of London, vast stretches of the river suffered decades of neglect and deterioration. Then came a massive rebuilding project on the Isle of Dogs after the war that brought a renaissance to the great river, an event damned by some, cheered by others, bringing financial disaster to its developers.

  River traffic had changed, too. Barges, small freighters, and pleasure craft replaced the huge containerships. Beneath brightly painted Albert Bridge, at the foot of Royal Hospital Road. was Cadogan Pier, home port to a hodgepodge of private and charter boats. One was a reincarnated forty-year-old harbor tug, its hull painted black, its rails and deckhouse in bright yellow and green. It flew several pennants, among which were a faded British flag and a bright new Greek flag. Carved into a piece of polished wood, painted in gold letters, was the boat’s name: Sepera.

  A woman came on deck and spoke to a stockily built man who stood at the railing. “Is it time, Nikos?”

  He answered, “A new one is coming, and the new ones are always late the first time.”

  “His name,” she said. “It is not a Japanese name.” Then she shook her head, “Is it Mezzer? or how do you say it?”

  “It’s not a Greek name,” Nikos replied. “Dr. Mets-gar, I think.” He turned to her. “You have an easy time of it tonight. Only to make the big room ready and take him there.”

  His black eyebrows were like two wooly-bear caterpillars joined at the bridge of a strong, broad nose. Over his mouth was a bushy mustache swirled out to carefully scissored tips. He drew heavily on the stub of a cigar then flipped it into the water. “We are to go to the barriers and turn back at Greenwich. An hour’s cruise, I was told. No more.”

  “I would prefer to cook a meal,” she replied. “It is boring to do nothing.” Her hair was black, and her eyes were a deep, dark blue, like the evening sky. Her skin was the color of pale olives, and her name was Sophie. Nikos was native to Pátrai on the northern coast of the Peloponnesus. Sophie’s mother was Sicilian, and she was born in Italy and had lived in five Mediterranean countries while growing up. Her family was headed by a wine-loving father who could never remain employed as a boat builder.

  That Nikos and Sophie were captain and first mate on a converted tug was its own story. The previous summer they were two in a crew of eleven on a yacht that reached Portofino and remained anchored there while its owner entertained business friends vacationing on the Italian Riviera. Nikos served as second mate, and Sophie worked in the galley and tended to the needs of the owner’s wife. It was then that a guest offered them a boat and a salary and the chance to begin their own charter business on the Thames River in London. Neither had been to England; they spoke little English and knew nothing about the Thames and the changes taking place on the Isle of Dogs or about the landmarks along that sometimes treacherous waterway. But they were guaranteed work visas, licenses, and permits, and in the first year while learning the language and becoming acclimated to their new life, their benefactor promised to keep them busy with his own needs for the boat. He allowed them to give the boat whatever name they wished.

  As the air cooled, a mist rose up from the water and spread across the Embankment. A figure appeared and stopped next to a small pagoda beside the dock. Nikos watched the tall man come past the boats tied up next to the Sepera, a canvas bag slung over his shoulder. He paused at each boat, as if searching for a particular one. When he reached the Sepera, he stopped. Then, after looking back along the route he had taken, he walked slowly toward the opening in the railing that ran along the sides of the ungainly old tug. Nikos was there to greet him.

  “Dr. Mets-gar? Do I say it right?”

  Peder Aukrust looked intently at Nikos, then at Sophie. He nodded and said that he was.

  Sophie stepped forward and gave a weak, but welcoming smile. “Please come with me,” she said and gestured toward an open door leading into the cabin. Toward the bow, steps went up to the pilothouse; a small room aft contained chairs, tables, a television, and a bookcase. There was a narrow door, and she opened it. “The steps are very steep,” she said attentively. They started down a sharply angled flight of stairs, paused on a metal grill landing, then continued down another flight. She waited until he joined her belowdecks in a room barely four feet square. She pushed open a door, revealing a room that was as wide as the boat, thirty feet long, with a ceiling twenty feet above the wood floor.

  “This is what is called the Grand Salon”—she grinned for having pronounced the words so well—“and everything is here for your comfort.” Next to the door they had entered were two cabinets built into a mahogany-paneled wall, each with bright brass hinges and latches. Sophie swung open the door on the left. Inside was a well-stocked bar, a wine cabinet, and an icemaker. Behind the other door was a miniature, fully equipped galley.

  “What may I make for you?” She said the words precisely, in an oddly pleasant combination of her own accent and proper English.

  He looked at the rows of bottles behind her. “Scotch whiskey and water,” he said; “only a little whiskey.”

  Sophie prepared the drink with professional dispatch and handed it to him. Her smile had not faded, and she turned and went out through the door they had entered. The latch clicked. He was alone.

  Grand Salon was an apt name for the room in which he found himself. The paneled walls were deep red mahogany and windowless. Set out from each long wall were leather couches, their color nearly the same dark red as the polished wood in the walls. The f
loor, made of wide planks and joined with wood dowels, was original to the boat. Neatly laid into the wood floor near the entrance to the room was a bronze plaque. It read: KING WILLIAM, MAY 12, 1909, CRAWFORD YARDS. The wall at the far end of the room was bare except for a giant-screen television. Four oversized chairs occupied the center of the room, and Aukrust wondered how they had been brought down the steep stairs. Beside each chair was a small chest, and on each was a leather folder containing a writing pad and pen. One chair was clearly meant to be more important than the others, so he thought of it as the “important” chair, larger than the others. On the painted chest next to it was a telephone and lamp.

  Then came the sound of a diesel engine rumbling at low power, sending thick vibrations through the boat. He felt a rocking motion as the Sepera started under way, and the engine settled into a deep purr. The television screen brightened and a clear picture resolved out of the static. A camera positioned somewhere above picked out other boats on the river and automobile headlights moving along the Embankment, then four creamy yellow smokestacks at the Battersea power station. Aukrust tried opening the door, but as he had assumed when Sophie went from the room, the clicking of the latch had been the sound of a lock tumbling into place. He made a slow turn around the room, inspecting the panels and concluding that each would swing open if he could find a way to move them. The engines were in the stern, but there was no obvious way of reaching them. He sat in the important chair, drink in hand, and stared at the television screen.

  A series of blasts came from the Sepera, three short bursts followed by three more. The last three came from speakers behind the television screen. Then silence followed by a high-pitched whistle. Silence again. Then clicking noises as if channels were being switched. Finally a faint buzzing sound that faded and was replaced by a man’s voice.

  “Peder, my friend, I apologize for not joining you, but I thought it might serve our mutual interests if you visited the Sepera alone the first time. Nikos and Sophie will tend to your needs, and after listening to the message I have recorded, you will find the door has been unlocked and you may inspect this old boat if you wish.”

  Peder Aukrust showed little emotion during the comments made by the voice so eerily detached from the pictures on the television. He wore, if anything, a bemused expression, perhaps one of admiration. He recognized the voice and knew its owner very well.

  “Of course we have important business to go over.” The unhurried, relaxed tone had suddenly changed. The pleasantly polished voice was businesslike.

  “You have done well thus far, three paintings in eight days. I had doubts that could be accomplished, particularly the National Gallery. However, the unpleasantness in Surrey and your ingenious method for the disposal of Mr. Boggs may have produced too many complications... too many unnecessary trails for the police to follow.”

  Aukrust took a sip from his drink, never taking his eyes from the screen, which now showed a sailing yacht returning from what probably had been a cruise in the channel.

  “I understand there is another nuisance. A photographer was in the gallery.”

  Aukrust reacted angrily. “Damned stupid mistake and something’s got to be done about it.”

  The voice continued. “His name is Shelbourne, and he has handled the photographic requirements of the gallery from time to time. But to avoid the chance that one of his photographs might include you or Astrid and might get into the hands of the police, I suggest that you pay a visit to his studio and destroy both the prints and the negatives. I will see to it that Shelbourne receives an assignment that will take him away for a week. His studio is on the main business street in Reigate, and it’s not likely you will have a problem with alarms, as Ian Shelbourne is distressingly careless about such things.”

  There was a click, then, as if recorded at a different time, the voice was brighter, less ominous. “I assume you chose to sit in the largest of the chairs in the center of the room. Next to it is a chest, and in the drawer are three envelopes. Please open the largest one.”

  It was a thick, manila envelope, closed with a metal clasp. In it were three smaller envelopes. The first contained English pounds, the second French francs, the third American dollars. He riffled the notes but didn’t count the amounts. He smiled.

  “The second envelope holds additional money to cover expenses for Astrid Haraldsen in New York and Boston. I have considerable misgivings about sending her to the Boston Museum. Understand this,” the voice again more urgent, the tone a pitch higher, “if she fails or, far worse, is apprehended, our affiliation will end, and you will be cut off from further payment and protection.”

  Aukrust stormed out of the chair. “You’re in too deep!” he shouted at the television screen. “You can’t turn your back on me.”

  Calmly, the voice continued, “In the third envelope is a receipt from the Grand National Bank in Luxembourg confirming the deposit of your fee to numbered account RS–1104.”

  Aukrust read the brief note, folded it, and put it into a zippered compartment in his shoulder bag. He did the same with the money.

  “Now, finally, I will talk about the DeVilleurs portrait. Only it and the one owned by Llewellyn are owned privately and are part of a small collection. Either one will bring a huge price from a small group of wealthy collectors in Hong Kong, America, or Japan. You must impress on Astrid the importance of developing a close relationship with Llewellyn. Only with his complete trust will we have access to his painting. As for Madame DeVilleurs, she was recently widowed, and though she is an older woman, she will be receptive to the special attention I expect you to show her. The small business I asked you to set up in Cannes will serve that purpose. Just as Astrid must win Llewellyn’s affection, I expect you to gain Madame DeVilleurs’s devotion and trust.”

  Aukrust seemed amused by the challenge.

  “I will join you the next time you visit my retreat on the water,” the voice went on, “when we will review our progress and put new plans together.” There was no farewell, only a faint hum in the speakers, then silence.

  Aukrust sat. He glanced up to the television screen. The picture changed a into swirl of geometric designs that constantly created new shapes. At the center was a circle that grew larger and brightened into a hypnotic pulsation. He sat in a contemplative, slackened pose and stared. Peder Aukrust could entrance himself and did so by first excluding the sounds and visual distractions that surrounded him; then he allowed selected episodes from the past to stream across his consciousness. He would recall an incident or an action he had taken and detach himself from any personal responsibility for the consequences of whatever it was that had happened. It was a form of cleansing, of absolution. And in Aukrust’s mind, it was permanent and binding. He began to draw out of his memory several incidents that his powerful denial had sanitized, events that had happened many years earlier, in Oslo.

  Aukrust had received a degree in pharmacology from the University of Copenhagen, as well as a companion degree in biochemistry, in which he had proven particularly adept. After four years as a hospital pharmacist he had been recruited into the Norwegian government’s department of internal security, due principally to the fact that he single-handedly shut down an organized ring of drug thieves that had penetrated the hospital’s supply chain of barbiturates and mood-altering drugs. Peder had a badge and authority and soon acquired a reputation for securing confessions or tips on drug shipments and money-laundering contacts. Aukrust’s methods were unpleasant but effective. His superiors looked the other way, satisfied to have results. Then a witness refused to cooperate, and Aukrust increased the severity of his persuasion. Force turned to violence, and the would-be informant, according to Aukrust, had an accident. He was found dead, his neck broken. There was a cover-up, but six months later Aukrust was transferred to a tedious job with no hope of promotion or reassignment. Guilty of causing the man’s death, he had never accepted so much as a shred of responsibility. Why should he? He had never been accused
. The law never spoke, so he was fully convinced that nothing had actually ever happened, nothing for which he was either guilty or innocent.

  Slowly, he turned his gaze from the screen. He rose and went to the door and tried the handle. As he had been promised, the door was unlocked.

  Chapter 6

  Before checking onto the flight in Gatwick, Astrid Haraldsen stopped in the women’s lavatory long enough to transform herself to the blonde Norwegian pictured and described on her passport. Her flight was on the ground at Kennedy Airport at 2:43 in the afternoon. She cleared customs, then, pulling her suitcase behind her, went to the phones. She called the Westbury Hotel for messages that had accumulated in the last five days. She smiled when she heard Edwin Llewellyn’s name.

  She dialed his number. “It’s Astrid. You asked me to call. You said in a week.”

  “I didn’t want you to forget. They said you were out of the city.”

  “I was, but I’m back. I’m calling from the airport.” There was a pause, Astrid waiting for his reaction.