The Cézanne Chase

by Thomas Swan

  “We have international sponsorship from Michelin and an American company. The exhibition will be the most comprehensive assembly of Cézanne’s work ever shown!” Bilodeau spoke with passion.

  Margueritte waited for Weisbord’s reaction. A showing in the retrospective would enhance the value of the painting, and yet Bilodeau might be innocently self-inflicting a mortal wound.

  “Until we resolve the eventual disposition of the painting, I must take possession of it.”

  “You will not touch it,” Margueritte said firmly. “Furthermore, you won’t file any papers, and you won’t set aside the transfer of title.”

  Weisbord waved his arms defiantly. “You intend to sell the Cézanne self-portrait in clear violation of the terms of the will,” and with that he started for the gallery. Margueritte stepped ahead of him and began calling for Peder. Weisbord showed surprising strength as he pushed past her and into the gallery and to the wall where the Cézannes were hung. Next to the painting of the farmhouse near Margueritte’s childhood home in Salon-de-Provence was a large empty space.

  Margueritte gasped. Peder was not in the gallery, nor was he anywhere in the house. She looked out to the driveway and saw that the station wagon was gone.

  Weisbord volubly declined to accept the fact that the self-portrait was missing. He thrashed about the house, looking under beds and behind sofas in a vain search. A long, loud coughing attack forced him to stop, and when he recovered, red-faced and breathing painfully, he lapsed into an inconsolable silence. Only when he had searched every conceivable hiding place did he speak to Margueritte.

  “You’ve tricked me somehow, but I will have the last word.” To Bilodeau he said, “It’s obvious that you are in on this conspiracy, and I warn you that I will take decisive action if the painting should ever appear inside the Musée Granet.”

  The little man stormed off, enveloped in his own angry black cloud. He turned the wheels of his car too abruptly at the end of the driveway and crossed over the edge of a flower garden, flattening what had been a clump of pink and white chrysanthemums.

  Gustave Bilodeau had endured Weisbord’s outburst in silence and awed surprise. Margueritte comforted him, “Freddy is a mean and stupid man, pay no attention.”

  “But he has said that we must never show the painting. What will he do?”

  “Talk. He will talk, talk, talk. He will threaten and talk more.”

  “But the painting?” Bilodeau asked. “Is it safe?”

  “Quite safe,” she said confidently. “And you will have it, just as I agreed. We will play Weisbord’s game but not by his rules.”

  Bilodeau looked puzzled. He had come prepared to hand a check to Madame DeVilleurs and return triumphantly to Aix with the Cézanne beside him.

  “You will have the painting for your exhibition,” she said, a mischievous glint showing in her bright eyes, “and nothing Frédéric Weisbord may say or do will stop that from happening.”

  Chapter 19

  There was no mistaking who owned the richly modulated baritone that came from the other side of the well-guarded conference room door. It was a perfect voice, too perfect for Llewellyn’s taste, and it belonged to the director of the Metropolitan, Gerard Bontonnamo, who fit the tall, dark, and handsome cliche, with voice to match. So trite, but so damned true, Llewellyn grudgingly conceded. He showed his ID and went into the room where Bontonnamo, all six-foot-five of him, stood at the far end of the room. The director paused while Llewellyn eased himself into a chair.

  “Thank you for joining us, Mr. Llewellyn,” Bontonnamo said with the reproving tone a teacher might use on a tardy student. “I believe you know we are discussing the Cézanne retrospective, and I’ve just made it abundantly clear that I’m not happy that we’re sending our Cézannes to an unprotected little city in the south of France at a time when all this damnable destruction is going on. Frankly, Edwin, I think you’ll be well advised to keep yours at home.”

  Llewellyn knew that Bontonnamo was not inviting him into a conversation, so he sat back comfortably and put on a benign smile.

  “Saurand called me this morning,” the director continued, “and yesterday I talked with Kuntz in Berlin, then Sir Alex in London, and half a dozen others who are, to be blunt, goddamned outraged.” Bontonnamo was well connected to his counterparts in every important museum; all members of a special clique of super-elitists, all highly charged intellectuals who lived in a world of their own. Guy Saurand was directeur of the Louvre, which put him on top of the list of Conservateurs des Musées de France. Bontonnamo went on, “We don’t have a self-portrait, and you know I’d damned well give a Picasso and a couple of Renoirs for one.” Bontonnamo paused, then continued, “I realize this whole thing is tragic, but it’s news. Big news, and the press is having a grand time pointing out that we don’t have a self-portrait to protect.”

  Llewellyn smiled inwardly at the remark, knowing full well that even though New York’s Museum of Modern Art had a Cézanne self-portrait, the media had rarely potshotted at the Met for not having one. It was, rather, vintage Bontonnamo, once again asking for a loan of Llewellyn’s self-portrait. The downside of all this was that with his painting scheduled to leave the country, Llewellyn was about to lose the argument that his grandfather’s will restrained him from loaning it.

  There were five other people in the room, four seated at the table and one who was standing looking bored, as if he had heard the director’s speech before. Curtis Berrien was chief registrar of the Metropolitan, a high-ranking position of considerable power and authority. No painting entered or left the premises without a member of the registrar’s office inspecting it, recording its source, and corroborating its condition with a member of the curatorial staff. When a painting or any piece of art was put on loan, a release was given in the registrar’s office, which was in turn responsible for packaging, shipping, and arranging for proper insurance while the object was in transit and while on display. In most instances a painting on loan would be covered by a blanket policy carried by the borrowing museum; however, this would not be the case with the Musée Granet—all loan contributors were responsible for their own insurance. Even the major corporate sponsors of the retrospective—names like Kodak and Michelin—had not offered to pay for the insurance. Premiums had increased substantially and might go even higher if the assault on the portraits was not resolved. Berrien had argued against participating in the retrospective a year earlier, but even he had not anticipated the tragic losses. Now his arguments were being given a second hearing.

  Llewellyn and Berrien were friends, an important ingredient in their relationship. Berrien could be gruff, even insensitive at times, but it was his blunt way of speaking his mind. He could be exciting, too; daring, and adventurous, as in going off on an exploration of Tibetan art in rarely explored parts of China. His bold personality frequently was reflected in the way he dressed, which today was a blue-and-white striped shirt and brilliant red suspenders. He had a strong body, stood five-eleven, and weighed a stocky 190 pounds; he had a large head that had a bald spot on top ringed by salt-and-pepper hair cut short. The skin was deeply wrinkled on the back of his stout neck, and his nose was off line, a casualty of his determination to be on the boxing team at the Maritime Academy. After a four-year hitch in the maritime service he enrolled at Emory University, where he picked up a law degree, a wife, and traces of a Southern accent.

  Bontonnamo’s speech ended. His final exhortation was that extra and exhaustive precaution must be taken in the packaging and shipment of all paintings going to the Granet, all of which underscored his resolve to go ahead with the Met’s participation in the big show.

  Berrien waited until the door closed. “You heard the man. It might be a damned stupid decision, but for now that’s the way it is.” He stepped to the head of the table and gestured toward Llewellyn. “For those of you who haven’t met our guest, this is Mr. Edwin Llewellyn. He’s one of our elective trustees and serves on the acquisitions committ
ee. Let me add that he’s our friend, and as you heard from the director, Mr. Llewellyn owns a Cézanne, a painting that grows more famous every day. I’ve seen it, and in my opinion it’s the best of the whole damned lot.” Llewellyn was amused. Berrien was not an art scholar, but his enthusiasm was authentic.

  Berrien continued, “Lew, these are some of my people. I think you know my assistant, Helen Ajanian.”

  A woman with heavy eyebrows turned toward Llewellyn. Helen Ajanian had been assistant to Berrien’s predecessor and had been with the Metropolitan for thirty years. She smiled pleasantly at Llewellyn, an expression that belied the fact that she was known as “top cop.” It was Helen Ajanian who enforced the strict rules of the registrar’s office.

  “Next is Harry Li.”

  Born in Taiwan, Li had been educated at the University of California at Berkeley. His black hair fell across the edges of large, dark-rimmed glasses. Beneath hair and glasses was a handsome, if delicate, face with Eurasian features. He nodded and grinned simultaneously.

  “Over there is Jeff Kaufman.”

  The young man thrust his hand across the table and vigorously shook hands with Llewellyn. Kaufman said that he had heard about the Llewellyn portrait and was looking forward to getting it safely to France.

  “Harry and Jeff are a team,” Berrien said. “Jeff ’s our resident expert on transportation and insurance. Insurance is tricky and expensive. Transportation can be complicated because many of the items we ship must travel in total secrecy. When we send a painting worth $25 million to Tokyo, it doesn’t go Federal Express.

  “Harry’s responsible for occasionally putting things in packages that don’t look like a package for what ’s inside. He also has to make sure that nothing is damaged. We rarely lend our Etruscan pottery, but when we do, you can be sure Jeff is using some pretty exotic packaging materials.”

  Berrien was behind Helen Ajanian. “I rely on Helen to tie everything together. If she doesn’t sign off, it doesn’t ship.” He motioned toward Pourville. “And, of course, you know Charlie Pourville.”

  Llewellyn glanced over at the young curator, then at the others. “I want the best from all of you. The painting you are going to send to France has not been out of my family’s hands since it was bought in France and brought to New York a long time ago. Nearly a hundred years, now. It’s not only valuable to me, but I like to think it has great meaning to the entire art community. Protect it, please.”

  “Count on us, Lew,” Berrien said. “Our plans are pretty well under way; it was just a question of whether it’s a go, or no-go.” He shook his head. “Look’s like it’s go. But Lew, you can still back out.”

  “What am I risking?” Llewellyn asked.

  “I’ll answer, if I may,” Helen Ajanian said. “There’s always a risk when we lend something from our collection, whether it’s a risk of fire or breakage or poor conditions in the exhibiting museum. Six weeks in uncontrolled humidity can play havoc with an old painting on wood. It’s a horribly obscene thing that’s happened, and it makes absolutely no sense. But neither did the fire that destroyed two of the Albrecht Dürer woodcuts we loaned to the Vienna Museum a few years ago. There are always risks, it’s just that we’re dealing with some new ones this time.”

  “I would think security at the Musée Granet would be as tight as at Camp David,” Llewellyn said.

  “I’m afraid not,” Pourville replied. “It’s a small city with a police department that’s stretched to the limit. January isn’t a tourist month, but the students are there in full force. In March the crowds return, and the police will have their hands full. Besides, Gustave Bilodeau has limited personnel, and his guards are not very well trained.”

  Llewellyn said, “I was told they’d be sent a fully trained staff, that the Louvre and the other big French museums are supposed to help.”

  Pourville smiled. “Perhaps. I know that a traveling exhibition of Cézanne’s paintings was in Aix in the summer of 1961. Security was very good, or so they thought, and on the third night there was a break-in and five paintings were stolen.”

  “We’ll damn well have to do better than that,” Llewellyn said resolutely. “The insurance people and the museum directors will demand it.”

  Berrien nodded. “For Christ’s sake, we are demanding it. That’s why we’ve called a security meeting. Frankly, I don’t give a damn what Gerard Bontonnamo says, because if the security plan isn’t up to snuff after that meeting, you can bet your sweet ass—excuse me Helen—the Met won’t send so much as a postcard.”

  The meeting continued until noon. Harry Li and Jeff Kaufman made articulate presentations, yet neither gave details of their plans for disguising the packages or their strategy for moving those packages from New York to the south of France. But they freely confided to Llewellyn that the paintings would be shipped to either Madrid or Geneva a minimum of six weeks in advance of the opening of the retrospective.

  Berrien adjourned the meeting and said to Llewellyn, “I want you to meet a friend of mine, someone you’ll like knowing.”

  Llewellyn replied, “Tell me about him.”

  “His name is Alexander Tobias. He’s with the New York Police.”

  “Why does he want to meet me? Is he some kind of an art buff?”

  “In a way. He had a long career in criminal investigation, developed an interest in art, and likes doing what he knows best: investigating art thefts and forgeries.”

  “What’s his interest in my painting?”

  “He’s got tie-ins everywhere, including the FBI and Interpol. But his contact in Scotland Yard suggested that he pay you a visit. He asked me to set up an introduction.” Berrien rubbed the back of his neck, and his expression changed to match the serious tone of his voice. “I think you should talk with him. OK?”

  Llewellyn nodded. “Have him call me.”

  Chapter 20

  The dinner party Llewellyn invited Astrid to attend was being held in Thomas A. Ridgeway’s triplex on the top floors of a well-appointed apartment building on Fifth Avenue at 73rd Street. In spite of, or because of, his impeccable credentials as one of the remaining authentic New York WASPs, Tom Ridgeway was both a “good guy” and a good friend. It was Tom’s wife Caroline who was considered such a pain in the ass. She greeted Astrid with the lukewarm smile she accorded persons on her long list of the ethnic “underclass.” Attractive as she appeared and gracious as she acted, Caroline was five and a half feet of pure bigotry, and her prejudices were in imminent danger of embracing all of Norway.

  “Meet Astrid Haraldsen,” Llewellyn said, giving his hostess an obligatory peck on the cheek. “But let me warn you, Astrid, behind Caroline’s pretty face is all lollipops and ice cream.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Caroline said acidly as she gave Astrid a receiving line handshake. “I’m delighted you’ve come,” she said coolly. “Lew will show you where to find everything. He’s very good at that.”

  Llewellyn took Astrid’s hand and led her to a magnificent room with great, high windows overlooking Central Park. A late autumn sun was about to disappear, and the sky was streaked with bold colors. A man approached them. He was barely Astrid’s height, a bit portly and gray-haired, and his good features were all at ease.

  “You’re Astrid,” he said. “I’m Tom Ridgeway. Welcome.”

  In quick succession, three couples arrived. Ernie and Sally Simpson were the seniors in the group. Ernie was old money and old shoe, while Sally was on a constant diet, trying to become a size twelve and not succeeding.

  Stephen Urquhart and his wife, Diane, were equally imbued with the trappings of Scottish traditions and possessed an unspotted bloodline. Popular in their small group of intimates, they were considered insufferable snobs by all others.

  Jim and Marilyn Cox were the last to arrive. He was Wall Street, and she was inclined to keep her husband away from attractive women. Astrid qualified. Jim was also well on his way to a serious drinking problem. He gulped down a half glas
s of pure Dewar’s during the few minutes it took to greet Astrid and Llewellyn, then ran off to find a refill.

  The ritual of the cocktail hour proceeded in a predictable pattern: drinks from a well-stocked bar and finger food served by an obsequious little man. Just as the men had maneuvered to form a circle around Astrid, Caroline announced that dinner was being served.

  After a clumsy toast proposed by Jim Cox, Caroline asked if Astrid had plans to redecorate Edwin Llewellyn’s house. “You must admit, Astrid dear, it needs a woman’s touch.”

  “It’s been touched by too many women,” Llewellyn complained good-naturedly. “I like it the way it is.”

  “The Scandinavians have such a different sense of design,” Caroline said with a snide curve to her voice, “I’d like to hear how Astrid feels about that.”

  Astrid turned and saw Caroline’s frozen smile. She knew everyone was watching her. She looked across to Llewellyn. He nodded, reassuringly, then turned to Caroline. “You could use a little help with your East Hampton house, Muffin. Why not give Astrid a stab at it.”

  “Great idea,” Tom Ridgeway said.

  “It’s a hideous idea,” Caroline said, her defenses up. “The beach house is perfectly fine the way it is.” She retreated from the subject, “We’d like to hear what Lew thinks of the dreadful things that have happened to those poor Van Gogh paintings.”

  “You mean Cézanne,” her husband corrected.

  “Of course, Cézanne. I thought I said that.”

  “For God’s sake, Lew,” Jim Cox said, slurring his words and waving an empty glass. “They might come and burn up that picture of yours.”

  “Aren’t you a little worried?” Sally asked.

  “Concerned, yes. Worried? Only a little.” Llewellyn shifted in his chair. “My painting is safe.”

  “Did you say earlier that they haven’t a clue as to who destroyed those paintings?” Tom Ridgeway asked.

  “I don’t believe they do. But you know, I’m damned angry about losing the portrait in London’s National Gallery ... then Alan Pinkster’s portrait... .”