by Thomas Swan
“Serves the son of a bitch right,” Jim Cox said. “He’s a wiseass bastard who steps on everyone who gets in his way.”
“Stop it,” Marilyn Cox said angrily. “You have a dreadful tongue.”
“Jim’s right,” Caroline said. “Alan Pinkster tries to buy his way into the right crowd every time he comes to New York. I think he should stay with his own kind.”
Llewellyn spoke up. “I don’t completely share Jim’s opinion of Alan Pinkster. He’s cocky and sometimes he can be a rude son of a bitch, but he’s made it on his own. More than some of us can say.”
Tom Ridgeway nodded but held his tongue.
Llewellyn went on. “I’m also damned angry because Pinkster’s curator was murdered. I hear that Scotland Yard believes the two crimes are tied together.”
“I hadn’t heard that,” Steve Urquhart said.
“They’ve kept it pretty much under wraps. But the press is beginning to hop on the story. You’ll be hearing more.”
Jim Cox got unsteadily to his feet and held up his glass, “Here’s to Eddie Llewellyn’s painting.” He ran his words together sloppily and listed badly. “I sure hope nothing happens to it.” He emptied the glass and sagged back into his chair.
The dinner ended without further incident, and the group assembled in the room with the windows for coffee. Astrid peeked at her watch. It was 9:30. The Simpsons said they would have to make it an early night. Llewellyn said that he and Astrid would have to do the same, and minutes after saying their thanks and goodnights, they were in a taxi. Another five minutes and they were in front of Astrid’s hotel.
“I felt a little sick for a minute,” Astrid said.
“You covered it well,” he said. “One of Caroline’s bad shrimps?”
“No. Just tired.”
“Get some sleep, darling,” Llewellyn said, and kissed her gently on her lips. She ran her hand across his cheek and returned the kiss. “Call me?” she said.
She got out of the taxi and ran into the lobby.
She was inside her room at ten o’clock, locked the door, then leaned against it. Her heart was racing, and she stood, unmoving, her arms behind her back, her palms pressed flat against the door. There was a tightness and an ache that ran up her back and across her shoulders. She moved a hand to her neck and rubbed at the tenseness. She moved to the window and looked out, staring blankly at the night sights. There was no message light on the phone, a small relief. She switched on a table lamp.
“Don’t be frightened.” The voice came from behind her.
“Peder!”
Aukrust stepped into the light and came to her. He put his arms around her. “I’ve missed you,” his voice flat, without feeling.
Her head was on his shoulder, and she breathed in the smells that came with him. He turned her head, his huge hands holding her tightly. Then he kissed her. A lusty kiss, but without the passion she had felt from Llewellyn. She broke away.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“You don’t like surprises.”
“I made an exception this time.”
She looked at him closely. He looked tired and needed a shave and change of clothes.
“When I decided to come to New York I had barely enough time to get to the terminal. Then there was a delay in getting off the ground and more delay in the air. We didn’t land until seven o’clock, and by then you had gone to your ... what was it ... dinner party?”
“Yes, and I was here at ten o’clock.” She smiled briefly. “But why are you here?”
“To do what you failed to do.
“No, Peder, there’s been enough.”
“We are following a plan. No exceptions.”
He took out his wallet and thrust it at her. It was thick with money. He took a handful of bills and waved them excitedly. “There will be more ... much more.”
“What is so special about the painting in Boston?”
Aukrust glared contemptuously at her. “Don’t you realize that the police and their forensic experts are trying to learn who sprayed the precious paintings in England and Russia?” He laughed. “They are busy in laboratories attempting to discover what kind of chemicals could do such terrible damage.” His eyes flared. “They wonder if another painting will be destroyed.” His head shook crazily and his voice rose. “But there will be no more. Not until the greatest of Cézanne’s paintings are put together in a small museum in a little city in the south of France.”
Astrid sat on the edge of the bed. “Then what will you do?”
“That will depend on the winter auctions. Cézannes should sell at record prices.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then I may have to spray my chemicals over another painting. And another, if necessary. Perhaps it will be the now-famous portrait owned by your friend Llewellyn.”
Astrid was on her feet. “No, Peder! That’s a beautiful painting. I’ve stood in front of it. I’ve touched it. You can’t!”
“Is your concern for the painting or for Llewellyn?”
“You told me to become his friend,” she said defiantly.
He stood silently, his back to the single light in the room, his face in shadow. He took off his coat and threw it onto a chair, then suddenly his arms shot out, and he pulled her against him. He kissed her, a long, smothering kiss. Then he fell onto the bed. “I’m tired,” he said; “undress me.”
She bent over him and did as she was told. She had humored him this way before, when he said he was tired or when his mood was depressed or when his anger was at a boil.
“Take off your clothes and get beside me,” he said.
“Please, Peder. I don’t want you to hurt me.”
“Take off your clothes,” he demanded.
Slowly she undressed, then slipped under the sheet beside him. He rubbed his hand across her stomach, then over her thighs. “You are cold,” he said.
“I’m frightened.”
He turned onto his back and lay motionless. There had been times when they lay close together for a very long time before Aukrust decided whether to have sex or simply to fall into a deep sleep. Their sex was occasionally tender, but at other times his passion exploded and he caused her pain and humiliation.
“Listen carefully,” he said. “We must talk about tomorrow.”
Chapter 21
Before falling into a deep sleep, Aukrust explained the role Astrid was to play at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. In the morning he went over her duties with numbing repetition.
She could no longer keep her feelings bottled up. “I’m frightened ...please, Peder, please understand.”
“Nei,” he said gruffly and turned from her.
The plane landed and began to taxi to its ramp. Aukrust had placed his medicine case on the floor between his feet. He had carefully gone over its contents in his shop in Cannes and had either repackaged or eliminated any item that could possibly arouse suspicion when the bag made its journey through airport security.
“There is nothing to fear,” he said in a soothing voice. He took her hands and gently rubbed them. “In a few hours it will be over, and you’ll be on your way back to New York.” He smiled at her and whispered, “You are very precious to me.” In that instant a fresh surge of confidence swept through her.
It was agreed that they would separate and not meet again until they reached the critical part of the plan Aukrust had so carefully put together. Astrid was wearing a gray suit with low-heeled shoes. Her dark wig was neatly combed. She lengthened the strap on her handbag and draped it over her shoulder then strode out to the taxis. She gave an address in Beacon Hill, a shop where she browsed before going into several other stores. Shortly after noon, she picked over a salad in a neighborhood restaurant. She looked at her watch frequently, and as she was preparing to pay her check, she checked a cosmetic case inside her handbag. Her fingers felt for a hypodermic needle. Astrid knew about needles and about fin
ding a vein. This time the syringe contained thiopental sodium. “Pentothal,” Aukrust had assured her; “a short duration, garden variety anesthesia.”
She visited a souvenir shop where she purchased a bright red plastic lobster and put it into a small bag to enhance the image of a tourist on her first visit to Boston.
Aukrust had also taken a taxi. He had gone to Cambridge, across the Charles River, and to the Fogg Art Museum. He made a hasty tour of the rooms, bought a thin art book at the gift shop, and was also carrying a small paper bag that suggested he was on a holiday and was enjoying the great art offered by Boston’s museums. At two o’clock he hailed a taxi and a half hour later was in the Museum of Fine Arts.
He wore a tweed jacket and a tan cashmere cap and fit unobtrusively into the crowds that had come to see the American Artists in New England exhibition. He very carefully checked his medicine case and watched the attendant put it on a nearby rack.
He went first through the New England Artists exhibiiton, then to the second-floor galleries. As he had anticipated, there were not many visitors, as attention was focused on the exhibition on the first floor. He picked up a brochure with a floor plan of the museum, studied it for several minutes, then proceeded slowly through three rooms of early European art. He was scouting for changes that had been made since his last visit: new television cameras, ropes to hold the tourists farther away from the paintings. But he found that security in the galleries was no more stringent than during his first tour of the museum.
He entered the Impressionists gallery and made a quick inventory, carefully measuring distances and timing every move. He confirmed that Cézanne’s self-portrait was still in its center position on the main wall and that the long bench was still directly opposite the painting. A single attendant was on duty, and a solitary visitor stood in front of a painting of cornflowers by Monet.
Aukrust activated the timer on his watch then walked briskly to the staircase, down to the tapestry gallery, and past the lower rotunda to the checkroom. He looked at his watch again: fifty-one seconds. He could do it in forty-five. At several minutes before three he took the stairway down to the cafeteria, where he took a cup of coffee to a table and waited until 3:15.
Astrid had walked through Boston Common to Boylston Street, where she hailed a taxi, and arrived at the museum shortly after three. She entered the main entrance, went directly into the rotunda and past a portion of the New England Artists exhibition to the wide stairway she had climbed four days before. She leaned against the railing and closed her eyes, feeling her heart pounding and the terrible fear returning. She remembered how Peder had smiled at her, how he assured her it would be over quickly and she would be on her way back to New York. It would be all right, she thought, and continued up the stairs.
Aukrust had gone to the front of the museum and then to the Egyptian rooms on the second floor. He would approach the Impressionists gallery from the east wing. At 3:35 Astrid was in the Barbizon gallery standing in front of a painting by Millet. She stared at The Sower for a full minute but would be unable to remember anything about the picture because her mind was riveted on the instructions Peder had drilled into her. At 3:40 she stepped into the Impressionists gallery and slowly worked her way past four paintings. Only one concerned her. The plaque next to it read:
PAUL CÉZANNE, FRENCH, 1839–1906
SELF-PORTRAIT WITH BERET
OIL ON CANVAS, 25 X 20 IN.
C.1898–99
She backed away and sat on the bench. The guard shuffled in and out of the wide doorway. He was young and bored and passed the time restacking the folders in a rack attached to the wall. At the far end of the gallery a couple moved from painting to painting. A student sat cross-legged on the floor, a pad in her lap, copying the figures in a Gaugin painting.
Aukrust came into the gallery. He looked at his watch, and at 3:45 the brochure with the museum’s floor plan fell from his hand. He picked it up. It was the signal.
Astrid opened her purse and, from a plastic pouch, took a damp wad of cotton and rubbed it vigorously over the inside of her arm and several inches above her hand. She made a fist, then expertly inserted the hypodermic needle into a vein. Quickly she returned the syringe to her purse and snapped it closed. She had started to count as soon as she had squeezed out the Pentothal. She lost count at thirteen. Her head sagged, and she slumped forward onto the floor.
The art student saw her fall and ran to her. “Help, someone. Get help!”
The guard came to Astrid’s side, and the young couple rushed to her but stood by helplessly. Aukrust appeared and knelt beside her.
“I’m a doctor,” he said with a heavy accent. He lowered his head and listened for her breathing. Gently, he opened her eyelids then nodded with relief. To the little group that had assembled Aukrust said, “She’s breathing normally. But we must not take chances. I’ll get my medicine case.” To the guard he said, “We’ll need water, and tell your superior we may need an ambulance.” He took off his jacket and placed it over her, motioning for the student to sit where Astrid’s head could rest in her lap.
He went off at a trot to claim his medicine case and returned to Astrid’s side in slightly more than two minutes. The guard had returned and held two paper cups of water. “Gut, gut,” Aukrust said. He selected a vial from his case and emptied the white powder it contained into one of the cups. He raised Astrid’s head and let the liquid trickle into her mouth.
Two uniformed men came into the gallery and went hurriedly to the little group. Aukrust asked where they could take the young woman. “We must keep her warm.”
“There’s a first-aid room on the first floor.”
“Please take her there. I’ll follow.” They gently picked her up, and a small procession formed, led by the two men carrying Astrid and followed by the others, who were curiously concerned. The gallery was empty, as were the adjoining rooms. Aukrust had gambled that he would have a precious minute to carry out his destructive assignment. He had won.
It took ten seemingly endless seconds to apply a heavy coating of solvent on the self-portrait. He then sprayed the air with a clear and odorless solution, a new chemical he had experimented with, one that produced spectacular results. Instead of masking the solvent’s harsh chemical odor with another strong but recognizable scent, the new chemical acted as a malodor counteractent, a formulation that caused a temporary anosmia, a loss of the sense of smell of anyone who passed through the room. He sprayed the air once more, then returned the can to his medicine case.
When Aukrust located Astrid in the first-aid room she was sitting on the edge of a cot, sipping from a glass of water. “How is my pretty patient?” he asked in his thick accent.
“They said that you helped me,”
He took her hand. “Feeling all right, are you?”
She nodded. “Yes. A little—” she touched her head.
“Like a dizziness?” he said.
Astrid smiled. “Yes, a little.”
“Are you visiting friends?”
She nodded, then smiled. “I am to meet them at the hotel.”
“Perhaps I can take you there.”
A guard came into the room. “The ambulance is here.”
Aukrust ran his hand over Astrid’s forehead, then felt her neck. It was a very professional and authentic summing up of her condition.
“I don’t think we’ll need the ambulance.” He looked at the assortment of personnel that had crowded into the small room. “It was a precaution, in case the young lady had a serious problem. But I see she is recovering, and I will be able to escort her to her friends.”
A man carrying a cellular phone entered the room. A thin, metal name plate pinned above the breast pocket on his coat said he was a supervisor. He leaned down and said to Astrid, “May I have your name? Just a precaution to protect you as well as the museum.”
“I will take responsibility,” Aukrust said. “She is a little disoriented and frightened. You understand.”
“Then, your name, sir,” the man insisted.
Aukrust gave a hard stare at the supervisor and at two uniformed guards still lingering by the door. “Metzger,” he replied softly, and turned away. “Dr. Metzger,” he repeated in an accented mumble.
“Do you have a local address or—”
“You will have no worry about the young lady. She merely fainted and will be perfectly all right by the time I return her to her friends.” He took Astrid’s arm and helped her to her feet. He reassured the supervisor there would be no further problem then guided Astrid to the main entrance and a line of waiting taxis. Aukrust gave the driver instructions. “Logan Airport, international departure.”
“You feel all right?” He spoke in Norwegian.
“Yes, all right,” she answered, also in Norwegian. “A little thirsty.”
“It does that sometimes.”
She turned her eyes from him. “I went past the painting, the portrait, and I looked at it...at him. I wished that it didn’t have to be...”
“It is done,” he said with finality. His hand tightened around hers.“The reporters will make a sensation of what happened today.”
“And the police, too.”
He nodded. “Yes, the police,” he added zestfully. “They will have new samples of the chemicals, just like all the others. But what else will there be for them? The doctor who came to the aid of the pretty lady who fainted? The pretty lady?”
“Should you say you are Dr. Metzger?”
“At times I am Dr. Metzger. Besides, I’ll be who I want to be,” he said defiantly.
Astrid held his hand tightly. “Let me come with you.”
“Not now. I have business in Cannes and perhaps in Aix-en-Provence.”
The taxi stopped at the international building. He kissed her, a perfunctory kiss, the kind a husband gives a wife who has dutifully driven him to the airport to catch a plane that will take him to more exciting adventures. He got out of the taxi without another word or gesture.
