The Cézanne Chase

by Thomas Swan

  Though there were eleven names on Lemieux’s list, it seemed that everyone had brought an aide or friend or, in the case of Llewellyn, one of each. Oxby counted thirty attendees and also discovered that the driver of what turned out to be a 1978 Oldsmobile was Scooter Albany, who had been invited—thanks to Llewellyn—to gather videotape coverage for a behind-the-scenes TV special of the Cézanne retrospective. Scooter immediately found the bar and began demonstrating his wizardry at keeping several conversations moving smoothly while writing notes with one hand and holding a perpetually fresh drink with the other.

  Dinner on the first night was served from a buffet, with everyone mingling informally. Oxby moved among the council members, introducing himself to those he did not know, pausing for longer chats with the ones he did, saving the Llewellyn group for last, where he found Sam Turner trying to persuade Astrid that until she had experienced a Calgary rodeo she wouldn’t really understand the true spirit of North America. Sam was into the third year of his second hitch with Interpol and was anxious to return to the Royal Canadian Police before he would be too old to get back on track with a career assignment. Llewellyn asked how many Interpol agents had been assigned to the case.

  Turner shook his head. “I’m afraid you’re a victim of badly researched detective novels, Mr. Llewellyn. We’re mistaken for some sort of supranational police force—that we chase the crooks. We don’t do that. We collect information on drug trafficking or terrorism or the destruction of Cézanne’s portraits but only when it’s a crime that crosses international borders. We process the data and feed it back to the police authorities in countries that are dues-paying members of Interpol.”

  “But how is it that you’re here—and a member of the security council?” Llewellyn asked.

  “Because Félix Lemieux asked the general secretary to assign someone, and I got the nod. I wouldn’t mind playing policeman just long enough to put Vulcan away, but—” he inclined his head toward Oxby, “that’s the inspector’s job. Come around on Thursday afternoon. You’ll hear a good bit on how Interpol operates.”

  “I can’t,” Llewellyn said with genuine disappointment. “I’ve got to be in New York.”

  Oxby turned to Astrid. “Will you also be returning to New York?”

  Astrid avoided answering for several seconds then with a thin smile said, “I’m afraid my clients have asked me to stop in Paris and look into a few shops.” She seemed genuinely upset, as if an expense-paid shopping trip in Paris was an inconvenience.

  On Tuesday, presentations were made by André Lachaud and Curtis Berrien, with the greater amount of time spent in group discussions of the expenses and logistics of a major exhibition and of the complications related to securing adequate insurance to cover fire, damage in handling and hanging the expensive art, and massive liability coverage.

  Early on Wednesday Scooter Albany took Llewellyn to Charles de Gaulle airport then drove into the center of Paris to drop Astrid at the Hôtel Vieux Marais on Rue Plâtre. A gray sedan followed the Oldsmobile out of the airport and into the city and parked a prudent distance from the hotel while Scooter carried Astrid’s suitcase into the lobby, returned to his golden Olds, and began his drive back to Fontainebleau. A bearded, dark-skinned young man wearing jeans and a green jacket got out of the car, walked to the hotel, and went inside, where he spoke with the desk clerk then returned to his car.

  Scooter returned to the Inn Napoléon shortly after eleven and taperecorded an interview with Henri Trama, division commissioner in the Central Police Judiciary. The commissioner was a dark-haired man in his early fifties with deep blue eyes under thick brows and an exquisite aquiline nose that guaranteed his French heritage. Trama headed a special contingent of special investigators within the French interior ministry and had responsibility for the recapture of stolen art and antiquity and the prosecution of thieves, forgers, counterfeiters, and, occasionally, murderers. In spite of an outstanding worldwide reputation, Trama could be uncommunicative and a genuinely offensive boor.

  During lunch, Gustave Bilodeau gave a brief presentation in which he praised “the gracious cooperation we have received from museums and private collectors who have agreed to loan their valuable Cézannes for the retrospective. January 19 will not come soon enough for all of my staff, who continue with great diligence to make this a memorable birthday celebration in honor of a great artist.

  “There will be an auction in Geneva in December,” Bilodeau went on; “the DeVilleurs self-portrait will be entered for sale. Madame DeVilleurs accepted our offer to purchase the painting; however, her late husband placed unreasonable requirements in his will regarding the sale of paintings in the collection. But as I speak, the will is being vigorously contested, and we have hopes that the self-portrait will be sold to our museum. It is our dream to have the portrait in a place of honor when the retrospective gets under way.”

  The first to speak in the final afternoon session was Sam Turner. His presentation was brief, and parts of it put a chill over the group, particularly his vivid descriptions, accompanied by before-and-after photographs, of the demise, as he put it, of the paintings. “Every piece of information we’ve received about these paintings has been entered into our computers. From this data we hope to find similarities between what occurred in St. Petersburg, London, Surrey, and Boston. Whatever we come up with will be sent out to you in what are called Modus Operandi Sheets, samples of which are being distributed to each of you. We’ve had success tracking down terrorists, but I’m afraid terrorists leave better trails than Vulcan. They usually send warnings, and most are identified with a cause or a group we’ve got hard information on. That’s why I ask all of you to send me any detail that comes your way, no matter how insignificant it might seem.”

  At two o’clock, Félix Lemieux presented the security plan developed by his staff in the Louvre, with an assist from old friends in the French Secret Service. Details were contained on sixteen printed pages and bound into a black folder. Each council member received a numbered copy and signed a statement acknowledging that the information was privileged and to be kept secret. Lemieux stood beside an easel, on which he placed drawings and photographs: a detailed street map of Aix-en-Provence; layouts of the two display floors in the Granet; exterior and interior photographs of the thirteenth-century church of St.-Jean-de-Malte, which abuts the Granet, showing how it could be a haven for anyone preparing an assault on the museum. “We will place a special surveillance team inside the church, dressed in priests’ robes, trained in rudimentary clerical duties, and equipped with cellular phones.” Included in Lemieux’s presentation were diagrams of a closed-circuit television system that had been installed in the Granet a year earlier and additional slides to show the planned enhancements of the system. “Unfortunately we have not been guaranteed installation of these changes until February 1, and we will therefore employ additional guards until the new system is fully operational.”

  Lemieux concluded by saying that a small army might, with force and firepower, penetrate the rings of protection that were envisioned, but it will be impossible for one or two persons to pass through undetected. The consensus around the table was that Lemieux’s strategy was an imaginative combination of manpower and technology.

  Lemieux’s presentation set the stage for Mirella LeBorgne. LeBorgne, as Oxby knew so well, was a combination of scholar, teacher, and lecturer. She was a handsome, not quite pretty, woman of fiftythree, tall, spare, but with a wide, open face that radiated an immediately likable charm.

  “Oh, my!” were her first words, said with a smile and undisguised consternation. “You know that I’m rarely at a loss for words, but at this precise moment I don’t know what to say. You see, I—we have a terribly important decision to make, and while some of you have already made yours and feel that the retropective should open on schedule, I haven’t arrived at that decision, not yet at least. If the exhibit opens, and any one of the paintings is destroyed or damaged in the slightest way, I would
never forgive myself, nor would millions of people forgive me or any of you. The question I am struggling to answer is this: Will Vulcan get by all of Félix Lemieux’s security arrangements and do the unthinkable yet again? I am here to listen, and I invite you to speak up.”

  Oxby asked to be recognized. “I know you face a difficult decision; however, I strongly urge that you say yes. May I explain why?”

  Mirella LeBorgne smiled. “Please, by all means.”

  Oxby said, “The motivation for destroying the portraits has been to send prices up on all paintings by Cézanne. Now comes the retrospective, tailor-made to send interest in Cézanne’s works into the stratosphere and flush out an entirely new group of collectors, each one hoping to catch a Cézanne before prices go completely out of sight. The one concern I have about Vulcan and his pals is whether or not they have their inventory of Cézanne or if they’re planning to pick up one or two between now and January 19. They won’t attempt to break into the Granet; they know that this group will put an impenetrable curtain around the museum, and they will have confirmation of that fact when Félix’s program is given full press coverage. In fact, they would agree that the safest place for a painting by Cézanne will be on the wall in the Granet come next January. However, between now and then, every Cézanne is at risk, and the ones most vulnerable are the self-portraits.”

  “We know where every one of them is,” Lemieux replied. “They should be taken off the walls and put into hiding.”

  “If we do that, we don’t catch Vulcan.”

  “What’s your strategy?” Sam Turner asked.

  “To flush out Vulcan before January 19. And we might do that by creating a situation so tempting, he’ll show his hand.” Oxby paused, “Edwin Llewellyn, who was with us earlier, has consented to travel from Paris to Aix-en-Provence with his now-famous Cézanne self-portrait, showing the painting to the public as a demonstration of his deep concern for the success of the retrospective. I have told Mr. Llewellyn that he will become a lightning rod, an idea which has not particularly endeared me to my new friend.” The comment brought laughter, though not from Henri Trama, who got to his feet and directed a cold stare at Oxby.

  “Who protects Monsieur Llewellyn, Inspector?”

  “I have personally made secure arrangements, Henri,” Oxby said respectfully, “and I hope to solicit additional help from your office.”

  “That’s not a matter I can approve.” He said the words quickly, perhaps angrily.

  Oxby went on. “Officially, I will be on leave from the Yard during Mr. Llewellyn’s trip and will keep him under close observation at all times.”

  Madame LeBorgne asked, “How certain can you be that Vulcan will turn into lightning and try to strike your Mr. Llewellyn?”

  “Betting odds open at even money,” Oxby replied.

  Scooter Albany was slouched in a chair outside the meeting room, an arm drooped to his side, a hand clasped around an empty glass. As the council members filed out, he got to his feet and hovered behind Oxby while the detective had last-minute words with Mirella LeBorgne and Félix Lemieux.

  “How’d it go?” Scooter asked when they were alone.

  “About as I expected,” Oxby replied. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  Scooter grinned.

  They sat by the window in the bar, “Is the show on or off?” Scooter asked cryptically.

  “Very much on,” Oxby said with enthusiasm. “Félix put a strong plan together, and you can help make it stronger.”

  “Me?” he laughed. “I don’t know the first thing about security, except skirting around it to get at a story.”

  “But you’re good at writing stories and getting them on television. Now I have a different story. Suppose you had the chance to travel with Edwin Llewellyn from Paris to Aix, and suppose he were to take his Cézanne painting along, and suppose further that you could record the trip and send nightly reports to your television contacts. Would that interest you?”

  “Bet your sweet ass it would.” Scooter put away half of a double vodka martini, then asked, “Why me?”

  “You two are friends, and he likes your golden Olds.”

  Scooter tossed down the second half of his drink and got to his feet. “I need a refill.” He turned to go to the bar as Sam Turner came to the table.

  “Mind if I steal a few minutes?”

  Oxby waved Sam into the chair. “What did you think of the meeting?”

  Sam said, “It was okay. Lemieux did a good job, and Mirella Laeorgne is a sweetheart, but your little bombshell was a surprise. If you set up Llewellyn the way you described, he might end up very dead. Trama damned well didn’t go for it.”

  Oxby shook his head. “I hoped he might show some enthusiasm; instead he froze the air. Obviously he wants to catch Vulcan, and he doesn’t want to help anyone else do it.”

  “So who protects Llewellyn?”

  “I can get help in Paris, even without Trama. And in Lyon. I don’t have contacts in Avignon, but I’ll have my own people.”

  “You’re Scotland Yard, Jack, not some goddamned branch of the French Judiciare.”

  “Sam, I don’t want to throw away this opportunity.” He looked squarely at Turner, “I may need your help.”

  “You aren’t supposed to carry a gun, and I’m not supposed to chase people—other than that, we’ll make a hell of a team.” He nodded. “I’ll do what I can.”

  Scooter came back with another double, though half consumed. “Anyone want a drink? I’m buying.”

  Turner said, “I’ll take a rain check, and don’t forget it.” To Oxby he said, “And don’t you forget you’re coming to Lyon in exactly ten days.”

  Chapter 34

  Paris was unseasonably warm, and sidewalk tables at the cafe near the Hôtel Vieux Marais were filled. Astrid stood by an open window and watched the traffic along Rue Plâtre. It was noon. The phone rang. It was Peder.

  “Yes,” she answered.

  “What do you see?”

  “At a table outside the cafe I see the same one who followed me into the hotel yesterday.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “It’s the black man with a beard. He’s wearing a sweater and a green jacket with something on the back that I can’t make out.”

  “Alone?”

  “I think so.”

  “Go to the cafe and order a glass of wine and something to eat. Call me from the phone inside the cafe and tell me if he’s alone.”

  “Peder, why are they following me?” Her voice dimmed.

  “They want to know why you’re in Paris. They are guessing that you are meeting someone.”

  “Who is guessing?”

  “Oxby. He’s very thorough. The good ones are.” He gave her his phone number and asked her to repeat it. That was it.

  There were no empty tables, so Astrid sat at one with a stout, pleasant woman who was deeply engrossed in writing postcards to her friends in Waterloo, Iowa. She was also anxious to tell anyone who would listen that this was her first trip to Paris. “It’s everything I had ever dreamed it would be,” she gushed.

  Astrid nodded politely, pretending not to understand.

  The woman seemed embarrassed and went back to her correspondence.

  Astrid used the little French that she knew and asked for a glass of red wine and pointed to the sandwich she wanted on the menu. The man in the green jacket sat three tables away. He had put a magazine on the table next to his coffee and occasionally looked at his watch as if he were impatiently waiting for a tardy friend.

  She took a bite from her sandwich then got to her feet and said to the woman that she would come back, saying it awkwardly in French. The woman tilted her head and smiled as if she had understood perfectly.

  Astrid found the phone. “Tell me again,” she held the phone tight to her ear and listened intently. She returned to the table and remained there nibbling on the sandwich, sipping the wine. After exactly ten minutes she paid for the meal and went out to the sidewalk
. The cafe was at the intersection of Rue du Temple and Rue Plâtre as Peder had said. She turned right and walked for two blocks. Ahead and to her left was a globe marking the entrance to the Métro. She crossed the street and stopped by a window filled with artificial flowers. She looked back along Rue du Temple. The green jacket had also stopped.

  She walked faster. At the entrance to the Métro there was a news kiosk beyond the steps going down, and she went to it and glanced at a row of magazines. Then she went back to the steps, saw the green jacket walking toward her, hurried down to the trains, paid for a ticket, and followed signs to Mairie des Lilacs. She walked to the end of the platform.

  The platform was well lighted, and she searched each of the faces of the people waiting for the next train. A woman holding a baby sat on one of the benches; at the end of the same bench sat an old man bent over a large shopping bag. A train was approaching, pushing the air in front of it, causing pieces of paper to float up off the track and onto the platform.

  On the back of the green jacket were the words “Detroit Tigers.” She searched the faces around her. “Peder?” she said in a frightened whisper that only she could hear. “I can’t see you!”

  Then came a crescendoing noise that seemed to explode over the platform as the train entered the station. There was a scream, louder even than the whoosh of air and the brakes on the train. The man in the green jacket bounced off the side of the first car, his body thrown down onto the platform with enough force to roll him over several times before he came to a rest against the legs of a bench. What Astrid would remember was a single frozen image as if taken from a horror film: terror in the man’s face, his arms splayed out in a wild attempt to save himself.

  The old man with the shopping bag took Astrid’s arm and rushed her past the crowds getting off the train and gathering around the man, who lay flat and unmoving. They went up the street, where Peder threw the bag into a refuse container and jammed the beret he had been wearing into his pocket.