by Thomas Swan
“The premiums were outlandish. I was trying to negotiate more favorable costs.”
“With Lloyd’s?”
“I—don’t recall. Besides, I have someone in my firm follow up on those things.”
“You allowed such a valuable painting to go uninsured?”
“I object to your inference, Inspector,” Pinkster said indignantly. “That was not my intention, and I bloody well didn’t think it would be destroyed.”
“But Mr. Pinkster, you knew there was a danger—”
“Which is precisely why the premiums became so high.” Pinkster looked across at Oxby for the first time. “I had planned to take the painting off the wall and, in fact, had instructed Clarence Boggs to make arrangements.” The redness around his mouth seemed to intensify. “That didn’t happen as you know.”
“Would you intend to use the same photographer who was in the gallery the day the painting was destroyed?”
Pinkster turned away. “I don’t contract for photographers, David Blaney handles that sort of thing.”
“I see.” Oxby flipped a page in his notebook. “By chance did you see the photographs that were taken on that fateful day?”
Pinkster shook his head slowly. “I received a report from Blaney about them, but photographers are frequently in the gallery for one reason or another.”
“I believe Blaney said that you had insisted on seeing the photographs before they were shown to anyone.” Oxby turned a page, “Here it is. I have a note to that effect.”
Pinkster sighed deeply. “I was terribly upset at the time and I—” His legs and arms were moving nervously. “I recall now that I did know which photographer had the assignment, and I instructed him to send the photographs to me before they were circulated.”
“You forgot that you had seen the photographs, yet in fact you had called the photographer. A bit unusual, perhaps?”
“I bloody forgot!” Pinkster snapped angrily. “I was bloody upset then, just as I’m bloody upset right now.”
“Now that you remember seeing the photographs, will you tell me if you had any particular reason for wanting to see them?”
“I hoped I’d find something that might tell me who destroyed my painting.”
“But you didn’t see anything?”
“No,” he waved his hand feebly, “just a bunch of women. But if I had seen something you would have known. It’s a silly question.”
“I ask so many questions,” Oxby said dryly. “I’m bound to ask a silly one now and then. A bunch of women, you say. But there was a man in one photograph.”
“Perhaps there was, I don’t recall.” Pinkster moved back in his chair and sat stiffly. “Why all these questions about photographs?”
“Apparently there are several photographs we haven’t yet seen. Blaney tried to order another set of prints from the photographer. His name escapes me, but I believe it’s one you know—”
“Ian Shelbourne.”
“Yes, of course, Shelbourne. He didn’t respond to any of our phone calls, apparently because he had been called away on assignment.” Oxby checked the tape recorder then put it back between them, continuing to talk in a chatty, conversational manner. “And another thing. A homeless old fellow known as Sailor was found dead in the alley behind Shelbourne’s shop. Had you heard about that?”
Pinkster tensed, only slightly, but Oxby saw it, “I don’t keep up with the homeless,” Pinkster said, attempting black humor unsuccessfully.
“I don’t suppose you do. But someone broke into Shelbourne’s darkroom and destroyed everything to do with the photographs that were taken on that particular day in your gallery. “They used an acid. Maybe—just a guess—they used the same solution that was used on the paintings. What do you think?”
“What are you suggesting?” Pinkster flushed.
“It’s not a suggestion, really, merely following a notion that because you know Shelbourne, it’s possible you knew about Sailor and the break-in.”
Pinkster sighed noisily, as if to say he was answering the last question. “Shelbourne came to me before we began construction of the gallery and asked if he could photograph the building as it went up, said he planned on doing a photo journal or some sort of thing. I told him to go ahead, and he’s been one of our photographers ever since. I don’t meddle in his business and don’t know about the Sailor person or break-ins.”
Pinkster abruptly got to his feet, pointed to his watch and said, “Your ten minutes are up, Inspector.”
Chapter 38
Pinkster waited until Oxby’s car made the turn at the foot of the driveway then went to his office in the gallery and dialed a long series of numbers. He clamped the receiver against his ear, heard a faint hum, then the sound of a phone ringing.
“Oui.” A single word answer, but no doubt that Aukrust said it.
“They’re asking questions about an old man. What happened?”
“A mistake. He came into the darkroom, and that was wrong. He ran away, but I caught him and—”
Pinkster waited for the rest of the explanation. “Go on, what in bloody hell happened?”
“I shook him, and he fell.”
“You pushed him. You bastard, you killed him.”
“I said it was a mistake.”
“You make too many mistakes. You don’t think, and you were bloody damned stupid.”
“Don’t talk that way to me.”
“I’ll talk however I damned please. Why didn’t you take the files away and burn them? Why leave more evidence?”
“What’s left of the solvent is oxidized. It will take months to duplicate my formulation,” he said with pride in his voice, “perhaps forever! You are wrong. I didn’t leave evidence.”
“More stupidity. You honestly believe you can outwit the most sophisticated forensic laboratory in the world? You’re an insufferable egotist.”
“I said there is no evidence.”
“A dead body is evidence. Forced entry into Shelbourne’s darkroom leaves evidence. Negatives destroyed with your damned special chemicals are evidence.”
Aukrust did not answer. Finally Pinkster said, “I want you in London on Thursday. Go on board the Sepera at six o’clock and have the DeVilleurs painting with you.”
Afternoon ended and evening began in a seamless change of light, from sun to neons and incandescents, some blinking a fiery Christmas greeting. Astrid’s room was dark and small, and from the foot of the bed where she sat, she could touch the faded draperies that flanked a single, narrow window. Below, at the corner, was the cafe, bustling with young office workers spending relaxed minutes with friends. That morning she had walked toward the cafe, expecting to pass the young woman with dark hair who had replaced the agent with the Detroit Lions jacket. The woman was gone, as was the dark sedan she usually sat in. Astrid went to a neighborhood market and bought cheese and croissants then returned to the hotel by circling the block but saw no one that qualified as a replacement “follower.” Somehow, however, she was not convinced she had been abandoned.
At nine o’clock she would meet Peder, and they would have dinner. She had been given explicit instructions: a taxi across the Seine, then another one back to Gare de Lyon, where she was to walk through the station to Rue de Chalon and on to the windows of a children’s clothing store. Peder would join her, and they would walk to a small neighborhood restaurant near the St. Antoine hospital.
Astrid’s words came in a rush, but barely louder than the hushed conversation of a young couple at a nearby table. “There’s no one, Peder, not the woman, and both cars are gone. But I still imagine I’m being followed, that someone’s watching all the time.”
“I’m leaving tomorrow.” He put a finger under her chin and tilted her head back. “You must stay until Llewellyn comes to Paris.”
“No, Peder, I don’t want to stay here alone.”
His hand moved quickly, and he pinched her chin with the vice formed by his thumb and fingers. “You will do as I say.”
“Please? Can’t I go with you?” He tightened the vice so that she could barely speak. “You’re ... hurting ...”
“Stop telling me what you will and won’t do. They can only watch you. So let them watch while you go back to your business of shopping for antiques, exactly as you told Llewellyn and Oxby in Fontainebleau. Understand?”
She nodded, and he released his grip. Immediately she rubbed at the soreness then timidly asked, “How long will I be alone?”
“A few days, a week.”
“Why are you in Paris?” she asked.
Immediately forgotten to him was the pain he had inflicted on her moments before. He took her hand and rubbed it gently, and he did it without awareness of her fear that he would clamp his huge hands over hers and hurt her again. His anger had simply expired, and he said, “Because I want to be with you, to have you kiss every part of me.” He whispered, “To make love.”
Chapter 39
“Park there, Emily.” Margueritte DeVilleurs strained forward, pointing to the driveway that ran beside Frédéric Weisbord’s home. “I haven’t been here since Cécile was alive,” she said wistfully. “Such a marvelous person. She had to be—married to Freddy was purgatory on earth. But she had her gardens.” She pointed again. “Park here.” They climbed the stairs to the porch and rapped on the front door. The chain was withdrawn and the door opened.
“I am Margueritte DeVilleurs and have come with my companion. I phoned to say I would be here today.”
Idi stood to the side, her head cocked and her face screwed into a perplexed expresssion. “You are Madame DeVilleurs?”
“I am, of course,” Margueritte replied with obvious certainty. “Does that surprise you?”
Idi studied Margueritte and said, “Only that Monsieur Weisbord said you were an old woman, he said—”
“He said many things that were not true.” Margueritte responded with the usual intolerance she attached to all references to Frédéric Weisbord. “I knew him all too well, and it’s why I haven’t set foot in this house since his wife passed away.” Margueritte took quick inventory of the rooms connected to the hall, then said to Idi, “I’ve come for a painting Monsieur Weisbord took from me.”
Emily moved abreast of Idi, and now she and Margueritte flanked the housekeeper. Margueritte said, “The painting is a portrait of a man,”—she held her hands apart—“so big, and in a frame. Have you seen it?”
Idi’s hand shot up, pointing to the floor above. “He put it over his bed, a man with a dark beard.” Idi nodded. “But it’s not there. It’s gone.”
Margueritte reacted sharply. “How do you mean, it’s gone?”
“It’s not there any more,” and her hands waved again. “I didn’t go to his bedroom until—I think it was Monday, and he died Friday evening in his office just over there.” She waved in the direction of the office. “They asked me to find his best suit to bury him in—that’s when I saw that the painting was gone.”
“Have you looked for it?” Margueritte asked anxiously.
Idi shook her head. “I didn’t like it enough to care if it was on the wall or not.”
“Perhaps he put it in his office. Take me there.”
Idi guided Margueritte and Emily into the room that had been unused for a week, the air redolent with stale tobacco smoke. They looked everywhere the painting might have been concealed, but in minutes it became obvious the hunt was futile. “Could it still be in the bedroom?” Margueritte asked.
They paraded up the stairs to Weisbord’s bedroom, and all three looked through closets and in a high, wide armoire; then they hunted in the other bedrooms, then back to Weisbord’s bedroom. Idi pointed to a picture hook on the wall above the bed. “That’s where he put it.”
Margueritte’s eyes darted from closets to bureau then down to the bed, which had been neatly made with a thick spread pulled tightly over a mound of pillows. She sat on the bed and ran her hand over the spread as if it were possible the painting was beneath the covers. “Look under the bed, Emily. We haven’t tried there.”
Emily got on her knees and probed under the bed. “I’ve got something,” she said, and pulled out the frame.
Margueritte knelt beside Emily, the empty frame in front of her on the floor. “That’s the one.” She glanced at Emily then up at Idi, her eyes sad. “Why would he take the painting out of the frame?”
“There was a man,” Idi began, “who said he was a friend. He came that night to surprise Monsieur Weisbord. He had a bottle of wine. A present, he said.”
“What did he look like?” Margueritte asked.
“Tall, I remember,” Idi said, her eyes closed, testing her memory. “He had brown hair and a bandage on one ear, and he carried a strange kind of bag under his arm; it was long and round.”
“Was he French?”
Idi shook her head. “He spoke French, but with an accent I don’t know.”
“Scandinavian?” Margueritte asked, then spoke several heavily accented sentences. “Like that?” she asked Idi.
Idi thought for a moment. “Maybe that way.”
“It was Peder,” Margueritte said to Emily. “I want to go to the office again.”
Emily carried the frame, and they returned to Weisbord’s office where they were assaulted with a new odor, a sweet, artificial smell of flowers, the kind made strong and bottled into cheap cologne. Seated in Weisbord’s oversized chair was LeToque, his black hair combed slickly across the edges of his forehead and over the tips of his high cheekbones. One eye was still red and moist, yet on the rest of his thin face was a supercilious, smug expression. Standing beside him was Gaby, wearing a short skirt and black stockings and emitting the grande-odeur.
“Why are you here?” Idi demanded.
“To have the Italian putain cook for us.”
Idi grasped a glass paperweight from the desk and raised it over her head, “You bastard, call me a whore—I curse your family, everyone!”
“I hope you do.” He mixed the words with a high-pitched giggle, then jumped up and grabbed the paperweight from Idi’s hand. “They are shit, and you can put a curse on them all, my father first.” He looked insolently at Margueritte. “Do you have business here?”
“Of course I have business,” Margueritte said. “Monsieur Weisbord was my lawyer, his wife a dear friend. I have been here many times.” She sized up the young man as brash and potentially dangerous.
“I have business, too. Money. I got sixty thousand francs coming.”
“A good deal of money,” Margueritte said. “How did you earn so much?”
“That was between me and the old man,” LeToque said.
“But Weisbord is dead, and there will be no money unless you file a claim against his estate. You’ll need proof he owed you money.”
He shook his head. “What fucking business do you have with Weisbord?”
Margueritte bristled, then revised her assessment of LeToque, seeing him now as insecure and unable to understand why he was unlikely to collect any money owed him by Weisbord. “My business is to recover a painting Weisbord took from me.”
“He had a painting that he was going to sell in Geneva.” LeToque pushed away from the table. “I drove him to the gallery and was with him when he made arrangements. They said it would sell for 250 million francs.”
“Where did you last see it?”
“In Weisbord’s bedroom. He hung it over his bed like a goddamned crucifix.”
“It’s gone. We found the frame under the bed.”
“The bastard Aukrust—he took it. He was here the night Weisbord died.”
“He said he’d kill me,” Gaby chimed in excitedly. “He pointed a knife at me.” She put a finger on her throat.
“No, no,” Margueritte protested, “that isn’t his way. I know him. He’s gentle and—”
“He’s gentle like a wild-ass bull. Look here at my eyes, still red from what he sprayed over me. And he put a piece of glass through a pal’s hand. He kil
led Weisbord is what I think.”
Margueritte sat in the chair next to the desk. “Could you find him?”
“I’m here to get what Weisbord owed me. There’s silver and china and other paintings I can sell.”
“You won’t take a spoon from this house,” Idi glowered.
Margueritte said, “Find the painting, and I’ll pay you ten thousand francs.”
“Ten? I’m owed sixty.”
Margueritte shook her head. “I knew that old lawyer all too well. You won’t collect one franc.”
LeToque’s eyes darted from Gaby to Margueritte. “And what do I get if I can’t find it?”
“Prove that you tried, and I’ll pay you five thousand francs.”
Chapter 40
Oxby’s penchant for operating independently was shaken a bit when Elliott Heston sent his inspector a memorandum in which the service’s stricture on investigation procedure was cited; specifically, that a second officer is required during an official interrogation. It was a mild reprimand, accompanied by a note something to the effect that it was unlikely another warning would be necessary. Heston had also asked Oxby to kindly inform him of any unilateral action he had taken in the Vulcan case but that he had “inadvertently” failed to report. Heston’s notes were brief, the scoldings never personal. Oxby did what he always did with these memorandums. He crumpled this one into a small ball and lobbed it into a wastebasket.
The loss of the photographs preyed on Oxby’s mind. It was more than what the photographs might have shown; it was the fact that whoever spilled acid over the negatives was also responsible for destroying the paintings—or so it was becoming apparent to Oxby. A workable hypothesis, he thought. There was also the strong suggestion that Pinkster knew much more than he had admitted. And what of Sailor, whose autopsy showed he had had a ravaged liver and an ulcerated stomach but had died from a fractured skull? Perhaps it was just as well that Heston had reminded him of protocol and that Sergeant Browley was accompanying him on his visit with Ian Shelbourne. Perhaps he would be able to concentrate on what he wanted to learn.
