The Cézanne Chase

by Thomas Swan

  Ian Paul Shelbourne was a man of forty, a bit paunchy, with prematurely gray hair, pale blue eyes, white skin, and was dressed in faded jeans and sweater. He spoke in a soft monotone and suggested that the interview be conducted in his portrait studio, where they settled on an odd pair of chairs, with Shelbourne perched on a piano bench in front of the powder-blue scrim where his subjects sat for their portraits. With clothes, hair, and eyes nearly the same color as the background, it seemed that Shelbourne might actually disappear. Too many hours in the darkroom, Oxby thought.

  Oxby began the questioning. “How long have you known Alan Pinkster?”

  “Five years, I suppose. Or six. About that.”

  “How did you get to know him?”

  “We were introduced shortly after he bought the house in Bletchingly. We rarely saw each other for a year or so, but then we’re not exactly in the same socioeconomic sphere. Several years later I got an assignment from Country Life to cover the party he gave after his house had been redecorated. That’s when he announced his plans to build his art gallery and when I got the idea to make a photodocumentary of the construction, from groundbreaking to dedication. He thought it was a good idea and gave me a contract.”

  “Did that help overcome the fact you were not in the same socioeconomic sphere?”

  “Not exactly, though we became more friendly.”

  “Are you the official photographer of the Pinkster gallery?”

  “I suppose, but only informally.”

  “Was it unusual for Mr. Pinkster to ask to see your photographs before they were shown to Clarence Boggs or David Blaney?”

  Shelbourne thought briefly about the questions. “He would occasionally ask to see my photographs before I submitted them to Blaney.”

  “Do you have a personal relationship with Mr. Pinkster?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean by ‘personal.’ ”

  “Do you see him socially?”

  “I said we are not in the same—”

  “Sphere, I think you said. Even so, did you see him socially at all? Twice a month—twice a year?”

  “Something in between, I would say.”

  “Would you say that you are personal friends?”

  “You’re perfectly right, Mr. Shelbourne. It may have absolutely nothing to do with the negatives. It seems I get going on questions sometimes and ... well, forgive me.”

  “I understand,” Shelbourne said.

  “About the negatives. Miss Browley asked David Blaney to order a complete set of photographs, and I understand he called to give you that order. But you were away on an assignment. Can you tell me the nature of that assignment?”

  “Photographs of new manufacturing facilities at the Oxford Fabrics Company.”

  “Where is that located?”

  “In Ashton. Outside of Manchester.”

  “That’s not far away. Was it a difficult assignment?”

  “The assignment was straightforward, it was the weather that was difficult.”

  “How is that?”

  “We were washed out by rain for nearly a week.”

  “Do you recall the dates?”

  “Sometime in the middle of the month.”

  “You were gone for quite a while. Two weeks, or was it longer?”

  “I also had a personal matter pending at that time.”

  “Exactly when did you discover that your shop had been broken into?”

  “As you can see, I’m not terribly good about dates, except that it all happened on a Saturday, and Christmas wasn’t too far off. I don’t offhand know what date that would be.”

  Ann supplied the answer. “The fifteenth.”

  “Yes, I remember now, that was the date. But it was the seventeenth, Monday, when I learned from Blaney that he wanted another set of prints. That’s when I discovered someone had broken into my dark-room.”

  “When did you tell David Blaney about it?”

  “I think on the next day, Tuesday.”

  “Weren’t you alarmed to discover the negatives had been ruined?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Did you notify the police?”

  “Not right away.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Looking back on it, I don’t know why. Foolish that I didn’t.”

  “Who did you tell?”

  “Blaney. And I told Alan Pinkster.”

  “Was he upset?”

  “He was sorry that someone had broken into my shop, but when I told him the only damage was to negatives of the tour group he didn’t seem terribly upset.” Shelbourne returned to the bench and sat.

  “Did Pinkster seem surprised that someone went to a considerable effort to destroy only those negatives?”

  “He didn’t say anything to that effect.”

  “Why do you suppose someone would want to destroy pictures of a group of Danes?”

  “I haven’t any idea, Inspector. I’m so relieved that nothing else was damaged that I haven’t given it much thought.”

  “Did Pinkster know that we had requested a duplicate set of the photographs?”

  “I don’t believe I ever told him. Blaney might have said something.”

  Oxby said, “I want you to recall the group that went through the gallery. There were about twenty-five, and all were from the Danish embassy in London. Do you remember anything about them?”

  “Frankly, I don’t. I see so many different groups during the year and usually have no reason to know one from another. We were taking photographs for a new brochure, and David asked if I would use up a roll on the group even though he felt it wasn’t a typical crowd.”

  “What did he mean by that?”

  “That they were mostly women.”

  “A typical group would be men and women?”

  “Yes.”

  “But there was at least one man. Did you notice that?”

  Shelbourne paused and stared down at his hands, which he was vigorously rubbing against each other. “I can’t remember precisely. Perhaps I vaguely recall seeing a man in the group.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  Shelbourne closed his eyes and winced as if trying to bring up a mental picture, then he shook his head, “Honestly, I can’t remember anything except that he was taller than everyone else, but most men are taller than women, so that’s no help. You must understand that I use a motorized camera with extremely fast film to catch candids of a group passing through as that one was. When I can fire off in rapid order I’m bound to get a few exceptional shots, perhaps even some unusual lighting that might give an extra quality to a photograph. That keeps my attention on the equipment, making sure the film’s advancing and the settings are correct. I have a good eye for composition, but it’s not trained on who’s in the picture. Not group shots, certainly. I knew we would make contact sheets and eventually I would see every photograph that I took. Even the ones I don’t remember taking.”

  “Contact sheets?”

  “I lay five or six negative strips directly on photographic paper in a sandwich of clear glass, pop on some light, then develop in the regular way. I like to get thirty-six exposures on one sheet.”

  “How many contact sheets do you make?”

  “One for each roll of film.”

  “Where did you put it?”

  “In the file along with the negatives.”

  “Where is the contact sheet of the Danish tour group?”

  The photographer made a futile gesture with both his hands. “It was ruined along with the negatives.”

  “How carefully did you look at the contact sheet before it was destroyed?”

  Shelbourne smiled indulgently. “Please realize, Inspector, that the photographs are the same size as the negatives, not much larger than a postage stamp, and I don’t inspect them for content. I run a crayon through the shots I feel are out of focus or badly exposed.”

  “Do the enlargements carry any identification?”

  “I put a code on the
back of each photograph. Perhaps there’s a sample on that table.” Shelbourne sifted through a stack of photographs and came away with two. He gave one to Oxby and one to Ann. “You’ll see there are numbers and letters. They identify the customer, the project, date, and film-roll number. With that information I can locate the negative in very short order and make a print in half an hour.”

  “Mr. Shelbourne, you are a professional photographer and an expert on film and photographs. If you wished to destroy some negatives, how would you go about it?”

  “Burn them, I suppose. They make a lovely fire.”

  “Indeed,” Oxby said simply. “We’re about out of questions; however, I do want to ask you about the man named Sailor. The Reigate police reported that his body was found behind your shop. Did you know him?”

  Shelbourne nodded. “First off, he wasn’t found behind my shop, it was two shops along the way. Yes, I did know him, all of the shopowners knew him.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “He was out of Dickens, one might say. A drifter, what are called homeless now. Sober, he was a good worker, but he was too fond of the bottle. He had grown old for his age, wizened up along with a twisted nose and a few scars that gave him a marvelous face. I paid him to pose, and he came to like it because it made him feel important for a little while. A few of my best shots are in the front of the shop.”

  “We saw them,” Ann said.

  Oxby said, “Was he well liked?”

  “I think so, but I can’t speak for the others.”

  “Was he the sort to make enemies?”

  “I can’t imagine it.”

  Oxby thanked Shelbourne and preceded Ann to the showroom. The Christmas wreath seemed out of place, he thought, though the holiday had come and gone less than a week earlier. When they were on the pavement in front of the shop, he said to Ann. “I want to see where they found Sailor’s body.”

  “It’s been several weeks,” Ann said. “The Reigate police report was very thorough, and you said—”

  “And I have always said, Sergeant, that no report substitutes for the real thing.” He started walking.

  “I was afraid that’s what you would say,” she said, following him to the service road behind the shops. Just then, Shelbourne appeared on the receiving platform.

  “You have a call, Inspector. Sergeant Murratore ...”

  Chapter 41

  Peder Aukrust put his passport on the counter and peered down at a beefy, bespectacled agent who at that precise moment stifled a yawn. The agent compared the photograph to the man standing in front of him, pawed through several pages in a thick notebook, then ran his finger down rows of numbers, closed the book, glanced up, and asked routinely, “Where did your flight originate?”

  “Paris,” Aukrust answered. The agent made a notation, stamped an empty page with a loud slap, and said mechanically, “Enjoy the new year.”

  “Tusen takk.” Aukrust nodded with forced pleasantness. He had forgotten that it was a new year, the third day, in fact. He went through customs without incident, found a taxi, and an hour later was at the King’s Arms Pub on Cheyne Walk near the Albert Bridge, several hundred yards from Cadogan Pier. It was 4:30 when he arrived at the pub and took a position at a table by a window from where he could see the pier and Sepera moored just beyond the blue-painted pier-manager’s shed. At five o’clock the locals began crowding around the bar, and an hour later two red lights atop the sternpost on the Sepera blinked off and on. Aukrust hoisted up his travel bag and went out to the street, crossed through the commuter traffic to steps that led over the stone wall of the embankment, then walked down the gangway to the pier.

  “You saw the signal?” Nikos asked from the top of the gangway.

  “Of course. I came immediately. Where is Pinkster?” Aukrust demanded.

  “We will meet him at the Tower Pier,” Nikos said. “He will not arrive there until 7:30.”

  “Go now,” Aukrust said emphatically.

  “Mr. Pinkster is very precise,” Nikos said. “We will be early.”

  “Then we’ll be early.” Aukrust glared at Nikos. “We go now.”

  Sophie stood in the doorway and greeted Aukrust by calling him Dr. Metzger, remembering his first visit to the Sepera and asking what he would drink, or whether he wanted coffee.

  An eighth of a mile behind the Sepera a police launch attached to the Thames Division of the Metropolitan Police followed quietly. Three men were on the black-hulled boat with black-and-white checkered markings on the white cabin. All were police officers, career members of the division, each having served two years with Scotland Yard, and each with prior service in either the Royal Navy or the Merchant Navy. Sergeant Jeff Jennings was the ranking officer; Constables O’Brian and Nestor handled communications and observation.

  Sepera passed Tower Pier at 6:48, continued on course for five minutes, then circled back to an open mooring near a sightseeing boat tied up for the night.

  When Sepera came about, Jennings cut his engines and made a hard turn toward the middle of the river. “Tell Ben Jolly to take over at Tower Pier,” Jennings called out to O’Brian. He then turned back to his original course and passed the Sepera just as it settled against the dock.

  Aukrust saw the other boat, but not until it cruised past did he realize it was a police launch. He watched it continue under Tower Bridge, then he returned to the deckhouse just as Alan Pinkster came aboard. It was 7:30.

  “A police boat just went by,” Aukrust said.

  “I saw it,” Pinkster replied. “Patrol boat. Some days the bloody river is filled with them.”

  Ben Jolly was a utilitarian-looking motorboat masquerading as a slug on water. It was actually an unmarked police boat capable of chasing down any floating object between Darford Creek and Staines Bridge, the fifty-four mile stretch patrolled by the Thames Division. It was a small, cramped cruiser that consisted of a hull, a powerful motor, and radios. A fixed cowling covered the two-man crew headed by Sergeant Tompkins. The second man, on special assignment and dressed in a heavy black jacket and wool cap, was Detective Sergeant Jimmy Murratore.

  The Ben Jolly was difficult to spot, as it was painted in shades of dark green and gray and sat low in the water. It lurked less than a hundred yards behind the police launch and was now directly off Tower Pier, where it waited for Sepera.

  “To our success.” Alan Pinkster poured champagne into long-stemmed glasses, handed one to Peder, raised his own, and took a sip. “And to Paul Cézanne and all the pictures he painted of himself.” He drank again. “Join me, Peder, drink to the recovery of the DeVilleurs portrait. Splendid work.”

  Aukrust returned a cold, penetrating stare that made every inch of his tall body a mass of intimidation. He went to the circle of chairs and sat in the one obviously meant for Pinkster, the one by the table. He put his glass down next to the telephone and said, “If you’re in a mood to celebrate, we should talk about money again.”

  “I’ve paid you bloody well,” Pinkster said, then touched the soreness around his mouth with his fingertips. “We agreed on your fee for the delivery of the DeVilleurs portrait.”

  Aukrust replied, his head nodding slightly, “You remember that the painting had been scheduled for auction and would set a new record price. Fifty million dollars, some were saying.”

  Pinkster smiled and sipped the champagne. “And I’ll sell it for a record price.”

  “You get more, I get more,” Aukrust replied. “Besides, I didn’t plan on the little bastard who surprised me while I was in Shelbourne’s darkroom. You owe me for that.”

  “I don’t pay for mistakes. That was your problem.”

  An intercom phone rang. Pinkster spoke briefly into it then put it down. “There will be more money. After the sale.”

  The Sepera began to move. “Where are we going?” Aukrust asked.

  “I’m meeting with my Far Eastern dealer, the one I’ve described as rather special, the one whose clientele collect ar
t on a grand scale.”

  “Why do you want me to meet him?”

  Pinkster refilled his glass. “You won’t actually meet him, but you will be able to watch him and listen to him. I want you to hear what he thinks about the DeVilleurs portrait and how much his client will pay for it.” Pinkster settled into the chair beside Aukrust, his grin now grown to an expectant smile. “I’m anxious to see the portrait.” He nudged his shoe against Aukrust’s travel bag.

  Aukrust was slow to reply. “I don’t have the painting.”

  Pinkster’s smile collapsed. “You didn’t bring it with you? Is that what you mean?”

  Aukrust nodded, “I said I didn’t bring it with me.” The voice was ice.

  “What have you done with it?”

  “I put it in a storage locker in the railroad station in Aix-en-Provence.”

  Pinkster exploded. “That can’t be true ... you wouldn’t be so stupid as to put a painting worth a goddamned fortune in an ordinary locker—”

  Aukrust rose up and let fly with a clenched fist against Pinkster’s hand, propelling the champagne glass against the wall, “Don’t talk to me that way.”

  Pinkster put up his hands as if to ward off Aukrust’s next blow. “I ... I can’t believe you would do such a thing without permission.”

  “Permission to do what? I was nearly killed when they took the painting from me. The old man paid for that. He paid, all right.” He made an expression that was as much a grimace as a grin. “Hear what I’m saying? He’s dead.”

  Pinkster was breathing in short, nervous bursts. “I hear you.”

  Aukrust went on. “Before they open the exhibition I will give Madame DeVilleurs her painting.”

  “Will you sit down?” Pinkster asked respectfully, the lower part of his face now painfully splotched. “You didn’t tell me that you like Madame DeVilleurs. I understand that, she’s been good to you. Is that right?”