The Cézanne Chase

by Thomas Swan

  The crew chief eyed the slim, black-haired man. “Show me your hands,” he said brusquely.

  LeToque had prepared for the examination and held out his hands, first palms down, then palms up.

  “I can use you for six hours tomorrow, five to eleven. It pays 235 francs.”

  LeToque’s smile never wavered. “I’ll be here.”

  Chapter 56

  Astrid went warily to the desk by the window and picked up the phone. It had been ringing for half a minute, and Fraser hadn’t answered.

  “Hello,” she ventured softly.

  “I’m calling Mr. Llewellyn.” It was a male’s husky voice, one she vaguely recognized.

  “Who is calling?”

  “Alex Tobias. He’s expecting my call.”

  “This is Astrid, we met in New York.”

  “You’re dead right. Nice to hear you,” Tobias said.

  “Where are you calling from?”

  “Maybe about four blocks away.”

  “Then I might see you. That would be nice. Wait, please, I’ll find Mr. Llewellyn.”

  She rapped on the door to Llewellyn’s, opened it, and had taken two steps into the room when Llewellyn came from the bathroom, toweling off. He stood in front of her, stark naked save for a towel tied around his waist.

  “It’s Mr. Tobias,” she said, pointing at the phone.

  Llewellyn sat on the bed. “Alex, good to hear from you.” He gave Astrid an “it’s okay” wave, and she backed out of the room and closed the door.

  “How was your trip?”

  “Couldn’t have been better, except for a little rain on the second day. Helen said it was my fault, but I blamed you, said you’d picked the date.”

  “I’m sure my friend is all right, but I have to ask.”

  “He’s in perfect shape, but I’ll feel a damn sight better when I don’t have to baby-sit him anymore.”

  “One more day, Alex. Just be sure he doesn’t get picked up accidentally. Someone might take a fancy to that damned old suitcase of yours.”

  Tobias laughed, “Don’t worry, it looks more disreputable than ever.”

  “I want you to hold on to him. We’re not showing him off until opening day. And is there any way you and Helen can join us at the reception tomorrow evening?”

  “Afraid not. Helen’s got us going to Marseille for the day. But have a drink for me, will you?”

  They talked for several minutes, said their good-byes, then each hung up. After a pause, Astrid did the same.

  Chapter 57

  The underground ride seemed interminable, particularly to someone with a patience factor of something less than half a millisecond. At Hampstead station, in north London, Bud Samuelson followed the crowds to street level where he referred to the instructions that took him through the village to Church Row. The popular and artsy little district could be considered as out-of-the-way only because it was three miles from central London, but the streets were thick with tourists. It was all a bunch of charming shit, Samuelson thought, as he passed the two-hundred-year-old houses and manicured gardens that lined Church Row. Ahead of him now was St. John’s Church, small, old, and white-painted, with wrought-iron fences surrounding its yard and cemetery. It was twenty past four, ten minutes until the doors would be closed to visitors.

  Inside there was not much except the starkness of clean walls and old wood pews; near the lectern was a bust of Keats. By a window, ahead of him as he entered, was a female wearing a long black coat that nearly touched the floor. Her head turned. The face was pure white, the features exotic, the lips a deep red. Samuelson and the young woman were alone.

  “Mr. Samuelson?” she asked

  “Mari Shimada?” he replied.

  Chapter 58

  The N7 ran west and north from Aix-en-Provence through rolling farm county. Bent over the wheel, Peder Aukrust drove slowly, his mind on how the security arrangements in the Musée Granet had been so expertly designed and how essential it was that he take Llewellyn’s portrait before it was hung in the safety of the portrait gallery. It was also an urgent reminder of how little time remained. In two days the retrospective would open. He refused to admit that his task would be even more difficult than the opportunities he had passed over as the wealthy New Yorker made his journey south from Paris.

  Success depended on perfect timing, and it was important that any errors in his strategy be eliminated. A night alone would help him decide how well he had planned and refresh him for what he must accomplish in the next forty-eight hours.

  A gloriously colored sky was forming, with slender fingers of stratus clouds sometimes covering the sun, which was an hour from disappearing. He had eaten nothing during the day, except for a dry croissant in his cheap pension and a pear he took from a dish of fruit in the portrait gallery, when he made a thorough examination of lights, alarms, exits, windows, and sensors inserted into the back of each painting. In the pockets of his jacket were lightweight professional tools that he would use to remove the canvas from the frame.

  The canvas would fit into the pocket he had tediously made by sewing half of one T-shirt to the back of another. The portrait would fit flat and tight against his broad back without being detected. It would remain there until he was with Alan Pinkster. Then he would exchange it for the largest amount of money he would ever see.

  He turned onto route D543, followed its S-turning road through the Trevaresse mountains to the village of Rognes. He referred to the advertisement in the travel magazine that had inspired him to drive into the country for the night.

  At a crossroads a sign to the Auberge Rois et Reines pointed to a narrow, gravel road. He turned onto it. The road twisted into a wilderness of trees and low hills interspersed with pastures and sheep. Then came another swooping turn and a final swing back to the west, heading directly into the sun, which was just then slipping behind a nearby rise. Set against the dark shadow cast by the hill was the inn.

  He entered a long, dimly lighted hall with a flight of stairs at the far end and, across from it, against the wall, a small reception desk. To the right, midway along the hall, were double doors leading into a dining room, across from which was a room filled with small tables, softly lighted by rosy light coming from lamps with deep pink lampshades. Aukrust smelled a sweet fragrance and saw two men sitting at a table in the far corner of the room. He went to the desk and waited.

  “May I help you?”The light and pleasant voice came from a slightly built young man of perhaps twenty-five, who appeared from a door under the staircase.

  “I want to eat and spend the night. Do you have a room?”

  “You’re alone?”

  Aukrust nodded, then noticed the earrings and the slight blush of red on the young man’s lips. “Yes, I’ll be alone.”

  “Dinner is at nine o’clock, and your room,” he pointed, “is number four, just at the top of the stairs. The complete cost for dinner and your room, not including whatever you may order from the bar, is 925 francs, which we ask our guests to pay in advance.”

  Aukrust now saw that in addition to the lipstick the eyes were delicately made up and the face was more that of a pretty girl than a young man.

  “I’m going for a walk while there is still light.”

  “We have a walking path that begins just behind us and is a mile through the woods, bringing you back to the front of the inn. Later, when you are ready for company, please tell me or one of the other staff members. My name is Laurent,” he said, smiling.

  “I choose my own company,” Aukrust said firmly. The auberge was aptly named, he thought: Inn of Kings and Queens.

  A wide path curved through a thick stand of trees. Aukrust began walking, slowly at first, then faster as darkness settled over the forest. He found as Laurent had described that the path circled around to the front of the auberge.

  His room was all but totally dark; thin draperies on the single window were open, allowing the last of the fading daylight into the room. He switched on the
nighttable lamp. He inventoried the room: a low bureau beside the window; two chairs and a frail floor lamp with a tattered shade next to one of them; and on the inside wall a curtain drawn partly across a sink, toilet, and a shower stall. Fiery red roses the size of large cabbages dotted the wallpaper behind the massive high bed; the only suggestion of comfort in the room. Obviously in this auberge, the bed was important. He locked the door then went to the window and watched the final sprays of light disappear over the little forest where he had taken his walk. He drew the curtains together, turned, and looked directly into the muzzle of a snub-nosed pistol held by LeToque.

  “You chose a queer place to spend the night,” LeToque said.

  “How did you . . . the door was locked.”

  “Laurent gave me this—” He held up a key. “I told him I was a special friend, that you were expecting me. He understood.”

  “What do you want?” Aukrust said, his eyes shifting quickly between LeToque’s face and the gun.

  “The last time there was a bed between us, you had the advantage. Not this time.”

  “Put that damned thing away,” Aukrust demanded.

  LeToque laughed. “Business first. Weisbord owed me money, and you killed him.”

  “He killed himself. He was a sick man.”

  “Suicide? Not Weisbord.”

  Aukrust slapped his hands against his chest. “His lungs stopped working. I saw it.”

  “Of course you saw it,” LeToque wiggled the pistol. “You killed him.”

  “I went to his house to take back Madame DeVilleurs’s painting. I gave it to her.”

  LeToque looked surprised. “She’s paying me to find it.”

  “She has it, LeToque. I gave it to her two days ago.”

  LeToque cocked his head and stared, disbelieving. “Weisbord owed me, but you killed him. Now you have to pay.”

  “How much did he owe you?”

  “Sixty thousand francs.”

  “A lot of money.” Aukrust rubbed his hands together as if working out a decision. “I’ll pay it,” he said, his eyes riveted on LeToque.

  LeToque, surprised, relaxed his grip on the gun imperceptively. “When?”

  “I can give you five thousand now, it’s all I have with me. I’ll have the rest tomorrow.”

  LeToque was looking at a thin, beguiling smile and listening to a reassuring voice. “Give me the five thousand. Put it there, on the bed.”

  Aukrust took out his wallet, opened it, then began dropping five-hundred-franc bills on the bed, one at a time. They floated down haphazardly, and LeToque began to gather them. For an instant, he took his eyes off Aukrust, an instant too long. Aukrust lunged across the bed and wrestled LeToque to the floor. There were two explosions. One bullet shattered a red rose in the wallpaper, the other blew off the tassled old lampshade. Aukrust slammed a fist on LeToque’s arm, knocking the gun from his hand. Aukrust swung again at LeToque, but the smaller man twisted free and spun onto his feet before Aukrust could rise to one knee. Loud voices came from the hall outside the bedroom.

  “Open the door! Are you hurt?” was followed by a rat-a-tat of fists against the door, which gave way against the feeble lock.

  “Stop fighting!” a man shouted. He was tall, fortyish, with long hair combed into a pony tail and tied with a black ribbon. Beside him was Laurent, with others standing in the doorway.

  “I am Jean-Pierre, the owner,” he said. “We don’t like quarrels to get out of hand. People get hurt, and we get a bad reputation.”

  Aukrust got up slowly. He glared first at LeToque, then at Jean-Pierre. Laurent said, pointing to LeToque. “He came to apologize and said he wanted to be forgiven. He said there might be trouble, and he was right.”

  “He wouldn’t listen,” LeToque said. He moved a step to his right, bent down and picked up the gun. He pointed it at Aukrust, then scooped up the bills from the bed. “You owe me big, filthy bastard. Sixty thousand, less what’s here. Pay me, or I use this.” He waved the gun and bolted from the room.

  Chapter 59

  Aukrust’s station wagon was parked inside the entrance to Parc Joseph Jourdan near the city university, less than a mile from the Hôtel Pullman Roi René. He had returned to Aix in the predawn darkness and had been waiting impatiently for more than an hour. During the return drive to Aix he had excised memories of the previous evening and put LeToque in a deep recess of his mind as something to be dealt with at another time. At eight o’clock the passenger door opened and Clyde jumped onto the seat, making a sound between a bark and a growl, followed by Astrid. She slumped deep into the seat and pulled the dog to her, wrapping an arm around its head. “Be a good boy, quiet down.”

  “Are you sure you weren’t followed?” Peder asked.

  “Of course,” she answered bitterly. “Would I have come into the car if I knew someone was watching?”

  Makeup covered the bruise under her eye, but no makeup could conceal the sullen look spread over her face. Her eyes strayed off, and her head shook nervously.

  “Describe again where you’re staying: how many rooms, who is in each one.”

  She began, her voice a monotone. She complained that she had told all of it before, that there was nothing new to add. Peder probed for details: Where were the windows and what kind? Had she paced off the distances to the elevator and to the service elevator, and exactly where were they? The phones—where was each placed? Describe the bathroom. Were there doors connecting to other rooms?

  He bore on. “Were any police there, in uniform, out of uniform?”

  “No, I didn’t see any, no one like that.”

  “Have you seen the painting?”

  “I said before, he keeps it in the wooden box. In the closet in his bedroom. Locked.”

  “When is he taking it to the museum?”

  Astrid shook her head. “He hasn’t said.”

  “Has he talked any more about security at the museum, shown any concern, said he was happy about it ... or said he was unhappy about it?”

  Again her head shook, her eyes closed. “Before the reception tomorrow Llewellyn will go on a tour of the museum. He invited me to go with him.”

  Aukrust nodded, as if putting the information to the side momentarily. “What does his man do? Fraser.”

  She sighed. “The same as always, food, errands, the dog.”

  “And does the damned dog always bark?”

  Astrid tightened her grip on Clyde and said nothing.

  Aukrust said, “Albany is frequently with him. He drinks but seems to do his job. Where is his room?”

  “It must be very near.”

  Aukrust stared directly ahead, oblivious to the stream of students that walked or rode past on bicycles.

  “Has there been any mail, any phone calls that seemed unusual?”

  Astrid shook her head. She turned to face Aukrust but could not look directly at him. When she tried to speak, she found herself trembing with fear. Finally, the words gushed out. “Peder, you must tell me you love me. I try so hard to do what you ask.”

  He didn’t answer. He waited until the little sounds caught in her throat subsided. “Everything is the same with us. You hear that?”

  She nodded, but her head barely moved.

  “Tell me if there have been any unusual phone calls.”

  “Of course, he’s been on the phone, ordering food, or a newspaper—”

  “Something unusual,” he said impatiently.

  “No, only—”

  “Only what?”

  “There was a call from the man I met in New York. Tobias.”

  Aukrust stiffened. “What did he want?”

  “He’s here, in Aix.”

  “When did he arrive?”

  “He called yesterday.”

  “You listened to the conversation?”

  “I answered the phone. I listened, but nothing made sense.”

  “What did they talk about?”

  “Tobias talked about a ‘friend’ he brought w
ith him. And about a suitcase. But Americans sometimes use words I don’t understand, and they only talked for a minute.”

  “Tell me exactly what you remember,” Aukrust demanded.

  Astrid tried but could only think of what she had already said, except, “Someone said ‘baby-sit.’ I don’t know who said it.”

  “Did Llewellyn talk to you about his conversation with Tobias?”

  Her mouth opened, then closed. Nothing came out.

  “Did he?”

  Clyde growled softly, and Astrid began stroking his head. Aukrust took her purse, searched through it, and took out the lipstick he had given her in Gatwick Airport. He pulled off the cap and twisted up the lipstick. “Passionately Pink—your color.” Then he twisted the lipstick in the opposite direction and a hypodermic needle appeared.

  “I think that you and Llewellyn had a long talk last night, and that you haven’t told me everything. Tell me what he said, or you’ll go back to Llewellyn with a dead dog in your arms.”

  “Don’t, Peder!”

  He took Clyde from her and put the frightened animal on his lap. He spread the dog’s hind legs and aimed the needle at the fleshy inside of the thighs. “What did Llewellyn tell you?”

  “He told me that the painting he brought with him is a copy, that Tobias brought the real painting.”

  Chapter 60

  Elliott Heston stood inside the door to his office and greeted Bud Samuelson with a quick handshake and a wave toward the table in the corner of his office.

  “I won’t take long,” Samuelson said, “but this way I know the information I’ve got will get into the right hands, especially Oxby’s. I can’t locate him. Where the hell is he?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know—for the moment,” Heston said with a touch of resignation.

  Samuelson placed two neatly handwritten pages in front of Heston. “This was prepared by a woman named Shimada, recently employed by a Japanese art dealer named Kondo. Know them?”

  “I’m familiar with both names,” Heston said.

  “It says that the residue from what is purportedly the Pinkster self-portrait is a piece of old art that was produced sometime around 1920. The canvas was identified as coming from either Belgium or Holland.” Samuelson read, “The source of the white pigment, or titanium dioxide, identified in the sample by spectrographic analysis, is found only on the west coast of Norway, in the titanated iron ore called ilmenite. Titanium dioxide was first used to produce the whitest of all pigments in 1918 or 1919.”