Chasing Cezanne

by Peter Mayle

  Andre shook his head.

  “Another Dutchman. His name was van Meegeren, and he specialized in faking Vermeers—used ancient canvases, hand-ground paints, all the tricks—and made a bundle at it, so they say. Fooled them all, for a while. You have to take your hat off to top forgers, in a way. They may be rogues, but immensely talented. Anyway, our man Franzen sticks to Impressionists, and as we’ve seen, he does them brilliantly. In fact, I’ve heard rumors that some of his work is hanging in museums and private collections, assumed by one and all to be genuine. He must get quite a kick out of it.”

  “How can that happen? Aren’t paintings examined by experts?”

  “Of course they are. But famous paintings come with a pedigree, a history, a string of learned opinions and endorsements, rather like precedent in law. When a painting has been accepted as genuine for a number of years, that’s a very powerful recommendation. Experts are only human; they believe experts. If they’re not expecting to see a fake—and if the fake’s good enough—there’s a better than even chance they won’t spot it. Under normal circumstances, I’d have said Denoyer’s Cézanne was genuine, because it’s so beautifully done. But thanks to you, dear boy, I had my eye skinned for a fake.” Cyrus paused. “And a fake is what I saw.”

  Andre shook his head. “The whole thing sounds like the emperor’s new clothes.”

  Cyrus smiled, and waved his empty glass at the flight attendant. “Something like that. People see what they’re conditioned to expect. What makes our little investigation unusual is that the owner is in on the scam. Denoyer wants the original to disappear, for whatever reasons, but he can’t do that by himself. Apart from our friend Franzen, and the old boy who looks after Cap Ferrat, there must be others involved. Not just family. Outside people.”

  Cyrus stopped to charm the flight attendant as she poured more champagne, and his earlier comments about coincidence came to Andre’s mind. “I never thought to tell you,” he said, “but when I got back from that trip to the Bahamas, my apartment had been ransacked, and all the photographic stuff was taken—cameras, film, files of my old transparencies. But nothing else.”

  The Pine eyebrows registered surprise. “Well, well. And then your editor stopped taking your calls.”

  “Camilla?” Andre laughed. “Somehow I can’t see her sliding down the fire escape with a sack of cameras.”

  “I’m not suggesting she did.” Cyrus stirred his champagne thoughtfully with a plastic swizzle stick. “It’s just the timing.”

  They parted company after sharing a cab from JFK. Cyrus was to put feelers out among the inhabitants of the art world, to see if he could get some idea of the forger’s whereabouts. Andre had agreed to make another attempt at getting back on speaking terms with Camilla, and as the cab took him into the city he considered the alternatives. It was pointless to go on calling her at work and impossible to call her at home, since she kept her home number a national secret. The ambush in the lobby of the building had been useless. It looked as though the only answer was to surprise her with an early morning frontal assault on her office, cap in hand and claiming to be desperate for work.

  The trip with Cyrus had done him good; his hunch had been proved right, and despite the time change he felt alert, ready to move on and find out more. He let himself into his apartment, dropping his bags inside the door as he went over to check the messages on his machine.

  “Sweetie, where are you? I’ve been frantic with worry.” It was Camilla, using her best seduction voice, low, throaty, and dripping with insincerity, the voice she always used when she wanted something. “I’ve called that little girl at your office, who seems to know absolutely nothing. I’m desperate to see you. It’s been far, far too long, and I’ve got some rather exciting news for you. Come out of your burrow and call me. Ciao.”

  And then:

  “Welcome home, traveling man. Guess what? The war’s over. Camilla’s called twice, and she was almost polite. It must have killed her. Anyway, she says she has a big project for you. Oh, by the way—I didn’t tell her where you were. Give me a call, OK?”

  Andre looked at his watch, knocked off six hours, and saw that it was just after five. He called the office.

  With the first brief exchange out of the way, Andre took a deep breath. “Lulu, I’ve been thinking, and I’ve decided that I’ve been a distant admirer for too long and it’s going to stop. No, wait, that’s not exactly what I meant to say. What I mean is the distant part is going to stop. I hope. I’d like it to. Well, that is if you … oh, shit. Listen, I can’t really explain over the phone. Can I pick you up at six, and we’ll have dinner?”

  He could hear Lucy’s breath, and another phone ringing in the background. “Andre, I have a date.”

  “Cancel it.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Yes.” Andre nodded decisively to himself. “Just like that.”

  There was a pause that seemed endless.

  “Andre?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t be late, and don’t tell me you’re going to the airport.”

  Half an hour later, showered and shaved, Andre was walking up West Broadway, whistling and holding a single long-stemmed white rose. One of the regular West Broadway bums, his radar attuned to passersby in such obvious good humor, shuffled up to him and was startled to receive a broad smile and a ten-dollar bill.

  It was a few minutes before six when Andre pressed the buzzer, put the stem of the rose between his teeth, and poked his head around the edge of the office door.

  Lucy’s partner, Stephen, looked up from his desk. “Why, Andre! This is so sudden. I never knew you cared.”

  Andre felt himself blushing as he removed the rose from his mouth before coming in. “Where’s Lucy?”

  Stephen grinned. “Putting on her false eyelashes. She won’t be long. How are things?”

  Andre heard the door open behind him and turned to see Lucy, in blue jeans and an oversized white turtleneck that set off the chocolate cream of her skin. She looked at the rose in Andre’s hand.

  “Here,” he said, offering it to her. “Something to go with your sweater.”

  Stephen’s head swiveled from one serious, intent face to the other. “Too bad, Lucy,” he said. “You missed the entrance.” He turned to Andre. “Is that what they do in France? Chew roses?”

  Andre picked up Lucy’s coat from the couch and helped her on with it. His fingers brushed the back of her neck as he freed the hair that had become caught under the collar. He swallowed hard. “Remind me to send your charming partner a large bouquet of poison ivy.”

  Stephen watched them leave with a smile on his face, pleased to see that what had been obvious to him months ago was finally getting somewhere. He picked up the phone to call his girlfriend. He decided to take her somewhere nice for dinner, maybe bring her some flowers. Romance was contagious.

  Cyrus Pine had started working through his list of contacts within minutes of getting home. But although he had a more or less respectable story, the respectable art dealers of his acquaintance were all giving him the same line. We handle only genuine work, they told him, and he could almost see their noses in the air. He knew perfectly well that most of them had been fooled at least once, but reminding them of it would get him nowhere. He gave up on them and started looking through his Rolodex for someone who lived closer to reality. He had almost given up when he reached the letter V and saw the name Villiers. He remembered the rumors and the subsequent public disgrace. If anyone could help him, Villiers could.

  Villiers had been the darling of the eighties, when money was sluicing through the New York art world in a seemingly endless torrent. Thin, pinstriped, English, and distantly related to the aristocracy (a connection that became miraculously closer with every year he spent in America), he had been blessed with an infallible eye. The auction houses consulted him. Museums deferred to him. Collectors invited him, somewhat apprehensively, to visit their homes. He was, so everyone told him, destined
for eminence, for seats on the boards of foundations and museums, and, eventually, for the rewards that come to important cogs in the establishment wheel.

  Eventually wasn’t good enough. Eventually couldn’t compete with immediate cash, and Villiers began to do favors for owners of paintings whose provenance was open to some doubt. His approval was like money in the bank to the owners, who showed their gratitude in a time-honored and practical way. Villiers prospered and then became greedy, certainly no sin in the art world. But worse, he became overconfident and careless. And, perhaps worse still, ostentatious. His duplex, his vintage Bentley, his place in the Hamptons, his stable of blondes, and his parties featured in the gossip columns. Art’s golden boy, they called him, and he lapped it up.

  His fall was swift and noisy, being reported in the media with the special relish that journalists display when they catch a man more fortunate than themselves with his pants down. It started when a seventeenth-century painting that Villiers had declared genuine was sold for several million dollars. The new owner, at the request of his insurance broker, had the painting tested. There were doubts, then more tests. These suggested that the nails securing the canvas to its stretcher were eighteenth century and that the canvas itself was even more recent. The painting was deemed to be a dud. Word got out, and other owners who had acquired Villiers-approved paintings joined the rush to the laboratories for scientific tests. More counterfeits came to light. In a matter of weeks, the golden boy turned into a suspected swindler.

  Suits and countersuits forced Villiers to sell his assets. The blondes disappeared, as blondes tend to do in these circumstances. The establishment turned its back on him, and he was reduced to eking out a living consulting for people who were more interested in his eye than in his tattered reputation. Cyrus Pine’s call, coming as it did during a particularly barren period, was welcome. Less than thirty minutes after putting down the phone, Villiers was sitting in Pine’s study, making short work of a large vodka.

  “Good of you to come, Mr. Villiers. As I mentioned to you, it’s a matter I’d like to get under way without wasting any time.” Pine shrugged apologetically. “You know what clients are like, I’m sure—they want everything done yesterday.”

  Villiers was a slight, rather seedy figure, showing signs of neglect. His chalk-striped suit, although well cut, needed pressing. His shirt collar was starting to fray, and his hair, lank and curling over his collar, was overdue for a visit to the barber. He smiled at Cyrus, exposing dingy teeth. “I’m not too busy at the moment, actually,” he said, swirling the ice around his glass. “I might be able to fit something in.”

  “Splendid, splendid.” Cyrus put down his drink and leaned forward, his eyebrows cocked. “This is between us, of course.” A nod from Villiers. “My client has a very decent collection—Impressionists, mostly, with one or two of the more modern fellows like Hockney. He keeps some of them at his apartment in Geneva and the rest in the family home in Tuscany. Very nice too, I might add. Anyway, he’s getting a little nervous. There was a rash of burglaries down there not long ago, which you may not have heard about. It was hushed up by the powers that be—bad for tourism, bad for investment, all the usual excuses. In any event, my client is not too happy about leaving valuable paintings protected by an alarm system and a caretaker who’s a bit of an antique. Are you with me?”

  In fact, Villiers was well ahead of him. He’d heard it all before. The cover story came first, before they got to the point. And the point was invariably shady. He saw the prospect of money. “It must be a great worry,” he said. “Do you think I could have another vodka?”

  “My dear fellow.” Cyrus continued talking as he made Villiers another drink. “There are two paintings in particular that he’s concerned about, and so I’ve offered him a piece of advice.” He handed Villiers the glass and sat down. “Tuck the originals in the bank,” I told him, “and get copies made. What do you think?”

  Here we go, Villiers said to himself. He wants a forger. “Very wise.”

  “He thought so too. But he insists on first-class copies.”

  “Of course. Can you tell me who your client is?”

  “He’d prefer to remain anonymous. They all do, don’t they? But I can tell you he has substantial resources.” Cyrus looked at Villiers for a moment before adding, “And he’s not an ungenerous man. I’m sure there won’t be a problem over the fees.”

  This was going according to the script, Villiers thought. Money for old rope. “Who are the artists?”

  “There’s a Pissarro and a Cézanne.”

  “Hmm.” Villiers multiplied by two the figure he had first thought of. Franzen was the man, the only man. But he would have to clear it first. “I may be able to help you, Mr. Pine. Can you give me twenty-four hours?”

  In the cab taking him back to his apartment, Villiers wondered how much of the introduction fee he would have to share, or whether he should risk contacting Franzen directly and keep it all. Better not, he decided regretfully. It was bound to come out, and then there would be one more person who would never give him work again. Vindictive, greedy little swine. What difference would a few thousand dollars make to him? As the cab pulled up, Villiers looked with distaste at the drab building where he now lived. He undertipped the driver and scuttled across the sidewalk, his shoulders hunched against the stream of abuse that followed him.

  With another vodka for luck, he placed the call.

  “Holtz residence.”

  “Is he there, please? It’s Mr. Villiers.”

  “Mr. Holtz is dining, sir.”

  “It’s important.” Jesus, what a pain butlers were when they weren’t yours.

  A minute passed. There was a faint click as the call was transferred. “Yes?”

  Villiers forced himself to be genial. “Sorry to bother you, Rudi, but something’s just come up that might interest you. A job for Franzen, and I know you like to deal with him yourself.”

  “Who is it for?”

  “Cyrus Pine, fronting for some European. Wouldn’t tell me the name. He needs a Pissarro and a Cézanne.”

  Holtz looked through the open door of his study. The sound of Camilla’s laughter came from the dining room across the hall as he thought it over. He knew of Pine and had seen him often at gallery events. The man had a good reputation and might be useful in the future. As long as Holtz kept himself out of the way, Villiers would catch any possible unpleasantness. “Very well,” said Holtz. “I’ll call Franzen tomorrow. Wait until you hear from me before you give his number to Pine. Although”—Holtz made a sound that might have been mistaken for a laugh—“I don’t know that ‘give’ is quite the right word.”

  Villiers winced. The little toad never missed a trick. “Well,” he said, “I might charge him a small fee.”

  “Naturally. But I wouldn’t expect to share in that. Let’s just say a case of Krug for my services, shall we? I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Walking back to the dining room, Holtz had every reason to feel generous. The fifty percent he would take of Franzen’s fee would run into six figures. Every little bit helps, he said to himself. He smiled at his guests as he sat down. “Forgive me,” he said. “My mother eats dinner early in Florida, and she thinks we all do the same up here.” He took a mouthful of spring lamb and wondered if sixty percent might not be more appropriate, considering the ruinous price of international phone calls.

  Meanwhile, Villiers surveyed the contents of his refrigerator—a half-empty bottle of vodka and an elderly, curling packet of liverwurst—and decided to go out and treat himself to dinner on the strength of his fee. There’d be plenty left over after he’d bought that cheap bastard his champagne. He would get the nonvintage.

  13

  THE ringing went off eighteen inches from Andre’s ear, jerking him from sleep, the shrill, determined nag of the bell penetrating the pillow he pulled over his head. He felt movement next to him, and then the warmth of bare skin and the weight of a body on his chest as Lucy slid across him to
pick up the phone.

  He was dimly aware of her voice, a sleepy hello, before the pillow was lifted from his face. Lucy nibbled the lobe of his ear. “It’s Camilla.” She passed him the phone and rested her head on his shoulder. Andre tried to muffle a yawn.

  “There you are. I’m so glad I caught you.” Camilla’s voice, bright and loud, made him flinch and hold the receiver away from his ear.

  “How are you, Camilla?”

  “Couldn’t be better, sweetie, and simply longing to see you. Lots to talk about. Listen, I’ve just had a cancellation, and I thought I could take my favorite photographer to lunch. Just the two of us.”

  Andre heard Lucy’s whisper against his neck. “My favorite photographer. Jesus.”

  “Andre?”

  “Right. Sure. That would be fine.”

  “Wonderful. One o’clock at the Royalton?”

  “The Royalton. One o’clock.”

  Camilla, unable to resist: “Andre, who answered the phone just now?”

  “Oh, that was the cleaning lady.” Lucy raised her head and grinned before biting Andre’s neck, causing him to let out an involuntary grunt. “She comes in early on Thursdays.”

  “It’s Wednesday, sweetie. See you at one.”

  Andre dropped the phone and spent half an hour saying good morning to Lucy before she pushed away his hands and jumped out of bed. “I’d better be going. Save the rest for later, OK?” She put the pillow back over his face. “And don’t lose the place.”

  He heard the distant drumming of the shower as he drifted back toward sleep, lazy and filled with an unfamiliar contentment, smelling her scent on the sheets, wondering why it had taken them so long. Her touch on his shoulder and the smell of coffee brought him back to wakefulness.

  “Andre, it’s time you stopped living like a bum.”

  He sat up and held the mug in both hands, inhaling the steam. “Yes, Lulu.”