The Mystery of the Lost Cezanne

by M. L. Longworth

  Verlaque looked at Marine and smiled; Lydgate was now standing on the opposite end of the table, looking at the canvas upside down. Shouldn’t have had that second eau-de-vie, thought Verlaque.

  “It’s the subject matter that’s bothering me,” Lydgate finally said, turning to face Marine, Verlaque, and Dr. Bonnet. “An unknown woman, wearing too-bright clothes, and smiling at the painter. Manet, possible. Monet, too. But not our Paul Cézanne. I’m sorry.”

  “We don’t own it,” Verlaque said. He kept to himself the thought that perhaps two people were killed over a fake Cézanne. Why? “So we’re not desperate for it to be a genuine Cézanne. But I thank you for your time.”

  • • •

  Edmund Lydgate could hear Dr. Bonnet’s ugly car slowly make its way down the drive, stopping at the end to make sure the road was clear, and then driving off. He poured himself a little more eau-de-vie while he cleared up the table, stopping to sigh; the sight of the painting had made his heart race.

  A door opened and closed upstairs, and he walked into the hallway and waited at the bottom of the stairs, his hand resting on the brass ball at the end of the wrought-iron balustrade. As he saw the elegant black high heels and green tweed pants, he thought of his dear wife, Hazel. She had been dead almost ten years, but a day didn’t go by when he didn’t think of her, especially when in the garden. Hazel, who, unlike him, had exercised. Hazel, who, unlike him, had refrained from alcohol and watched what she ate. But the cancer didn’t seem to have cared about all that.

  “I hope you left me something to eat,” the woman said, now at the bottom of the stairs, holding out her thin hand for him to take.

  “Yes, indeed, Beauty,” Lydgate said, taking her by the hand and leading her into the kitchen.

  “Great; I thought they would never leave,” Rebecca said, going to the sink and washing her hands. “You know, Edmund,” she said, turning to him as he lifted a plate of leftovers from the oven that he had been keeping warm for her, “I never thought of myself as beautiful. More a freak. Too tall; crazy, unruly hair. The little petite blond girls, they were the beautiful ones. Never me.”

  Lydgate smiled. “Oh, where are they now?” he asked. “Their blond hair now dyed with frosty tips, and their figures gone plump.”

  “I highly doubt it, given where I grew up,” she answered. “But thanks.” She followed him into the dining room as he quickly made a spot for her. She lifted a fork and began eating with much eagerness. “Edmund, your gratin is . . . awesome!”

  “You need to put in check how many times you use the word ‘awesome,’” he said.

  Rebecca smiled and wiped the corners of her mouth with the linen napkin he had given her. “So, my dear man,” she said, “what’s your verdict? Did you do the upside-down trick like I told you?”

  “Yes, my dear,” he answered. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but it was a mess. A fake, but a good one.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dedans/Dehors

  Bruno,” Verlaque said, getting up from behind his desk, “sometimes I think you use me for my espresso maker.”

  Paulik smiled, shaking his boss’s hand. “Only on Monday mornings, sir. Besides, it will warm us up.”

  Verlaque turned the machine on and both men stood facing it, waiting for the little red light to blink, signaling that it was warm enough to make coffee. “We’d better not watch it,” Verlaque said.

  “You’re right,” Paulik said, turning his back to the small red machine. “Flamant was here all day yesterday researching Guy Maneval.”

  “And?”

  “He worked as a bouncer at La Fantasie, for one thing.”

  “Mafia connections?” Verlaque asked, as the club was known to be owned by the Corsican Mafia.

  “Yes,” Paulik replied. “And one of his colleagues is in jail right now, so Flamant and Caromb paid him a visit. Guess who? Kévin Malongo. Malongo was more than happy to cooperate. From what we can piece together—including what you gained from the barman at the Zola—Maneval must have overheard René Rouquet brag about the painting, followed him home, and then in a scuffle killed Rouquet, taking the only painting he could find that looked vaguely like a Cézanne.”

  “What was he hoping to do with it?” Verlaque asked. “It’s not as if it’s easy to sell something like that. If he had taken the right painting, that is.”

  “Malongo says that Maneval had screwed up a drug deal and was hoping to make things right with Fabrizio Orsani.”

  “He was going to give the painting to the godfather?” Verlaque asked. He turned around to face the machine. “The light’s flashing.”

  Paulik rubbed his hands together. “I’ll have a ristretto.”

  “Me, too,” Verlaque said. “Then a second.”

  “Ditto.”

  “How did Maneval screw up a drug deal?” Verlaque asked. “Was someone killed?”

  “No,” Paulik said. “Apparently Caromb and Flamant shared a good laugh with Malongo over this. Maneval was transporting bags of heroin from Marseille to Paris, and he lost them.”

  Verlaque handed Paulik a coffee. “Poor guy,” he said. “How does one lose heroin?”

  Paulik sat down, sipping his coffee. “That’s the best part,” he said, laughing. “He lost it on the TGV.”

  • • •

  Verlaque sat in the back of the unmarked car, happy to have Roger Caromb drive. In all his years as a magistrate, this was the only time he had butterflies in his stomach. That he had managed to get an appointment with Fabrizio Orsani so soon was beyond belief; calls had been made throughout the morning, and after lunch Paulik had poked his head in the door of his office, informing Verlaque of his four o’clock appointment.

  Verlaque pretended to look through files, wishing he could just sit back and enjoy the view, but he didn’t want to have to talk with Caromb. They sped down the A52, a winding highway usually free of traffic thanks to its tolls. This was also the shortest way to get to Orsani’s, as he did not live in Marseille but near the charming seaside village of Cassis. Verlaque knew, without ever having been there, that the Orsani spread would not be in the village itself but on Giens, a peninsula in west Cassis surrounded by the sea and home to a few estates. The luxurious hotel Les Roches Blanches was also there; it had been a favorite hotel of Verlaque’s grandparents. Winston Churchill had also been a guest, painting watercolors from its terrace.

  Caromb signaled to exit the highway at Carnoux; Verlaque leaned forward and said, “Get off at the next exit, Roger, if you don’t mind. There’s another toll, but we’ll drive down through Cassis vineyards.”

  Caromb shrugged and mumbled, “Yes, sir,” and continued driving. He always took the Carnoux exit drove to Cassis on his days off; it saved on the extra 1.20-euro toll, and there was a tabac in Carnoux where he usually pulled over to buy extra ciggies, or a few beers to take down to the beach.

  They took the next exit, and the car wound its way down through the vineyards—mostly white grapes—of Cassis, one of France’s smallest appellations. At the village’s first roundabout they turned right and drove up a hill, passing small, expensive hotels. Verlaque laughed out loud at one called the Royal Cottages; how could a cottage be royal? Once at the top of the village they turned left onto Giens peninsula, Caromb following the instructions given to him by another officer. “So,” Caromb said as they slowed down before a set of black gates, “this is the godfather’s place, eh?”

  “Nothing of the sort,” Verlaque said, perturbed as he usually was with Caromb. “Fabrizio Orsani owns a small shipping company, and a few hotels, restaurants, and nightclubs.” Who knows? Verlaque mused. Perhaps Orsani wasn’t connected with the Mafia. Perhaps the Corsican godfather really was untouchable, hiding out somewhere in the hills behind Marseille, or Ajaccio.

  “Yeah, I heard he imports olive oil, too,” Caromb said, laughing. The reference to Mario Puzo’
s award-winning book-turned-movie-trilogy was not lost on the judge and he decided to play along.

  “ ‘Leave the gun, take the cannoli, ’ ” Verlaque said, quoting his favorite line from the first film as a security guard approached their car.

  Caromb held back his laugh as he rolled down his window and announced, “Officer Roger Caromb, and Judge Antoine Verlaque. We have a four o’clock appointment with M. Orsani.”

  No, we don’t, Verlaque thought. I do.

  “ID,” the guard said, peering at them.

  Caromb handed him their badges and the guard looked at the photos and then long and hard at both men. “Go on up,” he finally said, handing back their IDs. “Just park at the top of the hill by the stone wall, next to the motorcycle. Then follow the path beside the wall to the front door.”

  The drive snaked its way up a hill, with views of Cassis, the sea, and Cap Canaille to the east and the open sea to the west. Caromb parked the car and they got out, Verlaque pointing to a stone bench. “I don’t think I’ll be too long,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” Caromb said, stretching and then sitting down.

  Verlaque followed a narrow path that curved as the driveway had, following a stone wall that was about seven feet high. He was immediately impressed, and surprised, by the house. It wasn’t a faux-Italianate mansion with loggias and statues. Nor was it an ultramodern white minimalist creation, which he had also thought possible. It was a single-story brick and stone house with a red-tile roof; had the roof been shingled, the house would have been at home in the American Midwest. It was at peace—not competing—with its natural surroundings. The building materials were natural. A long pergola whose ceiling was made of polished wood beams protected the visitor from wind, rain, and sun. The pergola’s ceiling was punctured every so often with holes to allow mature trees to sprout through. Here, along the covered walk, the plants were luxurious, and spoke of constant watering and attention. Thick palms lined the walk, along with vigorous ferns and, he imagined, colorful tropical flowers in summer. As he got closer to the front door, the house’s true character shone. Giant plate-glass windows from floor to ceiling let the visitor peek inside rooms, while the occupant inside must feel as if he or she were outside, in a tropical garden. Verlaque tried not to gawk into the rooms, but from a sideways glance he could see white curved walls, books, and statues.

  The front doors, massive and made of pale wood, opened before he reached them. A small, white-haired man who wore a black Nehru-collared coat and round tortoiseshell eyeglasses held open one of the doors. “Good afternoon, Judge Verlaque,” he said, stepping aside.

  Verlaque shook his hand and said hello.

  The man smiled. “I’m Fabrizio Orsani. Please come in.”

  “Thank you for the invitation on such short notice,” Verlaque said, stepping inside the large foyer.

  “C’est normale,” Orsani said. “I was distressed by the violent death of one of our employees. Please follow me into the living room.”

  They walked along red terra-cotta floor tiles, so polished Verlaque was afraid he would slip, into the living room resplendent with light thanks to the plate-glass windows. The smooth walls here were painted the color of rich cream, giving warmth to the room whose ceiling was rough gray concrete.

  “This is a beautiful home,” Verlaque said. He had hesitated to speak of frivolities but wanted Orsani to know that he was here with good intentions, whether the old man was the godfather or not.

  Much to Verlaque’s surprise, Orsani beamed. “Thank you. It’s a small house, as you can see. We bought it twenty years ago for the site. The existing house was a dark and drab 1950s building. My architect simply smashed open every window, replacing them with floor-to-ceiling glass, letting the sea, and garden, come inside. He calls it dedans/dehors. He wrote a book about it.”

  Verlaque took another look at the living room. Orsani was right; it wasn’t much bigger than his own salon, but the plate-glass windows—allowing the outside to come in—made the room look three times as large. He immediately regretted his apartment with its narrow eighteenth-century windows that he would never be able to change.

  “Coffee?” Orsani asked. “Sparkling water? Both?”

  “Both, if I may,” Verlaque answered.

  Orsani didn’t snap his fingers, as Verlaque had fantasized, but half turned his body when, as if his nose had been pressed against the living room door, a young man appeared.

  “Jean-Louis, two espressos and two sparkling waters, please,” Orsani said. He motioned to a restored 1950s leather sofa. “Please, sit down, Judge.”

  “Thank you,” Verlaque said. “Did you know Guy Maneval?”

  “No, not at all,” Orsani said without having to reflect. “I have a big operation, with many outlets and employees. I’m told that he worked off and on as a doorman at one of our clubs in Aix.”

  Verlaque tried to get the image of this cultured elderly man owning a disco. “Yes,” he said. “And the night before Maneval was murdered he broke into an apartment in downtown Aix, may have killed the apartment’s owner, and ran off with what he thought was a Cézanne painting. Did you know about that?”

  Orsani shook his head and shrugged. Jean-Louis returned carrying a tray, served the men their drinks, and quietly left, leaving, Verlaque noted, the door open about an inch.

  Verlaque said, “Maneval was found shot, with the faux Cézanne shoved over his head. Is there any meaning in this?”

  “Not for me, no.”

  “You’re not collecting Cézannes?”

  Orsani made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Have a look around, and I think you’ll see that contemporary art, along with African sculptures, is where my art interest lies.”

  Verlaque did as he was told and got up and walked around the room, taking in the large, colorful canvases.

  “Besides,” Orsani said, still sitting, “the price of a Cézanne is, even for me, out of range. One must be royalty these days to buy Impressionists and Post-Impressionists. And not impoverished European royalty, either.”

  But this one was being stolen for you, Verlaque thought. You didn’t have to pay for it.

  Verlaque looked into the dining room, located up three steps and surprisingly small and intimate. He stood with his hands on his hips, looking at the all-black painting on the dining room’s far wall.

  “Are you a fan?” Orsani asked.

  “Yes, a rather fanatical one,” Verlaque said. “There’s going to be a Soulages retrospective at the Pompidou.”

  “Yes, and that painting is going to be a part of the show.”

  Veralque refrained from saying that his was, too, and that they would see each other at the avant-première. If Orsani went to such events.

  “I hesitated when they asked me to loan the painting,” Orsani went on. “But Elena, my dear wife, said that I was being selfish.”

  Verlaque smiled. “You have quite a collection of art,” he said, looking around the room. He remembered an article in a law journal, written by a Commandante Barrès, France’s leading expert in art theft. In the article, which the police officer had comically titled “To Catch a Thief,” she cited the importance of stolen art in the organized crime world: art used as payoffs, bribes, and debt repayments. In the Mafia, art was used as money.

  Orsani looked at the judge, and as if he could read his mind, said, “Well, if there’s nothing else? I’m afraid I have another appointment.” Before Verlaque could reply, the living room door suddenly opened, and Jean-Louis reappeared.

  “Jean-Louis will see you out. By the way, Judge, in case you’re wondering, I buy from a reputable gallery in Zurich, and one in Paris.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Granet’s Bright Clouds

  • FEBRUARY 26, 1885 •

  Manon watched as the young Countess Émilie de Saporta sat in the sedan chair, fanning herself although it
was a cold February day. The countess was carried by two young men, one in front and one behind, each holding on to wooden rails that passed through brackets attached to either side of the covered chair. They stared straight ahead, either proud of their task or horrified by it. The sedan chair itself showed its age and the crumbling fortune of the Saportas: the wood was weathered, and the gold-painted details needed touching up.

  Émilie de Saporta was sickly and, at thirty years of age, was beyond marriage material. It was rumored at Michaud’s that the countess’s parents had all but given up on marrying off Émilie when a colleague of her father’s, a rich notary from Lyon, lost his wife to illness. The notary—as Amandine Michaud had eagerly reported to Manon and her fellow coworkers—was over fifty years of age, fat, with a bulbous red nose and tiny almost-pink eyes. Manon stood on the Cours, remembering the Michaud salesgirls laughing and Amandine’s almost-look of yearning, and she thought, At least that will never happen to me. She coughed and wrapped her shawl around her to keep warm. I’d rather be poor.

  “Un jour son palanquin va être dans un musée,” a voice said behind Manon’s shoulder.

  Manon slowly turned around. “Do you think so?” she asked, smiling.

  “Certainly, Mlle Solari,” Cézanne said. “Soon the day will come when the rich will stop being carried around like handicapped royalty, and their silly sedan chairs will be displayed in quaint little country museums.”

  “And the label will read: A one-person sedan chair, carried by two porters, used up until 1900 throughout Europe.”

  Cézanne laughed. “Very good! Our turn of the century will bring about so many changes.”

  “But we have fifteen years to wait,” Manon said. Fifteen years was a long time. So many illnesses could creep up on you in that amount of time. Even the rich notary’s wife in Lyon could not escape it.

  “Well, until then, how about a walk?” Cézanne asked. He refrained from putting out his arm, as they were on the Cours Mirabeau. “I have good news, mademoiselle,” he added.