The Cézanne Chase

by Thomas Swan

  “I’m free this evening. Are you?” Llewellyn asked.

  “I might fall asleep on you.”

  “We’ll make it an early evening. Come here for a drink and a light supper. We’ll pamper you.”

  She agreed and went out to find a taxi.

  Llewellyn’s townhouse was on East 65th between Park and Lexington. It was prime real estate territory where townhouses sold for $2 million and some went for eight. In spite of corporate downsizing and shake-ups in the financial world, there were many in the new group of wealthy young men and women who didn’t balk at seven figures for the just-right townhouse on the proper street on the East Side. Llewellyn, however, was getting by on old money and, unless he wanted to invade principal, was stuck on a fixed income that in the previous year had yielded something slightly under a million and a half. Alimony for two previous wives was the largest entry in his budget. His first wife finally had remarried halfway through the year, and wife number two’s attorney responded by demanding an increase in alimony on the grounds that his client could not possibly live in her accustomed manner on a quarter of a million a year. Besides, the money that had been going to wife number one was now available, and ...

  The townhouse had been built in the 1890s, and, like the others that surrounded it, was long and narrow and five floors high. Llewellyn’s father had put in a garage in 1932, a questionable investment that proved wise over time. A long corridor was next to the garage and behind it an apartment consisting of a bedroom, small living room, and kitchen that opened onto a patio—it was where Llewellyn’s houseman lived.

  Colin Fraser was a Scotsman and nephew to another Fraser who had served Llewellyn’s mother and father for thirty years, and who had been practically an uncle to Edwin Llewellyn while the latter was growing up. Fraser was ruggedly built, though not tall. His red hair was shot with gray, and the lines that had deepened around his eyes and mouth gave his face the appearance of a life spent in the strong winds of the Scottish Highlands. He was divorced and had a grown son, now a doctor, who lived in Glasgow.

  Also in the household was a friendly, though noisy, Norwich terrier named Clyde, who, when Llewellyn was away, spent most of his time in Fraser’s quarters, close to the food supply and the garden patio.

  Llewellyn’s townhouse had the distinctive trappings of a bachelor and an art connoisseur. Against the east wall a staircase ran from the cellar to the top floor. Climbing the stairs, one passed an ecletic display of early Mexican paintings, pieces of della robbia, a ten-foot-long cabinet filled mostly with Chinese export, and an assortment of American Indian war bonnets. The largest room on the second floor overlooked 65th Street, was paneled in dark oak, and had been the scene of countless receptions and cocktail parties. The middle room was a windowless dining room; behind it was the kitchen. On the third floor were the bedrooms. The master’s bedroom in front was every bit as large as the room beneath it. It was in blues and grays with a mammoth bed and a cavernous bathroom, with a combination bathtub and jacuzzi only slightly smaller than a swimming pool. Llewellyn’s study was on the fourth level. It was square and overlooked the street. It was a room of surprises and comfortable richness, a space that was a joy to be in. Set out from a side wall was an intricately inlaid pier table that had value easily into six figures. The parquetry floors were covered by assorted oriental rugs. Two bay windows gave the room added depth and sunlight. Built into the high ceiling were spotlights, each trained on one of the many paintings that hung on the interior walls. Behind the table Llewellyn used as a desk was a wall section that had been given special treatment. Mounted prominently, and in a carved and gilt frame, was his Cézanne self-portrait. Engraved on a brass plate attached to the bottom of the frame was the title Portrait of the Artist with Ocean Background.

  Fraser greeted Astrid and, at her insistence, guided her up the stairs. She wanted to get a feel of the house. Clyde yapped and wagged his tail, and Astrid swooped him up into her arms and let him lick her nose. She fussed over him, and they were solid friends by the time they reached Llewellyn’s study.

  Llewellyn was in his J. Press khakis, his blue Brooks Brothers blazer, and his Liberty scarf tied like an ascot. “So you ducked off to—my God, where the hell did you go? And was it business or fun?”

  “Some of each. I went home.” The lie was said easily and with a comfortable smile. Clyde barked and jumped onto a sofa then back to the floor.

  “I hope there wasn’t any problem at home?” He asked with obvious concern.

  “No problem,” Astrid’s smile held steady. Then one little lie became two, and she said, “Just family matters.”

  “Good,” Llewellyn said, “for those kind of trips I like the Concorde for a fast turnaround.”

  “Not on my budget, and it doesn’t fly to Oslo.”

  “It is a bit pricey,” Llewellyn acknowledged. “I think of it as a power flight,” he laughed, “like a power lunch. I’ve taken it a few times, and I think the men on those planes devote an incredible amount of time and effort trying to preserve their precious time and effort.” He looked at her, grinning. “If I sound envious, I’m not.”

  Astrid stood and turned slowly, looking carefully at Llewellyn’s study. “I like what I see,” she said approvingly. “I wouldn’t touch a thing.”

  “I wouldn’t let you. This is my home, my castle, my power study.”

  Astrid had changed into a plain, pale brown linen dress with a scooped neckline that Llewellyn noticed appreciatively. She moved gracefully, occasionally touching a picture frame or turning a porcelain bowl over in her hands. She circled the room, then stopped in front of the desk and faced the Cézanne.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said.

  “We think it’s the last of his self-potraits, maybe as late as 1902. And we believe it’s the best. Notice how relaxed he seems, as if he wanted you to know that he’s a regular guy and doesn’t have to prove something every time he picked up a brush. My father believed that if the painting could talk, he would be saying,‘Let’s share some wine and our thoughts with each other.’ My grandfather bought it from Cézanne’s dealer, man named Vollard. That was 1903. He brought it home, hung it right there, and it’s never left this house. Not even when I had it cleaned and put it in a new frame.”

  “I can understand why you keep it where it is safe.”

  “It isn’t my fault it has been on that wall for more than ninety years. My grandfather’s will stipulates that whoever inherits his paintings can’t sell, loan, or publicly display any one of them.”

  Astrid moved close and stood directly in front of the painting. She said, “It’s as if he just painted it. Even the water looks wet.” She touched the background of blue water. “Why did artists in those days paint so many self-portraits?”

  “They were always experimenting with their technique, and I suspect a little ego was involved. When they needed a model, they could always use themselves.”

  “Is it true that he painted more than twenty self-portraits?”

  “Twenty-six, counting this one. God knows there might be another one hidden in an attic somewhere in France.”

  “It would be worth a fortune,” Astrid said.

  “I suppose. Worth more now that a few have been destroyed.”

  Without turning, she said, “What a dreadful thing! I read about it. Someone put paint on them?”

  “Like hell they did. In fact we wish they had. They used an acid of some kind, a damned powerful acid.”

  “Can’t the paintings be fixed over?”

  “Restored? Not at all. It was potent stuff. The paints were completely melted.”

  “You must be careful to protect this one.”

  “I’ll protect it with my life.” He smiled. “Well, maybe I won’t go that far. But I’ll take good care of it when I take it back to Cézanne’s hometown.”

  Astrid was still standing with her back to Llewellyn. “Where is that?” she asked in a hushed voice.

  “Aix-en-Provence... in t
he south of France. A small museum has big plans for a Cézanne retrospective, and I’m going to help them. But it’s hush-hush for now.”

  She turned to Llewellyn and said excitedly, “I would love to see it.”

  “Perhaps we can arrange something.” Llewellyn felt her enthusiasm. He looked past her toward Fraser, who had come into the study.

  “I promised something to eat, and Fraser is telling us he’s ready. I hope it’s not too warm on the roof, but there’s usually a breeze.”

  Chapter 7

  Clarence Boggs’s death had shocked the tight-knit neighborhood in the town of Ockley where for seven years he had been known as an outgoing, amiable sort, and who had recently been seen doting on his precocious granddaughter. A Mrs. Jacobson could not stop effusing, “Such a love, he was. And so good to all the children.” Others had expressed similar sentiments over the loss of their friend. There was disbelief that he had died in such a bizarre way, yet his elderly sedan with its crushed grille and fender stood as silent testimony. After it had been picked clean of every possible clue it had been brought back and parked in the gravel drive alongside his modest home. Several other cars were now parked beside it, and a young policeman stood by the steps leading to the front door. Inside, Jack Oxby had set up a temporary field office. Ann Browley and Nigel Jones had joined him, and they were now seated around Clarence Boggs’s dining room table.

  Ann was going through a period of anger, trying vainly to hide the fact that she was personally distressed by Boggs’s murder and the destruction of the Cézanne paintings. But Oxby had discovered that Ann’s feelings never interfered with her ability to be objective as she worked a case. He was amused by a charming dash of superiority she occasionally displayed, a trait undoubtedly inherited from her socially well-placed mother, who could not become reconciled to Ann’s becoming a “police person.” She made an entry in her notebook, then looked up at Oxby. “Are we here to talk about the murder of Mr. Boggs or of Mr. Cézanne?”

  “We are investigating the murder of Clarence Boggs, Annie, but you have a good point. Perhaps the psychiatrists will say there’s been a second murder. Are you all set, Jonesy?”

  “I have to start by saying it was a fiendishly clever way to kill someone. Though it took a bit of luck.”

  Nigel Jones was tall and extremely thin, and everything about him seemed to come to a point. His nose was sharply pointed, as was his chin, and even his hairline had a sharply pronounced widow’s peak. He spoke deliberately and precisely, and had a keen and, at times, dark sense of humor. Nigel Jones had degrees in general medicine, pharmacology, and chemistry. This breadth of formal education was topped with an insatiable curiosity. He was one of a scant few in Scotland Yard’s Lambeth forensic labs who were called on to gather evidence at the scene of a crime and also work up the evidence in the laboratory.

  Ann asked, “What’s so awfully clever about poisoning someone?”

  “It wasn’t an ordinary poison. Certainly not one delivered in an ordinary way.”

  “Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?” Oxby said and began to read from the notes he had put in front of him. “Boggs left his home at approximately 6:45 A.M. on Tuesday the nineteenth, drove to the newsdealer where he bought a copy of the Sporting Life, stopped nearby for a container of coffee, returned to his car where he read the racing charts, circled his bets for the day, and drank his coffee, all of which was his usual morning routine, or so we’ve been told. He then drove east on Reigate Road, and about a mile outside of Ockley his car slowed and veered sharply to the left where it struck a stone wall headon. Boggs was seen getting out of the car and walking, staggering, approximately fifteen feet, then collapsing to the ground. A motorist traveling behind Boggs witnessed all this, pulled off the road, examined Boggs, and stated that he could see no signs of life. He drove on to a telephone and notified the police.

  Oxby placed a single typed page on the table. “This is a copy of the local police report. It states that a Constable Wagner was first on the scene and confirmed that Boggs was dead; that an ambulance arrived at 7:27 a.m. and removed the body to All Souls Hospital in Reigate.”

  Oxby looked up to Jones. “We know what happened, suppose you tell us how it happened.”

  Nigel Jones had listened carefully, his body stiff, as if he were sitting at attention.

  “Mr. Boggs got a fatal dose of what is called DFP. Its chemical name is diisopropyl fluorophosphate and is in the cyanide chemical group. It is viciously toxic and classified as a nerve gas by the military. Some variants of the chemical are formulated in low concentrations as insecticides and used primarily in agricultural applications. A derivative is also used in the treatment of certain eye disorders.” He turned the page. “Mr. Boggs breathed the vapors in the confinement of his automobile—the windows were closed. Immediately upon inhalation he suffered severe visual disorientation, due to an extreme contraction of pupil known as miosis. Also severe pain and profuse sweating. At the same time his pulse slowed, his blood pressure dropped precipitously. Within the first minute he involuntarily defecated and urinated. His instincts—that’s all that was functioning at this point—allowed him to open the door, then stagger from the car. He managed four or five steps perhaps, then collapsed. I estimate he was dead several steps before falling.”

  The forensic specialist placed a small cardboard box on the table. “DFP vapors were released from this crude but ingenious device. You’ll recognize this as a common facial-tissue box. But what we found inside was anything but ordinary. On the bottom is a babyfood jar, and in the jar an ounce or two of a clear liquid. Stretched over it is a piece of ordinary plastic wrap, secured with an elastic. Next is a simply constructed wooden frame that holds a juice strainer directly over the jar. In the strainer is a plastic spoon, and you’ll note that the handle’s been snapped off.” Jonesy took an eye dropper and squeezed a filmy liquid into the spoon. “This whole affair was put beneath the driver’s seat in the victim’s car. Once Boggs started up and the car moved,” he shook the box gently, “the liquid in the spoon spilled onto the plastic stretched over the jar beneath it. Just as you see it happening now.”

  Oxby and Ann watched the drops fall onto the plastic, forming a small puddle. The plastic dissolved, and the liquid fell directly into the solution in the babyfood jar. There was a chemical eruption, and a steamlike cloud rose up over the table. Oxby immediately turned away and Ann covered her face.

  “Nothing to fear,” Jones smiled, “quite harmless. But sufficient to demonstrate how Mr. Boggs was killed. It’s very clear that when he stopped for his morning coffee, someone opened the door to his car and placed this under the driver’s seat. It can be done in about fifteen seconds. I know, because I tried, and found the trick is placing the bowl of the spoon in the strainer, then filling it with mercuric chloride. I estimate that Boggs began to inhale the fumes ninety seconds after he had finished his coffee and got out onto Reigate Road. I’ve already told you what happened next.”

  Ann took the box, removed each element, and placed them on the table in front of her. “Everything here can be bought in a supermarket. Even I could put it together.”

  “You won’t find diisopropyl fluorophosphate in garden supplies,” Jones replied. “In fact you won’t find DFP anywhere except from a very few chemical specialists.”

  “How difficult would it be to make the stuff?” Oxby asked.

  Jones smiled, aware that Oxby was not deterred by the near impossible. “DFP isn’t a benign chemical that one makes by mixing together the contents from a bottle marked A and one marked B.”

  “Suppose I know something about chemistry or was a chemical warfare officer in the military.” Oxby gave Jones a hard glance, “Do I need a fully equipped laboratory to put it together?”

  “If you knew what you were doing, no,” Jones said. “You’d need a few basic lab appliances, perhaps six or eight items. I’d have to check into that.”

  “Do check on that,” Oxby repeated, jotting an
other note. “Now if I don’t put it together myself, where can I buy it?”

  “From a distributor of chemicals or, more likely, a pharmaceutical provider. As I mentioned, a dilute solution is used for certain eye disorders. Glaucoma, especially. In full strength it is put up in vials of one gram, each one packed in a doubly sealed canister.”

  “How many grams were used to kill Boggs?”

  “I’d guess sixty grams, about two ounces.” Jones rubbed his nose contemplatively. “Expensive stuff.”

  “How expensive?”

  “Sixty grams would cost about three thousand pounds if purchased through regular sources.”

  Oxby made a low whistle. “Someone buying sixty vials would cause a stir, I’d guess. What’s more curious is why anyone would go to the bother. There are easier and cheaper ways to kill someone.”

  “Not as certain as DFP,” Jones added.

  “I’m told that Mr. Boggs had some rather serious gambling debts,” Oxby said. “If his creditors had reached the end of their patience, they resorted to a strange form of punishment.”

  “Nothing surprises me anymore.” Nigel Jones stood and stretched his long body. “We found nothing else in or on the car except for a few nearly indecipherable fingerprints, which we’ve sent on to C3 for analysis and look-up.” He shoved the box and its contents to the center of the table. “This contraption gives us a slight glimpse into the mind of the person who conceived the entire affair, but as Ann rightly observes, anyone could assemble it. Question is, why choose such a sophisticated chemical? Showing off, perhaps? The important matter to wrestle with is the di-isopropyl fluorophosphate and determine how it got into the hands of the murderer. We’ll put together a list of the pharmaceutical and chemical companies that sell the compound, and I assure you it will be a very short list.”

  Oxby nodded. “He didn’t have much family. A daughter nearby. I’ll look in on her.” He made some final notes, then looked up.“Jonesy tells us that DFP is hard to come by, and that means there aren’t many sources for it. I want you to work together on this. Annie, you concentrate on the continent and let Jonesy check into sources in the UK. But get on it quickly. We need some fast answers.”