The Cézanne Chase

by Thomas Swan

  Fraser tapped on the door, opened it, ushered Alexander Tobias into the room, put a fresh ice bucket on the bar, and disappeared. Berrien greeted Tobias. “Good to see you, Alex; meet Edwin Llewellyn, an old friend and a trustee of the Met. Also a man who serves civilized bourbon and owns that painting you’re staring at.” Berrien turned to Llewellyn. “Lew, this is Detective Sergeant Alex Tobias, Major Case Squad, N.Y.P.D.”

  They shook hands. “Thanks for joining us, Mr. Tobias, or is it Sergeant Tobias?”

  “Alex,” Tobias said simply and with a comfortable smile.

  Llewellyn said, “Curt felt it was a good idea for you to see my house and that infamous painting; in fact he was just lecturing me on my dereliction and predicting that within a few days, the painting would be destroyed, or, failing that, Fraser, Clyde over there, and I would all be in the emergency room in St. Luke’s Hospital.”

  If Llewellyn expected Tobias to share his little joke, he was disappointed.

  “Very unpleasant places, emergency rooms.” Tobias had an authentic New York accent: basic Manhattan with Bronx overtones. The portrait attracted him, and as he stepped in front of it, he took a small magnifying glass from his coat pocket. “Do you mind?”

  “Please, by all means,” Llewellyn said.

  Tobias inspected the painting carefully. “It’s one of the last portraits he did of himself, at least from the look of it. Have you photographed it in black and white?”

  “I’m embarrassed to say I’ve been putting it off,” Llewellyn replied. “I keep meaning to bring a photographer over from the museum.”

  “You’ll discover a dozen new details that don’t pop out the way you normally see it.”

  Llewellyn looked at Berrien, who gave a knowing wink and nodded.

  “Are you a student of Cézanne?” Llewellyn asked.

  The answer did not come immediately. Then Tobias said, “Somewhat, I suppose, but I try to separate what Cézanne painted from what his paintings meant to the artists who came after him. I like the way he handled people. And his landscapes, particularly the country scenes. But not all those views of Sainte-Victoire.” His eyes twinkled.

  “Spoken like a teacher, not a mere student.” Llewellyn’s pleasure was punctuated by an approving smile. “A drink, Alex?”

  “Scotch and a squeeze of soda, please.”

  Llewellyn had just put the drink together as Astrid came into the study. He said, “Marvelous surprise, darling; I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

  “Am I interrupting?”

  “Not at all; come along and meet my friends.”

  As usual she was perfectly dressed, this time in an Adolfo that cost someone a lot of money, and he wondered for a moment who the someone was. He led his guests to the windows, where they sank into oversized, overstuffed chairs.

  “Alex, what do you make of all this horror with the paintings?”

  “That I’d like to wring the neck of the son of a bitch that’s doing it.” A nod toward Astrid was his expiation. Tobias ran fingers through his thick hair. “We’ve got a psychiatrist and a behavioral psychologist on staff, and for the first time in memory they actually agree with each other. They believe it’s the work of a well-educated male, unmarried, in his early forties, and a bona fide psychopath.

  “Left-handed?” Berrien asked with a straight face.

  Tobias smiled. “They’ll figure that out, given enough time. Since the Boston episode, we’ve gone in high gear assembling reports from Europe and running our own chemical analyses. Now there’s speculation that a man and woman working together may have destroyed the portrait in Boston, but there’s not much to go on except conflicting witness identification and a few scraps of evidence that were sent to the forensic labs in Boston.”

  “That doesn’t sound very encouraging,” Llewellyn said.

  “There’s a lot of hand-wringing, but truth is, fine art is an elitist preoccupation, and as long as no one was hurt, the public wants the police to concentrate on rape, drugs, and homicides. It’s different in Europe. Fact is I’ve been asked by an old friend in Scotland Yard to learn if you might give a hand in his investigation.”

  “What can I do for Scotland Yard?”

  “I don’t have specifics, but Jack Oxby—he’s with the Yard—wants to know if there’s a chance you can visit him in London next week. Oxby realizes it’s short notice, and he had hoped that he could get to New York. But he can’t, so I’m his surrogate in a way. Could you possibly meet with him?”

  Llewellyn laughed good-naturedly. “I hadn’t planned on going to London so soon. Can you tell me more?”

  “Only that Jack knows about you and about your painting. As for what he’s got in mind, I just don’t know. Nothing dangerous, but it would be a different experience for you. Even a little exciting, if Oxby’s got anything to do with it.”

  “So far I haven’t done a damned thing.” He turned to Astrid. “You said you were behind in your antiquing, darling. How about London next week?”

  “I’d like that.”

  “How do I get in touch with Oxby?”

  Tobias handed Llewellyn an envelope. “It’s all there. Phone and fax numbers. By the way, have any Cézannes been sold in the last few months?”

  “One of his landscapes will be in the Geneva auction in December,” Llewellyn said. “That might tell us something.”

  Berrien called over from the bar. “A Cézanne? . . . in Geneva? Are you sure of that?”

  “The preview announcement came this morning.” He waved a finger toward Astrid. “Be a love, and find that brochure on my desk.” Astrid picked out a glossy brochure and handed it to Berrien, who unfolded it into a full-color sheet the size of a newspaper page.

  “I wonder how Collyers landed a Cézanne to sell. Must be a second-rate painting.”

  “Not at all,” Llewellyn said. “It’s from Ganay’s Paris collection.”

  “Did you read this?” Berrien asked, waving the brochure.

  “I skimmed it.”

  “You better read it because there might be another Cézanne in that sale.” He handed the brochure to Llewellyn, his finger pointing to the bottom of the page.

  Llewellyn read aloud, “It is possible that in addition to Cézanne’s Orchard on a Farm in Normandy, a self-portrait by the artist may also be offered. Should this be the case, complete information and documentation of the painting will be included in the catalogue, which will be available in advance of the sale.”

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Berrien said, “that’ll cause a stir at the security meeting.”

  Astrid sat on the arm of Llewellyn’s chair and put a hand on his shoulder then slowly lowered it until her fingers slipped into his.

  “We can fly over from London and see how they’re putting their plans together. You’ll like the location.”

  Astrid squeezed his hand. “Where?”

  “It’s all very hush-hush,” he smiled. “I’ll let that be a surprise.”

  Chapter 27

  It was late morning when LeToque parked his silver Porsche behind Weisbord’s house and told the long-legged girl sitting next to him to go into the garage “and see if the old bastard’s car is there.” Metallic-green sunglasses covered a swollen-shut right eye and a left eye ringed with a yellowish crust. Long-legs reported that there was no car in the garage, and the two went around to the front of the house where LeToque banged repeatedly with a brass knocker in the shape of a snarling lion’s head until the door was opened by Weisbord’s housekeeper. LeToque pushed past her, commanding the girlfriend he called Gaby to follow him.

  He inspected the rooms on the first floor before going to the pantry for a bottle of wine and glasses then making a final stop in Frédéric Weisbord’s office. The room had once been a sun parlor, then a study, now, in its final conversion, Weisbord’s office. It had a row of cabinets against one wall and shelves along another; by the window overlooking the porch and rear property was a desk piled with stacks of mail, files, and thick folders ti
ed with brown ribbon. Between the desk and the window was a cluttered credenza and a gargantuan swivel chair much too large for Weisbord and in which LeToque now sat, snapping out orders to the housekeeper and Gaby for more ice. There was about the room a strange orderliness, as if Weisbord could put his fingers on a file or letter in an instant, and there was also a heavy mustiness accented by tobacco smoke clinging to faded draperies and a soiled carpet.

  On the floor behind the big chair stood a metal cylinder with valves on top and a length of clear plastic tubing with straps and a nose clip attached to the end. The three-foot-tall cylinder of oxygen was new, to judge from its glistening green paint.

  The housekeeper put a bucket of ice on the desk and stood back, eyeing LeToque warily, seemingly pleased in a perverse way that his face was swollen and had the color of a severe sunburn—hot and painful. LeToque wrapped ice in a towel and pressed the soothing compress to his face. He twisted about in the huge chair, not able to fill it any better than its owner.

  LeToque said, “When will Weisbord be home?”

  She waved her hands. “Non lo so, presto?”

  “Speak in French, you Italian bitch. What time?” he shouted at her.

  “My name is Idi,” she said indignantly. “I don’t know because he don’t say when he comes home to eat.”

  LeToque would wait. He handed the cold towel to Gaby and told her to wring the water out of it, then pat his face, around his eyes especially, but gently. Gaby complained that she was tired, that she had not been able to sleep once she awakened from whatever had been in the needle that the tall bastard had stuck into her.

  “You got a needle and went to sleep, that makes you goddamned lucky. I couldn’t breathe after what he did to me, and now I want to pull my fucking eyes out. I’m bleeding inside, I feel it, here!” and put a hand against his throat.

  When the wine was gone, he shouted to Idi for another bottle, but she wanted no more of him and instead rattled pots on the stove and went noisily about preparing a meal for Weisbord, the air soon filling with the pungency of garlic and black olives simmering in oil. The aroma fired Gaby’s appetite, but was repulsive to LeToque, who complained that Idi had not brought his wine.

  Gaby said, “If your throat is sore, stop drinking the wine. Spill wine on a cut and it hurts.”

  “And stops the bleeding,” LeToque replied testily.

  But he took her advice and scooped his glass into the melted ice and sipped the cool liquid, then sat back in the chair, resigned to wait until Weisbord returned, resigned to let time heal the pain, resigned at the moment, too, to rest the cold towel against his lips and stare with his one barely good eye out to Cécile Weisbord’s idled gardens. LeToque was an impetuous young man with a troubled history. He was born Georges Dumauer, the youngest of six children in a poor family in Marseille, a precocious, reckless child who very early was dubbed LeToque, the crazy one. School was a sometime thing, replaced with whatever odd jobs the quick-witted youngster could come by. At thirteen he discovered that delivering drugs paid more than kitchen work in the hotel. At eighteen he was arrested for dealing in cocaine, and for the next eight years he was in and out of prison on other drug or assault charges. At twenty-six, he went to London to reform, but returned to Marseille after a year to become even more deeply entrenched in drug trafficking.

  His own drug dependency turned him into an uncontrollable risktaker and eventually a liability that was too much for the cautious drug leaders. It was then that he was introduced to Frédéric Weisbord, who could both protect him and find uses for his seamy talents. LeToque had been paid six thousand francs to deal with Aukrust, much below the proper rate for his unexpected pain and suffering.

  Into LeToque’s blurred vision came Weisbord’s car, then the old lawyer struggling up the rear steps to the back porch, into the kitchen, and then to his study. Coughing and gasping for air, he approached his desk to discover LeToque sitting in his chair.

  “What are you doing here?” Weisbord demanded.

  “Waiting for you to give me more money.”

  “You were paid.”

  “You sent little boys and they were chewed up, in fact one ran away, and your Pioli”—he thrust up his middle finger from a closed fist—“Pioli is made of piss! Pioli told him I was waiting in his apartment.” LeToque bolted out of the chair and grabbed Weisbord’s collar. “Look at my face . . . at my eyes! He sprayed gas on me! I promise one thing, old man. I’ll kill the bastard if I get the chance.”

  Weisbord struggled free then tried with unpracticed hands to attach the fittings from the oxygen tank into his nose and open the valve. When Weisbord had finally managed it all and slumped into his chair, LeToque turned off the valve and said, “You didn’t hear? I want more money.”

  “All right, more money.” Weisbord’s eyes pleaded. “Turn the valve on.”

  “I have a figure in mind. Let ’s see if it ’s the same one you’re thinking about.”

  Weisbord pulled himself to his feet and reached for the the oxygen tank, but before he could touch the valve, LeToque pushed him back into his chair. Gaby circled around the desk to Weisbord’s side, “You’ll kill him,” she said to LeToque and turned on the valve.

  LeToque reacted with a hard slap to Gaby’s face, sending her to the floor. “Mind your fucking business. I’ve got money coming and I’ll get it my way.” Gaby looked up, hurt and surprised. “Get the wine,” LeToque said, pulling her to her feet and pushing her toward the door.

  “Sit down,” Weisbord said, his voice nearly at full strength. LeToque pivoted around to find that Weisbord was holding a gun, and no ordinary revolver at that. It was an old French military weapon issued to Weisbord fifty years earlier, unusually long-barreled, well-cared-for, clean and lightly oiled. He waved LeToque into the chair beside his desk. “We’ll leave the oxygen on and discuss the money you say I owe you, and we’ll also talk about something I believe we both want very much to accomplish.”

  “You don’t need that,” LeToque said, pointing at the gun that rested in Weisbord’s lap, the barrel aimed approximately at LeToque’s spleen. “I wasn’t going to let you die.”

  Weisbord smiled weakly. “That wouldn’t be to your advantage, not when you want me to give you more money. And there will be more, but not for your first unfortunate encounter with Aukrust.” He opened a fresh package of cigarettes. “When you accept one of my assignments, the risks are yours. I make no guarantees of any kind.

  “More money for what?”

  “For the painting neither you nor Pioli could find.” He flicked a lighter and put the flame to a cigarette, dangerous beyond his understanding in the presence of pure oxygen.

  But LeToque knew. “Put that damned thing away before we both die.”

  “Mind your damned business.” Weisbord waved the gun and drew heavily on the cigarette then and almost regretfully doused it in the glass of water. He breathed the pure oxygen, his eyes never straying from LeToque.

  “I must have the painting in Geneva no later than the nineteenth—in six days.”

  “And you expect me to take it?”

  “Not alone,” Weisbord said. “An employee of the magistrate’s office is deeply in my debt, and he, along with a man in police uniform, will visit Aukrust on Tuesday morning. They will have a warrant to search his shop. During my own brief visit, I was able to see into the back room where Aukrust claims to frame pictures. It is likely the painting will be found in that room, in a high, old vault standing against the wall.”

  LeToque’s agitation had subsided. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Find someone who can open the vault in the likely event Aukrust won’t do it. No matter what it takes, you must come away with the painting and bring it here. For that I will pay you 25,000 francs.”

  “That is barely enough for me, and I will have two others to pay. The price is 50,000.”

  A crack formed in Weisbord’s composure. He coughed. A throat-clearing followed by loud, painful spasms. He
gasped out, “That’s ten thousand . . . dollars.”

  LeToque nodded. “Exactly right. Ten thousand American dollars.”

  Chapter 28

  Ann Browley knew better than anyone where to find Oxby in Westminster Abbey, no matter into what obscure recess or cloister he might wander. She too had access to the Abbey’s off-limits areas through the considerable influence of her great-uncle Sir Anthony George Browley, Knight in the Order of the Bath, whose armorial bearings and banners hung above the carved-oak stall in the Henry VII Chapel. Jack Oxby had a profound affection for the old gent, now past ninety. Early in the morning, Oxby went to an out-of-the-way table in the Chapter Library, where he spread out the notes that would be winnowed into a case progress report, a narrative he periodically added to, and occasionally subtracted from when speculations turned sour. From his satchel he took a thermos and poured a cup of strong coffee. He wrote: “The violent destruction of the paintings, the puzzling murder of Clarence Boggs, and the absence of any communication suggests that we are dealing with an intricately crafted plot that may take many twists before an explanation, and ultimately a solution, is possible. The perpetrator, whom I choose to call Vulcan, is a complicated person and most probably a sociopath. The destruction of the paintings is essentially designed to reduce the number of self-portraits and thus drive up the value of those that remain, including, incidentally, all other works by Cézanne. I am now of the opinion that two people are involved—there may be a third, and in the extreme, a fourth serving a less sensitive function. Someone plans, someone finances—Vulcan executes.”

  Ann slipped into the library and waited at the opposite end of the table for the inspector’s concentration to wane, but it did not, not for three or four minutes. Finally he glanced toward her and said, “Good morning, Annie, care for coffee?”

  She shook her head. “It’s quite improper to bring coffee into the Chapel Library, and illegal, I’m sure.”