The Cézanne Chase

by Thomas Swan

  “Yes,” was Aukrust’s simple reply.

  “And I can understand that you want to do something for her, something important ... to make her happy.”

  “When she learns the painting is being returned to her, she will be happy.”

  “But there may be something else, something better you can do. She must need money—that’s it, her husband is dead, and she has no income.”

  “She has property and other paintings worth millions.”

  “Then she doesn’t need the portrait. Don’t you see, Peder? The painting is more important to us. I promised it to Kondo.” The words, thin and soft, barely escaped from Pinkster’s mouth. “He can sell it for nearly as much as it would bring at the auction. There will be a great deal of money to share. You understand that, don’t you?”

  Aukrust remained silent. Pinkster was on his feet, his arms extended out as if pleading for help, “Say you understand,” he said, “Say that you do, Peder. Say anything, for Christ’s sake!”

  Lights shone from a dozen new buildings on Canary Wharf, highlighted by One Canada Square, which soared up like a giant beacon. Sepera was in mid-river, three hundred yards from the new complex. Ben Jolly backed away into the darkness along the west shore of the Thames. Jimmy Murratore trained night-vision binoculars on the tugboat.

  At 7:45 a small boat pulled alongside the tug. Two figures could be seen stepping onto the deck of the Sepera.

  There was another room on the Sepera, reached through a sliding panel in the wall beneath the television screen mounted high up on the forward bulkhead of the grand salon. It was a stateroom of elegant proportions, lavishly furnished and equipped with electronic gadgets that included closed-circuit television linked to cameras in the deck-house and two others concealed in the salon. In this comfort Aukrust would be able to observe the meeting between Pinkster and Kondo. Pinkster had rehearsed his presentation of the DeVilleurs portrait, even to the stubborn position he would take on the price he would demand from Kondo. But now he was recovering from the shock of not having the portrait and faced with dealing with a personality as unpredictable and dangerous as Peder Aukrust.

  Kondo and Mari Shimada came aboard the Sepera at 7:50. Pinkster immediately focused on Degas’s Before the Race. “What have you been offered?”

  “Isorai Tumbari will pay six and a half million dollars,” Kondo asserted. “We’re assured of that much, though I have told him I want seven.”

  “You should have taken the six and a half; we agreed that was a good price.”

  “Why, when he’ll go higher? To increase his appetite I let him hold the painting.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  Kondo grinned reassuringly. “The Degas is safe, Alan. Besides, we have other paintings to discuss with Mr. Tumbari, and to show our mutual trust is very good business.” Kondo paused, then lowered his voice. “Trust in this business is very important. Without it, there is no business. But enough about morality,” Kondo said. “Show me the Cézanne.”

  Aukrust moved closer to the monitor where he could watch Pinkster, who had retreated into his chair as if hoping he might be swallowed up by it.

  “Something very unexpected has happened. There was no chance to call you. The DeVilleurs portrait was not delivered to me, a mistake, of course. I didn’t authorize—”

  Kondo reacted slowly, as if what he had heard was a complete mistake. “Is this a bad joke? I haven’t come all this distance to learn of stupid incompetence. Let me tell you that I deal with broken promises in very special ways.”

  “I had no control over it, I swear,” Pinkster insisted. “Do you think there have not been difficulties in taking a painting of such value?”

  Kondo’s grin returned, but there was no humor in it. “Then I’ll take your portrait, the one you say was destroyed like the others.”

  “It was destroyed,” Pinkster said defiantly. “You know that perfectly well.”

  “No, Alan, I don’t know that perfectly well. You have not allowed Miss Shimada to examine what’s left of your painting.” Kondo shook his large head vigorously. “No more excuses, no more delays.”

  Pinkster turned to the small, exotic woman, who had remained in the shadows outside the circle of chairs. “I’ll make arrangements.”

  “When?” Kondo demanded, “Next week?”

  “No. The week after.”

  “Not acceptable, Alan,” Kondo said with utter finality. “Miss Shimada will be in your gallery next Tuesday.” He looked at his watch, “January 8. In the morning. Ten o’clock.”

  Pinkster daubed at the redness around his mouth. “There will be another Cézanne portrait in France next week.”

  “Yes, the American comes over,” Kondo said. “What about it?”

  “They are saying it is the best of all the self-portraits. Perhaps I can arrange ...”

  “Don’t make another promise you can’t keep, Alan. I prefer that we sell your portrait.”

  “But you asked for a self-portrait, and I have every intention of obtaining one for you.”

  “If Miss Shimada confirms that your painting was destroyed, then I will be happy with the one owned by Mr. Llewellyn.”

  The Ben Jolly was two hundred yards astern of the Sepera, its bow facing the oncoming tide, its engines at a speed to let it hold position. The small boat that had earlier delivered two passengers came alongside and tied up as the same passengers returned from their visit. Jimmy radioed Sergeant Jennings. “Do a friend a favor and call in one of the other lads to follow the boat and find out who chartered it.”

  When Pinkster returned to the salon, Aukrust was waiting for him. “How are you going to convince Kondo that your portrait was burned up?”

  “Let Shimada look at it; she’ll discover shreds of a very old canvas and a syrup of paint that’s traceable to the south of France.”

  “It’s possible she can prove it wasn’t a painting by Cézanne.”

  “I don’t think she can. In the extreme it would take sophisticated technology.”

  “She could take samples to Amsterdam where there are specialty chemists who make paint analyses for museum curators from all over the world. Then what do you do?”

  Pinkster shrugged. “Then I would be forced to bring Kondo into my confidence.”

  Pinkster stared blankly at the darkness beyond the circle of light. “How much do you want for the DeVilleurs painting?”

  “It’s not for sale,” Aukrust said without hesitation.

  “Kondo wants a self-portrait, and if he doesn’t get one he’ll cause trouble.”

  “Are you suggesting that Kondo have an accident?”

  “He isn’t worth anything dead.” Pinkster eyed Aukrust carefully. “That leaves the Llewellyn. Can you get it?”

  “For a price.”

  Pinkster said, “Half a million pounds.”

  Aukrust shook his head. “Half of what Kondo pays.”

  At Tower Pier, Alan Pinkster jumped down to the pier and went hurriedly to the gate and a waiting taxi. Jimmy Murratore lowered the binoculars and looked at his watch: 9:10. The tugboat started up again and lumbered its way west under London Bridge. Sergeant Tompkins radioed his counterpart and requested that the police launch lie off Battersea Power Station and wait until Sepera returned to Cadogan Pier. Thirty minutes later, when the tug had been maneuvered against the pier, the Ben Jolly came around from a point below Albert Bridge and was made secure less than a hundred yards away. Jimmy watched a figure, the captain he assumed, throw hawsers onto the pier, tie up, then scramble aboard and disappear into the pilothouse. Signal and running lights were shut down, except for a light in the pilothouse and another at the railing to illuminate the steps across to the pier. The captain was joined by a woman, and they walked off the boat and continued past the pier manager’s shed then up and over the Embankment.

  “That’s the whole bloody crew,” Jimmy said. “Gone off for a pint before last call.” He turned excitedly toward Sergeant Tompkins. “Take me over there
, by the petrol pumps. I want to see what’s on that old tug.”

  “Be careful doing that without authorization. It’s getting late, and if they went for a pint before closing they could be back in under an hour.”

  “Stall them and ask questions—who owns the tug, how old is it, that kind of thing. You’re in uniform and they don’t want trouble.”

  “Same goes with me,” Tompkins said. “Don’t pull me into something where I don’t belong.”

  “You do belong, Tommy; the owner of that tugboat wasn’t meetin’ with a few casual friends in the middle of the Thames River to talk about his bloody golf handicap. I’m lookin’ to find a murderer, and I need your help.”

  Jimmy slipped a flashlight into his jacket then jumped across to the pier and went quietly to the Sepera. The door to the pilothouse was locked, but a window had been left ajar, enough so that he could slide it open then reach in and turn the lock. He walked through the pilothouse and the cabin immediately aft and into an adjoining cabin, in which were crammed two small beds and a tiny bathroom. He opened another door and flashed his light on the steps angling sharply down to a deck twenty feet below him. He descended to the small vestibule. Toward the stern was a door that apparently led into the engine room. He tried the other door. It opened into a black space his flashlight pierced, revealing a room of considerable size. He entered the salon, his light aimed directly at the cluster of chairs in the center of the room.

  He turned back toward the door through which he had entered, noting the cabinets built into the wood paneling. Then he went to the circle of chairs, and chose to sit in the one next to the table. When he panned his flashlight across the wood panels, the light revealed there was a change in the wood grain design at approximately five feet intervals. He shone the flashlight directly into one of the seams, and the light reflected off metal—concealed hinges, he was certain. The panels opened, but how? He pressed and probed, searching unsuccessfully for a way to open the panels. He went back to the chair and studied the table and everything on and under it. In a small drawer in the table he found notepads, pens, a calendar, and a telephone instruction manual.

  The telephone keypad was unusual in that there were two rows of buttons below the three rows of alpha-numeric buttons. There were six buttons in each of the two rows; the buttons in the top row were numbered, the buttons in the other row were lettered. He lifted the receiver and heard a familiar dial tone, but when he pressed a numbered button it had no effect on the tone. He tried other buttons with the same result. He leafed through the manual. A sliver of paper fell from a page marked “Program Activation.” On it was a diagram of the keypad, along with instructions to press six of the regular telephone keys in a specific sequence.

  Jimmy touched the keys, and a tiny green light at the top of the keypad glowed. He pressed the button marked “One” and instantly a soft noise came from his left. He shone the flashlight onto the wall and saw the first panel begin to turn. When he pressed button “Three” the panel in front of him slowly turned. When the button directly below the one marked “Three” was pressed, spotlights suspended above him shone down onto the reverse side of the panel, which was now turned out to the room. Jimmy got to his feet and went to the painting that hung against a blue muslin background. It was Chagall’s Circus Scene.

  His flashlight spilled onto the next panel. “Good god, what’s this doin’ here?” Jimmy whispered aloud. He had not put a light on over the panel but played his flashlight over the small picture that hung on the interior of the panel. He stared, disbelieving, for a second or two, then from behind him a hand crashed down on the flashlight, and strong arms wrapped around his chest and came up under his arms then clasped tightly behind his neck. Powerful arms and hands were holding him in a full nelson. It had happened in an instant. Jimmy forced himself down to his knees and pitched forward, twisting as he fell, reacting instinctively to his academy training. But Aukrust, heavier and stronger, had tightened his hands against the back of Jimmy’s head, forcing his chin down onto his chest.

  “You bloody bastard,” Jimmy managed to say. “I’m with the police and—”

  “You can be the Prime Minister for all I care,” Aukrust said. “It’s time you go away, and I’ve got the right medicine to take you there.”

  Jimmy felt one hand slip away, but pressure from the remaining hand was tight against his neck. Then there was an odor in the air, a pungent, antiseptic smell. In the dim light made by the flashlight ten feet away he saw the source of the odor; the hand that had slipped away now held a piece of cloth, and it was rising toward his face. Jimmy screamed with all the force and anger he could gather, a piercing, frightening scream that was meant to surprise as well as excite him to exert his strength in one profound effort to break free. He thrust both elbows backward and turned his legs to bring their long muscles into play, then he screamed again and slipped free. He rolled across to the door and opened it. He began to climb before Aukrust could reach the steps. Jimmy had the advantage now, being smaller and more agile. He scampered up and onto the deck, jumped to the pier, and raced away into the darkness.

  Chapter 42

  Roberto Oliveira was not a man glued to predictable habits, yet he regularly lunched in the Grill Room at the Hôtel Beau Rivage on Quai du Mont-Blanc whenever he was not otherwise obligated. He enjoyed being fussed over and taken to the same table where familiar waiters and busboys greeted and served him with special attention. It all made a deep impression on visiting colleagues or potential customers. On the occasions when he was alone, it afforded him an opportunity to compose his proposals for potential sellers or relax over so simple a pleasure as a newspaper. On this early January day, however, Oliveira was not particulary relaxed, and the newspaper did not provide him with either diversion or pleasure. An enterprising reporter had written a postscript to Collyers’s pre-Christmas auction, speculating that the auction would have been incredibly successful if Cézanne’s self-portrait had been in the sale, as the gallery’s high-powered publicity had promised. “No credit for breaking new ground,” he said aloud, “no mention that we did sell the Cézanne landscape for eleven million.... ” He folded the paper and slammed it on the table and was surprised to find that he was no longer alone. The occupant of the seat across from him looked vaguely familiar. He was a thin, young man with black, strangely combed hair and a longish nose. Oliveira stared at the face for a moment.

  “You were with Monsieur Weisbord when he brought the Cézanne self-portrait.”

  “Weisbord is dead. The painting was stolen,” LeToque said flatly.

  “Do you think I have it?” Oliveira said, laughing, as if it were all a bad joke. “I wanted Weisbord to leave it with us, but he would trust no one. Then I learned that he died, and that was the end to that.”

  LeToque shook his head, “I know who has it.”

  “Who?”

  “The one who killed Weisbord.”

  Oliveira shook his head incredulously. “There was nothing about murder in the newspapers. Are you sure?”

  LeToque nodded. “I know the filthy bastard. If you hear about him or see him in Geneva, call me.” He wrote a phone number on a matchbook cover and pushed it in front of Oliveira. “He is a big man, a Norwegian who goes by different names. The one I know is Aukrust. Peder Aukrust.”

  Chapter 43

  Both paintings caught the clear, shadowless light that came through the bay windows in Edwin Llewellyn’s study. Both were unframed and perched on an easel. On the left was the painting Llewellyn’s grandfather had purchased from Ambroise Vollard in 1904, and on the right was a photographic copy so precisely like the original that only by close examination could one be distinguished from the other. The incredible gap in their respective value was $40 million, and that was rock bottom. Recent estimates for Llewellyn’s painting were stratospheric, but a tally of every penny of costs for the copy came to $2,468.14, including Nigel Jones’s Maine lobster dinner at Anthony’s Pier Four.

  Alex Tobias
lifted the genuine portrait with appropriate reverence and laid it inside a flat, traylike affair, which he then slid into an open-ended case. The two parts were made from tough vinyl and painted a dull black. In all, it measured only slightly more than the painting, 19 x 16 inches, and less than an inch thick. He looked up, as if uncertain what emotion he saw in Llewellyn’s face. “Having second thoughts?” he asked.

  “Of course I am,” Llewellyn said. “Yet I can’t think of anything more important than putting a spike into Vulcan’s ass.”

  Tobias laughed. “I hadn’t thought of it quite that way; in fact I was thinking that a week in Provence was incentive enough. But that’s nothing if I can’t help catch the bastard.”

  Llewellyn picked up the plastic case. “How are you going to carry it? You can’t just tuck it under your arm.”

  “In that old one-suiter over there.” He pointed at an undistinguished piece of luggage that would have qualified as luggage for a charter member in America’s oldest frequent flyer club. “It’s twenty years old and looks a hundred.” He smiled. “But there are two bottoms in the damned thing.” He unpacked a week’s clothing then lifted a bottom flap, laid the case on the bottom of the suitcase, lowered the flap and snapped it securely, then put the clothing back, closed the suitcase, and turned the dial on a combination lock. “If necessary, I use this.” He fitted a leather-covered chain through the handle and looped an end around his wrist.

  “Does your wife know what you’re up to?”

  Tobias shook his head. “Nope, and I won’t tell her until we’re in Narbonne. That’s over the border in France, about a three-hour drive from Barcelona.” He smiled, and lines crinkled around his eyes. “We’ll look like a retired New York City couple on vacation. Not bad, right?”

  “Not that part of it,” Llewellyn replied. “Yet I feel a little woozy knowing the painting’s in the bottom of an old suitcase.”