The Cézanne Chase

by Thomas Swan

  Samuelson said, “I needn’t remind you that Paul Cézanne could not have used it. He died in 1906.”

  Chapter 61

  Rue du Quatre Septembre ran south from Cours Mirabeau; where it intersected with Rue Cardinale was the Place du Dauphine, center of a quiet residential neighborhood that offered a great deal of old-world charm but precious few places to park a car. A red Fiat appeared and cruised around the square then abruptly turned onto the sidewalk where it came to rest half on and half off the street, its bumper against a fountain known as the Quatre Dauphins. The driver bolted out and sprinted along the narrow street to the Hôtel Cardinal.

  Ann Browley came to a halt in the tiny lobby and, breathing heavily, inquired as to the whereabouts of Monsieur Oxby. She was given an envelope on which was written, in the inspector’s inimitable scrawl, “Ann’s Eyes Only.” A note instructed her to continue on Rue Cardinale to where the street widened to create Place St.-Jean-de-Malte, where, on her right, would be the Musée Granet and, directly ahead, the church of St.-Jean-de-Malte. “I will be on the left side in the tenth row.”

  Vigil lights flickered on tables set against the walls along each side aisle in the nave in the old church. When Oxby had arrived earlier, he had put twenty francs in a box, taken a candle, and put its wick into an already burning one, then had placed it in a fluted metal tube. Oxby was not Catholic so his silent message to Miriam was a personal communication that if God and the saints wished would be speeded along to that other place, where he knew she was.

  The inside of the old church was dark brown, and a deep patina of sienna covered the big ecclesiastical paintings by Mignard and Finsonius placed high up on the wall. Hourly chimes were not produced automatically, and none struck when ten o’clock came. At fifteen past ten he looked up to see Ann Browley walking briskly toward him.

  Oxby greeted her. “Good show, Annie. Everything peaceful at home?”

  She sighed with an exaggerated gush of air that indicated that she understood the irony of Oxby’s question. “I thought Elliott would pop a carotid artery when I told him I was taking some leave days.”

  Oxby replied, “He’s under a great deal of pressure and not at all pleased that we’re here. But I’ve sent Jimmy back, which should lower his blood pressure by twenty points.”

  Ann unzipped her briefcase and pulled out several pages crammed with single-spaced typing. “Once our International gang learned where to look, they got a super rundown on Llewellyn’s girlfriend.”

  “Surely you’ve got the report memorized,” Oxby said, “so spare all but the highlights.”

  “If you don’t mind, Inspector, I’ll give my report the way I had planned.” She punctuated each word as if driving tiny rivets into each one. “All right?”

  He glanced quickly at his watch then gave a chastened nod.

  Ann began, “Astrid Haraldsen was orphaned when she was nine and was raised by her paternal grandmother until she was fourteen, when her grandmother died. She then was sent to her maternal grandmother, who lived in Trondheim. She was rebellious and had minor skirmishes with the police when she was a teenager, incidents involving petty thefts and shoplifting. Her school record was a splotchy one, some good years, some bad. When she was eighteen she was enrolled in the Statens Kunst Ol Handverks Hoyskole in Oslo to study interior design. But she was poorly prepared academically and lacked ability to sketch or draw. She switched to courses in photography in which she showed aptitude but was dropped from school after the first year.”

  Oxby was staring at the altar, then his eyes closed. “Go on,” he said.

  Ann’s glower softened, and for the next few minutes she sketched in additional details of Astrid’s teenage years. “When she was twenty and living in Copenhagen, she was arrested for soliciting, a charge that was subsequently dropped.”

  “Did that happen more than once?”

  “A second time, with the same result.”

  “Soliciting,” Oxby said thoughtfully; “not prostitution? There’s a difference you know.”

  “Would it matter?” Ann asked.

  “I wouldn’t think so.” Oxby leaned forward. “You describe an unhappy, undisciplined young person.”

  “And things got worse for her,” Ann went on. “She became involved with drugs about this time. Several arrests but again no convictions. Not until three years ago, when she was twenty-four. She was found guilty of dealing in cocaine, barbiturates, and amphetamines.”

  “Incarcerated?”

  “She served three months of a two-year sentence then was released on condition that she work with undercover operatives investigating a drug syndicate that had infiltrated the country’s hospital system. She was assigned to a former hospital pharmacist who had exposed members of the syndicate and who had been recruited into the drug enforcement agency of the Norwegian national police. That person is referred to in the report as “the Operator.”

  His eyes opened. “Interesting name. Go on.”

  “A strange thing happened at this point,” Ann continued. “The official records on the Operator were sealed, which means, the final portion of the report on Haraldsen was not supported by official records and in fact is filled with words like ‘uncorroborated’ or ‘unverified.’ The Operator apparently killed a suspect, perhaps accidentally while attempting to secure a confession, and the whole affair was pushed under the rug and the Operator was never identified. None of this has been admitted by official sources, but the information is considered accurate. The balance of Haraldsen’s sentence was commuted, and she left Norway two years ago.”

  Oxby slid past Ann and stood in the aisle for a moment. He took several steps toward the choir, turned, and came back. Ann watched him, puzzled.

  She whispered, “You look worried.”

  “A little. I let Astrid travel with Llewellyn, but she was no lady in distress.”

  “Meaning?”

  “There’s a little conspiracy going on, and I don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Keep my promise and make certain nothing happens to Llewellyn.”

  Oxby sat next to Ann. “You were telling me about The Operator. Were we able to get more on him?”

  Ann withdrew a second report from her briefcase and handed it to Oxby. “Our people stitched this material together from unofficial sources, but they claim that every word is exactly as it happened.”

  Oxby read the report, a scant two pages: “The government did not want to expose the cover-up; instead the Operator was given new identification and fifty thousand dollars to leave the country. A new passport and visa said his name was Charles Metzger—” Oxby looked up. “Is that your Dr. Metzger?”

  Ann nodded. “It will be an colossal coincidence if he isn’t. The report also gives his actual name.”

  “I see that.” He pronounced the names several times to himself. “Can it be, Annie, that Vulcan is Charles Metzger, and Dr. Metzger is Peder Aukrust?”

  Chapter 62

  Layers of strong aromas persisted in the Musée Granet: high-spirited alkyds, glues, and harsh cleaners. It was an amalgam of such power that when the air was deeply inhaled it induced a euphoric light-headedness. Then as the afternoon wore on, the fresh scents from huge bouquets and tubs of flowers and plants plus food aromas from the kitchens sweetened the chemically stained air.

  Shortly after three o’clock, an oil titled Road on the Plain was put in place, a mercury-level sensor inserted in the back of its frame, and a spotlight adjusted to spread an even light over the blue-green mountain scene. Charles Pourville affixed an engraved brass plaque to the bottom of the frame. He gave one of the plaques to Gustave Bilodeau. “This is for Monsieur Llewellyn’s portrait. He’ll be pleased.”

  “He’ll be damned,” Bilodeau said with uncharacteristic bitterness. “He won’t allow us to hang his portrait until tomorrow, and there’s no promise we’ll have it then.” Then a fresh smile returned to the museum director’s face. “But there are tw
o featured panels in our portrait gallery, and tonight I will have good news about one of them.”

  That a year’s planning was about to come to a successful conclusion was a tribute to Gustave Bilodeau’s gutsy determination though it might have been in vain if Mirella LeBorgne had not been influenced by a consortium of insurance companies, which had made an extensive analysis of the security arrangements and vetted the entire staff.

  The security staff now reported to a former security director in the Surêté Nationale. An intimate of Félix Lemieux, he went by the single name Fauchet, was in his mid-fifties, and covered his inquiring eyes with a pair of green-tinted glasses.

  Bilodeau had boasted that the reception would be the grandest of all grand-opening parties. That might not prove true of opening parties worldwide, but in Aix there was every possibility of it being the most lavish in the city’s long history.

  Scooter Albany handed a glass to Astrid and, with experienced adroitness, popped open a champagne bottle.

  “Have some of the bubbly.” He grinned, filled both their glasses, aiming his at hers, and caused a mid-air collision punctuated by a loud, splashy clank.

  “Clumsy, clumsy,” he scolded himself and fumbled in his pockets for a handkerchief.

  Astrid gave an obligatory smile and went to the buffet for a napkin, then kept walking to the end of the table. She looked back at the swelling crowd, the food, and the flowers. More people came, all talking at once, making a familiar buzzing noise that likely reminded Astrid of that night in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. The music began, coming from a quintet of musicians seated alongside the gray stone staircase that went up to the gallery floor.

  In clusters were formally dressed men and women, the guests and patrons who had written large checks to help insure that the obscure Musée Granet would have its moment of fame and glory. Gathered, too, were the organizers and curators responsible for selecting the billion dollars’ worth of paintings from twenty-one countries. Llewellyn put a white carnation in the lapel of his tuxedo, then took Astrid’s hand. “Come join the party,” he said.

  A fanfare began as a tall, gray-haired woman was escorted to a microphone by Bilodeau. He asked for silence, then said, “We are honored this evening by the presence of a dear friend of the Granet. It is my honor to introduce Madame Margueritte DeVilleurs.” When the applause died away he continued. “Now for the good news. Madame DeVilleurs has given me the privilege of announcing that she has donated her Cézanne self-portrait to the Musée.”

  The announcement came as a surprise to many, but everyone roared their approval. When the cheering subsided, Margueritte took the microphone. “I wish you could see the painting this very minute. But as some of you know, I lost my Cézanne for a while, and when he came back I decided he needed a good cleaning and a new frame. You will see my friend in a week. I promise.”

  Bilodeau raised both hands high over his head and pointed to the floor above. “The galleries are now open. Please go enjoy the exhibition.”

  Llewellyn introduced himself to Margueritte and congratulated her on her grand gesture. Instantly they were on a first-name basis, and Llewellyn floated the idea that he might give his portrait to the Metropolitan in New York. Scooter taped it all. Margueritte turned full circle, her eyes searching among the guests.

  “I’m looking for someone I want you to meet, but he seems to have disappeared.”

  Peder Aukrust peeled away from Margueritte DeVilleurs with the first notes of the fanfare. She had insisted that he accompany her to the reception but at his first opportunity, he inquired if an Alexander Tobias was on the guest list. He was not. Earlier in the day, using a list of hotels obtained from the city’s tourist office, Aukrust learned that an Alexander Tobias and his wife were registered at the Hôtel Nègre-Coste. Policy prohibited giving a guest’s room number.

  Aukrust left the Musée Granet by the back entrance and walked hurriedly past a bustling catering crew taking food and beverages to the buffet tables. LeToque had been toting trays in and out of the museum when he spotted Aukrust earlier. He tossed away his tray and threw his busboy uniform at the feet of the enraged caterer.

  “Crazy bastard ... fill your tray with more glasses,” the flustered manager yelled, “or no pay.”

  “Fuck your glasses,” LeToque said, and went off in pursuit of Aukrust. He headed for Rue d’Italie, a busy street behind the Musée Granet, one that was lined with restaurants and food markets. He saw Aukrust silhouetted against the lights in a pharmacy window a half block away. LeToque began running but lost sight of the big man when he went into a street that angled sharply away from Rue d’Italie. LeToque followed cautiously into the dark, narrow street. Streetlamps cast pale yellow light over the pavement. He continued past a row of darkened shops and past a jewelry store, its single window filled with cheap wristwatches, most of which said it was 9:48.

  He came to a kiosk with signs announcing upcoming events at the Palais de Congress, a building directly ahead of him which at that instant came alive, as its doors opened and a stream of people flowed out onto to the sidewalk. LeToque struggled past them and climbed up several steps so that he could look back over the route he had just walked. He saw him, sixty yards away. Aukrust had doubled back to Rue d’Italie and just at the moment LeToque caught sight of him, he turned in the direction of the Cours. LeToque ran after him.

  Aukrust went to the cafe next to the Hôtel Nègre-Coste, where a hundred francs quickly persuaded the night manager to part with a bottle of brandy. He slipped into the pay phone and dialed the Hôtel Nègre-Coste.

  “Alexander Tobias, please.”

  “Un moment, Monsieur,” a voice said. Then a familiar tone sounded three times.

  “Hello,” a husky male voice said.

  Aukrust silently replaced the phone.

  In late afternoon he had parked his car in a cramped alley behind the hotel, near a souvenir shop and a pizza parlor. He started toward his car, stopping twice to take a deep swig from the bottle, mumbling that LeToque was a problem that required a permanent solution. Inside the car he tipped the bottle once more, then jammed the cork into it. He pulled his medicine case next to him and searched inside it for familiar shapes—the ones he would need on the professional call he was about to make. From the back seat he retrieved a bulky package wrapped in green tissue paper.

  Amenities in the Nègre-Coste were minimal: no dining room or bar; only a reception desk inside the front entrance and in the rear a room that doubled for breakfast in the morning and television in the evening. In between was a staircase to the upper five floors and an elevator into which three persons might squeeze.

  At the reception desk was a young student from the university, his head bent over a textbook. Seated nearby, also reading and looking acutely bored, was a rail-thin girl of perhaps nineteen, her hair hanging straight over a painfully unattractive face.

  Aukrust placed his package on the counter and stared past the receptionist to a row of boxes, a number on every one and a key in half of them. “I’ve been asked to come and see Madame Tobias. I am a doctor and by a fortunate coincidence, we were friends when I lived in New York. I’ve brought flowers to cheer her up.”

  The young man looked up, somewhat surprised, “Is she sick? I didn’t know.”

  “Nothing serious, but she doesn’t travel well, and for the first day or two, she has a painful stomach problem. They are in room 37?”

  “No, there’s no heat on the upper floors this time of year.” He looked in the register. “Madame Tobias, and Monsieur, are in room 28, in the front.”

  Aukrust leaned on the counter and inclined his head toward the young girl. “Is this your girlfriend? She’s very pretty.”

  The young man smiled uncomfortably and looked at the girl. “Just a friend.”

  Aukrust forced an indulgent smile. “You’re a lucky young man,” then added, “I’ll see what I can do for Madame Tobias.” He started off but stopped and turned back to the young students, “You need
n’t call; they are expecting me.”

  Oxby picked his way through the crowd to where Llewellyn was standing. “I see you have a new friend.”

  Llewellyn smiled. “Margueritte’s quite a woman. I’d like to show her off in New York.”

  “She’d make a hit with your friends.” Oxby took Llewellyn aside. “I hope Astrid has been getting on all right. Has she gone up to the galleries?”

  “I asked Pourville to give her a tour.”

  “I have friends in Provence in the event she is interested in antiquing.”

  “I don’t think she’s up for that. In fact, she’s become skittish the last few days.”

  “Still bothered by the Paris episode?”

  “Some, perhaps. She continues to insist that I’m in some kind of danger.”

  “And still worried that the painting is going to be stolen?”

  Llewellyn nodded. “She blurts it all out, then becomes quiet. I try to relax her.”

  “How?”

  “When—” he paused—“when we’re in bed.”

  “Spare the details. Recently?”

  “Last night.”

  “What happened?”

  “She was cold, like ice. I had no interest in sex, and certainly she didn’t. I thought it was best for her to be with me where I could take care of her. I told her that nothing was going to happen to me, that I was under twenty-four-hour guard, that I had a gun and knew how to use it.”

  “Had you told her that before?”

  “Not about the gun.”

  “She said?”