The Cézanne Chase (19 page)

“Harry and Jeff are a team,” Berrien said. “Jeff 's our resident expert on transportation and insurance. Insurance is tricky and expensive. Transportation can be complicated because many of the items we ship
must travel in total secrecy. When we send a painting worth $25 million to Tokyo, it doesn't go Federal Express.

“Harry's responsible for occasionally putting things in packages that don't look like a package for what 's inside. He also has to make sure that nothing is damaged. We rarely lend our Etruscan pottery, but when we do, you can be sure Jeff is using some pretty exotic packaging materials.”

Berrien was behind Helen Ajanian. “I rely on Helen to tie everything together. If she doesn't sign off, it doesn't ship.” He motioned toward Pourville. “And, of course, you know Charlie Pourville.”

Llewellyn glanced over at the young curator, then at the others. “I want the best from all of you. The painting you are going to send to France has not been out of my family's hands since it was bought in France and brought to New York a long time ago. Nearly a hundred years, now. It's not only valuable to me, but I like to think it has great meaning to the entire art community. Protect it, please.”

“Count on us, Lew,” Berrien said. “Our plans are pretty well under way; it was just a question of whether it's a go, or no-go.” He shook his head. “Look's like it's go. But Lew, you can still back out.”

“What am I risking?” Llewellyn asked.

“I'll answer, if I may,” Helen Ajanian said. “There's always a risk when we lend something from our collection, whether it's a risk of fire or breakage or poor conditions in the exhibiting museum. Six weeks in uncontrolled humidity can play havoc with an old painting on wood. It's a horribly obscene thing that's happened, and it makes absolutely no sense. But neither did the fire that destroyed two of the Albrecht Dürer woodcuts we loaned to the Vienna Museum a few years ago. There are always risks, it's just that we're dealing with some new ones this time.”

“I would think security at the Musée Granet would be as tight as at Camp David,” Llewellyn said.

“I'm afraid not,” Pourville replied. “It's a small city with a police department that's stretched to the limit. January isn't a tourist month, but the students are there in full force. In March the crowds return, and the police will have their hands full. Besides, Gustave Bilodeau has limited personnel, and his guards are not very well trained.”

Llewellyn said, “I was told they'd be sent a fully trained staff, that the Louvre and the other big French museums are supposed to help.”

Pourville smiled. “Perhaps. I know that a traveling exhibition of
Cézanne's paintings was in Aix in the summer of 1961. Security was very good, or so they thought, and on the third night there was a break-in and five paintings were stolen.”

“We'll damn well have to do better than that,” Llewellyn said resolutely. “The insurance people and the museum directors will demand it.”

 

Berrien nodded. “For Christ's sake, we are demanding it. That's why we've called a security meeting. Frankly, I don't give a damn what Gerard Bontonnamo says, because if the security plan isn't up to snuff after that meeting, you can bet your sweet ass—excuse me Helen—the Met won't send so much as a postcard.”

The meeting continued until noon. Harry Li and Jeff Kaufman made articulate presentations, yet neither gave details of their plans for disguising the packages or their strategy for moving those packages from New York to the south of France. But they freely confided to Llewellyn that the paintings would be shipped to either Madrid or Geneva a minimum of six weeks in advance of the opening of the retrospective.

Berrien adjourned the meeting and said to Llewellyn, “I want you to meet a friend of mine, someone you'll like knowing.”

Llewellyn replied, “Tell me about him.”

“His name is Alexander Tobias. He's with the New York Police.”

“Why does he want to meet me? Is he some kind of an art buff?”

“In a way. He had a long career in criminal investigation, developed an interest in art, and likes doing what he knows best: investigating art thefts and forgeries.”

“What's his interest in my painting?”

“He's got tie-ins everywhere, including the FBI and Interpol. But his contact in Scotland Yard suggested that he pay you a visit. He asked me to set up an introduction.” Berrien rubbed the back of his neck, and his expression changed to match the serious tone of his voice. “I think you should talk with him. OK?”

Llewellyn nodded. “Have him call me.”

T
he dinner party Llewellyn invited Astrid to attend was being held in Thomas A. Ridgeway's triplex on the top floors of a well-appointed apartment building on Fifth Avenue at 73rd Street. In spite of, or because of, his impeccable credentials as one of the remaining authentic New York WASPs, Tom Ridgeway was both a “good guy” and a good friend. It was Tom's wife Caroline who was considered such a pain in the ass. She greeted Astrid with the lukewarm smile she accorded persons on her long list of the ethnic “underclass.” Attractive as she appeared and gracious as she acted, Caroline was five and a half feet of pure bigotry, and her prejudices were in imminent danger of embracing all of Norway.

“Meet Astrid Haraldsen,” Llewellyn said, giving his hostess an obligatory peck on the cheek. “But let me warn you, Astrid, behind Caroline's pretty face is all lollipops and ice cream.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Caroline said acidly as she gave Astrid a receiving line handshake. “I'm delighted you've come,” she said coolly. “Lew will show you where to find everything. He's very good at that.”

Llewellyn took Astrid's hand and led her to a magnificent room with great, high windows overlooking Central Park. A late autumn sun was about to disappear, and the sky was streaked with bold colors. A man approached them. He was barely Astrid's height, a bit portly and gray-haired, and his good features were all at ease.

“You're Astrid,” he said. “I'm Tom Ridgeway. Welcome.”

In quick succession, three couples arrived. Ernie and Sally Simpson were the seniors in the group. Ernie was old money and old shoe, while Sally was on a constant diet, trying to become a size twelve and not succeeding.

Stephen Urquhart and his wife, Diane, were equally imbued with the trappings of Scottish traditions and possessed an unspotted bloodline. Popular in their small group of intimates, they were considered insufferable snobs by all others.

Jim and Marilyn Cox were the last to arrive. He was Wall Street, and she was inclined to keep her husband away from attractive women. Astrid qualified. Jim was also well on his way to a serious drinking problem. He gulped down a half glass of pure Dewar's during the few minutes it took to greet Astrid and Llewellyn, then ran off to find a refill.

The ritual of the cocktail hour proceeded in a predictable pattern: drinks from a well-stocked bar and finger food served by an obsequious little man. Just as the men had maneuvered to form a circle around Astrid, Caroline announced that dinner was being served.

After a clumsy toast proposed by Jim Cox, Caroline asked if Astrid had plans to redecorate Edwin Llewellyn's house. “You must admit, Astrid dear, it needs a woman's touch.”

“It's been touched by too many women,” Llewellyn complained good-naturedly. “I like it the way it is.”

“The Scandinavians have such a different sense of design,” Caroline said with a snide curve to her voice, “I'd like to hear how Astrid feels about that.”

Astrid turned and saw Caroline's frozen smile. She knew everyone was watching her. She looked across to Llewellyn. He nodded, reassuringly, then turned to Caroline. “You could use a little help with your East Hampton house, Muffin. Why not give Astrid a stab at it.”

“Great idea,” Tom Ridgeway said.

“It's a hideous idea,” Caroline said, her defenses up. “The beach house is perfectly fine the way it is.” She retreated from the subject, “We'd like to hear what Lew thinks of the dreadful things that have happened to those poor Van Gogh paintings.”

“You mean Cézanne,” her husband corrected.

“Of course, Cézanne. I thought I said that.”

“For God's sake, Lew,” Jim Cox said, slurring his words and waving an empty glass. “They might come and burn up that picture of yours.”

“Aren't you a little worried?” Sally asked.

“Concerned, yes. Worried? Only a little.” Llewellyn shifted in his chair. “My painting is safe.”

“Did you say earlier that they haven't a clue as to who destroyed those paintings?” Tom Ridgeway asked.

“I don't believe they do. But you know, I'm damned angry about losing the portrait in London's National Gallery ... then Alan Pinkster's portrait... .”

“Serves the son of a bitch right,” Jim Cox said. “He's a wiseass bastard who steps on everyone who gets in his way.”

“Stop it,” Marilyn Cox said angrily. “You have a dreadful tongue.”

“Jim's right,” Caroline said. “Alan Pinkster tries to buy his way into the right crowd every time he comes to New York. I think he should stay with his own kind.”

Llewellyn spoke up. “I don't completely share Jim's opinion of Alan Pinkster. He's cocky and sometimes he can be a rude son of a bitch, but he's made it on his own. More than some of us can say.”

Tom Ridgeway nodded but held his tongue.

Llewellyn went on. “I'm also damned angry because Pinkster's curator was murdered. I hear that Scotland Yard believes the two crimes are tied together.”

“I hadn't heard that,” Steve Urquhart said.

“They've kept it pretty much under wraps. But the press is beginning to hop on the story. You'll be hearing more.”

Jim Cox got unsteadily to his feet and held up his glass, “Here's to Eddie Llewellyn's painting.” He ran his words together sloppily and listed badly. “I sure hope nothing happens to it.” He emptied the glass and sagged back into his chair.

The dinner ended without further incident, and the group assembled in the room with the windows for coffee. Astrid peeked at her watch. It was 9:30. The Simpsons said they would have to make it an early night. Llewellyn said that he and Astrid would have to do the same, and minutes after saying their thanks and goodnights, they were in a taxi. Another five minutes and they were in front of Astrid's hotel.

“I felt a little sick for a minute,” Astrid said.

“You covered it well,” he said. “One of Caroline's bad shrimps?”

“No. Just tired.”

“Get some sleep, darling,” Llewellyn said, and kissed her gently on her lips. She ran her hand across his cheek and returned the kiss. “Call me?” she said.

She got out of the taxi and ran into the lobby.

 

She was inside her room at ten o'clock, locked the door, then leaned against it. Her heart was racing, and she stood, unmoving, her arms behind her back, her palms pressed flat against the door. There was a tightness and an ache that ran up her back and across her shoulders. She moved a hand to her neck and rubbed at the tenseness. She
moved to the window and looked out, staring blankly at the night sights. There was no message light on the phone, a small relief. She switched on a table lamp.

“Don't be frightened.” The voice came from behind her.

“Peder!”

Aukrust stepped into the light and came to her. He put his arms around her. “I've missed you,” his voice flat, without feeling.

Her head was on his shoulder, and she breathed in the smells that came with him. He turned her head, his huge hands holding her tightly. Then he kissed her. A lusty kiss, but without the passion she had felt from Llewellyn. She broke away.

“Why didn't you tell me you were coming?”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“You don't like surprises.”

“I made an exception this time.”

She looked at him closely. He looked tired and needed a shave and change of clothes.

“When I decided to come to New York I had barely enough time to get to the terminal. Then there was a delay in getting off the ground and more delay in the air. We didn't land until seven o'clock, and by then you had gone to your ... what was it ... dinner party?”

“Yes, and I was here at ten o'clock.” She smiled briefly. “But why are you here?”

“To do what you failed to do.

“No, Peder, there's been enough.”

“We are following a plan. No exceptions.”

He took out his wallet and thrust it at her. It was thick with money. He took a handful of bills and waved them excitedly. “There will be more ... much more.”

“What is so special about the painting in Boston?”

Aukrust glared contemptuously at her. “Don't you realize that the police and their forensic experts are trying to learn who sprayed the precious paintings in England and Russia?” He laughed. “They are busy in laboratories attempting to discover what kind of chemicals could do such terrible damage.” His eyes flared. “They wonder if another painting will be destroyed.” His head shook crazily and his voice rose. “But there will be no more. Not until the greatest of Cézanne's paintings are put together in a small museum in a little city in the south of France.”

Astrid sat on the edge of the bed. “Then what will you do?”

“That will depend on the winter auctions. Cézannes should sell at record prices.”

“And if they don't?”

“Then I may have to spray my chemicals over another painting. And another, if necessary. Perhaps it will be the now-famous portrait owned by your friend Llewellyn.”