The Cézanne Chase (36 page)

“Frankly, I don't. I see so many different groups during the year and usually have no reason to know one from another. We were taking photographs for a new brochure, and David asked if I would use up a roll on the group even though he felt it wasn't a typical crowd.”

“What did he mean by that?”

“That they were mostly women.”

“A typical group would be men and women?”

“Yes.”

“But there was at least one man. Did you notice that?”

Shelbourne paused and stared down at his hands, which he was vigorously rubbing against each other. “I can't remember precisely. Perhaps I vaguely recall seeing a man in the group.”

“Can you describe him?”

Shelbourne closed his eyes and winced as if trying to bring up a mental picture, then he shook his head, “Honestly, I can't remember anything except that he was taller than everyone else, but most men are taller than women, so that's no help. You must understand that I use a motorized camera with extremely fast film to catch candids of a group passing through as that one was. When I can fire off in rapid order I'm bound to get a few exceptional shots, perhaps even some unusual lighting that might give an extra quality to a photograph. That keeps my attention on the equipment, making sure the film's advancing and the settings are correct. I have a good eye for composition, but it's not trained on who's in the picture. Not group shots, certainly. I knew we would make contact sheets and eventually I would see every photograph that I took. Even the ones I don't remember taking.”

“Contact sheets?”

“I lay five or six negative strips directly on photographic paper in a sandwich of clear glass, pop on some light, then develop in the regular way. I like to get thirty-six exposures on one sheet.”

“How many contact sheets do you make?”

“One for each roll of film.”

“Where did you put it?”

“In the file along with the negatives.”

“Where is the contact sheet of the Danish tour group?”

The photographer made a futile gesture with both his hands. “It was ruined along with the negatives.”

“How carefully did you look at the contact sheet before it was destroyed?”

Shelbourne smiled indulgently. “Please realize, Inspector, that the photographs are the same size as the negatives, not much larger than a postage stamp, and I don't inspect them for content. I run a crayon through the shots I feel are out of focus or badly exposed.”

“Do the enlargements carry any identification?”

“I put a code on the back of each photograph. Perhaps there's a sample on that table.” Shelbourne sifted through a stack of photographs and came away with two. He gave one to Oxby and one to Ann. “You'll see there are numbers and letters. They identify the customer, the project, date, and film-roll number. With that information I can locate the negative in very short order and make a print in half an hour.”

“Mr. Shelbourne, you are a professional photographer and an expert on film and photographs. If you wished to destroy some negatives, how would you go about it?”

“Burn them, I suppose. They make a lovely fire.”

“Indeed,” Oxby said simply. “We're about out of questions; however, I do want to ask you about the man named Sailor. The Reigate police reported that his body was found behind your shop. Did you know him?”

Shelbourne nodded. “First off, he wasn't found behind my shop, it was two shops along the way. Yes, I did know him, all of the shopowners knew him.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“He was out of Dickens, one might say. A drifter, what are called homeless now. Sober, he was a good worker, but he was too fond of the bottle. He had grown old for his age, wizened up along with a twisted nose and a few scars that gave him a marvelous face. I paid
him to pose, and he came to like it because it made him feel important for a little while. A few of my best shots are in the front of the shop.”

“We saw them,” Ann said.

Oxby said, “Was he well liked?”

“I think so, but I can't speak for the others.”

“Was he the sort to make enemies?”

“I can't imagine it.”

Oxby thanked Shelbourne and preceded Ann to the showroom. The Christmas wreath seemed out of place, he thought, though the holiday had come and gone less than a week earlier. When they were on the pavement in front of the shop, he said to Ann. “I want to see where they found Sailor's body.”

“It's been several weeks,” Ann said. “The Reigate police report was very thorough, and you said—”

“And I have always said, Sergeant, that no report substitutes for the real thing.” He started walking.

“I was afraid that's what you would say,” she said, following him to the service road behind the shops. Just then, Shelbourne appeared on the receiving platform.

“You have a call, Inspector. Sergeant Murratore ...”

P
eder Aukrust put his passport on the counter and peered down at a beefy, bespectacled agent who at that precise moment stifled a yawn. The agent compared the photograph to the man standing in front of him, pawed through several pages in a thick notebook, then ran his finger down rows of numbers, closed the book, glanced up, and asked routinely, “Where did your flight originate?”

“Paris,” Aukrust answered. The agent made a notation, stamped an empty page with a loud slap, and said mechanically, “Enjoy the new year.”

“
Tusen takk
.” Aukrust nodded with forced pleasantness. He had forgotten that it was a new year, the third day, in fact. He went through customs without incident, found a taxi, and an hour later was at the King's Arms Pub on Cheyne Walk near the Albert Bridge, several hundred yards from Cadogan Pier. It was 4:30 when he arrived at the pub and took a position at a table by a window from where he could see the pier and
Sepera
moored just beyond the blue-painted pier-manager's shed. At five o'clock the locals began crowding around the bar, and an hour later two red lights atop the sternpost on the
Sepera
blinked off and on. Aukrust hoisted up his travel bag and went out to the street, crossed through the commuter traffic to steps that led over the stone wall of the embankment, then walked down the gangway to the pier.

“You saw the signal?” Nikos asked from the top of the gangway.

“Of course. I came immediately. Where is Pinkster?” Aukrust demanded.

“We will meet him at the Tower Pier,” Nikos said. “He will not arrive there until 7:30.”

“Go now,” Aukrust said emphatically.

“Mr. Pinkster is very precise,” Nikos said. “We will be early.”

“Then we'll be early.” Aukrust glared at Nikos. “We go now.”

Sophie stood in the doorway and greeted Aukrust by calling him
Dr. Metzger, remembering his first visit to the
Sepera
and asking what he would drink, or whether he wanted coffee.

An eighth of a mile behind the
Sepera
a police launch attached to the Thames Division of the Metropolitan Police followed quietly. Three men were on the black-hulled boat with black-and-white checkered markings on the white cabin. All were police officers, career members of the division, each having served two years with Scotland Yard, and each with prior service in either the Royal Navy or the Merchant Navy. Sergeant Jeff Jennings was the ranking officer; Constables O'Brian and Nestor handled communications and observation.

Sepera
passed Tower Pier at 6:48, continued on course for five minutes, then circled back to an open mooring near a sightseeing boat tied up for the night.

When
Sepera
came about, Jennings cut his engines and made a hard turn toward the middle of the river. “Tell
Ben Jolly
to take over at Tower Pier,” Jennings called out to O'Brian. He then turned back to his original course and passed the
Sepera
just as it settled against the dock.

 

Aukrust saw the other boat, but not until it cruised past did he realize it was a police launch. He watched it continue under Tower Bridge, then he returned to the deckhouse just as Alan Pinkster came aboard. It was 7:30.

“A police boat just went by,” Aukrust said.

“I saw it,” Pinkster replied. “Patrol boat. Some days the bloody river is filled with them.”

 

Ben Jolly
was a utilitarian-looking motorboat masquerading as a slug on water. It was actually an unmarked police boat capable of chasing down any floating object between Darford Creek and Staines Bridge, the fifty-four mile stretch patrolled by the Thames Division. It was a small, cramped cruiser that consisted of a hull, a powerful motor, and radios. A fixed cowling covered the two-man crew headed by Sergeant Tompkins. The second man, on special assignment and dressed in a heavy black jacket and wool cap, was Detective Sergeant Jimmy Murratore.

The
Ben Jolly
was difficult to spot, as it was painted in shades of dark green and gray and sat low in the water. It lurked less than a hundred yards behind the police launch and was now directly off Tower Pier, where it waited for
Sepera.

“To our success.” Alan Pinkster poured champagne into long-stemmed glasses, handed one to Peder, raised his own, and took a sip. “And to Paul Cézanne and all the pictures he painted of himself.” He drank again. “Join me, Peder, drink to the recovery of the DeVilleurs portrait. Splendid work.”

Aukrust returned a cold, penetrating stare that made every inch of his tall body a mass of intimidation. He went to the circle of chairs and sat in the one obviously meant for Pinkster, the one by the table. He put his glass down next to the telephone and said, “If you're in a mood to celebrate, we should talk about money again.”

“I've paid you bloody well,” Pinkster said, then touched the soreness around his mouth with his fingertips. “We agreed on your fee for the delivery of the DeVilleurs portrait.”

Aukrust replied, his head nodding slightly, “You remember that the painting had been scheduled for auction and would set a new record price. Fifty million dollars, some were saying.”

Pinkster smiled and sipped the champagne. “And I'll sell it for a record price.”

“You get more, I get more,” Aukrust replied. “Besides, I didn't plan on the little bastard who surprised me while I was in Shelbourne's darkroom. You owe me for that.”

“I don't pay for mistakes. That was your problem.”

An intercom phone rang. Pinkster spoke briefly into it then put it down. “There will be more money. After the sale.”

The
Sepera
began to move. “Where are we going?” Aukrust asked.

“I'm meeting with my Far Eastern dealer, the one I've described as rather special, the one whose clientele collect art on a grand scale.”

“Why do you want me to meet him?”

Pinkster refilled his glass. “You won't actually meet him, but you will be able to watch him and listen to him. I want you to hear what he thinks about the DeVilleurs portrait and how much his client will pay for it.” Pinkster settled into the chair beside Aukrust, his grin now grown to an expectant smile. “I'm anxious to see the portrait.” He nudged his shoe against Aukrust's travel bag.

Aukrust was slow to reply. “I don't have the painting.”

Pinkster's smile collapsed. “You didn't bring it with you? Is that what you mean?”

Aukrust nodded, “I said I didn't bring it with me.” The voice was ice.

“What have you done with it?”

“I put it in a storage locker in the railroad station in Aix-en-Provence.”

Pinkster exploded. “That can't be true ... you wouldn't be so stupid as to put a painting worth a goddamned fortune in an ordinary locker—”

Aukrust rose up and let fly with a clenched fist against Pinkster's hand, propelling the champagne glass against the wall, “Don't talk to me that way.”

Pinkster put up his hands as if to ward off Aukrust's next blow. “I ... I can't believe you would do such a thing without permission.”

“Permission to do what? I was nearly killed when they took the painting from me. The old man paid for that. He paid, all right.” He made an expression that was as much a grimace as a grin. “Hear what I'm saying? He's dead.”

Pinkster was breathing in short, nervous bursts. “I hear you.”

Aukrust went on. “Before they open the exhibition I will give Madame DeVilleurs her painting.”

“Will you sit down?” Pinkster asked respectfully, the lower part of his face now painfully splotched. “You didn't tell me that you like Madame DeVilleurs. I understand that, she's been good to you. Is that right?”