The Cézanne Chase (37 page)

“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.