The Cézanne Chase (39 page)

“Of course I am. I worked myself up for this gig, and I want to go through with it.”

“I can't guarantee your safety.”

“Who've you got?”

“There are two of us.”

“Armed?”

“Unofficially.”

“There are five of us. I'll take those odds.”

“Five?”

“Fraser and I make four ... Scooter counts for a half. Clyde's another half.”

 

Llewellyn's presentation was scheduled for 8:00 P.M. on Wednesday, January 9. He planned to give a brief account of Cézanne's career then unveil the portrait. It would take place in the Musée d'Orsay, a hundred-year-old railroad station that had been converted at a cost of 1.3 billion francs for the purpose of housing and displaying art from the period 1848 to 1914. Better there, thought Llewellyn, than in the Musée National d'Art Moderne in the Centre Georges Pompidou, a garishly painted building with structural steel and utility pipes crisscrossing its outside like the entrails of a mechanical dinosaur.

The throng of the six hundred who came to see the painting and listen to Edwin Llewellyn overflowed the largest gallery; not by coincidence was it the gallery that contained works by Cézanne and his contemporaries. A raised platform was at the closed end of the gallery;
on it was a lectern and behind that a brightly lighted backdrop on which was the Llewellyn portrait, covered with a maroon-colored cloth.

Llewellyn had personally mounted his painting, tactfully refusing assistance and careful not to draw attention to the fact that he allowed no one to as much as lay a finger on even the frame.

He was unaware that Henri Trama had come onto the platform and was standing behind him; when he turned he did not immediately recognize him. At the security meeting Trama had dressed informally. Now he was in a black dress uniform a size too small, with strings of gold braid on the lapels and cuffs and a row of ribbons on the front.

Trama quickly dispensed with pleasantries. “I cannot guarantee your safety once you leave Lyon.” He looked at Llewellyn steadily, “In fact, I cannot guarantee your safety even before that time and would be very pleased if you would go directly to Aix and forget this game that Inspector Oxby has invented for you.”lay

Llewellyn pondered for a moment. Trama's English was thickly accented, and that, too, differed from his earlier impression. There was anger in the police commissaire's voice. Llewellyn said, “I'll be safe. I have an alert traveling companion, and a superb watchdog.” He smiled a little wickedly. “Norwich terriers become particularly testy when they're away from home.”

They were joined on the platform by Mirella LeBorgne and Gustave Bilodeau. Bilodeau had been allotted three minutes and would have the honor of extending a formal invitation to visit the Cézanne retrospective in his beloved Musée Granet.

Scooter Albany aimed his camera at the quartet then scrambled onto the platform and put a microphone between himself and Llewellyn. As if he had never seen a drop of alcohol, Scooter conducted a fast-moving interview and wrapped up a prime-time segment the networks would happily put on the air.

The interview continued, and Albany was joined by a team from French television. A reporter interviewed Mirella LeBorgne and Gustave Bilodeau and was about to put Llewellyn on camera when Henri Trama shooed them from the platform.

Mirella LeBorgne announced to the audience that she had been summoned at the eleventh hour to substitute for the ailing managing director of the Musée d'Orsay then read off the names of the curatorial staff who were in the audience. Gustave Bilodeau spoke briefly and nervously, as perspiration glistened on his cheeks. He was awed by
the spectacle and just as awed that his dream of honoring Paul Cézanne was so close at hand.

“Come to the retrospective early, if you can,” he said, extending the first formal invitation. “Opening day is January 19, the birthdate of Cézanne.”

It was Llewellyn's turn. His presentation was delivered in his nearly forgotten Deerfield Academy French, but he consoled himself with the certainty that the audience had come to see his painting, not to criticize his accent. “The world owes Conservateur Bilodeau its gratitude,” he said. Then, climaxing his presentation, he pulled away the cloth from his painting. A scattering of applause built to a rousing ovation.

“I regret that you will not be able to have a close look at the painting tonight,” he said. “But in Aix you can spend as much time as you wish. There you will see other paintings by the genius who set in motion one of the most important art movements of this century.”

Watching from the rear of the gallery was a tall man with a broad face and light brown hair. Peder Aukrust applauded, and as he did his attention was drawn to ten people in the audience. Four were in uniform. Three wore dark gray suits and white shirts and blue neckties, obviously members of some sort of police agency who might as well have been wearing badges marked Police Security. He spotted two attractive women and was amused by the way they acted like tourists, clapping and smiling and constantly shifting their shoulder bags from one shoulder to the other, as if a heavy weight were inside—perhaps a compact Smith & Wesson Bodyguard.38 pistol. Then there was a man Aukrust felt instinctively that he knew, and he tried to attach a circumstance or name to whoever it was. But he could not.

C
hez Blanc had become a dirty gray structure, a bed-and-bath on Rue Sedaine in a commercial section of the eleventh arrondissement, sandwiched between an empty loft building and a furniture refinisher, from which the heavy odor of paint remover and lacquer fumes rose to cast its pall over the neighborhood. Peder Aukrust had instructed Astrid to go to the address, and she had waited for him to return from the d'Orsay and Llewellyn's presentation.

“Llewellyn's got his face in the newspapers more than the president of France, and he's got as many police around him, too,” Peder said, and tossed a copy of
Le Figaro
into Astrid's lap. “Look at him, grinning like he'd inherited another ten million dollars.”

“The man with him, that's Fraser,” Astrid said.

“The painting is not as big as you described.”

“In that frame, it's very large.”

He stared at Astrid, an unblinking stare that penetrated through her to the torn wallpaper behind the chair she sat in. He had been drinking—not drunk, but it showed. “I want that painting, and I want it before he reaches Aix.”

“What will you do with it?”

“Pinkster can be very stupid, but he knows too much, and he has money. I made a bargain with him for your f riend's portrait.”

“You can't destroy it.”

“Are you concerned about the painting or Llewellyn?”

“He's a good person. You won't hurt him?”

“That depends ... on you. I want you to call and tell him you need his help.”

“Help for what?”

Aukrust was at the window, his arms crossed over his chest, his back to Astrid. “You'll tell him you haven't any money and your airplane tickets were stolen.”

“I can't do that.”

He ignored her protest, “You will call him from the railway station in Lyon, and you will say that when you came back to your hotel room in Paris, someone was in the room, waiting. Yes, that will work.”

“I said no, Peder.”

“Imagine this is your hotel room, and a man was here, inside the door waiting.” Aukrust stood against the wall so that he was behind the door, when it was opened. “You came into the room, your arms full of the catalogues from the antique shops, and you went to the table over there and put them down. Then you turned to close the door, but it was closed; he had closed it quietly and locked it.” Peder grinned, a small, slightly crooked grin. “He told you not to shout, that if you made a noise he would hurt you—hurt you badly.”

“Please, Peder, you make it sound too real. I don't want to—”

“Then he said you were very pretty, and he came to you like this and put his arms around you.” Peder took her into his arms and hugged her tightly, without affection. “He kissed you then made you sit on the bed while he took your money and the airplane tickets. Then you shouted at him and ran to the door—do it! Go to the door!”

“You're scaring me, Peder, don't—”

“Do as I tell you!”

She went cautiously to the door.

“Shout at me, do it, Astrid.”

“Stop it! I'm frightened, can't you see? Stop it, Peder!” And she did shout, out of real, not playmaking, fear.

He lunged for her, grabbed her arms, and ripped off her blouse, then pulled her skirt away and threw her on the bed. He hit her arm, twice, with his fist. She began to cry. “Why? Don't hurt me Peder—” Then he tore at her stockings and took off her panties, breathing heavily, covering her mouth with a huge hand. “This is what he did. Remember and tell Llewellyn.”

Now she was too frightened to shout and helplessly watched as he took off all his clothes. He got astride her, glowering down at her. She raised a hand in protest, but he punched it away. He struck her cheek and hit her one last time with the back of his hand, a blow across her mouth that cut her lip. Then his glower became a thin smile, and he showed her, proudly, that he was aroused.

“And tell Llewellyn that he raped you.”

Then he did.

E
lliott Heston closed the door to his office and went to the conference area by a corner window where Jack Oxby was bent over the table reading a letter. It consisted of three short paragraphs, barely covering half the page. Oxby read it carefully, his pencil moving line by line down to the signature. He looked up. “When did this come in?”

“Less than an hour ago. It was sent during the night from the Sûreté Nationale to their embassy and delivered by courier this morning.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Start by explaining to the commissioner how the Yard got itself mixed up with what the French are calling Le Cirque Llewellyn. They're pissed that they had to put a special security detachment in the d'Orsay last evening, and they're opposed to giving Llewellyn any more protection when forty thousand farmers are threatening to shut down every major autoroute in France.”

Oxby flushed with a touch of anger. “You'd think they knew nothing about the Cézannes being ravaged, not to mention a couple of murders. They've been asleep, Elliott, hoping Vulcan goes away before the show opens. Now that it's going to open in less than two weeks, they've come awake, and Trama is playing catch-up and wants to become a hero.”

Heston took back the letter and read aloud: “We deeply regret that security for Monsieur Llewellyn cannot be arranged in Avignon . . . etcetera . . . etcetera . . . and suggest that Llewellyn go directly to Aix from Lyon.” He looked sternly at Oxby. “This same message has gone to the American embassy in Paris.”

Oxby got to his feet. “We can't lose an opportunity in Avignon, Elliott; that's where Vulcan will believe he has the best opportunity to try something. Llewellyn understands there won't be police protection, but he insists on going ahead. I gave my word we'd protect him, and he accepts that.”

“Jack, you're up to your old tricks, playing by rules you make up as you go along. You've barely kept me posted. I damned well don't want any more surprises, and neither do the French.” Heston pushed away from the table and got to his feet. “ While I'm at it, you might answer three questions that are bothering the hell out of me,” and he rambled on as if reciting from the catechism. “First, upon what holy tablet is it written that you can turn your sergeants into bodyguards and send them to France? Second, who approved the release of classified information on Vulcan? Third, where is your authorization to spend a day at Interpol?”

Heston's sudden rush of questions put Oxby off guard momentarily.

“Very well,” Oxby began. “I'll answer in reverse order.”

Heston's face tightened, and he nodded.

“As to Interpol, I have here authorization to attend the museum security manager's meeting on December 4–7. Appended to that is my request to spend one day with Police Specialist Samuel Turner at Interpol.” He slid the paper in front of Heston. “I believe those are your initials at the bottom of the page.”

Heston grasped the paper and lowered his glasses. “I don't recall every request that crosses my desk.”

Oxby continued. “We seem to be at odds on releasing information on Vulcan, and it's critical that we see eye-to-eye on this one. I take responsibility for injecting the image of Vulcan into the case and remind you that we are dealing with a sociopathic personality.” Oxby leaned forward. “Unquestionably he is a very bright person who knows perfectly well that we're breaking our asses to find him, but I want him to be confident that we've had a serious setback because we have no authority in France and the French are too busy with other matters. If he thinks Llewellyn's dangling out there without protection, he'll try to take advantage of it.”

Heston squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “You're predicating your entire strategy on the premise that Vulcan wants Llewellyn's painting. What makes you so positive?”

Oxby closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then, choosing his words carefully, said, “Because, Elliott, I'm deeply involved with every bit of fact and well-supported supposition we have on Vulcan and whomever he's allied with. All of which feeds my instinct to tell me that he will try something between now and January 19.” Oxby opened his eyes
and leveled them with Heston's. “That's as clearly and honestly as I can state my case. I'll frankly admit that I'm not positive Vulcan wants the painting or that he wants to destroy it. But I feel strongly that he'll show his hand.”