The Cézanne Chase (42 page)

“Where did you put Tobias?”

“The Tobiases will be in the Hôtel Nègre-Coste. I don't know where the French are staying, but I do know that Henri Trama has gone incommunicado. You can be sure that he's crowing to all his cronies that our scheme didn't work. I hope he is and that his complaints get a good airing in the papers.”

“Skipper, as I see it, you've got a ragtag team of three Scotland Yarders who are here without authority and who will probably be sacked as soon as we set foot on British soil. Then there's a Canadian who's come down on a lark from his post at Interpol and a retired New York cop. We're all lookin' for a phantom with a code name that means fire god.”

Oxby stared solemnly at his young sergeant. “You put it well, Jimmy, except that only two from the Yard are staying on. I want you back in London as soon as you can arrange a flight. Locate Alan Pinkster and stay as close to him as if you were another layer of skin. Whatever it takes, don't lose sight of him.”

 

Inside the Musée Granet was pandemonium: a strange, orderly turbulence that reached into every cranny of the old building erected in 1671 as the Priory of the Knights of Malta. It was as if the confusion was part of a master plan in which every component of the retrospective would explode into uncountable pieces, then magically tumble back together in a perfect harmony. With fewer than ninety-six hours until opening day the painters were still brushing a warm yellow-lime paint onto the walls in the stairwells, over old plaster in the long vestibule, and on the walls in a square-shaped reception hall. Carpenters sawed and hammered, and electricians fine-tuned the lights in the four galleries on the second floor where sixty-two oils, fifty-six watercolors, and twenty-nine drawings would be on display.

Gustave Bilodeau, his assistant Marc Daguin, and Charles Pourville
from New York's Metropolitan had collaborated on the master plan for the installation of the paintings and drawings. In the central gallery on the second floor, the director had set aside important space for eighteen portraits of Cézanne's family and friends. A freestanding, two-sided display was prominently placed in front of one of two portrait walls; on a panel facing the entrance Bilodeau planned to place the Llewellyn portrait. The portrait that would go on the other side would be the subject of a surprise announcement Bilodeau would make during the reception on the eve of the grand opening.

Mirella LeBorgne appeared with her assistant and met Bilodeau in the portrait gallery. She was concerned not about which painting went on which wall, but whether there would be an exhibition at all.

“It doesn't matter if some crazy person is still out there,” Bilodeau pleaded. “We're completely protected inside. Every possible way into the museum, each door and every window, all are protected by a high-frequency-sound sensor. If someone were to get inside, every open space—galleries, stairwells, halls, offices, lavatories—has infrared alarms.” He showed her a pencil-thin, inch-long cylinder. “Every picture will have one of these magnetic alarms inserted in its frame.”

LeBorgne said, “You forget that four of Cézanne's self-portraits were destroyed while the museums were open. Perhaps Vulcan is too clever for your sensors and alarms.”

“There will be twenty-seven guards on duty at all times, at least four guards for each gallery. Every one is experienced and has been given fresh training in our newly installed security and communications systems.”

“But the security system hasn't been completed, Gustave. Not until February 1, nearly two weeks.”

“The system in the portrait gallery is fully installed and tested. With extra guards. I promise, no museum in Europe is safer than the Musée Granet.”

 

Behind the reception hall was a garden surrounded by low storage buildings and what had once been a twenty-horse stable. Four vans were lined along Rue Alpheran, the street behind the museum. They belonged to the caterer, who had chosen the stable as the site for his portable kitchen. In charge was an unshaven young man with a stout midsection that made him look old for his years. A young man was waiting for him, a broad smile on his long, narrow face.

“Need kitchen help?” LeToque inquired.

The crew chief eyed the slim, black-haired man. “Show me your hands,” he said brusquely.

LeToque had prepared for the examination and held out his hands, first palms down, then palms up.

“I can use you for six hours tomorrow, five to eleven. It pays 235 francs.”

LeToque's smile never wavered. “I'll be here.”

A
strid went warily to the desk by the window and picked up the phone. It had been ringing for half a minute, and Fraser hadn't answered.

“Hello,” she ventured softly.

“I'm calling Mr. Llewellyn.” It was a male's husky voice, one she vaguely recognized.

“Who is calling?”

“Alex Tobias. He's expecting my call.”

“This is Astrid, we met in New York.”

“You're dead right. Nice to hear you,” Tobias said.

“Where are you calling from?”

“Maybe about four blocks away.”

“Then I might see you. That would be nice. Wait, please, I'll find Mr. Llewellyn.”

She rapped on the door to Llewellyn's, opened it, and had taken two steps into the room when Llewellyn came from the bathroom, toweling off. He stood in front of her, stark naked save for a towel tied around his waist.

“It's Mr. Tobias,” she said, pointing at the phone.

Llewellyn sat on the bed. “Alex, good to hear from you.” He gave Astrid an “it's okay” wave, and she backed out of the room and closed the door.

“How was your trip?”

“Couldn't have been better, except for a little rain on the second day. Helen said it was my fault, but I blamed you, said you'd picked the date.”

“I'm sure my friend is all right, but I have to ask.”

“He's in perfect shape, but I'll feel a damn sight better when I don't have to baby-sit him anymore.”

“One more day, Alex. Just be sure he doesn't get picked up accidentally. Someone might take a fancy to that damned old suitcase of yours.”

Tobias laughed, “Don't worry, it looks more disreputable than ever.”

“I want you to hold on to him. We're not showing him off until opening day. And is there any way you and Helen can join us at the reception tomorrow evening?”

“Afraid not. Helen's got us going to Marseille for the day. But have a drink for me, will you?”

They talked for several minutes, said their good-byes, then each hung up. After a pause, Astrid did the same.

T
he underground ride seemed interminable, particularly to someone with a patience factor of something less than half a millisecond. At Hampstead station, in north London, Bud Samuelson followed the crowds to street level where he referred to the instructions that took him through the village to Church Row. The popular and artsy little district could be considered as out-of-the-way only because it was three miles from central London, but the streets were thick with tourists. It was all a bunch of charming shit, Samuelson thought, as he passed the two-hundred-year-old houses and manicured gardens that lined Church Row. Ahead of him now was St. John's Church, small, old, and white-painted, with wrought-iron fences surrounding its yard and cemetery. It was twenty past four, ten minutes until the doors would be closed to visitors.

Inside there was not much except the starkness of clean walls and old wood pews; near the lectern was a bust of Keats. By a window, ahead of him as he entered, was a female wearing a long black coat that nearly touched the floor. Her head turned. The face was pure white, the features exotic, the lips a deep red. Samuelson and the young woman were alone.

“Mr. Samuelson?” she asked

“Mari Shimada?” he replied.

T
he N7 ran west and north from Aix-en-Provence through rolling farm county. Bent over the wheel, Peder Aukrust drove slowly, his mind on how the security arrangements in the Musée Granet had been so expertly designed and how essential it was that he take Llewellyn's portrait before it was hung in the safety of the portrait gallery. It was also an urgent reminder of how little time remained. In two days the retrospective would open. He refused to admit that his task would be even more difficult than the opportunities he had passed over as the wealthy New Yorker made his journey south from Paris.

Success depended on perfect timing, and it was important that any errors in his strategy be eliminated. A night alone would help him decide how well he had planned and refresh him for what he must accomplish in the next forty-eight hours.

A gloriously colored sky was forming, with slender fingers of stratus clouds sometimes covering the sun, which was an hour from disappearing. He had eaten nothing during the day, except for a dry croissant in his cheap pension and a pear he took from a dish of fruit in the portrait gallery, when he made a thorough examination of lights, alarms, exits, windows, and sensors inserted into the back of each painting. In the pockets of his jacket were lightweight professional tools that he would use to remove the canvas from the frame.

The canvas would fit into the pocket he had tediously made by sewing half of one T-shirt to the back of another. The portrait would fit flat and tight against his broad back without being detected. It would remain there until he was with Alan Pinkster. Then he would exchange it for the largest amount of money he would ever see.

He turned onto route D543, followed its S-turning road through the Trevaresse mountains to the village of Rognes. He referred to the advertisement in the travel magazine that had inspired him to drive into the country for the night.

At a crossroads a sign to the Auberge Rois et Reines pointed to a
narrow, gravel road. He turned onto it. The road twisted into a wilderness of trees and low hills interspersed with pastures and sheep. Then came another swooping turn and a final swing back to the west, heading directly into the sun, which was just then slipping behind a nearby rise. Set against the dark shadow cast by the hill was the inn.

He entered a long, dimly lighted hall with a flight of stairs at the far end and, across from it, against the wall, a small reception desk. To the right, midway along the hall, were double doors leading into a dining room, across from which was a room filled with small tables, softly lighted by rosy light coming from lamps with deep pink lampshades. Aukrust smelled a sweet fragrance and saw two men sitting at a table in the far corner of the room. He went to the desk and waited.

“May I help you?”The light and pleasant voice came from a slightly built young man of perhaps twenty-five, who appeared from a door under the staircase.

“I want to eat and spend the night. Do you have a room?”

“You're alone?”

Aukrust nodded, then noticed the earrings and the slight blush of red on the young man's lips. “Yes, I'll be alone.”

“Dinner is at nine o'clock, and your room,” he pointed, “is number four, just at the top of the stairs. The complete cost for dinner and your room, not including whatever you may order from the bar, is 925 francs, which we ask our guests to pay in advance.”

Aukrust now saw that in addition to the lipstick the eyes were delicately made up and the face was more that of a pretty girl than a young man.

“I'm going for a walk while there is still light.”

“We have a walking path that begins just behind us and is a mile through the woods, bringing you back to the front of the inn. Later, when you are ready for company, please tell me or one of the other staff members. My name is Laurent,” he said, smiling.

“I choose my own company,” Aukrust said firmly. The auberge was aptly named, he thought: Inn of Kings and Queens.

A wide path curved through a thick stand of trees. Aukrust began walking, slowly at first, then faster as darkness settled over the forest. He found as Laurent had described that the path circled around to the front of the auberge.

His room was all but totally dark; thin draperies on the single window were open, allowing the last of the fading daylight into the room. He
switched on the nighttable lamp. He inventoried the room: a low bureau beside the window; two chairs and a frail floor lamp with a tattered shade next to one of them; and on the inside wall a curtain drawn partly across a sink, toilet, and a shower stall. Fiery red roses the size of large cabbages dotted the wallpaper behind the massive high bed; the only suggestion of comfort in the room. Obviously in this auberge, the bed was important. He locked the door then went to the window and watched the final sprays of light disappear over the little forest where he had taken his walk. He drew the curtains together, turned, and looked directly into the muzzle of a snub-nosed pistol held by LeToque.

“You chose a queer place to spend the night,” LeToque said.

“How did you . . . the door was locked.”

“Laurent gave me this—” He held up a key. “I told him I was a special friend, that you were expecting me. He understood.”

“What do you want?” Aukrust said, his eyes shifting quickly between LeToque's face and the gun.

“The last time there was a bed between us, you had the advantage. Not this time.”

“Put that damned thing away,” Aukrust demanded.

LeToque laughed. “Business first. Weisbord owed me money, and you killed him.”

“He killed himself. He was a sick man.”

“Suicide? Not Weisbord.”

Aukrust slapped his hands against his chest. “His lungs stopped working. I saw it.”