The Cézanne Chase (6 page)

There was a click, then, as if recorded at a different time, the voice was brighter, less ominous. “I assume you chose to sit in the largest of the chairs in the center of the room. Next to it is a chest, and in the drawer are three envelopes. Please open the largest one.”

It was a thick, manila envelope, closed with a metal clasp. In it were three smaller envelopes. The first contained English pounds, the second French francs, the third American dollars. He riffled the notes but didn't count the amounts. He smiled.

“The second envelope holds additional money to cover expenses for Astrid Haraldsen in New York and Boston. I have considerable misgivings about sending her to the Boston Museum. Understand this,” the voice again more urgent, the tone a pitch higher, “if she fails or, far worse, is apprehended, our affiliation will end, and you will be cut off from further payment and protection.”

Aukrust stormed out of the chair. “You're in too deep!” he shouted at the television screen. “You can't turn your back on me.”

Calmly, the voice continued, “In the third envelope is a receipt from the Grand National Bank in Luxembourg confirming the deposit of your fee to numbered account RS–1104.”

Aukrust read the brief note, folded it, and put it into a zippered compartment in his shoulder bag. He did the same with the money.

“Now, finally, I will talk about the DeVilleurs portrait. Only it and
the one owned by Llewellyn are owned privately and are part of a small collection. Either one will bring a huge price from a small group of wealthy collectors in Hong Kong, America, or Japan. You must impress on Astrid the importance of developing a close relationship with Llewellyn. Only with his complete trust will we have access to his painting. As for Madame DeVilleurs, she was recently widowed, and though she is an older woman, she will be receptive to the special attention I expect you to show her. The small business I asked you to set up in Cannes will serve that purpose. Just as Astrid must win Llewellyn's affection, I expect you to gain Madame DeVilleurs's devotion and trust.”

Aukrust seemed amused by the challenge.

“I will join you the next time you visit my retreat on the water,” the voice went on, “when we will review our progress and put new plans together.” There was no farewell, only a faint hum in the speakers, then silence.

Aukrust sat. He glanced up to the television screen. The picture changed a into swirl of geometric designs that constantly created new shapes. At the center was a circle that grew larger and brightened into a hypnotic pulsation. He sat in a contemplative, slackened pose and stared. Peder Aukrust could entrance himself and did so by first excluding the sounds and visual distractions that surrounded him; then he allowed selected episodes from the past to stream across his consciousness. He would recall an incident or an action he had taken and detach himself from any personal responsibility for the consequences of whatever it was that had happened. It was a form of cleansing, of absolution. And in Aukrust's mind, it was permanent and binding. He began to draw out of his memory several incidents that his powerful denial had sanitized, events that had happened many years earlier, in Oslo.

Aukrust had received a degree in pharmacology from the University of Copenhagen, as well as a companion degree in biochemistry, in which he had proven particularly adept. After four years as a hospital pharmacist he had been recruited into the Norwegian government's department of internal security, due principally to the fact that he single-handedly shut down an organized ring of drug thieves that had penetrated the hospital's supply chain of barbiturates and mood-altering drugs. Peder had a badge and authority and soon acquired a reputation for securing confessions or tips on
drug shipments and money-laundering contacts. Aukrust's methods were unpleasant but effective. His superiors looked the other way, satisfied to have results. Then a witness refused to cooperate, and Aukrust increased the severity of his persuasion. Force turned to violence, and the would-be informant, according to Aukrust, had an accident. He was found dead, his neck broken. There was a cover-up, but six months later Aukrust was transferred to a tedious job with no hope of promotion or reassignment. Guilty of causing the man's death, he had never accepted so much as a shred of responsibility. Why should he? He had never been accused. The law never spoke, so he was fully convinced that nothing had actually ever happened, nothing for which he was either guilty or innocent.

Slowly, he turned his gaze from the screen. He rose and went to the door and tried the handle. As he had been promised, the door was unlocked.

B
efore checking onto the flight in Gatwick, Astrid Haraldsen stopped in the women's lavatory long enough to transform herself to the blonde Norwegian pictured and described on her passport. Her flight was on the ground at Kennedy Airport at 2:43 in the afternoon. She cleared customs, then, pulling her suitcase behind her, went to the phones. She called the Westbury Hotel for messages that had accumulated in the last five days. She smiled when she heard Edwin Llewellyn's name.

She dialed his number. “It's Astrid. You asked me to call. You said in a week.”

“I didn't want you to forget. They said you were out of the city.”

“I was, but I'm back. I'm calling from the airport.” There was a pause, Astrid waiting for his reaction.

“I'm free this evening. Are you?” Llewellyn asked.

“I might fall asleep on you.”

“We'll make it an early evening. Come here for a drink and a light supper. We'll pamper you.”

She agreed and went out to find a taxi.

Llewellyn's townhouse was on East 65th between Park and Lexington. It was prime real estate territory where townhouses sold for $2 million and some went for eight. In spite of corporate downsizing and shake-ups in the financial world, there were many in the new group of wealthy young men and women who didn't balk at seven figures for the just-right townhouse on the proper street on the East Side. Llewellyn, however, was getting by on old money and, unless he wanted to invade principal, was stuck on a fixed income that in the previous year had yielded something slightly under a million and a half. Alimony for two previous wives was the largest entry in his budget. His first wife finally had remarried halfway through the year, and wife number two's attorney responded by demanding an increase in alimony on the grounds that his client could not possibly live in her
accustomed manner on a quarter of a million a year. Besides, the money that had been going to wife number one was now available, and ...

The townhouse had been built in the 1890s, and, like the others that surrounded it, was long and narrow and five floors high. Llewellyn's father had put in a garage in 1932, a questionable investment that proved wise over time. A long corridor was next to the garage and behind it an apartment consisting of a bedroom, small living room, and kitchen that opened onto a patio—it was where Llewellyn's houseman lived.

Colin Fraser was a Scotsman and nephew to another Fraser who had served Llewellyn's mother and father for thirty years, and who had been practically an uncle to Edwin Llewellyn while the latter was growing up. Fraser was ruggedly built, though not tall. His red hair was shot with gray, and the lines that had deepened around his eyes and mouth gave his face the appearance of a life spent in the strong winds of the Scottish Highlands. He was divorced and had a grown son, now a doctor, who lived in Glasgow.

Also in the household was a friendly, though noisy, Norwich terrier named Clyde, who, when Llewellyn was away, spent most of his time in Fraser's quarters, close to the food supply and the garden patio.

Llewellyn's townhouse had the distinctive trappings of a bachelor and an art connoisseur. Against the east wall a staircase ran from the cellar to the top floor. Climbing the stairs, one passed an ecletic display of early Mexican paintings, pieces of della robbia, a ten-foot-long cabinet filled mostly with Chinese export, and an assortment of American Indian war bonnets. The largest room on the second floor overlooked 65th Street, was paneled in dark oak, and had been the scene of countless receptions and cocktail parties. The middle room was a windowless dining room; behind it was the kitchen. On the third floor were the bedrooms. The master's bedroom in front was every bit as large as the room beneath it. It was in blues and grays with a mammoth bed and a cavernous bathroom, with a combination bathtub and jacuzzi only slightly smaller than a swimming pool. Llewellyn's study was on the fourth level. It was square and overlooked the street. It was a room of surprises and comfortable richness, a space that was a joy to be in. Set out from a side wall was an intricately inlaid pier table that had value easily into six figures. The parquetry floors were covered by
assorted oriental rugs. Two bay windows gave the room added depth and sunlight. Built into the high ceiling were spotlights, each trained on one of the many paintings that hung on the interior walls. Behind the table Llewellyn used as a desk was a wall section that had been given special treatment. Mounted prominently, and in a carved and gilt frame, was his Cézanne self-portrait. Engraved on a brass plate attached to the bottom of the frame was the title
Portrait of the Artist with Ocean Background
.

Fraser greeted Astrid and, at her insistence, guided her up the stairs. She wanted to get a feel of the house. Clyde yapped and wagged his tail, and Astrid swooped him up into her arms and let him lick her nose. She fussed over him, and they were solid friends by the time they reached Llewellyn's study.

Llewellyn was in his J. Press khakis, his blue Brooks Brothers blazer, and his Liberty scarf tied like an ascot. “So you ducked off to—my God, where the hell did you go? And was it business or fun?”

“Some of each. I went home.” The lie was said easily and with a comfortable smile. Clyde barked and jumped onto a sofa then back to the floor.

“I hope there wasn't any problem at home?” He asked with obvious concern.

“No problem,” Astrid's smile held steady. Then one little lie became two, and she said, “Just family matters.”

“Good,” Llewellyn said, “for those kind of trips I like the Concorde for a fast turnaround.”

“Not on my budget, and it doesn't fly to Oslo.”

“It is a bit pricey,” Llewellyn acknowledged. “I think of it as a power flight,” he laughed, “like a power lunch. I've taken it a few times, and I think the men on those planes devote an incredible amount of time and effort trying to preserve their precious time and effort.” He looked at her, grinning. “If I sound envious, I'm not.”

Astrid stood and turned slowly, looking carefully at Llewellyn's study. “I like what I see,” she said approvingly. “I wouldn't touch a thing.”

“I wouldn't let you. This is my home, my castle, my power study.”

Astrid had changed into a plain, pale brown linen dress with a scooped neckline that Llewellyn noticed appreciatively. She moved gracefully, occasionally touching a picture frame or turning a porcelain bowl over in her hands. She circled the room, then stopped in front of the desk and faced the Cézanne.

“It's beautiful,” she said.

“We think it's the last of his self-potraits, maybe as late as 1902. And we believe it's the best. Notice how relaxed he seems, as if he wanted you to know that he's a regular guy and doesn't have to prove something every time he picked up a brush. My father believed that if the painting could talk, he would be saying,‘Let's share some wine and our thoughts with each other.' My grandfather bought it from Cézanne's dealer, man named Vollard. That was 1903. He brought it home, hung it right there, and it's never left this house. Not even when I had it cleaned and put it in a new frame.”

“I can understand why you keep it where it is safe.”

“It isn't my fault it has been on that wall for more than ninety years. My grandfather's will stipulates that whoever inherits his paintings can't sell, loan, or publicly display any one of them.”

Astrid moved close and stood directly in front of the painting. She said, “It's as if he just painted it. Even the water looks wet.” She touched the background of blue water. “Why did artists in those days paint so many self-portraits?”

“They were always experimenting with their technique, and I suspect a little ego was involved. When they needed a model, they could always use themselves.”

“Is it true that he painted more than twenty self-portraits?”

“Twenty-six, counting this one. God knows there might be another one hidden in an attic somewhere in France.”

“It would be worth a fortune,” Astrid said.

“I suppose. Worth more now that a few have been destroyed.”

Without turning, she said, “What a dreadful thing! I read about it. Someone put paint on them?”

“Like hell they did. In fact we wish they had. They used an acid of some kind, a damned powerful acid.”

“Can't the paintings be fixed over?”

“Restored? Not at all. It was potent stuff. The paints were completely melted.”

“You must be careful to protect this one.”

“I'll protect it with my life.” He smiled. “Well, maybe I won't go that far. But I'll take good care of it when I take it back to Cézanne's hometown.”

Astrid was still standing with her back to Llewellyn. “Where is that?” she asked in a hushed voice.

“Aix-en-Provence... in the south of France. A small museum has big plans for a Cézanne retrospective, and I'm going to help them. But it's hush-hush for now.”

She turned to Llewellyn and said excitedly, “I would love to see it.”