The Cézanne Chase (17 page)

“I will be with Edwin—with Llewellyn—on Thursday evening.”

“I understand,” he said.

There was a brief silence. “Peder? Please don't be angry.” There was no reply, only a click when Peder put down the phone.

She began to sob. “Please, Peder, I want you to love me.”

J
ack Oxby guided Ann Browley to a narrow mews off Campden Hill Road where there was a small shop with a faded sign that read: THE KITCHEN. He was in and back in a minute, a bulky, strange-looking mass of cowhide clutched under his arm. “Good as new,” he said, affectionately patting what could only be described as old leather stitched together to form a bag of some sort.

“Next time you must meet Thomas Kitchen. He's eighth generation, would you believe?”

Ann would believe it because she had indeed met the incumbent Kitchen and knew the history of the Oxby briefcase. She knew that it had been designed for Oxby's father and made up by Tom Kitchen's grandfather. Oh, she had heard it all before, and she knew how Oxby treasured the “bloody satchel,” as some called it, and its cavernous depths that could hold enough evidence to convict half a dozen criminals. Three years earlier, Oxby's wife had secretly taken it to have the initials J.L.O. embossed in gold leaf as a birthday present; it was when Ann joined the squad, and she remembered how pleased Oxby had been. She also remembered Oxby's total desolation when three months later leukemia took his Miriam away.

“We'd best move on,” Oxby said. “We've somehow got ourselves behind schedule.” Ann shook her head resignedly and steered the car in the direction of the Strand and the Courtauld Institute of Art, which had moved into Somerset House, where the work of Britain's center for the study of art history was housed, together with a modest assemblage of French Impressionists, Old Masters, and a few contemporary paintings.

Bertha Morrison was a research whiz at the Courtauld, a one-time librarian imbued with a deep love for art. She had perfected a special ability to find where art had been and was today and thus was a valuable source of information for art historians the world over. Glasses attached to a gold chain rested on her generous bosom, and
her graying hair was combed back and captured by a giant tortoiseshell clip. Ann suspected from the way she spoke that she was northern Scottish and was pleased that she had sized up the woman quite accurately on the strength of two brief phone conversations.

“No one has fussed over Cézanne's self-portraits, not until recently, of course,” Bertha Morrison said. “But that's true of his nude bathers and that damnable mountain he was forever painting.” She looked solemnly at her guests. “We no longer have a Lionelli Venturi telling us where everything is and who owns it.”

Ann turned toward Oxby and saw his sour expression.

“But I understood you had the information,” Ann protested.

“My dear,” Bertha said, “of course I have the information. I merely wanted Inspector Oxby to be aware that a search of this scope doesn't come easily, even to a first-class researcher, and certainly may not come at all to some one with a lazy curiosity.”

“Bertie wants us to think she had an impossible task,” Oxby said with a wink, “that way it makes her accomplishment appear all the more incredible.”

Bertha ignored the comment and opened the folder in front of her. “I'm certain there's more data out there—there always is—but I don't think it will change what we've got here.” She gave Ann and Oxby a computer printout. “Now pay attention, Jack, because I'm going to tell you more about Cézanne than you're prepared for. It might come in handy later on.

“All of Cézanne's works were catalogued in 1936 by Venturi. At that time he listed 838 oil paintings, of which 154 were portraits.”

Ann's furrows were deepening. “I'm sorry to appear stupid, but who was Venturi?”

“He taught art history at the University of Rome and was the first to research all of Cézanne's paintings. In all, Venturi catalogued twenty-five self-portraits, a large number in one sense, but less than 3 percent of Cézanne's total output. Venturi never recorded the portrait owned by Mr. Llewellyn, the American. The numbers I refer to are those Venturi assigned each painting.”

“So, Bertie,” Oxby said, “with the destruction of three portraits, there are twenty-three to account for. Can you?”

“Eighteen are in museums, their provenance and location accurately accounted for, as you'll discover in the report I have given you. That leaves five. One is in Paris and is known as the
Self-Portrait in a
Soft Hat
. It's numbered 575 and is owned by Gustave Geffroy, who descends from a wealthy aristocratic family. Geffroy has a sizable collection in his country home that no one sees except his close friends.”

Oxby made a notation next to Geffroy's name.

“Number seventy, known as
Self-Portrait with Long Hair
, is in Spain,” Bertha continued. “It is owned by Baron von Thyssen who moved his entire collection to Madrid.”

“It's a safe bet the Baron's collection is under tight security,” Oxby said.

“Then there's
Self-Portrait in a Straw Hat
, Venturi number 238. This was owned by a family named Lefebure, also in Paris, and was sold privately in the mid-eighties to a family in Hong Kong.”

“I don't see a name,” Oxby said, his finger tapping the report Bertha had given him.

“I don't have a name, but the painting has been positively traced to Hong Kong. It's owned by one of those anonymous people who doesn't want anyone to know they've got money and possessions. You know the type.”

“I don't know that type, Bertie.”

Bertha continued. “I don't have confirmation, but I was told the portrait has been put in a bank vault.”

Ann dutifully put a question mark beside number 238.

“That, of course, leaves two, the DeVilleurs portrait in Antibes and the one owned by Edwin Llewellyn in New York.”

“A first-rate job, Bertie.”

“Thank you, Jack. Meantime you might pay attention to our fee and the expenses we've run up on this little assignment.” She handed Oxby an envelope. “Always a distinct pleasure doing business with you.”

On the return to New Scotland Yard, Ann asked whether or not Oxby would be surprised to learn that another portrait was destroyed.

“I don't see a clear pattern, not enough to allow me to lean one way or the other. Yet I know for a certainty that every one of the eighteen portraits that's in a museum is fair game.” He sighed. “Most of those museums haven't tightened their security worth a damn. Consider this fact, Annie: Three of Cézanne's self-portraits have been destroyed, and in a few months a major show of his work opens in Aix-en-Provence. That's not a coincidence.”

“How many people do you think are involved?” Ann asked.

“I'd say that it takes two to attack the paintings, and beyond that I guess another one or two are calling the shots. If I had to put money on it I'd say no more than four.”

“Nationality?”

“I haven't a clue. Not yet. That's why I want to know more about the chemicals and where they're coming from. And the photographs. Any news from David Blaney?”

“He keeps saying ‘tomorrow,' and I keep saying that's not good enough.”

Neither spoke again until Ann turned onto Broadway, then to a parking spot. Oxby remained in his seat, still silent until he said, “One more—they're going to get at one more portrait.”

The usual complement of furrows spread across Ann's forehead. “Why, suddenly, do you say that?”

He turned to her and smiled. “Hunch, intuition, something on those lines.” He looked at the clock on the dashboard. “It's a good time to call Alex Tobias. I want him to pay Mr. Llewellyn a visit.”

T
his was a day Margueritte DeVilleurs had looked forward to with no small amount of foreboding. She had invited Frédéric Weisbord to be present when she formally accepted an offer from the Musée Granet for the purchase of the Cézanne portrait. Aukrust had come early to examine more closely the paintings Margueritte said she would not sell. Since he delivered the Renoir to her, they had been together twice. Once they had spent a day in Cannes and soon after had driven beyond Monaco into Italy, where they lunched at a seaside ristorante in San Remo. In spite of the difference in age, she felt comfortable with him, reacting happily to the warm attention he paid her. He was her grand
ours,
a big bear, whom she fantasized might engulf her in his arms.

Gustave Bilodeau, Conservateur du Musée Granet, was expected at three o'clock. Margueritte knew that Freddy Weisbord would fume vociferously about the Cézanne self-portrait and threaten to force a sale in London or New York. Worse, he would demand that she turn the entire collection over to him immediately. She hoped that by bringing the stubborn lawyer together with Bilodeau, he might soften his opposition. The lawyer was seventy-six, his emphysema worsening, no thanks to his refusal to give up a two-pack-a-day habit of unfiltered Camels, his only acceptance of anything American. Weisbord seemed even older than his years, and Margueritte dared hope that he was slowly dying and that she might help in some way to speed the process. She felt no guilt in this, as she wanted an end to Freddy's meddling.

“C'est assez! Fini!” she was prepared to tell him.

It was nearly three o'clock, and Weisbord was unexpectedly late, a rarity, she thought unhappily. She was in her bedroom, in front of a large mirror, brushing her hair, and imagining she was confronting Freddy, angrily repeating the words she had rehearsed over and over. When Emily announced with contemptuous brevity that he had
arrived, Margueritte calmly applied a touch of lipstick and a faint blush of color above her eyes, delaying another several minutes to allow the lawyer's impatience to put her at an advantage. Finally she went out to greet him.

Weisbord was a small man, nearly bald, with stray strands of white hair combed over his ears. He wore glasses and squinted, and his little chin and thin lips made him appear all the less imposing. Brown stained fingers held a cigarette, and he coughed as if constantly clearing his throat.

“You're making a mistake by selling to the museum.” His voice was surprisingly virile and etched by years of heavy smoking. “Several dealers have told me that the portrait will bring a minimum of twenty-five million dollars ... and probably a great deal more.”

“And how much would you get from that?”

“That's not a consideration,” he coughed.

“It is to me.”

“I'm paid to advise you. It's an arrangement we've had for thirty years.”

“C'est assez! Fini!” The well-practiced words came out ringingly clear. “I will from this day on handle my own affairs and make my own decisions. The bank will provide advice on financial matters, and if I need legal advice I shall call on my new lawyer.”

His cough worsened. “You can't do that,” he protested. “It's not like ... like changing butchers.”

“Oh, but it's exactly like choosing a new butcher.” She smiled, “You put it perfectly, Freddy.”

“That's not as Gaston would ... would like it,” he wheezed.

“But it's all done, Freddy. All the old accounts have been canceled and a new one opened at a new bank and in my name only.”

Weisbord choked and coughed, sounding like an old motorboat engine that wouldn't turn over. “You know nothing about finances,” he managed, “nor do banks.”

Her eyes widened. “Are you suggesting that you do? You did what two centuries and a half dozen wars couldn't do. You destroyed my family's business with your bungling and selfishness.” She waved her hand. “You're an old man with old ideas. Emily and I will do just fine.”

“Emily?” he laughed. “You'll make a rare duet.”

Margueritte heard a man's voice in the entryway. “I have an important
guest,” she said, in a way that suggested Weisbord had been demoted to a level below spear-carrier.

Emily appeared at the door, followed by a man wearing a rumpled seersucker suit, checkered shirt, and narrow tie. Gustave Bilodeau was perhaps forty, with the earnest look of a well-informed scholar. He had a huge mop of brown hair that rose up from a deeply tanned forehead. His mouth was large and expressive and smiled nervously to reveal chalk-white teeth.

Madame DeVilleurs and Bilodeau greeted each other like old friends, then offhandedly she said, “This is Mr. Weisbord, he was my husband's lawyer.” She emphasized the past tense.

“You're the museum director,” Weisbord said accusingly and went on the attack. “You've no right to take advantage of Madame DeVilleurs. The Cézanne is worth a fortune, not the insulting amount you have offered.”

“You must excuse Monsieur Weisbord. It is no longer his business what I do with the painting, and he only pretends to know how much you have offered.”

“Have you been a buyer and seller of art?” Bilodeau asked in a gentle voice.

“I have drawn the papers for every sale and purchase in the DeVilleurs collection,” Weisbord answered grandly. “I have been family counselor for more than forty years. Beyond that I assisted Gaston DeVilleurs in the negotiation for both Cézannes. It was I who discovered the Renoir. A perfect jewel.”

“You told him not to buy it,” Margueritte interrupted.

“Not true,” he coughed. “It's so small. I merely warned against paying too much.”

“You haven't shown me the Renoir,” Bilodeau said.

“It has a new frame,” Margueritte said happily, “and I had it cleaned.”