The Cézanne Chase (34 page)

Oxby discovered the art gallery was locked shut, and there were no cars to indicate that any of the staff had come to work on this Saturday. He had hoped to find David Blaney, but was instead confronted by a guard on patrol accompanied by an intimidating Doberman. He returned to his car. Thirty minutes later a familiar black Mercedes appeared.

“What on earth brings you here?” Pinkster asked with undisguised irritation.

“Questions,” Oxby answered with a mischievous smile. “My business is questions, and if I don't ask any I may find myself in genuine difficulty.”

“Look here, Inspector, I'm not pleased with surprise visits from the police, and just now I've got a terribly busy schedule.”

“Ten minutes tops,” Oxby said encouragingly. “I really need your help.”

Pinkster frowned, shook his head nervously, and gingerly patted the red skin above his lips. “Damn it all, let's get on with it.” He pointed toward a terrace at the side of his house. They sat on fat lemon-yellow cushions in white rattan chairs. Oxby dropped his cap onto the slate and took out his notepad and tape recorder. “If you have no objection, I'll turn this on.” He flipped on the recorder and placed it on the table between them.

“Mr. Pinkster, is your painting still in the gallery?”

“Why do you want to know?” Pinkster asked imputatively.

“We have no photographic record of it, before or after. It's important we have those for our records.”

“Photographs of a jellied mess? What possible use can that be?”

“As I said, for the records, and so our forensic experts can make comparisons to the other paintings. I respect that it is your property, but your cooperation will be very much appreciated.”

“I can have it photographed. Tell me what you need.”

“Then what's left of the painting is in your gallery?”

“You seem surprised,” Pinkster said.

“It's possible the insurance people might have taken it.”

“They're not interested.”

“Why is that, do you suppose?”

“I don't know,” Pinkster said flatly.

“I made some inquiries into how the insurance companies were handling these huge losses. We assumed there was no insurance—at least as we know it—in the case of the painting in the Hermitage. The painting in our National Gallery is covered under an Arts Council cooperative program, and thus far we haven't received a report on the Boston Museum's loss. Yours is the only one that was privately owned, and it seemed reasonable to assume that you would have theft or damage insurance through Lloyd's, or at least involve them indirectly through a reinsuring arrangement.” Oxby leaned forward. “But Lloyd's reported that all of your paintings were covered under a floater policy in which they were a participant, and that the Cézanne self-portrait had been taken off the policy in June. Is that so?”

“The premiums were outlandish. I was trying to negotiate more favorable costs.”

“With Lloyd's?”

“I—don't recall. Besides, I have someone in my firm follow up on those things.”

“You allowed such a valuable painting to go uninsured?”

“I object to your inference, Inspector,” Pinkster said indignantly. “That was not my intention, and I bloody well didn't think it would be destroyed.”

“But Mr. Pinkster, you knew there was a danger—”

“Which is precisely why the premiums became so high.” Pinkster looked across at Oxby for the first time. “I had planned to take the painting off the wall and, in fact, had instructed Clarence Boggs to make arrangements.” The redness around his mouth seemed to intensify. “That didn't happen as you know.”

“Would you intend to use the same photographer who was in the gallery the day the painting was destroyed?”

Pinkster turned away. “I don't contract for photographers, David Blaney handles that sort of thing.”

“I see.” Oxby flipped a page in his notebook. “By chance did you see the photographs that were taken on that fateful day?”

Pinkster shook his head slowly. “I received a report from Blaney about them, but photographers are frequently in the gallery for one reason or another.”

“I believe Blaney said that you had insisted on seeing the photographs before they were shown to anyone.” Oxby turned a page, “Here it is. I have a note to that effect.”

Pinkster sighed deeply. “I was terribly upset at the time and I—” His legs and arms were moving nervously. “I recall now that I did know which photographer had the assignment, and I instructed him to send the photographs to me before they were circulated.”

“You forgot that you had seen the photographs, yet in fact you had called the photographer. A bit unusual, perhaps?”

“I bloody forgot!” Pinkster snapped angrily. “I was bloody upset then, just as I'm bloody upset right now.”

“Now that you remember seeing the photographs, will you tell me if you had any particular reason for wanting to see them?”

“I hoped I'd find something that might tell me who destroyed my painting.”

“But you didn't see anything?”

“No,” he waved his hand feebly, “just a bunch of women. But if I had seen something you would have known. It's a silly question.”

“I ask so many questions,” Oxby said dryly. “I'm bound to ask a silly one now and then. A bunch of women, you say. But there was a man in one photograph.”

“Perhaps there was, I don't recall.” Pinkster moved back in his chair and sat stiffly. “Why all these questions about photographs?”

“Apparently there are several photographs we haven't yet seen. Blaney tried to order another set of prints from the photographer. His name escapes me, but I believe it's one you know—”

“Ian Shelbourne.”

“Yes, of course, Shelbourne. He didn't respond to any of our phone calls, apparently because he had been called away on assignment.” Oxby checked the tape recorder then put it back between them, continuing to talk in a chatty, conversational manner. “And another thing. A homeless old fellow known as Sailor was found dead in the alley behind Shelbourne's shop. Had you heard about that?”

Pinkster tensed, only slightly, but Oxby saw it, “I don't keep up with the homeless,” Pinkster said, attempting black humor unsuccessfully.

“I don't suppose you do. But someone broke into Shelbourne's darkroom and destroyed everything to do with the photographs that were taken on that particular day in your gallery. “They used an acid. Maybe—just a guess—they used the same solution that was used on the paintings. What do you think?”

“What are you suggesting?” Pinkster flushed.

“It's not a suggestion, really, merely following a notion that because you know Shelbourne, it's possible you knew about Sailor and the break-in.”

Pinkster sighed noisily, as if to say he was answering the last question. “Shelbourne came to me before we began construction of the gallery and asked if he could photograph the building as it went up, said he planned on doing a photo journal or some sort of thing. I told him to go ahead, and he's been one of our photographers ever since. I don't meddle in his business and don't know about the Sailor person or break-ins.”

Pinkster abruptly got to his feet, pointed to his watch and said, “Your ten minutes are up, Inspector.”

P
inkster waited until Oxby's car made the turn at the foot of the driveway then went to his office in the gallery and dialed a long series of numbers. He clamped the receiver against his ear, heard a faint hum, then the sound of a phone ringing.

“Oui.” A single word answer, but no doubt that Aukrust said it.

“They're asking questions about an old man. What happened?”

“A mistake. He came into the darkroom, and that was wrong. He ran away, but I caught him and—”

Pinkster waited for the rest of the explanation. “Go on, what in bloody hell happened?”

“I shook him, and he fell.”

“You pushed him. You bastard, you killed him.”

“I said it was a mistake.”

“You make too many mistakes. You don't think, and you were bloody damned stupid.”

“Don't talk that way to me.”

“I'll talk however I damned please. Why didn't you take the files away and burn them? Why leave more evidence?”

“What's left of the solvent is oxidized. It will take months to duplicate my formulation,” he said with pride in his voice, “perhaps forever! You are wrong. I didn't leave evidence.”

“More stupidity. You honestly believe you can outwit the most sophisticated forensic laboratory in the world? You're an insufferable egotist.”

“I said there is no evidence.”

“A dead body is evidence. Forced entry into Shelbourne's darkroom leaves evidence. Negatives destroyed with your damned special chemicals are evidence.”

Aukrust did not answer. Finally Pinkster said, “I want you in London on Thursday. Go on board the
Sepera
at six o'clock and have the DeVilleurs painting with you.”

Afternoon ended and evening began in a seamless change of light, from sun to neons and incandescents, some blinking a fiery Christmas greeting. Astrid's room was dark and small, and from the foot of the bed where she sat, she could touch the faded draperies that flanked a single, narrow window. Below, at the corner, was the cafe, bustling with young office workers spending relaxed minutes with friends. That morning she had walked toward the cafe, expecting to pass the young woman with dark hair who had replaced the agent with the Detroit Lions jacket. The woman was gone, as was the dark sedan she usually sat in. Astrid went to a neighborhood market and bought cheese and croissants then returned to the hotel by circling the block but saw no one that qualified as a replacement “follower.” Somehow, however, she was not convinced she had been abandoned.

At nine o'clock she would meet Peder, and they would have dinner. She had been given explicit instructions: a taxi across the Seine, then another one back to Gare de Lyon, where she was to walk through the station to Rue de Chalon and on to the windows of a children's clothing store. Peder would join her, and they would walk to a small neighborhood restaurant near the St. Antoine hospital.

Astrid's words came in a rush, but barely louder than the hushed conversation of a young couple at a nearby table. “There's no one, Peder, not the woman, and both cars are gone. But I still imagine I'm being followed, that someone's watching all the time.”

“I'm leaving tomorrow.” He put a finger under her chin and tilted her head back. “You must stay until Llewellyn comes to Paris.”

“No, Peder, I don't want to stay here alone.”

His hand moved quickly, and he pinched her chin with the vice formed by his thumb and fingers. “You will do as I say.”

“Please? Can't I go with you?” He tightened the vice so that she could barely speak. “You're ... hurting ...”

“Stop telling me what you will and won't do. They can only watch you. So let them watch while you go back to your business of shopping for antiques, exactly as you told Llewellyn and Oxby in Fontainebleau. Understand?”

She nodded, and he released his grip. Immediately she rubbed at the soreness then timidly asked, “How long will I be alone?”

“A few days, a week.”

“Why are you in Paris?” she asked.

Immediately forgotten to him was the pain he had inflicted on her moments before. He took her hand and rubbed it gently, and he did it without awareness of her fear that he would clamp his huge hands over hers and hurt her again. His anger had simply expired, and he said, “Because I want to be with you, to have you kiss every part of me.” He whispered, “To make love.”

“P
ark there, Emily.” Margueritte DeVilleurs strained forward, pointing to the driveway that ran beside Frédéric Weisbord's home. “I haven't been here since Cécile was alive,” she said wistfully. “Such a marvelous person. She had to be—married to Freddy was purgatory on earth. But she had her gardens.” She pointed again. “Park here.” They climbed the stairs to the porch and rapped on the front door. The chain was withdrawn and the door opened.

“I am Margueritte DeVilleurs and have come with my companion. I phoned to say I would be here today.”

Idi stood to the side, her head cocked and her face screwed into a perplexed expresssion. “You are Madame DeVilleurs?”

“I am, of course,” Margueritte replied with obvious certainty. “Does that surprise you?”

Idi studied Margueritte and said, “Only that Monsieur Weisbord said you were an old woman, he said—”