The Cézanne Chase (40 page)

“Guranteed?” Heston asked.

“Of course not; if it were, you wouldn't be putting me through this bloody inquisition.”

“Speaking of which, you owe me one more answer.”

Oxby said, “As for sending Sergeants Murratore and Browley to France, I took a chance that I could put them over there for a couple of days. I didn't think it would cause a firestorm.”

Heston stared at Oxby, then slowly ran his finger down the side of his slender nose. “Well, it has, and it's a breach of regulations. How do you respond to that?”

“They volunteered because they're as involved as I am and they want Vulcan stopped. They're taking leave time.”

“Jack, no member of our department can go into a foreign country, on leave time or not, and represent the Metropolitan Police unless, A) that foreign country has made a formal request, and, B) the commissioner issues formal instructions. Neither condition pertains.”

“I'm going ahead. That way you'll have plenty of time to consider my reprimand.”

“It's meddling, Jack. You'll be on French turf and calling your own shots.”

“Sam Turner said he'd lend a hand. He's itching to get away from his computer.”

Oxby turned away and studied his hands, keeping them folded together, not revealing any of the concern he harbored with respect to the information Jimmy Murratore had uncovered during his unauthorized and unreported boarding of Alan Pinkster's
Sepera.
Should he bring Heston into his confidence? What would be the consequences if he didn't?

Heston's phone rang. The Commander glared at the instrument, willing it to stop ringing as if he knew who was on the line. “Heston here,” he said formally. Oxby stood at the window, trying not to hear Heston's side of the conversation, which he guessed was between Heston and his wife Gretchen, who had become adept at getting past the protective ring of assistants. Oxby stared across the city at the tallest skyscraper in London's financial district.

B
ud Samuelson stared angrily across the wide, polished boardroom table at Alan Pinkster. His fist was curled so tightly around a bunch of pencils that his knuckles were bone-white and his arm shook uncontrollably. Terry Sloane stood beside him, perspiring uncomfortably and shifting restlessly from foot to foot.

Samuelson spoke in a thin, angry voice, “You are a shithead, Alan Pinkster, a lying, deceiving, sonofabitching first-class bastard.”

“You've made your point, Bud,” Terry Sloane said. “Let him speak.”

“Last time he was in this room and we let him speak he bullshitted his way right out that door and laughed at us for the next six weeks. No more of that.” He glared at Pinkster. “What do you know about a man named Saburo Kondo?”

Pinkster's flushed, red face drained to a ghostly white. Perhaps he had prepared for Samuelson's scatological onslaught but not a confrontation over Kondo. “I know he's a Japanese art dealer. Many people know that.”

Samuelson had expected a noncommittal reply and got one. “Let's try another one. What do you know about the painting titled
Before The Race
?” He studied Pinkster's reaction. “In case you're having an attack of
amnesia opportunus
, it was painted by Degas and was stolen from the Burroughs collection.”

Pinkster looked away from Samuelson to Terry Sloane. “I don't know anything about it.”

Terry Sloane shook his head. “We have information to the contrary, Alan. You've been dealing with Kondo, and according to our sources, he received the Degas painting from you and sold it in Japan for more than six million dollars.”

“You got bad information,” Pinkster said.

Samuelson pounced. “And you're in deep shit. I don't know how
much of the six million you kept, but you'd better wrap it up nice and neat and give it to Terry.” He got to his feet. “I've dealt with some fucking slimeballs before, but that was because I didn't know better. We're out of your goddamned Pacific Bowl as of now, except for one remaining detail that sounds like $106 million. We want every penny. If we don't get it, your ass goes on the block, and from where I sit, that's about twenty long, fuckless years on a prison farm.”

I
nstructions had been issued to the Police Judiciaire in Lyon, something to the effect that the American who was showing his painting by Paul Cézanne was to be provided with VIP security treatment similar to that which would be given to a middling government official from a country with the importance of, perhaps, Belize. A newly minted lieutenant had been dispatched to the Grand Hôtel Concorde to officially advise Llewellyn that one policeman would be stationed outside the hotel room and another next to the elevators in the lobby. “Plans to assure your safety this evening are being put together as we speak.” He saluted and strutted off.

Scooter Albany said, “Shouldn't you tell Oxby that on a scale of one to ten, your security risk is somewhere under zero?”

Llewellyn smiled gamely. “Oxby knows.” He went into the bedroom and took from his suitcase a thin leather shoulder holster and slid out a Beretta 950-BS pistol. He held the weapon in his hand as if it were a vibrating piece of polished black metal, too heavy for its size. He slipped on the holster, put the gun into it, then checked himself in the mirror, patting the perceptible bulge below his left shoulder. At 6:00 P.M. a police sergeant arrived and announced that the lieutenant was waiting in a police car in front of the hotel. Led by a single, unmufflered motorcycle with blue lights blinking, they drove along the crowded Rue de la République to the Musée des Beaux-Arts catercorner from the Hôtel de Ville.

Local dignitaries had been assembled for a catered banquet in the main hall, and speeches of praise and appreciation were delivered by an assortment of art scholars recruited from the university and the slim curatorial staff of the museum. At eight o'clock, the tables were taken away, chairs were set up, and the public and press began filling the hall. As in Paris, and with a less uncertain accent, Llewellyn made his little speech. He drew the maroon cloth away and spoke affectionately of the painting and its meaning to France. “But come to Aix,” he said,
“where you will be fascinated by nearly two hundred of Paul Cézanne's paintings and drawings.”

Scooter Albany shot twenty minutes' worth of videotape, and the local press took photographs and interviewed Llewellyn.

Peder Aukrust stood at the back of the room. His gaze was rarely on the platform or Llewellyn or the painting. Instead, he searched the audience for the familiar-looking person he had seen at the Musée d'Orsay in Paris. Another look at the man might tell him if his memory was playing tricks or dislodge from his memory who he was. He counted three, non-intimidating, museum guards and two police. There were more, he was certain, but he could not find them. He paid particular attention to the black-haired man standing alone near the platform. His stare was met by Sam Turner, for it was he, himself studying the faces in the crowd.

“You have been generous with your hospitality,” Llewellyn said, winding up his talk. “In a few days we will be Avignon.” The audience was attentive, appreciative that the American was speaking in French and doing an acceptable job of it. “Before leaving, I want to remind you that an evil and cruel person has destroyed four of Paul Cézanne's self-portraits, and the danger continues that more paintings will be burned. It is our responsibility—yours and mine—to see that this does not happen. Join me in Aix next week! Come celebrate the greatness of Paul Cézanne!” Llewellyn waved enthusiastically and shouted, “À bientôt!”

There was a low murmuring in the crowd, then applause broke out and voices were raised in shouts of “Vive le Cézanne! Vive Llewellyn!”

 

The motorcycle was missing from the return trip. It had been explained that there had been a serious accident on the autoroute north of the city, and the motorcycle officer had been sent to direct traffic. Shortly after eleven, Llewellyn was on the phone listening to Jack Oxby's calm reassurance that he had been under constant surveillance for the entire evening. “I'm down to one sleepy guard in the corridor,” Llewellyn said without his usual jauntiness.

“We've covered you like doting mothers,” Oxby said.

“I saw only Sam Turner.”

“It was quite a show,” Oxby said. “Turn on your television. Scooter's got you on the late news.”

Llewellyn flipped on the set in his bedroom. There was a close-up
of the painting, then the picture widened to show Llewellyn making his final remarks. Clyde heard a familiar voice come from the television and jumped onto the bed and barked. The phone rang, and Fraser answered.

“How good to hear from you,” he said in his friendly, husky voice. “Where are you?”

“It's a ... a surprise,” she said. “May I speak to Mr. Llewellyn?”

Fraser waved the phone at Llewellyn. “You won't believe it, sir, but it's Astrid.”

Llewellyn grabbed the phone. “Where in the dickens are you?” he asked like a worried father.

“I'm . . . I'm in Lyon. Are you surprised?”

“Of course I'm surprised. You didn't say anything about coming to Lyon.”

“I hadn't planned on it, but something terrible happened in Paris and I need help. I saw in the newspaper that you were coming here. Are you angry?”

“Of course not, but what happened?”

“Someone broke into my hotel room, and he . . . he attacked me.”

“For God's sake, are you hurt?”

“A little, but I was more frightened. He took my money and airplane tickets.”

“Where are you calling from?”

“The railway station, the one near your hotel.”

There was a brief pause before Llewellyn said, “There might be a problem. Give me your number, and I'll call you right back.”

He wrote out the number and dialed Oxby. “You remember Astrid Haraldsen? She apparently had a bad scare in Paris when someone broke into her room and took her money and plane tickets. She's just called me from the railway station looking for help. What should I do about it?”

“I'll be damned,” Oxby said simply, and hesitated for several seconds. He then said, “Would you like to see her?”

“I . . . yes, I suppose I would like that,” Llewellyn said, stumbling. “But I can't. Or can I?”

“Tell her you'll send Fraser to pick her up.”

“You said I wasn't to travel with anyone, only Fraser.”

“We added Scooter to the party. I don't think we should ignore a damsel in distress.”

W
hat had started as a cool afternoon breeze had blustered into a strong, cold wind by the time Scooter Albany's golden Olds pulled in front of the Hôtel d'Europe in Avignon. Weather stations from Grenoble south officially proclaimed
le mistral
had swept over Provence. It was nearing nine o'clock when Llewellyn's entourage finally settled into their rooms. The quality of food was not a priority, and they ate simply and quickly. Scooter allowed as to how he felt “lucky”: his way of saying he would check to see if good company with long blonde hair was sitting on a bar stool in the hotel lounge.

After dinner, Llewellyn prepared for bed, indicating that it might be a good idea if Astrid did the same.

“I won't be able to sleep,” she said.

“Can't get that bastard out of your mind?”

She nodded. “It'll go away.”

A bruise on her cheek had spread, though the awful color had faded. Still, her lips were swollen. She had not let Llewellyn see the other bruise marks on her shoulder and arms.

“Do you feel safe?” she asked.

“Yes, perfectly. Do you?”

“When I'm with you. But I worry about the painting. Will someone try to take it? If they did, you could be hurt.”

“I don't think that will happen.”

“Because there are people watching you?”

He frowned. “What people?”

“I don't know. But if the painting is so valuable, shouldn't there be someone watching?”

“Stop this silly talk about protection and people watching.”

“Then no one is guarding you?”

“I said, ‘enough,' Astrid, and I mean it.” There was a touch of frustration in his voice, perhaps anger. He turned down the covers on the bed. “Are you coming?”

“In a while. I'm going to take Clyde for a walk.”

“It's hell out there. You'll freeze.”

“I won't be long.”

She snapped the leash onto Clyde's collar, and they were soon on the street in front of the hotel. Clyde pulled on the leash as if he had specific designs on the low shrubbery in a tiny park-like triangle a hundred yards from the hotel. The wind was still up and cold, the sky black. Peder Aukrust was waiting.

“You're late, and it's cold.” he snapped the words out angrily.

“I came as soon as I could get away.”

“Have you seen the painting?”

“No, he keeps it wrapped and locked in a closet.”

“Get the key.”

“I've tried, but he . . . ”

“Keep trying. I see two men with him, the reporter and his companion. Are there any others?”

“I've asked him, but he won't talk about it. I only know of the two men.”

“He's been told to say nothing, even to you. There are others, but we can't see them.” He shook his head. “Damn it, he's not being guarded by ghosts. Ask him again if he's being protected. Tell him you want to know because you are worried about him. Make him know that you care. Tell me everything when we are in Aix.”