The Cézanne Chase (15 page)

“Nothing's come of my inquiries on the DFP question, and the big drug companies are as bloody damned bureaucratic as our own government.” She came into the office. “And soon as you ask for a fast response they damned well build in another two-day delay.”

Oxby smiled at Ann's attempted tough talk. “Where's Jimmy?”

“Gone for coffee, I suppose. I'll fetch him.”

Oxby sat behind the wall created by his books and briefcase and stared at the notes he had made at the Abbey.Jimmy Murratore appeared, coffee in hand, and sat across from Oxby. Ann slipped into the third chair.

“What's new at the racetrack?” Oxby asked.

Jimmy shook his head. “It was easy enough to learn that Clarence Boggs was losin' a bucket of money on the horses, in fact he developed quite a reputation for losin' at the track. Until July he had booked with one agent, an old chap named Terry Black, but that changed. Black's health was growin'bad and he was lookin' to retire. So he sold his books to a syndicate, one that's got five principals. I know one on a kind of personal basis, a guy named Sylvester. I checked the others, and they're okay.” Jimmy turned the page in his notepad. “Then—middle of August—they cut Boggs off. He'd gone over twenty thousand pounds.”

“Surprised they let him go that far,” Oxby said.

“There's more to it, because old Terry Black may have put one over on them. The syndicate hadn't sorted out all of Black's accounts, and it seems that Boggs owed a few more thousand. They might have looked the other way, but they weren't going to blink at all on the twenty thousand.

“What does the syndicate do with people who owe over twenty thousand pounds?” Oxby asked.

Murratore answered immediately. “They don't kill them—not as a rule they don't.”

“What do they do?” Oxby paused. “As a rule.”

“Bring in the lawyers.”

Oxby showed his surprise. “I'd expect more severe measures.”

Jimmy nodded. “There's a few bad apples that play dirty and hire an ‘enforcer,' but if someone's in debt, makin' him dead won't do much good.”

“But Boggs was circling his bets in the newspaper less than an hour before he was killed. Was he still betting?”

“He got mixed up with a two-man operation, an unlicensed bunch that gave him credit.”

“Do you know them?”

“One's a jockey, least he was until he got warned off for throwin' a couple of races, and the other's an Indian who was waitin' tables a year ago. Neither one's got what it takes to put together the poison package that did old Boggs in.”

The phone rang, Ann answered. “It's David Blaney at the Pinkster Gallery. He's finally got the photographs and asks if you want to see them.”

Oxby looked at his watch. “Tell him we'll be there by two o'clock.”

The photographs were set out on the same table where Oxby had seen the wretched remains of the self-portrait. There were more than a hundred prints, but only twelve that showed the group from the Danish embassy.

“I'm sorry it's taken so long,” Blaney said, “but the photographer's been off on assignment, and it wasn't until this morning that I talked to him.”

“Did he give a reason for not returning your calls?”

“No, not specifically. He gets assignments and goes off. But he told me that Mr. Pinkster had the prints.”

“Why would Mr. Pinkster have them?”

“It's not unusual. Mr. Pinkster insists on seeing all the photographs before they're shown around. It's his gallery and his money,” he smiled. “Besides, the photographer's a friend.”

“What's his interest in seeing them?” Oxby asked.

Blaney shook his head. “Mr. Pinkster wants to see and know everything. It's his way.”

Ann asked, “I'd like the photographer's name and an address where he can be reached.”

“It's Shelbourne. Here, I'll write it down.” Blaney wrote the information on a piece of paper and handed it to Ann.

Oxby and Ann studied the photographs, occasionally asking Blaney to identify where each one had been taken. Oxby held onto one of the photographs as he inspected the others under a magnifying glass. He took the photograph he had been holding and studied it for a full minute. “Tell me again where this was taken?”

Blaney looked at the photograph carefully. “In the reception hall.”

“At the beginning of the tour?”

Blaney nodded. “Probably before the tour got under way.”

“Can you have it enlarged?”

“I'll have Shelbourne send it directly to you.”

Oxby took all of the photographs of the Danish group and put them in numerical order. “They begin with 74 and end with 88. The print we want enlarged is number 81. Numbers 77, 83, and 84 are missing. Could they be mixed in with the others?”

Together they sorted through all of the prints looking for the missing ones. “Not here,” Blaney said. “That's odd. Unless Mr. Pinkster held them out for some reason.”

Ann looked again at the photo Oxby asked to be enlarged, “What's so special about this one?”

Oxby said, “There are two people in it and one is a man. The only man who was in the group. Neither the man nor the woman appears in any of the other photographs but, of course, three of them are missing.” He put the point of his pencil under the two figures. “They were with the group when the tour began and then fell behind the others. Boggs complained about stragglers, and his daughter remembers that he referred to them as a couple...as in one of each: a woman and a man.”

E
dwin Llewellyn's bed was an extrawide, extra-long, super-king-size affair that was luxuriant to sleep in, read a good book in, have breakfast in, and have long sexual encounters in. To Llewellyn's dismay, the latter had in recent days been few in number, a situation he felt obliged to do something about. Fraser had brought a breakfast tray, the newspaper, and Clyde, who ate the bacon then snuggled in about thigh-high where he lay under sections A and D of the
New York Times.

On his calendar for Wednesday were two appointments: the first at ten with Charles Pourville, an assistant curator at the Metropolitan; the second at eleven with Astrid Haraldsen for a tour of the museum. The last time he had seen Astrid she had said something about a nuisance trip to Washington and refused his offer to take her to the airport. Now he began worrying that the nuisance had turned into genuine trouble. He dialed her number a second time. Still no answer.

While he showered he thought of his meeting with Pourville, the young Frenchman he'd taken under his wing because he was an innovative curator and because Llewellyn genuinely liked him. Pourville had been instrumental in persuading the Metropolitan to participate in the upcoming Cézanne retrospective and had been named as consulting curator to the exhibition.

At nine-thirty on the dot, Llewellyn got a London call from Scooter Albany, an old friend who correctly labeled himself a good television journalist and a lousy drunk. CBS had tolerated Albany's irresponsible drinking beyond reasonable patience then had reluctantly given him a generous severance along with a final trip to an alcoholism rehab where he once again learned how to put the cork in the bottle. He failed miserably, however, in keeping the cork there. Scooter was one of the unfortunates who knew how to stop drinking, but didn't want to learn how to stay stopped. He had covered royalty, politicians, drug rings, natural disasters, and the art world and decided the art world was safer
and gave better cocktail parties. Now he was freelancing for a cable news service.

“I just got back from Paris where they're beginning to rumble about all the Cézannes going up in clouds of acid. It put me in mind of you and that family legacy of which you are so richly undeserving. I don't usually think about you, so it's a good excuse to call.” There was a noisy snicker. “How're you anyhow, you old fart?”

Scooter hadn't changed, Llewellyn thought. It was mid-afternoon in London, and his friend was well on his way to another dive into alcoholic oblivion. The wonder was that he could carry on with his job and turn in a sparkling five-minute segment for the evening news.

“This old fart's just fine,” Llewellyn shot back.

They talked for several minutes during which Albany shared the few facts and pet theories he had on the paintings and said he hoped that the bizarre goings-on would be good for a half-hour television piece.

“Scotland Yard won't make a statement without a hundred strings attached to it, but surer'n hell there's been a murder mixed in with the Pinkster painting and that ought to scare a little bit of shit out of you.” Albany signed off with a clear warning. “They're playing hardball, Lew; I suggest you behave yourself and put that painting of yours in the attic of a nunnery in Kansas City.”

“I'll behave myself if you will,” Llewellyn said. “And if you're going to follow up on the story, you might want to sit in on a security meeting that's coming up in a few weeks. If you're interested I'll see if I can get you a ticket.”

“Damn right I'm interested; get me in the front row.”

They rang off, and Llewellyn dialed Astrid a last time and was more angry than annoyed when there was still no answer.

 

When Charles Pourville returned to his office he found the chair behind his desk occupied by Llewellyn, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair, his palms together as if in prayer.

Llewellyn looked up. “I'm beginning to get good and goddamned angry about this nonsense with the self-portraits.” Pourville unloaded an armful of books and began putting them in the shelves. “I've been trying to figure out why they chose Cézanne's self-portraits. Any thoughts on that? Maybe someone thinks Cézanne's paintings are undervalued, and by eliminating a few the rest become worth more. Supply and demand. Probably makes my painting worth more.”

“Especially yours because there's a mystery about it. If it were mine, I would be concerned.”

“Why does everyone think I'm not concerned? I damn well worry and want to get it to Aix-en-Provence safely.”

“Then come to the registrar's meeting. Curt Berrien confirmed it for ten on Thursday.”

“I'll be there,” Llewellyn said.

Curtis Berrien was the Metropolitan's registrar, a complex and highly important job that included registration of every piece of art in the museum and the signing in and out of paintings on loan. Berrien's staff was also responsible for the packing and shipping of incredibly valuable pieces of art.

Pourville gathered up another armful of books. “I've got a lecture in ten minutes.” And he was off. Alone, Llewellyn called Astrid, relieved that finally she answered. He sounded like an angry father.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Washington. I told you.”

“Perhaps you did, but I was beginning to worry.”

Silence. It held for half a minute, then she said, “I am happy that you were concerned. I stayed over an extra night. I wanted to sleep so I turned off the phone.”

“Then you're all right?”

“A little tired.”

“You haven't forgotten our date?”

“I'm looking forward to it.”

“I've arranged for a tour by a young woman who knows the museum better than... well, than our beloved director.”

“I'll be there at eleven,” Astrid said; “by the flowers.”

 

The tall urn Llewellyn stood next to was one of four filled with identical arrangements of late summer hydrangea, giant dahlias, and white spider mums. His eyes were fixed on the main entrance to the Great Hall, and precisely at eleven Astrid came through the door.

The little grin on his face widened as she approached him. “Good morning and welcome back to New York.” He kissed her cheek and smelled the perfume that was now impressed into his memory. “Tell me when you're going to stay an extra day. I worry.”

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I'll try.”

Kim Klein, their guide, joined them. She was short, stocky, wore
glasses, and was in every way different from the tall, blonde Norwegian.

“I understand you would like to see what goes on behind the scene.”

“I can see the galleries on my own.”

“My penance for having learned what goes on in every nook and cranny is to find myself escorting a VIP who wants to start out by standing in front of a famous painting that isn't even in the Met's collection.” Her eyes darted from one to the other in a mischievous way, “I call them Very Important Bores.”

“I don't want to be a bore,” Astrid protested.