The Cézanne Chase (25 page)

“Good. One less painting to worry about.” He sat back in the chair. “I know you've got more, so spit it out.”

Ann heaved up her shoulder bag onto the table. “Jonesy said you won't find diisopropyl fluorophosphate in garden supplies, and he couldn't have been more right.” She pronounced the name of the exotic chemical as if it were as common as table salt. “Two Swiss companies make it. A variation called Floropryl is made in America by Merck & Company, but Jonesy doesn't think Floropryl would work the same way as the chemical that killed Boggs, because it's a compound used in the treatment of glaucoma.”

Oxby sat back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes closed.

“Are you interested in what I'm saying?” Ann asked, annoyed by Oxby's nonchalance.

“Of course I'm interested, and I'm also concentrating. Please go on.”

“There are two sources in the entire United Kingdom where one can buy DFP, one in London, the other in Edinburgh. There have been thirty-four reported purchases of the chemical in the past twelve months; however, all purchases were made by reputable buyers who were—” she read from a pad—“Cambridge University, Stearns, Fowler Pharmacologicals, and the London Eye Institute.”

“Thirty-four separate purchases?” Oxby asked.

“Correct.”

“Do you have copies of the orders, including signatures of the person authorizing each purchase?”

“Yes, Inspector, it's all there.” She pronounced “Inspector” as if it were a communicable disease. “You would think I didn't know proper procedure,” Ann said irritably.

“Go on,” Oxby said, not looking up.

“In Holland and Belgium, DFP is classified as a nerve gas and is under strict government control. It's available only to physicians and medical researchers.”

“It must trade in the gray markets,” Oxby said.

Ann smiled victoriously. “A few sources, not many, and we've identified them all. None traded in the quantities Jonesy said were used.”

Oxby opened his eyes long enough to locate his coffee cup. He took a sip. “Next?”

“The Scandinavian countries, plus Spain, Portugal, and Luxembourg, require a license for the purchase of DFP. I got a lecture on why it's restricted to the pharmaceutical industry for medical research.”

“Or someone planning a murder,” Oxby added.

“I'd nearly forgotten about military uses for DFP, then I recalled that before the Iraqis could make their own nerve gas, they bought exotic chemicals from France.” The files she had in front of her were thicker than the others. “There are five French companies that will sell you all the DFP you want. Every one has a sales office in Paris, and three have an office in either Lyon, Marseille, Strasbourg, Nantes, or Toulouse. There aren't hard and fast restrictions on buying the material, but every purchase is recorded, and eventually that information ends up in some obscure section in the Ministry of Health. Because the chemical is easily available, there's no gray market.”

Oxby leaned forward and fanned through the pages of one of the files. He glanced up. “You're dying to tell me something.”

Ann fished out another packet of papers from her shoulder bag. “Those printouts show every DFP sale for the past year. We combined the transactions from each company and programmed the sales by location, date, amount, and name of purchaser. Most of the sales were in Paris and were made to some sort of research or medical institution. In fact, 94 percent of all sales were to that kind of organization, with orders placed on a repeating, regular basis. Sales to individuals were also concentrated in Paris, and generally each buyer made one purchase for minimum amounts. There were three exceptions.

“The individual purchasers were named Metzger, Thompson, and Zeremany. Thompson's first order was in early June, the second in July, and the amount of DFP purchased totaled twenty-eight grams.

“Zeremany bought in June, July, and September. But the total amount he ordered came to less than twenty-four grams.

“Metzger bought twenty-five grams on August 29, twenty-five grams on September 4, and twenty grams on September 7.”

“Where did they buy?” Oxby's interest had shot up.

“Zeremany and Thompson in Paris. Metzger in Toulouse and Marseille.”

“What do we know about Metzger?”

“Not much. The signatures are cramped, and there is an extreme variation between them. Jonesy's got them in for analysis. We think his first name is Jacob or Janus, and he claims to be a doctor.”

G
aby pulled the sheet over her bare shoulders. Despite the cool air that came from the opened window, she felt warm in the bed next to LeToque, or Georges as she called him, though it angered him at times to be called by his given name. A sliver of sunlight fell across his cheek and moved slowly toward his sore eyes. “Are you awake?” she whispered, and he turned his head into the pillow.

A clock radio in the next room came on. A minute of news was followed by the weather followed by the time, 7:02. Music came next, or a facsimile thereof, made by a combination of guitars, drums, and shrieking voices. Then a breeze parted the curtains and the sunlight burst over both of them, rousing LeToque from his half-sleep. When he turned to her, Gaby nestled close, rubbing his back. Then her searching hands massaged him slowly at first, then faster in time with the music. When she had brought him to full erection, she guided him into her and began grinding her pelvis ever faster until he made a final thrust into her, shuddered, and lay still. It was over too quickly for Gaby, and she continued to twist and turn, but he pulled away and slapped her buttocks. She kneeled beside him, thrusting her small, firm breasts at him. “You fuck too fast,” she pouted.

“You fuck too much,” he replied, and rolled off the bed and went into the bathroom. “Fix something to eat,” he called out to her.

Gaby's culinary talents were limited to instant coffee and a heated roll, but LeToque's attention was on other matters. The redness around both eyes had improved, though the yellow crust remained in his right eye, and it now alternated between an itch and irritation. Five days had elapsed since his encounter with Aukrust; on this day he would have the chance to even the score.

A car stopped in front of LeToque's small house. The driver was a man of perhaps fifty, of average height and build. He was wearing black-framed glasses and was dressed in shirt, tie, and zippered leather jacket. The other man was not yet thirty. Swarthy, with reddish hair
that lay slack over his ears, he had the build of a weightlifter: a perfect V-shape—thick chest and neck, narrow waist, and heavy upper arms.

Gaby made instant coffee, and the men sat at a round table in the tiny kitchen. LeToque had drawn a crude map of the streets surrounding Aukrust's shop, and he also sketched the inside of the shop based on Weisbord's single visit and brief glimpse into Aukrust's workroom. “In the back, here against the rear wall, is a big vault,” LeToque said to the older man, whose name was Maurice. “Weisbord thinks it's old, maybe something used to store papers and records.”

“Older the better,” Maurice said, with a slight stutter.

“Aukrust is strong and has tricks besides.” LeToque had heard about Pioli's painful encounter with the Norwegian. He turned to the muscular young man, who was much too large for the chair he was in. This was Cat, recruited by Maurice: a fighter, judging from the fresh cuts on both forearms and indications that stitches had been recently removed from a cut that ran across his face from right eye to left ear. LeToque said to Cat, “Do what you have to do, but no dead people.”

“More money,” Cat said in a strangely thin voice.

“That's not with LeToque,” Maurice interrupted. “I pay you, and you agreed to five thousand francs.”

“Not enough.”

“What's enough?” LeToque asked.

“Seven thousand.”

LeToque looked at Maurice and nodded. He understood that fees were negotiable.

“You'll get six thousand if it goes right,” Maurice said; “no more.”

Cat nodded. “It's a job, Maurice. If everyone does their job right, then it goes right. Someone fucks up . . . then it goes wrong. Either way, I get six thousand.”

LeToque nodded agreement with Cat's basic, yet accurate philosophy. “We meet with Weisbord at one o'clock,” he said.

 

The meeting was in a noisy restaurant near the rail terminal in Cannes. Weisbord, the first to arrive, claimed the private room he had reserved and almost immediately welcomed his contact from the magistrate's office, an unpresupposing man in a business suit with the look of a civil employee waiting to qualify for a pension. LeToque appeared with his group, and Weisbord assigned each one a seat, LeToque on the lawyer's left. The last to arrive, a young man in sandals and sweater, took the remaining
chair. Gaby was dressed uncharacteristically in jeans and a loose-fitting sweater. She sat beside LeToque and held tightly onto his arm.

Everyone's assignment had been planned to eliminate complications and signals that could go wrong or be missed. Weisbord spelled out his plan then repeated it exactly as he told it the first time. The man from the magistrate's office was named Foultz; the young man wearing sandals was an occasionally employed actor named Claude who would accompany Foultz, wearing a police uniform. Foultz would present Aukrust with a search warrant that in point of law was not enforceable, because Weisbord had not made a formal claim and the warrant was unregistered. It was assumed that Aukrust would permit a search but only to a point; it was further assumed that Aukrust would not open the vault because he could not or because the lock was broken.

Weisbord continued, “When Aukrust opens the door to the back room, Claude will go to the front door to the shop and step outside momentarily. That will be the signal for the rest of you to move in.”

LeToque's sketches were passed to Foultz and Claude, questions asked and answered, then came food and wine. When they had finished, Weisbord raised his glass. “
Bonne chance
!”

 

Forty-five minutes later, Foultz parked a blue Renault two blocks from Aukrust's shop. Claude fussed with his uniform and adjusted his cap to the proper angle. The street was uncrowded, a convenience that could only be hoped for. At 3:20 they went to Aukrust's shop.

“I'm closing,” Aukrust said, showing surprise at the unlikely pair who stood before him. “What can I do for you?”

Foultz held out a large envelope and intoned in an officious manner, “I represent the magistrate's office of the city of Cannes and serve upon you this warrant for legal search of these premises for a painting by Paul Cézanne, specifically, a portrait of the artist, which was recently taken from the premises of its owner, Madame Gaston DeVilleurs, during the time when you were known to be on those premises. Further details are contained in the warrant. You may telephone your lawyer; however, I assure you that this warrant is enforceable and cannot be rescinded by appeal or claim.”

Aukrust took the envelope and opened it. The papers inside consisted of official-looking letterheads on which were raised seals with signatures and stamps.

“As you can see, there is no painting by Cézanne here,” Aukrust
said, waving the papers at a display of beach and country watercolors. “I would be insane to put such a valuable painting here—even if I were so fortunate to have one.”

Foultz was obviously unconnected to the art world, and the comment meant nothing to him. He was concerned only with getting beyond the locked door.

“In the room beyond that door,” he said firmly. “That is also part of these premises.”

“There is nothing but a supply of frames, my tools, and a large table on which I do my work.” Aukrust leaned nonchalantly against the counter.

“Open the door, Monsieur Aukrust. We are prepared to use whatever means is necessary to inspect every part of this property.”

Claude stepped from behind Foultz and made a little show of moving his hand onto the stock of his holstered gun. He did it expertly, as if he might actually know how to use the weapon if provoked.

 

“Go slowly,” LeToque said. Maurice obeyed, and as they drove past the shop, LeToque stared through the window. “Good! Pull over,” he ordered. Maurice pulled to the curb. Weisbord had supplied a BMW, not a large car but, if needed, a fast one. As soon as Claude appeared, LeToque was out of the car and running, Maurice and Cat immediately behind him. Gaby was last and stood inside the door, instructed to tell stray customers that the shop was closed.

 

Aukrust spoke calmly, addressing his words directly to Foultz. “It's an old vault, and the lock is broken; in fact, I've arranged to have a new one installed.”

Claude rummaged among the unframed canvases that were stacked against the wall then through each of the cabinets. “Nothing here, not unless you want to open a pharmacy. It must be there in the vault.”

“There's nothing in the vault,” Aukrust protested.

“We'll find out for ourselves,” Foultz replied.

“Tomorrow,” Aukrust said irritably. Behind him now stood LeToque and Cat. They were joined by Maurice. Foultz and Claude backed away then hightailed it from the room.

“The door,” LeToque said, and Cat closed it. LeToque was in charge and wanted Aukrust to have no mistake that this was so.
Revenge was in the air. Aukrust looked from one to the other, alarm slowly beginning to show in eyes that were focused on the cabinets containing his chemicals and other unorthodox means of defense. He moved a step, and LeToque barked out, “Open the lock on the safe, and do it now.”