Authors: Thomas Swan
The Cézanne Chase (21 page)
Tragedy struck when Cécile 's heart, weakened in childhood by rheumatic fever, could not keep up with the arduous hours she devoted to her gardens. Less than a month into her sixty-sixth year, on a sunny June day, just after she had divided her prized begonias and had begun to replant them, her heart stopped. Weisbord had been off on one of his business trips, and when he returned home he found a long black hearse in the driveway. The housekeeper, a no-nonsense Italian woman named Idi, described how she had discovered Cécile, too late to bring medical attention.
For six weeks, Weisbord mourned the death of his wife though not her constant nagging to stop smoking. After another few weeks, the new widower returned to his old schedules and soon was traveling more than ever.
Almost a year to the day following Cécile's death, Gaston DeVilleurs died. Weisbord actually grieved; at least he went through
the motions; and went so far as to shed authentic tears at the funeral. But forty-eight hours after Gaston was laid to rest, Weisbord turned to the important task of settling the dead man's affairs and putting in motion all the terms and conditions that he had carefully integrated into Gaston's last will and testament. Weisbord had devised a few dozen ways to receive fees and commissions while Gaston was alive, and now that he was dead, the lawyer knew exactly how to extract the largest of all payoffs.
the motions; and went so far as to shed authentic tears at the funeral. But forty-eight hours after Gaston was laid to rest, Weisbord turned to the important task of settling the dead man's affairs and putting in motion all the terms and conditions that he had carefully integrated into Gaston's last will and testament. Weisbord had devised a few dozen ways to receive fees and commissions while Gaston was alive, and now that he was dead, the lawyer knew exactly how to extract the largest of all payoffs.
The DeVilleurs paintings were worth a fortune, and Weisbord stood to collect a 17.5 percent commission on the gross proceeds from the sale of each one. Weisbord's income from the sale of either of the two Cézannes in the DeVilleurs collection might be as much as $4 million. All of the lawyer's fees could be found on seven of the fifty-six pages required to set forth the details of the willâa masterpiece of obfuscation.
There were complications, however. Margueritte had proved to be more obstinate and independent than he had anticipated. Her threat to sell the self-portrait to the Musée Granet was troubling, but considerably more annoying was the disappearance of the painting from the DeVilleurs collection. It was obvious that the owner of the new art and framing studio in Cannes was involved so Weisbord would visit Peder Aukrust and demand the return of the painting.
On Friday, the day after the DeVilleurs portrait disappeared, Weisbord drove to Cannes and located the framing shop on Rue Faure, encountering a blind that had been pulled down on the door with a small sign attached to it, which read
Fermé
. When he inquired with neigboring merchants, he was told that the new proprietor, a Norwegian named Aukrust, kept to himself but was known to take occasional trips to Paris, where he would try his luck in the smaller auctions. On Sunday Weisbord read in the newspaper that a Cézanne self-portrait in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts had been destroyed. He scissored out the article and put the clipping in the top drawer of his desk.
Fermé
. When he inquired with neigboring merchants, he was told that the new proprietor, a Norwegian named Aukrust, kept to himself but was known to take occasional trips to Paris, where he would try his luck in the smaller auctions. On Sunday Weisbord read in the newspaper that a Cézanne self-portrait in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts had been destroyed. He scissored out the article and put the clipping in the top drawer of his desk.
Not until Monday afternoon did he receive an answer to his repeated phone calls to the framing shop. Then he learned that the shop would be open the following morning at ten.
Shortly after ten, Weisbord entered the shop. A young artist was making an impassioned presentation of his paintings to Peder Aukrust, who flatly refused to take more than one painting on consignment. “Better than a boot in the ass,” the artist conceded then gathered up his assorted renderings of water scenes and brushed past Weisbord.
“I am the owner,” Aukrust said, “What may I do for you?”
Weisbord fished out a cigarette and lit it.
“Please don't smoke,” Aukrust said and pointed to a pot of sand inside the door. “Sometimes the oils are not completely set on the paintings.” He held up the canvas left by the just departed artist. “See? The smoke will cling to the light colors.”
Weisbord eyed the big man skeptically, drew heavily on the cigarette, then plunged it into the sand. He coughed, only slightly at first, then into a continuous and irritatingly loud outbreak.
Aukrust waited for the coughing to subside. “How can I help you?” he asked again.
“I am Frédéric Weisbord, associate and legal adviser to the late Gaston DeVilleursâ”
“Madame DeVilleurs has mentioned your name,” Aukrust interrupted.
“You were in her home last week as was Bilodeau from the Granet in Aix. I was there to explain and enforce the terms of her husband's will, andâ”
“I am very busy, Monsieur Weisbord,” Aukrust broke in. “What exactly is it you want?”
“You can tell me where you've hidden the Cézanne self-portrait,” Weisbord demanded with a clear, firm voice pulled miraculously from the miasma in his tobacco-tarred throat.
Aukrust held out his huge hands. “A Cézanne in my shop? You flatter me, Monsieur Weisbord.”
“There, behind that door.” Weisbord took several steps.
Aukrust moved faster and stood in front of the door. “There's nothing there, only my workroom and supplies.”
“I want to see,” Weisbord said stubbornly.
“This is my shop, or have you forgotten?” Aukrust said, a touch of irritation in his voice. “If you're looking for a Cézanne, go to Paris. There are twenty-four in the Louvre.”
“Last Thursday,” Weisbord sputtered. “You ... you took that painting!” The painful wheezing returned, and he began to spit into his handkerchief. “Don't deny it!”
The wheeze became a scratching, guttural noise, then for a moment he made no sound at all for the simple reason that there was no air in his lungs with which to make any sort of noise. He gasped, desperately trying to breathe, his face white as bleached bone. Aukrust looked on,
fascinated that he was witnessing the awful process of suffocation. Suddenly, Weisbord shook violently, and air magically flowed into him. He fell into a chair, his chest heaving heavily.
fascinated that he was witnessing the awful process of suffocation. Suddenly, Weisbord shook violently, and air magically flowed into him. He fell into a chair, his chest heaving heavily.
“A drink of water, please,” he said in a thin, nearly inaudible voice.
Aukrust eyed him closely. “There's no water here.”
“There must be water in that room!” Weisbord said. “I won't follow you.”
Aukrust hesitated for a moment, then unlocked the door into the back room and went into it, closing the door behind him. He returned with a glass of water. The lawyer took it and drank.
“I suffered from tuberculosis when I was young and occasionally have these spells. A nuisance, nothing more.”
He stood and as if there had been no interruption said with a voice now fully restored, “I am here to recover Madame DeVilleurs's painting. If you refuse to give it to me, I shall take other measures. Hear what I say, Monsieur Aukrust; the full force of the law is on my side, and I will use it if I must.”
Aukrust ignored the threat and took Weisbord's arm and led him to the door. “Smoking is very dangerous,” he said, pretending to care. He turned the handle. “But if you threaten me, you'll find you are flirting with a force more dangerous than cigarettes. Even more deadly.”
Aukrust gently pushed the lawyer through the door, closed it, then pulled down the blind. The sign that read
Fermé
swung slowly like a pendulum.
Fermé
swung slowly like a pendulum.
Ilena Petrov
M. K. Malinkousky
Member of the Presidium
Russian Academy of Arts
Kropotkinskaya ul. 21
119034 Moscow
Member of the Presidium
Russian Academy of Arts
Kropotkinskaya ul. 21
119034 Moscow
Â
Dear Mr. Malinkousky:
Aleksei Druzhinin, of the University of Moscow, suggested that I write to you, and to send along his personal best wishes. Professor Druzhinin was my favorite teacher when I attended the university, and he is deeply concerned over the loss of our Cézanne self-portrait. He believes you may know of ways to put the information in this letter into the hands of people who will find the guilty ones.
During the weeks since the incident, I have asked the St. Petersburg police to take a more active role in the investigation, but they have shown little interest. I was interviewed briefly, but could only repeat how I had discovered the painting the morning after it was destroyed. Two museum guards were also interviewed, but they had been assigned to the auditorium the previous day and had not been near gallery 318 where the Cézanne was displayed. There have been no other inquiries, and I cannot explain the indifference. Perhaps it is because there is so much art in the Hermitage that the police feel the loss of a Cézanne is but one drop in a vast lake of so many paintings.
I have made inquiries on my own and have talked with every worker who might remember seeing a person or group of people who acted in any unusual way. One person, a floor supervisor who has been a museum employee for many years, did recall talking briefly to a man who had a lung illness because the tubes in his nose were attached to a cylinder of oxygen that he carried on a strap slung over his shoulder. The man was bent over and had been in the galleries next to 318 and, quite certainly, in 318 also. When the supervisor was asked if this man acted strangely in any way, he said he did not think so at the time, but when he thought about the man, he remembered that he wasn't old at all and had a strong voice, not an old man's voice.
There were two more pages of amateurish speculation and Oxby had read it all several times, but on his final reading he stopped after reaching the description of the visitor with the cylinder of oxygen. Did he really have emphysema? Did he have any authentic breathing disorder? Oxby's copy of the letter had come from Investigator Sam Turner, Police Division, Interpol, who had received it from the Moscow office of Russia's National Central Bureau, which had been sent the letter by agent Yuri Murashkin in the National Russian Intelligence Office, who had in turn been given the letter by M. K. Malinkousky in the Russian Academy of Arts.
Oxby sent Sam Turner a fax:
Sam: In re the Ilena Petrov letter: Can you arrange for an interrogation of the supervisor who saw and talked with the man carrying an oxygen cylinder? I'm curious to know in what language they spoke, how old the man was, and if he remembers any other physical characteristics; where precisely was the man when first seen, and where precisely when last seen. Run as complete an interrogation as you can under the circumstances. I know you're good at this sort of thing.
Â
J. OxbyM
argueritte DeVilleurs guided Peder Aukrust over the back roads to the Chateau du Domaine St. Martin, a small luxury hotel eight miles from Nice, tucked away in the hills above Vence. They lunched by the pool where the sun was warm and the air was cooled by October breezes coming from the Montagne de Cheiron to the north. Margueritte was at her happiest when she described Frédéric Weisbord's wild frustration over the disappearance of the painting. “He was like a child searching for his favorite toy, and when he couldn't find it, he was undone by it all. Such a fool.” Her smile faded and her head shook. “His lungs are so weak, he'll kill himself, and I'll have no regrets or feel even the smallest sorrow.”
argueritte DeVilleurs guided Peder Aukrust over the back roads to the Chateau du Domaine St. Martin, a small luxury hotel eight miles from Nice, tucked away in the hills above Vence. They lunched by the pool where the sun was warm and the air was cooled by October breezes coming from the Montagne de Cheiron to the north. Margueritte was at her happiest when she described Frédéric Weisbord's wild frustration over the disappearance of the painting. “He was like a child searching for his favorite toy, and when he couldn't find it, he was undone by it all. Such a fool.” Her smile faded and her head shook. “His lungs are so weak, he'll kill himself, and I'll have no regrets or feel even the smallest sorrow.”
“He paid me a visit,” Aukrust said casually.
“In your shop?” There was surprise in her voice. “He knows you have the painting?”
“He suspects it. He threatened to call the police.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That he should go to Paris if he is looking for Cézannes.”
“You haven't heard the last of Freddy. He has political connections and isn't above giving a bribe when he needs help.”
Aukrust nodded his understanding, then said, “What have you done about the will?”
She shook her head sadly. “Freddy has been making changes to Gaston's will for the last two years, I now realize. Occasionally he would give me a paper to signâI'd signed dozens over the years. But I didn't know that I had agreed to have the paintings put up for auction, with the money going into a trust. And I certainly didn't know that Freddy would be entitled to commissions from each sale.”
Aukrust said, “He won't have anything to say about the portrait because he'll never touch it again.”
Margueritte shook her head, “Don't be put off by his frail health.”
They went about the afternoon as if they were old friends, with
Margueritte occasionally nannying the big Norwegian with her good-natured warmth. “You have made this a happy day for this old lady,” she said as their day together finally ended.
Margueritte occasionally nannying the big Norwegian with her good-natured warmth. “You have made this a happy day for this old lady,” she said as their day together finally ended.
He looked at her somewhat quizzically. “Why are you being kind to me?”
Margueritte showed surprise. “What a silly question, Peder. Because I like you.”
“You are only saying that because you want me to do something for you. A favorâ”
“How can you, if you don't know me?”
“No, Peder. I'm saying it because I mean it.”
“Perhaps if I knew you better, I wouldn't like you, but I hope that isn't how it would ever be.” She had spoken directly to him, but he had turned away from her and was staring numbly at the darkening sky.
Other books
Grace and Shadow by Viola Grace
Seducing a Wolf: Moonbound Series, Book Five by Krystal Shannan, Camryn Rhys
Clash by Rick Bundschuh Bethany Hamilton
The Demon Hunter by Kevin Emerson
At The Billionaire's Request (The Billionaire's BBW Series) by Hamilton, Angelina Jenoire
Zombie Killers: Ice & Fire by Holmes, John, Szimanski, Ryan
Deadline by John Dunning
Dark Heart by Russell Kirkpatrick
Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2 by Lynna Banning
Marcie's Murder by Michael J. McCann