It was 9:15 in the morning when Oliveira learned that Frédéric Weisbord was in the basement garage and that he would not leave his car until he was escorted to Oliveira's office by two armed guards. Oliveira removed his jacket and slipped on a shoulder holster that held his 22LR Llama automatic pistol. Weekly practice at the police range kept his proficiency with the small gun at a high level. He phoned for the guard to meet him in the garage.
Weisbord lowered his window a crack and demanded that Oliveira show identification. “I asked for two guards,” Weisbord said irritably, coughing in obvious discomfort. Oliveira grinned. “But there
are
two of us,” and he took the pistol from its holster in a swift, fluid motion.
“I know how to use it,” he said convincingly and handed his business card to Weisbord.
“I am Roberto Oliveira, at your service.”
Weisbord was in the passenger seat, LeToque was behind the wheel, and Gaby, her eyes wide with curiosity, leaned forward from the back seat. The painting was next to Weisbord, wrapped in a blanket. Weisbord got out of the car clutching the painting, giving LeToque instructions to bring his briefcase and the portable oxygen supply. An elevator took them to the second floor, Oliveira then leading them to a room filled with unframed paintings, stacked in open shelves, and frames that were under repair or in the process of being regilded. In the corner was a camera stand flanked with lights in silver reflectors. Next to it was a man wearing a lab coat.
“The Cézanne?” the man asked.
Weisbord eyed him warily, holding the painting tightly with his thin, trembling hands.
“Who else knows I have brought the painting?” Weisbord asked gruffly.
“I confess it's not an airtight secret, Monsieur Weisbord,” Oliveira replied. “My staff, the printer who is waiting for the photograph we are about to take, and my associates in London.” In truth, Oliveira had let the word go out for the simple reason that the more who knew, the larger the attendance, the higher the bidding.
“No one else can know about this,” Weisbord said. “There is always a danger that someone might try to steal it.”
“Our vault is in a concrete bunker, and our bank has an impregnable safe. You choose which you want.”
Weisbord shook his head defiantly. “I will take it with me.”
“First things first,” Oliveira said reassuringly. “The printer must have a photograph before noon if the catalogues are to be printed on Friday.”
Oliveira took the painting from Weisbord and unwrapped the blanket. He had seen a black-and-white photograph of the self-portrait, but none in color. “From the looks of his beard, I'd say it's from his middle period, 1875 to 1878. Am I right?”
“Something like that,” Weisbord said absently. “I have complete records.”
“I am anxious to see how they compare with the history of the painting we have prepared. What you have brought will add considerable new detail.” He gave the painting to the photographer, who went
about his business with dispatch. After ten or so exposures, he disappeared into an adjoining darkroom.
“Phillipe is very good,” Oliveira said reassuringly. “He will tell us if he needs to take any more exposures, but I suspect that won't be necessary.” Weisbord looked suspiciously at the door to the darkroom then sat on the edge of a chair. A cigarette magically appeared, and he lit it.
Several minutes later, Phillipe came out of he darkroom and pronounced that he had two excellent negatives. “As I suspected,” Oliveira said, then motioned to Weisbord. “Please follow me.” Weisbord wrapped the precious painting in the blanket and held on to it even more tightly than before. They filed out to the elevator, which took them to the third floor, and then to Oliveira's office, a gracious, large room with many paintings and a magnificent display of glazed pottery from Pakistan and Iran. The windows faced Lake Geneva, and several hundred feet away the water rushed from the lake, forming a wide stream that ran swiftly past the view. The stream was the Rhône River, continuing its five-hundred-mile course south to Lyon, to Provence, and to the Mediterranean. Gaby thought it was a wondrous sight and said so in her simple way.
“Here are the printer's proofs of our catalogue,” Oliveira said, pointing to untrimmed sheets that were spread across a table by the window. “It will include the new photograph and details about the self-portrait. As I promised, I have also arranged to print a separate brochure that will feature a brief sketch of Cézanne's life and, of course, your self-portrait. Beautiful, don't you think?”
The old lawyer turned the pages and grudgingly said that it might be a “handsome brochure,” then added that it would be expensive as well. He lit another cigarette.
Oliveira said, “ We will pay all of the catalogue expenses. The photograph that Phillipe took will go here,” he pointed to a sketch of the painting on the front cover and turned the page. “There's no reason not to discuss the recent wave of terror, and we have included small photographs of the self-portraits that have been destroyed. It will add to the excitement of the auction.”
Weisbord blew a stream of smoke and nodded.
“You have some papers for me,” Oliveira said. “Important papers that I must see before the catalogue is mailed and the publicity begins.
Weisbord opened his briefcase. Inside were a dozen tabbed file folders. “Here is a complete record of each person who has owned the
painting, starting with the artist friend Cézanne gave the painting to a year after he painted it.” He handed two typed pages to Oliveira, “I believe it was Pisante.”
“Pissarro, perhaps?” Oliveira asked.
Weisbord glanced up. “Yes, you are quite right.”
Oliveira said, his smile intact. “The painting has an excellent provenance. That is not a concern.”
Weisbord took an envelope from the folder. “This contains two canceled checks signed by Gaston DeVilleurs, a signed receipt for the deposit, and a statement for the balance due, marked paid in full. There is also a registration certificate filed in Paris and dated the day following the final payment. You will agree this is evidence of clear, unemcumbered title to the painting.”
Weisbord put more papers in front of Oliveira. “This is a copy of Gaston DeVilleurs's will, as entered in court on 29 June, this year. The appropriate section of the will has been marked and specifies that no painting can be removed from the collection unless it is placed in auction under the personal direction of the executor, and, as you know, that is my role.” Weisbord smiled weakly. “It was obvious that Gaston DeVilleurs was looking after Madame DeVilleurs's interests.”
“I assume all of the paintings in the DeVilleurs collection were jointly owned,” Oliveira said.
“They were,” Weisbord replied, and coughed, slightly at first, then with a painful wheeze. LeToque moved the oxygen beside him, but Weisbord waved him off. When the coughing siege finally subsided, he handed Oliveira another sheet of paper.
“This is a copy of Madame DeVilleurs's power of attorney. It allows me to act on her behalf.” The single page contained three typed paragraphs, below which was a beautifully written, but indecipherable signature. Beneath the name was typed: Margueritte Louise DeVilleurs.
Weisbord sputtered. “A precaution only, there must not be any possibility of a misunderstanding.” Again Weisbord went into a fit of coughing then after it had run its course, wiped his face with a handkerchief, gathered up his papers, and slid them back into the folder. He handed copies of the documents to Oliveira.
“These are for your files. You'll also find instructions for depositing the proceeds from the sale. Are there any questions?”
Oliveira read the instruction then nodded. “I see no problem. We
are frequently asked to deposit the net proceeds into one of our banks in Geneva.”
Weisbord got to his feet and extended his hand to a beaming Oliveira. The meeting was over.
E
dwin Llewellyn regularly booked himself into the Stafford for the reasons that it was one of London's exceptionally well-mannered hotels, was tucked away on a convenient cul-de-sac on St. James Place, and because its obscenely high rates had a purifying effect on the clientele. Llewellyn was given his usual corner-suite on the fourth floor and in accordance with propriety, put Astrid in her own nearby room. Astrid, for her part, would be busily engaged searching for English antique furniture for an anonymous couple she described as young, wealthy, and the new owners of a twelve-room condominium on Central Park South. They arrived mid-morning on Wednesday, lazed through the afternoon, then ended the day with an early dinner.
“Sleep well, darling,” he said, unlocking the door to her room. “I'll meet you at breakfast.” He kissed her on the lips. “Eight o'clock.”
She stifled a yawn. “God natt,” she said softly.
Â
He was up early, ordered newspapers and coffee, and watched the morning television news. When he arrived in the dining room at ten before eight, Astrid was waiting, her coffee just then being served.
“You look beautifulâas usual,” he said, and squeezed her hand affectionately. “Are you sure you won't need any help?”
“I have a list of shops. I'll be fine.”
An assistant concierge came to the table and said very confidentially, “Inspector Oxby has arrived, sir.”
Llewellyn smiled. “Ask the inspector to join us.”
Astrid frowned. “You didn't tell me you were meeting him here.”
“It's a perfectly civilized place to meet someone, and I like the informality.”
She gave a hesitant smile. “It's just that I won't be able to stay long.”
“For a short while, to get acquainted.”
Both turned to watch Oxby come toward them, and by the time
he reached the table, Llewellyn was on his feet, hand extended, surprised by the deep voice that greeted him.
“Mr. Llewellyn, delighted you've come.”
“I'm happy to be here, Inspector Oxby. This is Miss Haraldsen, a friend who has come to buy some of your very best antiques.”
Oxby gave Llewellyn a firm handshake, then turned to Astrid, “Antiques?” He sat between them. “What sort of antiques? Furniture, silver, paintings?”
“Furniture, mostly. I'm doing a New York apartment, and my clients love everything English.”
“Nothing in New York?” Oxby asked and ordered a pot of coffee from a waiter who stared at him with a look of familiarity. “You Americans have 50 percent of everything we ever made right there on Third Avenue.”
“You know about Third Avenue?” Llewellyn asked.
Oxby nodded. “Counterfeit antiques are all over, including your Third Avenue. I've been there and seen it, a year ago, in fact.” His coffee arrived, and he said to Astrid, “Tell me more about what you're looking for. What period of English furniture, for example.”
A blankness came over Astrid's face, and she glanced toward Llewellyn. “Period?” she repeated with an uncertain awkwardness. “I don't think that's too important ... I'll see what's available.”
“Choose late Victorian. A reliable dealer won't put you off, and it will be authentic goods. But if you're prepared to write a large check, find a couple of Sheraton chairs; they mix well with any period. In fact, I saw a pair advertised recently.” He slipped a half dozen cubes of sugar into his coffee and began stirring. He eyed her carefully. “What do you think of Sheraton?”
She gave another weak smile. “Sheraton chairs. That would be nice, thank you.” She turned, as if to get up. “I must go, my first appointment is at Van Haeften.”
“What takes you to Johnny Van Haeften's?” Oxby asked.
The answer came slowly. “A desk. I traced a desk to that shop. It's in light colors.”
Oxby tested his coffee and approved. “Did you attend design school?”
“Yes, in Oslo,” she answered somewhat cautiously, “at the Kunst Og Handverks Heyskole.”
“Will you be going directly back to New York?”
Astrid shifted her eyes to Llewellyn. “My plans are not firm.
It depends on how soon I find the furniture.” She got to her feet. “I really must go. Excuse me, please.”
Oxby stood. “Good luck with your shopping, Miss Haraldsen. If you need help, please let me know. Antiques are our business, and we know the troublemakers.”
Llewellyn accompanied Astrid to the lobby. “You seemed a bit nervous. Is everything all right?”
“I didn't think the inspector would be so interested in my shopping trip, and I couldn't answer all his questions.”
“He's probably very knowledgeable and merely wanted to help.” He took her hand and patted it. “Plan to meet me at Brown's Hotel at four, and we'll have tea.”
“Will he be with you?”
“Inspector Oxby? I hope so. I plan to invite him.”
She sighed, turned, and walked out to St. James Place. Llewellyn watched her disappear before returning to the dining room.
“A beautiful friend,” Oxby said. “I hope that she doesn't buy a counterfeit the first time around. It's like entering enemy territory going into some of the shops.”
“Yes, I've been there,” Llewellyn said, agreeing.
“On the whole, London dealers are an honest lot, but we've got our quota of bad apples who deal in every deceit imaginable. They're nearly as venal as those in the art world.”
The two men asked and answered questions in an easy conversation, getting a grasp of each other. “What's your schedule today?” Oxby asked.
“I've set the day aside,” Llewellyn answered. “Alex Tobias said you wanted to talk, and I have nothing more important to do than help find the son of a bitch who's burning up Cézannes and who killed Alan Pinkster's curator.”