The Cézanne Chase Read Free

Christie’s Impressionist and
Modern Paintings Department. “What did you think of the Pontoromo?”
    â€œNot a great deal,” Llewellyn replied. “Not worth what the Getty paid.”
    â€œAgreed,” Harvey said. The brightness in his eyes suddenly faded. “I’ve been waiting to give you a piece of bad news we received from our Moscow agent this morning. The media’s not in on it yet.” He moved closer to Llewellyn. “The Cézanne self-portrait in the Hermitage was destroyed.”
    â€œDestroyed!C Llewellyn said incredulously. “How in God’s name did that happen?”
    â€œNot sure.” Harvey shrugged. “We havn’t received a complete report, but we think it was sprayed with some kind of acid. Whatever it was, the painting’s a complete ruin.”
    Llewellyn stared past Harvey Duncan to the small stage, where minutes earlier a painting, to his mind of no great consequence, had sold for $35 million. “Any idea who did it?”
    Harvey shook his small, round head. “No. But I suggest you tighten up security around that collection of yours. You act as if all you had were a few old copies of the National Geographic .”
    In fact, Llewellyn had inherited a collection of paintings. The star among them was a self-portrait by Cézanne. His grandfather had bought it from Cézanne’s agent Ambroise Vollard in 1903. The others were the work of run-of-the-mill artists and together were worth a fraction of the value of the Cézanne. He had acquired other paintings, each one valuable, all by Americans except one by Marc Fortin, a Canadian.
    â€œNo one gets past Fraser, and I’ve got triple locks everywhere,” Llewellyn said triumphantly. “And then there’s Clyde.” Fraser was a combination handy man, cook, and family retainer, and Clyde was a Norwich terrier with a marked proclivity for barking at the slightest provocation.
    Harvey replied wryly, “Yes, of course, there’s Clyde.” He looked up at Llewellyn, his eyes now showing deep concern. “We’re friends, Lew, and I don’t want anything to happen to you or your painting, but THOMAS SWAN Rembrandt’s Night Watch a few weeks ago. Fast work and a layer of lacquer saved it.”
    Harvey gave Llewellyn a firm, yet friendly pat on the shoulder. “They’re mad, some of them. And people get hurt.”

Chapter 3
    O n Tuesday the 13, shortly before noon in the National Gallery off London’s Trafalgar Square, the miniature pagers carried by security personnel emitted an irregular beeping sound that meant an emergency condition existed and commanded all guards to report immediately to their duty stations.
    In the corridor off Gallery A an attaché case had burned furiously, throwing off thick, black smoke. It had caused hysteria among the visitors, particularly the crowds in rooms where the smoke had reached. The beeping of the pagers had been joined by fire alarms sounding throughout the great old structure. Foam was needed, and a crew arrived to smother the stubborn blaze and put out a row of fans to blow away the dirty, foul-smelling air. Though nearly all of it had been reduced to black ash, the attaché case was surprisingly recognizable, its metal lock and hinges intact. Someone had scooped the remains into a plastic bag.
    The entire floor had been evacuated as a team from the security department began their investigation, and the curatorial staff made a room-by-room assessment of the damage. The smoke had been cleared within an hour, and the only apparent damage had been a burned scar on the wood flooring and a fine layer of soot that settled over several nearby pictures. The incident was put down as one of those bizarre and troubling affairs and most likely an accident caused by someone too embarrassed to explain what happened.
    By two o’clock the gallery had been reopened, and soon after, at 2:15 according to the