The Cézanne Chase Read Free Page A

records, a young Australian couple had informed the guard in Gallery A that something was wrong with one of the paintings, a small Cézanne self-portrait, one that the artist had painted of himself without a hat, looking dead-even at the viewer. The paint had begun to dissolve, and splotches of foam the size of large coins were spotted over the canvas. Tiny wisps of what seemed to be smoke escaped from the foam, and a sharp, sour odor surrounded the picture.
The painting had been rushed to the conservator’s laboratory where it had been bathed in mineral oil and the action of the acid halted. But all efforts to save it were too late.
    There were no clues, nor had there been a warning or letter or even an irrational phone call. Bottom line: No one claimed responsibility, yet it was obvious that the smoking briefcase had been a diversion and had quite admirably served the purpose of emptying the gallery of visitors and security personnel.
    The incident had been reported in the morning tabloids, and one speculative writer with the Sunday Sport had gratuitously given the destroyed painting a value of $29 million. Another suggested an investigation into the Gallery’s security system was long overdue. The Guardian ’s headline escalated the affair to the level of a national disgrace, and an editorial in the Times concluded, “... there is much to explain concerning the woefully inadequate, if not complete absence of, proper surveillance and security. We have lost a national treasure.”
    On the following morning, the director of the National Gallery, Sir Anthony Canfield, K.B.E., convened a meeting at ten o’clock. In attendance were three chief supervising security managers; the guard assigned to Gallery A; plus guards from the adjacent galleries, corridors, and all entrances to the building. A Miss Cook took verbatim notes. Also present was Elliott Heston, Commander of Operations Command Group—OCG—under which was the Arts and Antiques Squad, Metropolitan Police. The director of security, a curiously private man named Evan Tippett, was attending a conference in California. He had been reached by phone and given preliminary details of the painting’s destruction. He had asked several questions, then directed that a full report be on his desk when he returned.
    Elliott Heston focused on what he considered to be the most intriguing question: “Why a Cézanne self-portrait? Any thoughts on that?”
    â€œI haven’t a clue,” Canfield replied, “but whoever’s up to this horrible mischief has a ways to go. Lionello Venturi’s catalogue of Cézanne’s paintings shows that he completed twenty-five self-portraits. Not the life’s work of a man lacking ego, would you say?”
    Heston ignored the question. “Any other portraits in England?”
    â€œThere is one. Owned privately by some upstart collector south of London ... uh, man named Pinkster.” He handed a sheet of paper to Heston. “This inventory of the self-portaits is the best we’ve got, but
it’s incomplete and woefully out of date because at least two of the portraits have been sold, and we don’t have a record of the new owners. And two more are on loan, and we’re not certain where either one is at this point. There’s a separate report that describes a self-portrait owned by an American named Llewellyn. It’s a bit of a mystery because the public has never really seen it. We’ve got a black-and-white photograph and not a very good one. But its provenance is flawless. Add that to the others and there are—correction—were—twenty-six in all.”
    Heston stood, shook hands around the table, then eased himself out of the meeting room. He went on to his car, walking with long, deliberate strides. He was tall and angular, with the build of a distance runner, which he had been during his school years. His hair was unruly and would likely fall