“The plans have been changed. There will be a special exhibition of Cézanne's paintings next January in the south of France. In Aix-en-Provence. I was told that Llewellyn has agreed to loan his portrait to the exhibition, and that he may want to deliver it personally. In that case it may be easier to take the painting from him while he is transporting it.” He ran his fingers across her hand, “By that time, you and Llewellyn should be very good friends.”
“I think that wherever Llewellyn goes, the dog will go.” A little laugh escaped, “And the better the dog knows me, the more it will bark when it sees me. It's a silly problem, but a problem.”
“Perhaps I have a solution.” Aukrust unsnapped the straps on his black bag. It was made of leather and was eighteen inches long and round like a bolster pillow. It was a medicine case designed for a homeopathic physician. In it was a honeycomb of compartments that held four two-ounce glass-stoppered bottles, six three-dram, ten tendram, and twelve one-ounce vials. In all there were more than thirty homeopathic remedies with names like nux vomica, jatropha, and apis mellifica, known also as honeybee poison. There were pockets for powder papers, surgical knives in sterilized sleeves, sutures and needles, a stethoscope, tape, bandages, and miscellaneous medical supplies. The initials CRM were goldleafed on the side of the case. A British passport said he was Charles Metzger, a medical doctor. His card announced he was a practitioner of homeopathy and gave a London address. But she had called him Peder. A Norwegian passport in an inside pocket of his jacket identified him as Peder Aukrust. A French visa listed an address in Cannes.
“This is for you.” From one of the pockets inside the medicine case he took out a lipstick and held it in front of her so she could see its soft gold color. She looked at it curiously.
“It's not an ordinary lipstick.” He pulled off the cover. “Let me demonstrate. Twist to the right and you have lipstick. âPassionately Pink' they call it,” he grinned uncharacteristically. “Twist to the left and you see nothing. But press it against the thigh of Llewellyn's pet
and a hypodermic needle will spring out and release 2 cc's of trianylseconal, which will silence the bark quickly... and forever.”
Astrid stared at the lipstick case for several moments. “But, I don't want to kill it.”
“It's only a dog,” he said flatly. “We can't take chances.”
She put the cover on the lipstick and dropped it into her purse. “I want you to come with me.”
“That can't be. There are matters here to settle while you are in Boston,” and for the first time he smiled as if actually enjoying himself.
“Peder,” she began, her eyes unable to look into his, “when we started you said that three paintings would be destroyed. Now it's four.”
He shook his head vigorously. “The world will do nicely without a few of Cézanne's portraits. Besides, each remaining one will be worth a great deal more than before.”
He again reached into the black bag, took out a brown envelope and handed it to her. “Here is five thousand dollars. I'll send a bank check for more. You'll have it in a week.”
She put the envelope in her purse. “I'll call you on Sunday at the same time,” she said. She looked at him, closed her eyes briefly, then got up and went out into the terminal.
He watched her leave and continued staring at the spot where she disappeared among the milling passengers. By his hand was the newspaper and the photograph of Clarence Boggs. He glowered menacingly. “Fucking photographer.”
A man came to the table, put down his tray and sat. Aukrust turned to him, nodded silently, then gathered his newspapers and the oddly shaped black bag and walked out to the line of taxis.
T
he Thames River may be the most famous short river in the world. Only two hundred miles in length, it is perhaps better known for its great width: three hundred yards shore to shore at London Bridge and at its estuary to the east of London the banks are nearly six miles apart. Because of the severe bomb damage to the great docks during the London Blitz in World War II, and because of the dramatic changes in the way goods were shipped in and out of London, vast stretches of the river suffered decades of neglect and deterioration. Then came a massive rebuilding project on the Isle of Dogs after the war that brought a renaissance to the great river, an event damned by some, cheered by others, bringing financial disaster to its developers.
River traffic had changed, too. Barges, small freighters, and pleasure craft replaced the huge containerships. Beneath brightly painted Albert Bridge, at the foot of Royal Hospital Road. was Cadogan Pier, home port to a hodgepodge of private and charter boats. One was a reincarnated forty-year-old harbor tug, its hull painted black, its rails and deckhouse in bright yellow and green. It flew several pennants, among which were a faded British flag and a bright new Greek flag. Carved into a piece of polished wood, painted in gold letters, was the boat's name:
Sepera.
A woman came on deck and spoke to a stockily built man who stood at the railing. “Is it time, Nikos?”
He answered, “A new one is coming, and the new ones are always late the first time.”
“His name,” she said. “It is not a Japanese name.” Then she shook her head, “Is it Mezzer? or how do you say it?”
“It's not a Greek name,” Nikos replied. “Dr. Mets-gar, I think.” He turned to her. “You have an easy time of it tonight. Only to make the big room ready and take him there.”
His black eyebrows were like two wooly-bear caterpillars joined
at the bridge of a strong, broad nose. Over his mouth was a bushy mustache swirled out to carefully scissored tips. He drew heavily on the stub of a cigar then flipped it into the water. “We are to go to the barriers and turn back at Greenwich. An hour's cruise, I was told. No more.”
“I would prefer to cook a meal,” she replied. “It is boring to do nothing.” Her hair was black, and her eyes were a deep, dark blue, like the evening sky. Her skin was the color of pale olives, and her name was Sophie. Nikos was native to Pátrai on the northern coast of the Peloponnesus. Sophie's mother was Sicilian, and she was born in Italy and had lived in five Mediterranean countries while growing up. Her family was headed by a wine-loving father who could never remain employed as a boat builder.
That Nikos and Sophie were captain and first mate on a converted tug was its own story. The previous summer they were two in a crew of eleven on a yacht that reached Portofino and remained anchored there while its owner entertained business friends vacationing on the Italian Riviera. Nikos served as second mate, and Sophie worked in the galley and tended to the needs of the owner's wife. It was then that a guest offered them a boat and a salary and the chance to begin their own charter business on the Thames River in London. Neither had been to England; they spoke little English and knew nothing about the Thames and the changes taking place on the Isle of Dogs or about the landmarks along that sometimes treacherous waterway. But they were guaranteed work visas, licenses, and permits, and in the first year while learning the language and becoming acclimated to their new life, their benefactor promised to keep them busy with his own needs for the boat. He allowed them to give the boat whatever name they wished.
As the air cooled, a mist rose up from the water and spread across the Embankment. A figure appeared and stopped next to a small pagoda beside the dock. Nikos watched the tall man come past the boats tied up next to the
Sepera,
a canvas bag slung over his shoulder. He paused at each boat, as if searching for a particular one. When he reached the
Sepera,
he stopped. Then, after looking back along the route he had taken, he walked slowly toward the opening in the railing that ran along the sides of the ungainly old tug. Nikos was there to greet him.
“Dr. Mets-gar? Do I say it right?”
Peder Aukrust looked intently at Nikos, then at Sophie. He nodded and said that he was.
Sophie stepped forward and gave a weak, but welcoming smile. “Please come with me,” she said and gestured toward an open door leading into the cabin. Toward the bow, steps went up to the pilothouse; a small room aft contained chairs, tables, a television, and a bookcase. There was a narrow door, and she opened it. “The steps are very steep,” she said attentively. They started down a sharply angled flight of stairs, paused on a metal grill landing, then continued down another flight. She waited until he joined her belowdecks in a room barely four feet square. She pushed open a door, revealing a room that was as wide as the boat, thirty feet long, with a ceiling twenty feet above the wood floor.
“This is what is called the Grand Salon”
â
she grinned for having pronounced the words so well
â
“and everything is here for your comfort.” Next to the door they had entered were two cabinets built into a mahogany-paneled wall, each with bright brass hinges and latches. Sophie swung open the door on the left. Inside was a well-stocked bar, a wine cabinet, and an icemaker. Behind the other door was a miniature, fully equipped galley.
“What may I make for you?” She said the words precisely, in an oddly pleasant combination of her own accent and proper English.
He looked at the rows of bottles behind her. “Scotch whiskey and water,” he said; “only a little whiskey.”
Sophie prepared the drink with professional dispatch and handed it to him. Her smile had not faded, and she turned and went out through the door they had entered. The latch clicked. He was alone.
Grand Salon was an apt name for the room in which he found himself. The paneled walls were deep red mahogany and windowless. Set out from each long wall were leather couches, their color nearly the same dark red as the polished wood in the walls. The floor, made of wide planks and joined with wood dowels, was original to the boat. Neatly laid into the wood floor near the entrance to the room was a bronze plaque. It read: KING WILLIAM, MAY 12, 1909, CRAWFORD YARDS. The wall at the far end of the room was bare except for a giant-screen television. Four oversized chairs occupied the center of the room, and Aukrust wondered how they had been brought down the steep stairs. Beside each chair was a small chest, and on each was a leather folder containing a writing pad and pen. One chair was
clearly meant to be more important than the others, so he thought of it as the “important” chair, larger than the others. On the painted chest next to it was a telephone and lamp.
Then came the sound of a diesel engine rumbling at low power, sending thick vibrations through the boat. He felt a rocking motion as the
Sepera
started under way, and the engine settled into a deep purr. The television screen brightened and a clear picture resolved out of the static. A camera positioned somewhere above picked out other boats on the river and automobile headlights moving along the Embankment, then four creamy yellow smokestacks at the Battersea power station. Aukrust tried opening the door, but as he had assumed when Sophie went from the room, the clicking of the latch had been the sound of a lock tumbling into place. He made a slow turn around the room, inspecting the panels and concluding that each would swing open if he could find a way to move them. The engines were in the stern, but there was no obvious way of reaching them. He sat in the important chair, drink in hand, and stared at the television screen.
A series of blasts came from the
Sepera,
three short bursts followed by three more. The last three came from speakers behind the television screen. Then silence followed by a high-pitched whistle. Silence again. Then clicking noises as if channels were being switched. Finally a faint buzzing sound that faded and was replaced by a man's voice.
“Peder, my friend, I apologize for not joining you, but I thought it might serve our mutual interests if you visited the
Sepera
alone the first time. Nikos and Sophie will tend to your needs, and after listening to the message I have recorded, you will find the door has been unlocked and you may inspect this old boat if you wish.”
Peder Aukrust showed little emotion during the comments made by the voice so eerily detached from the pictures on the television. He wore, if anything, a bemused expression, perhaps one of admiration. He recognized the voice and knew its owner very well.
“Of course we have important business to go over.” The unhurried, relaxed tone had suddenly changed. The pleasantly polished voice was businesslike.
“You have done well thus far, three paintings in eight days. I had doubts that could be accomplished, particularly the National Gallery. However, the unpleasantness in Surrey and your ingenious method for the disposal of Mr. Boggs may have produced too many complications...
too many unnecessary trails for the police to follow.”
Aukrust took a sip from his drink, never taking his eyes from the screen, which now showed a sailing yacht returning from what probably had been a cruise in the channel.
“I understand there is another nuisance. A photographer was in the gallery.”
Aukrust reacted angrily. “Damned stupid mistake and something's got to be done about it.”
The voice continued. “His name is Shelbourne, and he has handled the photographic requirements of the gallery from time to time. But to avoid the chance that one of his photographs might include you or Astrid and might get into the hands of the police, I suggest that you pay a visit to his studio and destroy both the prints and the negatives. I will see to it that Shelbourne receives an assignment that will take him away for a week. His studio is on the main business street in Reigate, and it's not likely you will have a problem with alarms, as Ian Shelbourne is distressingly careless about such things.”