The Cézanne Chase by Thomas Swan Page A

them?”
    â€œHe insists on following the terms of the will.” Her eyes widened and anger showed. “He wrote it, of course.”
    â€œPerhaps you can loan the painting to the museum.”
    She shook her head vigorously. “Freddy saw to that, too. He’d like to see every one sold, and for the highest possible price.”
    â€œPerhaps I can help.”
    Margueritte’s eyes brightened. “What can you do?”
    Aukrust lifted the portrait from its hooks, then held it at arm’s length. “You can ask me to replace the torn paper, here on the back.” He turned the painting around and pointed to the paper. “I could also check the canvas for mildew or mold, then replace the hanger wires.” He grinned. “I could find several months’ work once I began looking for it.”
    â€œOf course. Old paintings and frames always need fixing,” she mused. “I promised the director at the Granet that they can display it during their Cézanne exhibition when it opens in January. You could deliver it to them.” She laughed. “Freddy would be furious. He claims it will bring a record price.”
    â€œFor a Cézanne, it might,” Aukrust agreed.
    â€œThe Granet has raised seventy-five million francs, that’s more than enough.”
    â€œIn an auction in New York or London it would bring twice as much.”
    She folded her arms across her chest and stared at the self-portrait then toward the country scene. Her mind was racing, and she was suddenly struck by the immensity of what was before her. Neither she nor Gaston had purchased or sold a painting in nearly seven years; instead
they had traded shrewdly, reducing their collection from more than thirty paintings to the eleven that were on the walls in front of her.
    A new determination had come over her, and she spoke firmly. “I will speak with Freddy about the will. My family’s money paid for these paintings, and I’m not going to let a selfish old fool tell me how or when or to whom I must sell them. For the present I’ll leave everything as it is.”
    She smiled. “On to more important matters. Let me pay you for the new frame.”

Chapter 12
    L ancet Ventures Ltd. occupied the thirty-first floor of National Westminster Tower, the tallest building in the City of London, though no longer the highest in all of Greater London, as that distinction belonged to One Canada Square on Canary Wharf, the spectacular and speculative real estate development that had come into being in the middle of the Thames River. Lancet’s offices were furnished in an understated elegance and, by the reckoning of some, expensive beyond reason. The grandest space of all was a conference room that commanded a view of the Thames to the south and St. Paul’s Cathedral to the west. Beneath a wide spreading chandelier was a table made of teak inlaid with blond and brown grained woods, surrounded by two dozen high-backed chairs upholstered in a silk fabric designed with eagles and lions and purple-red roses. A painting by Jackson Pollock and one by Andrew Wyeth were given prominence on an interior wall and were flanked by two unremarkable paintings by contemporary British artists. One, a geometric exercise in shapes of red, was by Margaret O’Rourke and aptly titled Untitled A while the other, Number 3–1954 by Jeremiah Tobin, was a vast canvas of blue with streaks of purple and green that had been applied by a broom swept over wet paint.
    Lancet Ventures was owned equally by First Bank of New York and London/Westminster Securities. The New York offices were precise duplicates of those in London and were located on the thirty-third floor of the World Trade Center towers in lower Manhatten. Lancet’s business was the infusion of capital into new enterprises, and over a threeyear period Lancet had scored a few hits but too many misses; so word had come down from the executive suite to