A Brush With Death Read Online Free PDF

Latour, who's on the side of the angels when it comes to Christmas wallowing in a spending spree."
    I still foresaw difficulties. “But who'll buy the originals Bergma steals when everybody thinks they were sold legitimately to some museum?"
    “You have to realize this whole thing has been simmering for a year. I bet the buyer was in on it from day one. There are lots of closet-connoisseurs out there who'd buy the Mona Lisa if they could get a hold of it. They don't want to show it off to the world. They're not in it for the prestige. They're kind of greedy psychos. They just want to own the thing, and gloat over it in private. If we hadn't figured this out, those originals would have been spirited off to some castle in Arabia, or Japan, or some stately home in Europe. Places like that are damned hard to get into."
    I enjoyed a mental image of John shimmying up a crenellated castle wall in Bavaria, with wolves yapping at his heels. I poured him some coffee and between grins and praising himself, he drank.
    “I knew this was too big for Latour to handle alone,” he said. “Bergma's the brains behind it. All we have to discover now is who's the purchaser. They say that every successful enterprise needs three people: a dreamer to come up with it—that's Bergma."
    “You mean schemer, don't you?"
    “Whatever. The schemer, that's Bergma. A doer—that's Latour. He's really doing the work. And they need a son-of-a-bitch."
    “That's the buyer? Why do you choose him for the son-of-a-bitch?"
    “That kind of wealth is obscene. If those rich guys weren't so greedy and selfish, nobody'd steal priceless objets d'art that belong in museums. We'll get him too before this is over. We're going to play this one real cool. No cops. Let Latour and Bergma think they're getting away with it, and nab the three of them when the deal goes down."
    After we had talked about all this for a little longer, there was a tap at the doors “That'll be the P.I.,” John said.
    I didn't plan to miss a minute of this, and followed him to the door. Led astray by movies and TV, I had pictured some glamorous Humphrey Bogart-type private eye, drinking his booze out of a bottle and talking out of the side of his mouth. What greeted us was a completely undistinguished-looking man in a rumpled suit and hooded jacket. He was short, middle-aged, with snuff-colored hair and dark eyes. What came out of his mouth when he spoke was the local joual, of which I understood about two words in ten. His name was Monsieur Menard, and he was from the agency.
    “Do you speak English at all?” John asked.
    "Mais oui, certainement. I speak Engleesh good like français."
    “That's great,” John said, and drew him into the room. He wrote down Latour's address and description, our hotel room number, and told him he wanted Latour followed, but very discreetly.
    “We are deescreet—the Deescreet Detective h'Agency. This Latour, he's playing around with your woman—wife? You got the picture of her?"
    “No. No wife. Just follow him. Get pictures of anybody he meets. I want time and place. Comprenez?"
    "Wye.” Joual for oui is wye.
    “Never mind why,” John said. “Just tail him, real close."
    “It's okay, John. He said yes,” I explained, and smiled apologetically at M. Menard.
    John looked embarrassed and said, “Oh, I see. Well, merci. Call me here. I may not be here all the time, but you can leave a message by phone."
    "Wye. I stick with him like the glue."
    M. Menard left. It was already after four o'clock, and loathe as I was to leave, I did have to crack the books. I reluctantly put on my coat. Then, when it was too late, John turned romantic.
    “You're not leaving!” he exclaimed.
    “I have an exam tomorrow afternoon, a toughie. Existentialism. But it's my last one. We really have to talk about the Christmas holidays, John."
    He drew me into his arms, snuggling his hands under my coat, and rubbing his whiskered lips against my cheek. “Existentialism,