The Blood Lance Read Online Free PDF

everyone else. Marcus of course had no trouble fitting in. Unlike most cops the world over, he actually enjoyed the company of the rich. He had found out early in his career that the rich paid handsomely for their favours once they trusted him and understood there wasn't much he wouldn't do if the price was right.
    Of course Marcus knew there were people at the party who imagined Kate Brand had invited him out of sheer bravado. Rumours had circulated for years that Roland Wheeler had made his fortune by stealing paintings in other countries and then selling them to Swiss collectors. As Wheeler had grown older, or so the gossip went, he passed the torch to his only daughter. No one could prove it, of course, but then again, no one much cared to try. Roland Wheeler had bought his way into Zürich society with lavish gifts to the city and with the confidences he kept for the sake of his Swiss clients. Besides, theft happening beyond the borders of Switzerland was not really a Swiss problem.
    Marcus didn't mind a few snide remarks at his expense. The occasion was too grand to miss, and it certainly didn't hurt a man's career to make acquaintance with the likes of this crowd. He didn't exactly hand out his business card, but he wasn't afraid to tell people where he worked. After all, someone might need his help some day. It only made sense to let them know where they could find him.
    As he made his way from room to room, Marcus took inordinate pleasure at reading the names on the various canvases. So much so he hardly considered the paintings themselves. But who cared? Rothko, de Kooning, Pollock, Kandinsky, Picasso: they threw paint at the canvas and it was worth more than he could earn from the city in a decade!
    It was staggering to imagine the value, and all the more so when one considered that Roland Wheeler had started life in the East End of London as a common burglar. Following a series of encounters with the police and a suspended sentence for possession of stolen goods, Wheeler had made his way to Germany. In Hamburg Wheeler's life had taken a turn for the better, including marriage to an English beauty, a job in an art gallery, and finally the birth of a baby girl. No one knew much else about Wheeler's early career but a few years later he had his own shop in Hamburg, another in Berlin and a third in
    Zürich. The rough edges of London's East End had all been knocked clean. Roland Wheeler had become respectable. Following the death of his wife in the early 1990s, Wheeler had left Germany and moved to Zürich. The move had apparently worked out well for him. Over the next several years he became extremely wealthy.
    'Close to a hundred million,' one guest estimated when Marcus asked the value of the collection Wheeler's daughter had donated to the city.
    'Francs?' Marcus asked with something akin to awe.
    The man, who was English, offered a stiff smile, 'Pound Sterling - on a good day, at least. I'd say Swiss Francs in a weak market.'
    Marcus, who had acquired a Monet from Wheeler in October of 2006, asked about the market at present. Was it a good time to buy or sell?
    The Englishman hedged. 'It depends entirely on what you are talking about, I suppose.' He glanced at the watch Marcus wore, his shoes, and the cut of the cloth of his smoking jacket. Marcus gave nothing away in the details of his costume. He might be a respectable civil servant or a man worth ten million francs. More than that amount, he knew, and everyone in the room would know about it. The Swiss were a very polite people, as a rule, but when it came to money they were terrible gossips.
    'A Monet, for instance,' Marcus answered.
    The eyebrow cocked dubiously. 'You own a Monet?' The Englishman's German was impressive: he had mastered a quite gentle sarcasm by sheer inflection. Of course the arched English eyebrow helped.
    Almost blushing, Marcus answered, 'A small one.' He made a gesture of slipping a small canvas under his jacket, and the man