A Brush With Death Read Free

much."
    “What is it that's turned you off?” I watched with amazement as his face stiffened, and his eyes took on a look of some negative emotion. “Is it another guy?” he asked, in a hard, don't give a damn voice, that didn't fool me for a minute.
    “No, silly. It's Holland.” He gulped noiselessly, his jaw unstiffened, and a quiet little smile lifted his lips. Not anger then; it had been fear. “Couldn't Paris be your basis of operation? You said Paris had Van Goghs too. And anyway, Jeff got the job, you said."
    “Yes, Jeff got the job, so we can forget about the Hague. Oh good, here's our food."
    The beef, simmering in a wine and mushroom sauce, melted in the mouth. The snowpeas were just right, with a vestige of crunch, and lightly sautéed in butter and shallots. I have never had bread like they make in Quebec anywhere else. A puff of yeasty air, held in place by a crisp brown crust. The Médoc John chose to go with it wasn't bad either. I could hardly find room for the chocolate mousse. When I tell you I left two whole forkfuls on my plate, you will realize the meal was more than filling.
    John scrawled his signature, hardly glancing at the bill, though my Argus eye noticed that it came to three figures. It was cheap at the price.
    “It's almost worth the lethal traffic for a meal like that,” John said, patting his tummy. “So, I guess I take you to your place to hit the books. Can I see you tonight?"
    “You bet. What will you be doing this afternoon?"
    He hesitated a telltale moment before answering. “I have a little something I have to look into."
    My sixth sense received a red flash. “John, are you on a case? You said you came to visit me !"
    “I did! Of course I did. But while I'm here, there's a guy I want to look up."
    He was helping me on with my coat, lifting my hair out from the bunched-up hood with loving, clinging fingers.
    “What guy?” I pinned him with a demanding stare.
    “No, you're busy: You go on and study. I'll see you tonight."
    “What guy?” I repeated.
    “Well if you must know, he's a forger, Yves Latour by name, but..."
    Blood sang in my veins. My ears hummed, and the portals of paradise opened a crack. “I'll study tonight. Tell me all about him while we drive to his place. Are we going to do a stakeout?"
    He shook his head and laughed. “It looks like it."

CHAPTER 2

    “Where does this Yves Latour live?” I asked.
    “That's the first thing I have to find out. He won't be in the phone book. Let's sit a minute while we sort this out."
    We sat in the marble and plush lobby of the Bonaventure while he told me about Yves Latour.
    “Since art has become such big business, there are a lot of guys doing forgeries and imitations. Of course some of them get caught by all the new analytical methods—X-ray rigs, analyzing the pigments by optical emission spectographs, infrared spectrometer. They use a laser microanalyzer and gas chromatograph—mass spectrophotometer and..."
    “I get the idea, John."
    “The company sent me on a course,” he grinned. “They have lots of other complicated technical stuff. The Doerner Institute in Bavaria is one of the best, if not the best for that kind of work. Even with all that technology, some of the forgers still escape them."
    “Can't all those spectro things tell them the age of the canvas and paints?"
    “A lot of the old masters used wood, not canvas. The forgers have gone hi tech too. They pry off an old table top of the right period, and use the right pigments. Get the craquelure quality of the finish by putting it in an oven. One guy even ground up an old lead clock weight to add to his white pigment, to beat the half-life test. The guys are good. In spite of all the technology, the human eye and common sense are still the best detectors."
    “Does Yves Latour do all these tricks?"
    “Some of ‘em. Van Gogh moved around a lot, and he was usually so poor that he used whatever came to hand. The same colors keep cropping