A Brush With Death by Joan Smith Read Free Book Online

couple of years old, as insignificant in appearance as himself.
    “Now we go to the police?” I said.
    “Menard said he'd report it."
    “He doesn't know all the facts."
    We drove away. John stopped at the closest corner store and darted in. When he came back, I said, “Do the police want us to go back there?"
    “I called Parelli."
    “You should call the Montreal police. We know it was Bergma. We can't let him get away.
    He took my hand and squeezed it. “Haven't you heard, the world's a global village? Even if he leaves the country, he won't escape. I'd like to give him enough rope to hang himself, and get whoever he plans to sell those pictures to in the noose along with him."
    “It doesn't seem right, withholding evidence. We'll be accessories to murder or something."
    “Gino's going to meet us. The evidence is still there, in Latour's back. That was a strange-looking knife. There can't be too many like that around. I wonder why the murderer left it behind?"
    We were still in the parking lot beside the convenience store. Driving in Montreal isn't conducive to conversation, of course, but it was cold and uncomfortable in the car.
    “I imagine people lose their heads when murdering someone,” I said wanly.
    “The murderer remembered to take the tin box. Now what the hell could have been in it? If Latour had a slide for the Gachet portrait, he must have had slides for the other nine, but I didn't see them in the apartment. Maybe there were slides in the box. There were papers too, from the heft of it. Probably his passport, insurance papers. He was using an alias, so Bergma might not want his real identity to come out. Parelli's supposed to meet us at ten tonight. He can give us a hand with all this."
    John put the car in gear and we drove back downtown. “We have an hour to kill before Parelli gets here,” he said. “Do you want to eat?"
    I shivered. “No, thanks. I seem to have lost my appetite."
    “A shot of whisky would hit the spot. Are you still trying to cultivate a taste for Scotch?"
    ''I want something warm.''
    “An Irish coffee. We'll have it at my hotel, if that's okay with you. Parelli's meeting me at the hotel."
    “Let's have it at the bar,” I said. “I want to be around people. I feel so depressed."
    “I'll leave word at the desk to page me there,” he said, and I went on ahead to the bar.
    It was busy at Christmas. The buzz of conversation and eruptions of laughter were reassuring after just having seen death. The demoiselles looked as soignée and ravishing as usual, but I wasn't in the mood to admire or envy them. A steaming cup of Irish coffee, larded with whipped cream, helped fill the empty feeling inside. John took a shot of Scotch straight, and sipped the soda water while we talked.
    “You know,” he said, frowning into his glass, “I'm coming to the conclusion that Latour wasn't actually stabbed."
    I blinked in surprise. We'd both seen the knife sticking out of his back. “Are you giving me that old philosophical chestnut about projectiles slowing down at some rate so that they never actually reach their destination?"
    “And Saint Sebastian died of fright,” he nodded. “No, I'm taking common sense here. What I mean is, Bergma didn't so much stab him as throw the knife, maybe from the doorway."
    “I still say he stabbed the man in the back, literally."
    “What bothers me is why Bergma left the knife? I think he wanted to kill Latour, but didn't have the guts to attack him. Latour was a pretty wiry guy. I bet Bergma's a scrawny, effete cultural snob. Maybe somebody was coming, so he hightailed it out of the apartment without recovering his weapon. And he was afraid to go back. The knife was still there when we arrived."
    “Let's hope it's there when the police arrive. I hope it's got Bergma's prints all over it, and they arrest him."
    John glanced nervously at his watch. “I hope they don't. Parelli should be here soon. I wonder if I should ... No, an unusual request