Free The Cézanne Chase by Thomas Swan

door.
    Inside the folders were manila envelopes, each one identifying a project. Also inside were negatives inserted into clear plastic sleeves, notes, a record of expenses, and contact sheets on which were printed as many as thirty-six tiny photographs from a roll of 35mm film. He inspected each envelope until he found the ones containing photographs of Astrid and him at Pinkster’s gallery.
    Built into the table top was a sheet of frosted glass illuminated from below. He spread the negatives on the glass, then leaned down to
inspect the small images. He chose those in which he and Astrid appeared and set them aside.
    â€œEvenin’, mister,” the scruffy little man standing at the door said. The sudden intrusion stunned Aukrust.
    â€œI saw you come in and thought I’d ask if you got any job I could do.”
    Aukrust smelled the gamey odor of ale and urine.
    â€œMaybe you could help me with fifty pence?” He shook his head. “No food for two days.”
    â€œNo money,” Aukrust said, recovering, “and no jobs.” “Come back in the morning. Maybe we have something for you then.”
    The man’s head tilted, and he looked up to Aukrust. “You talk like my friend Swede. We was on freighters a while back.”
    Aukrust took another step, waving the man toward the rear door. He picked up the tire iron. “In the morning, I said. Now get going.”
    â€œBefore—when you came in here, I heard you.” He went on, a curious innocence to the way he spoke, “Not quiet, like you had a key.”
    Aukrust grabbed a bony shoulder and turned the little man around. He looked down at the bearded face, at the fleshy nose with a fresh cut on its side, into watery, lifeless eyes. “What are you saying?”
    â€œI’m sayin’ who is this big man without a key? A friend of Mr. Shelbourne?”
    â€œA business friend.”
    A wide grin erupted on the grubby face. “Shelby’s my friend, too,” he said. “He takes pictures of me. And he pays me. Two quid he pays.”
    The man turned his head up, the tiniest glint of pride showing in an otherwise dull face. The tire iron swooshed through the air. Instantly, his mouth and eyes popped open, and he fell onto the floor. The little man rolled away and got to his feet. Aukrust grabbed his sleeve, but the man pulled free and ran across the platform and jumped down onto the gravel, landing awkwardly. Before he could regain his balance, Aukrust was on him.
    â€œNo ... no!” the voice pleaded.
    A single, violent blow to the head above the right ear killed the man, but Aukrust swung again. The second strike crashed on an angle across the pitiful man’s face, splitting open his nose. Aukrust lifted him as if he were an oversized, dirty doll, staring at his bloodied face in the semidarkness.
    A car’s headlamps poked into the black air from a few hundred
yards away. Aukrust ran, carrying the body to a rubbish bin, then crouched in the black shadows. The car continued slowly toward him. He heard the radio. Police on routine patrol. It paused when it was directly behind Shelbourne’s shop. Aukrust tensed. He began counting to himself, as if knowing how long the police car did not move would make a difference. Slowly, it moved on.
    Aukrust pressed his fingers tightly against the man’s neck, not expecting to find a pulse and not finding one. His only thought was that he had been inconvenienced, that he had come to dispose of several negatives but now had a body to get rid of. He went over to the shop where, earlier, he had seen workmen unloading a truck. Close to the building was a dumpster half filled with old lath and plaster. He went back for the body, carried it to the dumpster and put it inside, then covered it over with the old plaster.
    Slowly, Aukrust worked his way back to Shelbourne’s darkroom and to the negatives on the light table. Finally, he could complete what he