Free The Cézanne Chase by Thomas Swan Page A

had come to do. He took a bottle from his medicine case and poured a clear solution onto the negatives. After half a minute tiny bubbles began to appear on the emulsion, then the images dissolved into a dark gray slurry. He rinsed the negatives at the sink, blotted them with a paper towel, then slipped them back into the sleeve. He obliterated the corresponding small photographs on the contact sheets in the same way, then put the negatives and photographs back into their folders before returning them to the file cabinet.
    Next he rubbed a cloth over everything he had touched, checked for footprints, then, certain he would leave the darkroom precisely as he had found it, let himself out.
    When he reached his car Aukrust noted it was several minutes past eight o’clock. To deal with the problem of the photographs had taken less than an hour ... and that included the inconvenience caused by the little man who smelled of piss and asked for fifty pence. He drove north to the M25, then west to a motel near Heathrow Airport.

Chapter 9
    B letchingly Parish in the County of Surrey was chartered over a thousand years ago, and the Church of St. Mary’s in the center of the village was about half as old. Jack Oxby knew of the small church with its horizontal tower and graveyard of headstones, many of which were so weatherworn as to defy even the most skillful rubbing. Now he sat in the familiar quiet of a church sanctuary where he would not be disturbed.
    His thoughts centered on how Clarence Boggs had inhaled powerfully toxic fumes and had died quickly and painfully. Coming to light was the fact that Boggs’s gambling debts had become considerable. Dangerously so, Oxby mused. Gambling debts were often called in with threats of physical violence, and occasionally force was used to enforce the demands. In the rare instance when the ultimate punishment was meted out, it was usually quite brutal and served to send a powerful message to others who weren’t paying up. Even so, a dead man can’t pay a gambling debt.
    The pews in the nave were a mix of old and new. Oxby sat in an old one, on the aisle, his shoes off, his feet on a prayer cushion, an open notebook on his lap. On the back of the pew in front of him was carved the date December 25, 1715, and the word “Noel.” Unexpectedly, he was greeted by the pastor, the Reverend R. Peter Zimmer, who had a large, round head and fat cheeks the color of strawberries. “St. Mary’s is usually locked,” he said with a mild voice, explaining that vandals and petty thieves made that necessary but that too often the security was lax.
    It was not surprising that the local vicar knew that a valuable Cézanne owned by Alan Pinkster had been destroyed and that Clarence Boggs’s car had crashed. He also knew that Boggs was dead. They talked agreeably for a number of minutes, the Reverend Zimmer confessing that he envied the exciting life of a Scotland Yard investigator, and Jack Oxby recounting his many visits to churches, cathedrals, and temples in and near London.

    â€œMy mother church is Westminster Abbey,” Oxby said matter-of-factly, causing the Reverend Zimmer to narrow his eyes and purse his lips quizzically.
    â€œDid you know Mr. Boggs?” Oxby asked.
    Zimmer shook his head. “Only vaguely, he was not a member of our congregation, but then I’m not sure that he was a member of any church. But a decent chap, as I remember. He had lost his wife, but had a charming daughter. Gillian, I believe. And there’s a granddaughter. A bright little child. I recall seeing Mr. Boggs at our church bazaar.”
    â€œWhen was that?”
    â€œHasn’t been a year. We chatted briefly.”
    â€œI understand he bet heavily on the horses,” Oxby said. “Had you heard of his gambling habits?”
    The pastor took his hand from his pocket and put it to his mouth. “Very little, except that there was a rumor that he was gambling