The Cézanne Chase (Inspector Jack Oxby, Book 2)
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Scotland Yard's art crime detective Jack Oxby tackles the mystery behind the destruction of valuable Cézanne paintings, criss-crossing St. Petersburg, New York City, London, Provence, Boston, and Paris.
When Inspector Jack Oxby links the shocking defacing of two of the 26 extant Cézanne self-portraits in London's National Gallery to a mysterious death outside London, the chase is on. The high-risk world of international art is exposed, as is the ruthless adversary behind the intricate and deadly crime.
the lock and pulled the door shut behind him. For a precious few seconds he stood motionless, eyes closed. At the stairs he heard footsteps coming toward him. He about-faced and started up to the floor above. At the turn of the staircase he stopped and was able to see a man’s legs coming up the stairs and running in the direction of room 28. Aukrust started down, slowly at first. Then when he was past the second floor, he took the steps two at a time to the lobby. A silent television picture
intense determination as the circumstance required, and his rich baritone had been trained for both singing and acting. He spoke French with the ease of a Parisian and Italian with the singsong fluency of a very proper Florentine. Oxby had also mastered the infinite ranges of accents and idiosyncratic slang of the language spoken throughout the British Isles. He could identify and mimic a solicitor from Glasgow as well as a Liverpudlian stevedore. Heston’s smile faded. “Something’s come up, and
like Cat to shore up the defenses? It was also on that Sunday afternoon that Aukrust had moved the car to a spot beneath the wide spread of a huge beech tree. The weather had changed, from clear and warm to clouds and a cold wind that made waiting seem endlessly uncomfortable. He had replayed over and over the telephone conversation he had had with Astrid, amused to learn that the police called him Vulcan. Had they known, they might have called him Heimdall, the Norse god of fire. From Astrid he
room assignments. Two more cars came in rapid succession. First were Gustave Bilodeau and Marc Daguin, so Oxby deduced—their five-year-old Renault bore a Provence license plate. In the second car was Curtis Berrien, whom Oxby knew slightly. By 6:30 Oxby had put a red check next to each name on the security council roster. He had recorded Astrid Haraldsen’s name and would learn who owned the golden Oldsmobile. Though there were eleven names on Lemieux’s list, it seemed that everyone had brought
remember precisely. Perhaps I vaguely recall seeing a man in the group.” “Can you describe him?” Shelbourne closed his eyes and winced as if trying to bring up a mental picture, then he shook his head, “Honestly, I can’t remember anything except that he was taller than everyone else, but most men are taller than women, so that’s no help. You must understand that I use a motorized camera with extremely fast film to catch candids of a group passing through as that one was. When I can fire off in