Secret Combinations (15 page)

The Final Drop was located within the shadows of the tall spires of the Royal Courts of Justice, and most of the pedestrians were either solicitors attired in black robe and wig, or defendants dressed in business suits.

There were several wooden picnic tables outside in the sun. Harry went inside to order, while Kenyon sat and stared at the street.

The cabby returned with two pints of lager and sat down opposite Kenyon. “Cheers,” he said, tilting his glass. “Now, what's eatin' you?”

Kenyon shook his head and mutely stared into his beer.

“Don't you worry about me repeating anything,” Harry admonished. “We cabbies have an unwritten rule; never blab wot's done in the cab.”

Kenyon still remained silent. He felt reluctant to talk, not because he didn't trust Harry, but because he didn't want the humiliation of not being believed.

Harry nodded over his shoulder toward the cab. “I seen a few things in this taxi, my son, you just wouldn't believe. Things made of rubber.”

Kenyon couldn't help but look at Harry.

The cabby, noticing Kenyon's interest, continued. “I once got it in the back of me neck with a leather whip, I did. Nearly drove into the Thames.”

Kenyon smiled, in spite of his mood. “What I have to say isn't pretty.”

“Neither is me mom when she takes her teeth out, but I still love her.”

Kenyon sighed. “My aunt, Lydia, was murdered, and nobody in London believes me.”

“That's 'cause you ain't told me, yet,” replied Harry.

Kenyon explained how everyone thought Lydia had been killed in a car accident, but his subsequent discovery of the letter from the Organ Donor Foundation proved it was murder. “I mean, it's bad enough that the cops didn't believe me, but Tanya, Lydia's friend, thought I was nuts. She said I was trying to destroy Lydia. How can I destroy her?”

The cabby shook his head, equally perplexed. “Maybe it was just too much of a shock to her,” he said. “Did you think of that?”

“No, I didn't.” In his mind, Kenyon ran through the encounter again, and realized how insensitive he had been to her feelings. “I feel like a brass-plated asshole.”

Harry waved his hand. “She'll be all right. Give her a bit. She'll see it your way.”

Kenyon took a long drink. “I hope so. I'm going to need her.”

“If it means anything, I believe you.”

Kenyon smiled. “Thanks. It does.”

“Listen, I'll help.” The cabby tapped his thumb against his breast. “Old 'Arry, here, he knows this town, like. You just ask me anythink.”

“I don't know.” Kenyon stared at his beer for a moment. “You ever hear of a guy named Archie Lump?”

“Sure have,” said Harry.

Kenyon was delighted. “Who is he?”

“Just the biggest bookie in town, is all.”

Harry drove the taxi west
for several miles, finally pulling off the main road onto a quiet side street. “This here's Belgravia,” said the cabby.

Kenyon surveyed the neighborhood. Belgravia had the look of old money, and lots of it. The streets had long, ornately planted parks running down the middle of the boulevards, and Rolls Royces and Ferraris were parked by the curbs. Large baskets of geraniums and petunias hung from wrought-iron light standards. Except for a Royal Mail postie pushing a three-wheeled cart, there were no pedestrians on the sidewalks.

Harry pulled the cab over to the curb in front of a large, well-kept home. The residence appeared identical to the rest of the mansions along the street; white, four stories high, with grey-and-rose granite pillars flanking a large black door.

On closer inspection, however, Kenyon noticed the
CCTV
cameras mounted in the vestibule and under the eaves of the house.

“Archie Lump's one heavy bookie,” said Harry. “Whatever you want to bet on, he'll take it.”

“I thought gambling was legal in the
UK
,” said Kenyon. “Can't you just go down to a betting shop on the corner?”

“Yeah, but then it's all recorded,” said Harry. “This here's for folks who don't want no tax man looking too closely at what they got, if you get my drift.”

Kenyon understood. A drug baron who wanted to throw a few million away at craps had to choose his venue carefully if he didn't want the Feds on his tail. “What's Lump like?”

Harry chewed on a toothpick. “Smooth, but don't let that fool you, mate. He's got a mean streak, he does.”

“How mean?”

“A few years back, some stockbroker in the city run up a couple hundred grand on credit with Archie, then tried to welch when he lost his dosh in the market crash. They found him swinging on a rope under Waterloo bridge.”

“I take it the cops didn't think it was suicide.”

Harry snorted. “Tough to hang yourself with your eyeballs in your back pocket.”

Kenyon couldn't help but think of Lydia's blinded eyes. Had she been killed over unpaid gambling debts? It didn't make sense: she had paid out one hundred thousand pounds. Did she owe Lump more? Kenyon opened the door. “If I'm not out in an hour, send in the Marines.”

Harry laughed. “Don't you worry none; I'll keep an eye out for you.”

Kenyon groaned at the bad pun as he got out of the cab. He walked up the tiled stairs to the front mansion and pressed the doorbell.

A few seconds later, a female voice came out of an intercom box. “Who's calling, please?”

The agent stared into the camera lens in the box. “Jack Kenyon. I'm here to see Archie Lump.”

“One moment, please.”

Kenyon stood at the doorway staring back at Harry's cab for almost a minute before he heard the electric buzz of the lock being released.

“Please step inside, Mr. Kenyon.”

The agent advanced into the vestibule. A large, burly man dressed in a three-piece suit was sitting at a desk behind the door. He stood up and, without formality, frisked Kenyon for weapons. He then picked up a small bug detector and ran it over Kenyon's clothing. Satisfied, the man returned to his chair and pressed a button under his desk. “The reception room is first door on your left,” he said, pointing down the hall.

Kenyon's footsteps echoed down the hall as he advanced into the building. From somewhere deep inside the house he could hear phones ringing and people talking. The first door on the left was inlaid with intricately cut glass. He opened it and stepped into a large reception room that had been decorated in shades of blue, with elegant curtains gathered back in gold tassels to let in the light. It was well furnished, with Regency chairs and side tables gracing the walls. An informal setting of stuffed chairs sat in the bay window.

It seemed as though the room had been purposely laid out to exhibit an impressive display of artwork, ranging from early impressionist to post-abstract modern. Kenyon strolled around, idly examining the pieces, until he came to a still life. He stood before the oil painting, fascinated. It depicted a bowl of fruit, a vase, several flowers, and a small statuette, all done in a primitive brush-stroke, but with a complexity and understanding of color that transfixed the observer.

“Matisse,” said someone behind him. “Cost me a packet, that did.”

Kenyon turned to face Archie Lump. The bookie's fat, round face poked out of the top of a finely cut silk suit. The few strands of hair that still clung to his head had been neatly trimmed. Almost incongruously, he clutched an ancient, white toy poodle in his left hand, the animal almost hidden by immense, thick fingers. “Name's Archie Lump,” he announced, in a broad, East London accent. “And this 'ere's Cuddles.”

Kenyon shook the bookie's hand. “Jack Kenyon.”

Lump motioned toward the set of stuffed chairs. “You any relation to Lydia?” he asked, as he lowered himself into his chair.

“Yes, she was my aunt.”

“Sorry to hear about your auntie,” he replied. “Always sad when someone in the family dies.”

Kenyon wondered if the bookie felt that much sympathy for the dead stockbroker's next-of-kin.

The guard at the door appeared carrying a silver tea set.

“Cup o' tea?” asked Lump, as the man placed it on the coffee table. “Try these bickies, they're lovely.” He fed one to Cuddles, who gummed at it gingerly.

Kenyon sipped his tea and ate a biscuit. “You have a wonderful collection of art,” he said.

“Thank you. I do love it, I do. Some of it came from your auntie's shop. I've got a Degas statue at home, and a Maggote here in my office.”

“Did you say
maggot
?”

“Yep, only the French, with an
e
on the end.”

“Is that the artist's real name?”

“No, he changed it. Thought of himself a bit of a shit-disturber, he did.”

Kenyon put down his teacup. “I came here to ask you about a recent dealing you might have had with Lydia's gallery.”

Lump cocked one eyebrow. “What is it, lad?”

“Why did Lydia give you one hundred thousand pounds cash?”

Lump shrugged. “That's a private affair, lad.”

“Private or illegal?”

“None of your business.”

Kenyon drew out his
FBI
badge and flashed it at Lump. “I can make it my business.”

Lump sat back in surprise. “You got no jurisdiction here.”

“We can extend enforcement on money laundering worldwide, Lump.”

The bookie absently petted Cuddles, his beady eyes fixed on Kenyon. “I'm clean.”

“Maybe you are, but what about your clients? How would they feel if we started asking them questions about their dealings with you?”

Abruptly, Lump's demeanor changed. “In that case, I shall be delighted to explain.”

Lump rose from his seat. Placing Cuddles gently on the chair, he walked over to a piece of art on the wall, the one he had purchased from Lydia's gallery. “You see this here?”

Kenyon approached warily. The abstract painting was about one foot wide and eighteen inches tall. It consisted of electronic bits and pieces—transistors, chips, and wiring boards—attached to a panel in a geometric form, then splattered over with bright blobs of red, yellow, and blue paint. It looked like R2D2 barfed, thought Kenyon. “What is it?” he asked Lump.

“This here was painted by Marcel Maggote. I knew him when he was alive. Screwy French bastard, he was, but he had talent.”

Kenyon looked from the painting to the bookie. “What happened to him?”

“He got a taste for heroin. Bought a bad batch two summers ago and went into convulsions.” Lump smiled a feral grin. “Choked on his own vomit, he did.”

Kenyon stared at the bookie silently, waiting for him to continue.

Lump tapped the painting. “Before he died, I got old Maggote drunk one night, and he showed me this.” With a delicacy that belied his thick fingers, Lump pried away a flat microchip from the surface of the painting. He turned it over. There, hidden from view, was a small portrait of the Fred Flintstone cartoon character.

Kenyon examined the tiny likeness. “Why did he do that?”

“It was like his little joke, see? Nobody knew he did it, but him.”

As Lump carefully replaced the chip, Kenyon stared at the Maggote, puzzled. “What does this have to do with you and Lydia?”

Lump finished his task and turned to Kenyon. “A couple a months back, when I was in Monaco, one of me lads got a call from Lydia's gallery. The gallery told him they had one of Maggote's works up for private sale, and was I interested?”

“What did you do?”

“I jumped at the chance. They wanted fifty grand, and that seemed reasonable. Old Maggote was dead by then, and his stuff was worth a lot more. I had my boys pick it up.”

Kenyon felt the bookie was getting off topic. “Where does Lydia's payment come into all this?”

Lump pointed to the agent's chair. “I was sitting right there last week, admiring my new Maggote, when I thought, 'ere, Archie, let's have a look an' see what the lad's got painted under this new one. But, you know what? I couldn't find nuthink.”

“Nothing?”

“No. And you know why? Cause it was a fake, it was.”

“I don't understand.”

Lump leaned forward and tapped Kenyon on the chest with a meaty finger. “Your Auntie sold me a forgery, she did.”

Kenyon was stunned. “A forgery?”

Lump, enjoying his discomfort, continued. “I called her up, real polite-like, and told her I wanted me money back. She came right over that afternoon with one hundred grand cash and took it off me hands. No questions asked.”

Kenyon's face reddened. “I had no idea . . .”

Lump smiled cruelly. “Well, now you do.” He picked up a silver bell from the tea set and shook it. It tinkled. The guard appeared immediately at the french doors. “Now, get the fuck out o' me house,
FBI
man.”

Kenyon turned and quickly retreated. The sound of the toy poodle's bark, and Lump's laughter, followed him down hallway.

•  •  •

Kenyon sat in
Lydia's kitchen, drinking a beer. It was late at night, and the room was dark. Sitting on the table in front of Kenyon was Lydia's set of keys. They glowed dully in the faint moonlight that streamed through the kitchen window. He picked them up and weighed them in his hand. He shook them, and they jingled softly, whispering their secrets.

The phone rang. Kenyon stared at it for a moment, wondering who would be calling this late. He finally put down the keys and picked up the handset.

“Yeah?”

“Did I wake you up, kiddo?” asked Gonelli.

Kenyon could hear the sounds of the
FBI
's San Francisco office in the background. It must be late afternoon there right now. “No, I was just sitting here.”

“You sound like crap.”