Secret Combinations (16 page)

“I feel like crap.”

“What's up?”

Kenyon took a pull on his beer. “Oh, nothing much. Lydia was a forger.”

“What?”

“She was selling fake paintings.”

“How do you know?”

“One of her customers complained.”

Kenyon could hear Marge chewing on her cigar. “Who was the customer?”

“Archie Lump.”

“The bookie?”

Everybody seems to know this guy but me, thought Kenyon. “Yeah. He was pretty pissed off, too.”

“Hey, maybe Lydia didn't know it was a fake.”

“Yeah? Then why did she gave him back twice what he paid for it? Lydia bought him off.”

There was a long pause from Gonelli. Finally, she continued. “What are you going to do now?”

Kenyon sighed. “I don't know. I just want to come home.”

“What happened to finding Lydia's killer?”

Kenyon thought of O'Neill's reaction when he had asked her about Lump. Had she known about the forgery? Was she covering for Lydia? “If I continue, I'm going to open a can of worms.”

“Yeah, but if you stop now, you know what will happen?”

“What?”

“You'll regret it for the rest of your life.”

Kenyon leaned forward, silent, his head down. Finally, he spoke. “You're right, Marge.”

“Of course I'm right. So here's what we're gonna do. First off, who knows Lydia was murdered, besides you and the cops?”

“I told Tanya O'Neill, Lydia's solicitor.”

“Who else?”

“Um, Happy Harry.”

“Who?”

“He's a cabby. He's been helping out.”

“From now on, don't go blabbin' about this murder stuff. Until you got motive and opportunity, everyone's a suspect, right?”

“Right.”

“Okay. Now we nail down the motive.”

“I haven't come across a good one, yet,” said Kenyon.

“What about this fake painting stuff? Don't that sound like good motive to you?”

“You mean Lump?” said Kenyon. “Lydia paid up. He's got no beef with her.”

“You know the old saying, kiddo: where there's smoke, there's fire. Who
else
might be mad enough over a bum painting to kill her?”

Kenyon sat up straight. “I didn't think of that. You ever cover any forgery cases, Marge?”

“There was one out in Hawaii a few years back. Some clown sold a ton of fake Dali prints to tourists off a cruise ship. Made over two million before he got nailed.”

“How'd he get caught?”

Gonelli sipped her coffee. “Spelled Dali's name wrong.”

“And he still sold a
ton
? How could you ever get so many stupid people in one place?”

“I take it you never been on a cruise ship.”

Kenyon smiled in spite of his mood. “Okay. So you figure there could be more of these Maggote forgeries out there?”

“Yeah,” said Gonelli. “But this don't sound like no simple fake prints scam like the Dali thing. What you need to do is talk to someone who knows the local scene.”

Kenyon immediately sat up. “I know just who to call.”

The next morning, Kenyon arose
bright and early from a restful sleep and went down to Lydia's kitchen. He plugged in the kettle and made a cup of instant coffee, then sat down at the kitchen nook.

Normally, having to drink a cup of instant coffee would have put Kenyon in a foul mood, but he felt happy, almost buoyant: he had a plan of action.

Taking a business card out of his wallet, he picked up the phone and dialed a local number. After three rings, voice mail kicked in. “This is Hadrian deWolfe,” a male voice said. “Please leave a number and I will ring back presently.”

“This is Jack Kenyon calling on Tuesday morning around ten. Please give me a call when you get in.” Kenyon hung up.

The agent was just finishing his coffee when the doorbell rang. He went to the foyer and found Raymond Legrand standing on the front step.

“What do you want?” asked Kenyon.

Legrand looked down at his shoes. “I came to apologize.”

“For what?” replied Kenyon. “Tailing me, or screwing around with my aunt?” The agent stared hard at the man, waiting for an argument, but Legrand hung his head contritely and said nothing.

In fact, the man had such a whipped dog look that Kenyon couldn't hold his anger long. He sighed, and stood back from the door. “You want a coffee?” he asked.

The Frenchman looked up. “Yes, please.”

They walked down the hall to the kitchen. The water in the electric kettle was still warm. “All I have is instant black,” he said.

“That will do fine,” said Legrand.

Kenyon poured the coffee and handed it to the Frenchman. Legrand took one sip, and his eyes went wide. “Perhaps I shall forego the coffee,” he said. He went to the sink and poured it down the drain, careful to lift a large bar of soap out of the way first.

Legrand then joined Kenyon at the breakfast nook. “My gardener Bernard told me you came out to Ingoldsby Manor,” he said.

“Yeah. I spoke to your wife.”

Legrand looked Kenyon in the eye as he spoke. “It was wrong for me not to come to the reading of the will the other morning. But now that you have met Ilsa, I think you can understand my reluctance to face her.”

Kenyon didn't disagree; he remembered the way she had plugged those grouse with her shotgun. “That doesn't excuse you from following me.”

Legrand stared at his black coffee. “I was not completely truthful with you about the briefcase.” His gaze returned to Kenyon. “If it were to go through Lydia's solicitor, then Ilsa's lawyers might learn about it.”

“So?”

Legrand coughed. “In the event of a divorce, I would prefer if the contents remained confidential.”

“Well, it's a moot point right now,” Kenyon replied. “I can't find it.”

Legrand idly fingered Lydia's keys on the breakfast table. “That does not surprise me. Lydia had a special hiding spot.”

“Where?” asked Kenyon.

Legrand pointed over the agent's shoulder. “There is a false ceiling in the wine refrigerator.”

Kenyon opened the glass door. The ceiling
did
appear to be about two feet lower than the rest of the room. “How do you open it?” he asked.

Legrand fetched a stepping stool from under the kitchen counter. “There is a latch on the side.”

Kenyon stood on the stool and felt along the edge where the wine shelf met the ceiling; he quickly found the latch that held a hinged panel shut. The agent eased the panel down, exposing a dark cavity above. He could discern a bulky mass looming in the shadows.

Standing on his tiptoes, he was just tall enough to ease his head through the opening. It took a second for his eyes to adjust, but the bulky object turned out to be the compressor for the wine cooler. “I don't see any briefcase,” he said.

“Have a careful look,” replied Legrand, from below.

Kenyon turned, scanning the dark recess. The light didn't penetrate far; he had to stretch one arm and search blindly through the space. He checked a second time, but all he found was thick dust. He eased out of the recess and closed the latch. “Nothing up there,” he said.

Legrand shrugged. “Well, it was worth a try. Lydia liked to hide things—I fear she may have hidden this one too well.” He turned to leave.

The agent followed him down the hall. “Don't worry, I'll keep looking,” he said. “I'll give you call when I find it.”

Legrand turned and clasped his hand warmly. “Thank you. You're a good boy.” He opened the front door and quickly left.

Kenyon watched the Frenchman climb into his beat-up Range Rover and drive off, then returned to the kitchen. His hands were filthy with dust. He went over to the sink and ran some water over his hands, but to his chagrin, he couldn't find the bar of soap.

Just then, the phone rang. Wiping his wet, dirty hands on the tea towel, he grabbed the kitchen unit.

“Hello, it's deWolfe calling,” said the evaluator. “You left a message?”

“Yes. I'd like to get together with you. Is lunch okay?”

“Lunch would be splendid.”

“Great,” said Kenyon. “My treat. Where would you like to meet?”

“Have you ever been to the Ritz?” asked deWolfe.

Kenyon recalled the name on Lydia's credit card bill. “No, but I'd like to go. Where is it?”

“It is near Lydia's gallery,” said the evaluator. “You can simply hail a cab and tell them the Ritz, and they will know.”

“Fine,” said Kenyon, glancing at his watch. It was almost eleven. “I'll meet you there at noon.”

“Splendid. Oh, and wear a suit jacket. It's rather tony,” said deWolfe.

When Happy Harry picked Kenyon up at half past eleven, the street was busy with traffic. Kenyon was getting used to the route now, and recognized the Wellington Arch as they passed Hyde Park Corner.

The taxi pulled up in front of the Ritz Hotel. It was a large, impressive stone structure on the south side of Piccadilly. Kenyon glanced at his watch as he paid the cabby his fare. “Come back for me in an hour, okay?”

“Right, guv.” The cabby beeped the horn as he drove off into traffic.

DeWolfe was standing in the lobby when Kenyon entered. “I was very pleased when you called,” he said as he shook Kenyon's hand. “What do you think of the Ritz?”

Kenyon stared at his surroundings. “It's wild,” he admitted. The foyer opened onto a long indoor promenade decorated in gold leaf and marble. Halfway down the promenade was a piano bar with large palm trees reaching toward a thirty-foot ceiling.

The dining room was located at the end of the promenade. A maitre d' in a tuxedo stood guard. A silver pin on his lapel announced that this was Artur.

“Table for two,” said deWolfe.

The maitre d' glanced down his nose at Kenyon's jacket and Levi jeans. “Have you a reservation?” he asked in a French accent.

Kenyon shook his head. “No.”

Artur checked his book and shook his head. “I am sorry, but we are full for lunch.”

Kenyon looked over the maitre d's shoulder into the empty restaurant. “Are you kidding me? You could hold bazooka practice in there.”

Artur's lip curled slightly. “I repeat, there is no room.”

Kenyon was ready to walk away when deWolfe intervened. “Artur, this is Mr. Jack Kenyon, the nephew of Lydia Kenyon.”

The expression on Artur's face suddenly transformed. “I am so sorry to hear about your aunt's demise,” he said. “She was an absolutely lovely woman.” He extended his hand and shook Kenyon's warmly. “Please accept my condolences on behalf of all the staff.”

“Thank you,” Kenyon replied, astonished at the sudden reversal.

“Do you have anything in the garden?” asked deWolfe.

“But of course, Monsieur,” he replied. Artur turned on his heel and led them through the restaurant.

The restaurant's decor matched the opulence of the rest of the hotel. The floor was covered in a carpet of burgundy and robin's egg blue, and marble columns capped in gold leaf rose to a ceiling covered in a trompe l'oeil fresco of fluffy clouds.

They passed through glass doors onto a patio overlooking Green Park, and Artur sat Kenyon and deWolfe down at an ornate, wrought-iron table.

A waiter soon appeared. He wore a gold cluster of grapes on his lapel, and reverently carried a bottle of Bordeaux wine in the crook of his arm. “On behalf of the Ritz, we would like to offer you a complimentary bottle of wine in the memory of Miss Lydia Kenyon.”

DeWolfe leaned forward to read the label. It was an Haut Medoc Superior, vintage 1966. “An excellent selection, Sommelier,” replied deWolfe. “We shall be more than delighted to accept.”

Kenyon watched the waiter depart to open the bottle. “They sure seem to have thought a lot of Lydia around here.”

“This was Lydia's favorite entertaining spot. Whenever one of her celebrity clients came to town, she always brought them to dine at the Ritz.”

“And that's why they're springing a nice bottle of wine on us?”

“They hope Lydia's nephew will carry on the tradition.”

Another waiter brought menus, and the two men perused the contents. Kenyon stared at the entrees; half of them were listed in French. He noted, with alarm, that there were no prices listed.

The wine steward returned and poured a glass for sampling. Kenyon swirled a sip in his mouth. The wine was strong yet smooth, and tasted of wild berries. He nodded; the sommelier filled the glasses, then departed.

DeWolfe placed his glass back on the table. “I am flattered, of course, that you have asked me to dine, but might I inquire the reason for the invite?”

“I had hoped to learn a little about the art business from you,” Kenyon replied.

“Are you thinking about running the gallery yourself?”

“I'd like to explore my options. I was hoping you could fill me in on how things work in this town when it comes to art.”

“Why don't we order first?” said deWolfe. “Shall I pick something for both of us?”

Kenyon nodded gratefully. “Go right ahead.”

DeWolfe called the waiter over and ordered several courses, then sat back in his chair and pondered where to start. “Art in Britain is big business,” he began. “Several billions' worth of paintings and other artwork are sold annually, and London is the center for most of the action.”

“Several billion?” Kenyon whistled. “I had no idea it was that large.”

DeWolfe nodded. “The recent recession took a big bite, but Christie's and Sotheby's auction houses alone still have annual worldwide sales in excess of a billion. And there are a handful of
UK
-based houses that turn over 100 to 250 million pounds annually.”