Secret Combinations (6 page)

Time for a distraction. A box of blackened potatoes had been discarded beside the rear door of a grocery shop. Kenyon dug through until he found a spud that was still fairly firm. Careful not to burn his fingers, he jammed the potato up the car's muddy exhaust pipe.

It took about thirty seconds for enough pressure to build up. Then, with a loud bang, the potato shot out of the exhaust pipe. Kenyon could hear the occupant moving around in the car, wondering what happened. A few seconds later, he heard the driver's door open.

Kenyon rose to a crouch and, when the driver came around the back, reached up and grabbed him by the lapels and spun him up against the wall. The man struggled weakly, but Kenyon twisted his right arm behind his back and shouted in his ear. “Freeze!
FBI
!”

“Please, Monsieur Jack,” said the man in a French accent. “I mean no harm.”

Harry came running up, brandishing a tire iron. “I got you covered, guv,” he shouted, taking up a position to Kenyon's right.

Keeping the man's face pressed against the wall, Kenyon frisked him for a gun. Finding no weapon, Kenyon spun him around.

His pursuer was a man of around sixty with black hair streaked with grey. He wore a dark blue, pinstripe suit and a stained silk tie. He was slim and held himself erect, like a former military man.

“How do you know my name?” asked Kenyon.

“I am Raymond Legrand. I am—was—a friend of Lydia's.” He reached one hand inside his suit jacket.

Kenyon slapped the hand away. “Keep your hands up!”

The man obeyed. Kenyon reached inside Legrand's jacket and withdrew the wallet, opening it up to inspect the contents. The wallet held about twenty pounds in bills. Kenyon found the driver's license, and pulled it out. “Legrand, Raymond Jacques,” it said. Although the hair in the photo was darker, it still matched.

Kenyon handed Legrand the wallet and stepped back. The man lowered his arms and began to move forward, but Kenyon held up a warning hand. “You're not going anywhere until you do some explaining, partner.”

Legrand eyed Harry, who still stood brandishing the tire iron. “As you wish.”

“Why were you following me?” Kenyon asked.

Legrand stared deeply into his eyes. “I wanted to meet you.”

Kenyon found Legrand's scrutiny disturbing. “Why didn't you come to the reading of the will?” he demanded.

Legrand dropped his piercing stare to the ground. “It is a bit embarrassing. I do not wish to say.”

“Know what's even more embarrassing, guv?” said Harry, smiling to show off his dental work. “No front teeth.”

Legrand got the message. “I did not go because I expected my wife Ilsa to be there. We are recently separated, and I did not wish there to be a disturbance.”

Kenyon pondered this for a moment. “So why were you following us?”

Legrand coughed. “I believe there was a behest in the will for me?”

Kenyon thought back. “Yeah. A Louis Vuitton briefcase.”

Legrand raised his eyebrows in supplication. “I was hoping to retrieve it from Lydia's home.”

Kenyon eyed Legrand closely. “No. I'll send it through the office of the lawyer who's handling the estate. You can pick it up there.”

Legrand's eyebrows fell. The Frenchman reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a card. “Please, if you should reconsider, I would be most grateful if you were to drop it off at my office.”

Kenyon read the card.
R.L. Investigations, Raymond Legrand, President.
“What's R.L. Investigations?”

“We handle mostly international clients,” he explained. “We investigate counterfeiting, industrial espionage, that sort of thing.”

“You're a
PI
?” asked Harry.

“Oui,” said Legrand.

“I'd brush up on my tailing, if I was you,” said Harry, lowering his tire iron. “You stink at it.”

Legrand gave Harry a withering glance, then, brushing at a shred of cabbage that clung to his suit, he walked back to his car. He gave Kenyon one more penetrating stare, then got into the battered Rover and drove off without another word.

“What do you think of that?” asked Harry, as the two men got back into the taxi.

Kenyon shook off a sudden feeling of unease. “I think he's so full of shit, his eyes are brown.” Harry laughed long and hard as they returned to the car.

It was only a few blocks further to Lydia's home, and Kenyon added a generous tip when they reached 61 Herringbone Gardens. “Thanks for your help,” said Kenyon.

“No problems, guv,” said the cabby, pocketing the money. “You just remember what it says on my card, ‘Don't start the party without me.'”

Herringbone Gardens was a quiet
side street just off Cromwell Road. Kenyon stood on the curb for a moment and looked around; Lydia's place was situated in a long row of Georgian townhouses. Each white-washed, three-story townhouse was fronted by black, wrought-iron fencing and a twin set of pillars. Across the street, large sycamore trees loomed over a well-manicured park.

With Lydia's ashes in one hand and his luggage in the other, Kenyon made his way up the steps to the front door. It was a massive oak affair with cut-glass panels and a large, round brass doorknob.

He put his luggage down and unlocked the door. “Hello?” he called, as he entered the foyer. “Anyone home?”

No one answered. Kenyon glanced around at the foyer. It had a warm, Mediterranean feel to it. The walls were painted in deep sienna and the floor was covered in black marble tiles streaked with creamy calcite veins. A spray of white calla lilies in a glass vase stood in memorium on a sidetable at the base of a grand, spiraling staircase. He put Lydia's remains down beside the flowers, then fetched his bag into the house and closed the front door.

When Kenyon entered the living room, he whistled out loud in amazement. The walls were covered in modern art and rose at least sixteen feet to the ceiling. The room was furnished with a suite of white, plush furniture. The drapes that covered the large bay window alone were more expensive than every stick of furniture in his apartment back home.

Kenyon's gaze focused on a suit of armor that stood near the fireplace. The suit, complete with helmet and a pole axe resting in a gauntlet, had been polished to a high gleam. Kenyon approached for a closer look. Fine filigree had been worked into the metal, and the pole axe had been sharpened to a razor edge. He resisted the urge to lift the helmet visor and peek inside.

Kenyon dropped his suit jacket onto the couch, then wandered into the adjacent dining room where eight upholstered chairs stood around an immense granite table.

Marveling at the taste and expense, Kenyon continued on to the kitchen. The countertops were a buttery marble. One corner of the kitchen, adjacent to a breakfast nook, had been closed off by a sealed-glass door to create a wine closet.

Thirsty, Kenyon poked around in the fridge and found several cans of beer in the back. He snapped the top of one marked “Caffrey's
.”
He took a long gulp; the ale tasted smooth and creamy.

Carrying his beer, Kenyon wandered back down the hallway to the foyer. As he ascended the curving staircase, he absently ran his hand along the smooth wooden handrail. It felt cool under his fingers. At the top of the stairs he turned left and headed for the room overlooking the street.

It was the master bedroom. The curtains were semi-translucent, filling the room with a warm, soft light. A king-sized bed with an upholstered headboard rested against one wall, adjacent to a rosewood chest of drawers fronted by spiral columns. A flatscreen
TV
and
DVD
player were fitted into a cherry wood cabinet across from the foot of the bed.

Kenyon sat on a loveseat that rested in the big bay window; a pair of fluffy pink slippers poked out from underneath. He bent over and picked one up, turning it in his hand. He imagined Lydia sitting on this chair with a book, her bare feet curled beneath her, a cup of steaming coffee on the mahogany table. He softly placed the slipper back.

Just off the master bedroom was a long, narrow room that had been outfitted as a walk-in closet. A row of sliding doors flanked one wall, and a small vanity mirror and chair occupied the opposite side.

Kenyon opened a door at random, and the smell of expensive perfume greeted him; the closet was full of Lydia's blouses, all arranged by color. He checked several other closets. Most were filled with tailored jackets, leather shoes, and formal dresses.

The last closet on the right contained purses and suitcases. Most were ordered by color on shelves, but there was a big pile on the floor. Kenyon remembered the briefcase left to Legrand in Lydia's will. He scanned through the shelves, then got down on his knees and rummaged through the jumble.

Kenyon's initial search came up empty. He poked through the closet a second time, but nothing fit the description. He checked all the other closets, peering into the recesses in case he had missed it, but his careful scrutiny failed to turn up a briefcase.

He pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, puzzled. Where did Lydia put the briefcase? Kenyon could just imagine Legrand's reaction when he told him it couldn't be located; he thought back to the way the man had stared at him, and shuddered.

Just then, the doorbell rang. Kenyon made his way down to the foyer and opened the door.

A tall man of about thirty, with dark, short-cropped hair and large brown eyes stood outside. “Herr Kenyon?” he asked. “My name is Hadrian deWolfe.” He spoke with a distinct German accent, and wore an expensive dark grey suit and shiny black Italian shoes. “I am sorry to intrude in your time of sorrow, but I was an acquaintance of Lydia's,” he explained. He held out his right hand. “I came by to introduce myself, and offer my condolences.”

“Thanks,” said Kenyon. “Please, come in.” He escorted his visitor into the living room, pointing toward an ornate chair.

Rather than sit down, however, deWolfe advanced to the suit of armor. He took out a magnifying glass and examined the suit closely, tracing his right index finger along the filigree. “A marvelous example of 15th-century Milanese ceremonial armor,” he announced. “I have seen one just like it in the Duke of Kent's mansion.”

“Are you some kind of expert?”

“Sorry,” said deWolfe. “Where are my manners?” He pulled out a silver container, withdrew a business card, and handed it to Kenyon. It said, “Hadrian deWolfe, Art and Antiques Evaluator.” There were addresses for Zurich and London.

“You're an antiques dealer?” he asked.

DeWolfe nodded. “I handle all aspects, from verifying authenticity to bidding at auction. Mostly, I work from my home in Switzerland, but I also have many clients in Britain.”

”So, why are you here?”

“Lydia was always very kind and generous to me,” said deWolfe. “I know it is not much, but I came here today to offer you my services, should you ever decide to liquidate her estate.”

Kenyon slapped his forehead. “Oh, I get it; you're the guy Tanya promised to send on by to look at Lydia's stuff.”

“
Ja
,” replied deWolfe.

“Would you like something to drink? A glass of white wine?”

DeWolfe glanced around the room, Kenyon already half forgotten. “That would be splendid.”

The agent went to the kitchen and rooted around in the wine closet. He opened a bottle of Pouilly Fumé and poured a glass.

When Kenyon returned to the living room, deWolfe was examining the marble-topped sideboard. “Lydia had excellent taste,” he commented, running a long finger across the smooth top.

“You could have fooled me,” Kenyon replied, handing him the glass. “I don't know a thing about this stuff.”

“No one could ever fool Lydia,” he responded. “She could spot a counterfeit almost immediately. She had a very shrewd eye.” DeWolfe sniffed the wine's bouquet then, satisfied, took a sip.

“You worked a lot with Lydia?” asked Kenyon.

“I came for her advice on several occasions regarding market prices.” DeWolfe put his wine glass on a table, then got down on his hands and knees and peered under the couch. “I was, in turn, most helpful to her regarding the—how do you say it?—provenance of certain
objets
.”

Kenyon eyed the crouching man. He wasn't quite sure what to make of him.

His inspection of the underside of the couch finished, deWolfe stood up and carefully dusted off the knees of his trousers. “Now, if you will pardon me for being so abrupt—what do you intend to do with Lydia's belongings?”

“Good question,” said Kenyon. “I don't have room for all this in my apartment in San Francisco. I guess I'm going to have to sell some of it, but I don't know what.”

“I understand; it's important to look carefully,” agreed deWolfe. “One never knows what one might find.” He pulled out a gold pen and leather-bound notepad. “Perhaps it would help if I walked around and made a note or two?

“Yeah, go right ahead.” Kenyon glanced at his watch, remembering he hadn't heard from Marge in San Francisco. He also wanted to collect his e-mail. “Do you mind if I go? I've got some stuff I have to do.”

DeWolfe waved absently over his shoulder as Kenyon departed.

Kenyon went upstairs and dug a netbook out of his luggage. He glanced around the room; there was nowhere to plug it in. The bedside table holding the phone was too tiny, and the coffee table in the bay window was too low.

He wandered down the hall; there were three closed doors. The first door let to an oversized linen closet filled with towels, sheets, toilet paper, and a vacuum cleaner. The second concealed a steep stairwell that climbed to the attic floor above. Curious, he put down his computer, then, advancing with his left leg to avoid straining his injury, he made his way up.