by Gordon Cope
“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.”
“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.”
Fourteen
Tuesday, July 12
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.