Secret Combinations

by Gordon Cope

  “Now I see why you wanted the lab coat.”

  “Yes; a nice touch to go with your Geiger counter.” DeWolfe withdrew a small, black device from his jacket and handed it over.

  Kenyon was impressed. “You seem to have thought of everything.”

  “I do try to be prepared,” agreed deWolfe, solemnly. “You will check all his collection, ja? When you get to Techno 69, I will distract him long enough for you to examine it for the hidden cartoon character.”

  DeWolfe turned off the busy King’s Road and headed south. They drove toward several modern highrises situated on the north shore of the Thames. As they approached, Kenyon could see that the highrises were encircled by a tall brick wall. A guard at the entrance to the compound confirmed their license plate on a guest check list before allowing them to pass through the road barrier.

  Inside the compound, the towers were clustered around a marina filled with large yachts and powerful speed boats. Kenyon could see the Thames through the gate that closed off the canal leading to the river. It was high tide, and tour boats, their cabins empty of sightseers, chugged upstream.

  DeWolfe parked in a section marked “Visitors.” Kenyon donned his coat and tucked the Geiger counter in one pocket, then the two men approached the front entrance of the largest tower.

  The foyer of the tower was protected by a private security guard seated behind a barrier of steel and bulletproof glass. The evaluator spoke into a microphone by the door. “DeWolfe and Professor Kenyon here to see Herr Garbajian,” he announced.

  The guard dialed a number, then spoke briefly on the phone. Satisfied, he pushed a button, and the door on the security barrier swung open. “Please come in. Someone will be right down to escort you up.”

  A few minutes later the doors to the elevator opened, and a small, wiry Middle Eastern man in a double-breasted suit stepped out. His left eye was sewn shut; he squinted at them briefly with his good right eye, then beckoned them forward. “I am Hazzim,” he said. “My master awaits.”

  The three men stepped into the mirrored elevator, and the doors closed behind them. Kenyon noted that there were no floor buttons in the device; the elevator began to rise on its own. Judging by the time and speed of the ascent, Kenyon guessed that they were somewhere near the top of the twenty story building by the time it stopped.

  “Does your master own the top floor?” asked the agent.

  “My master owns the entire building,” replied Hazzim.

  The elevator doors opened up into a marble-tiled foyer. Standing there awaiting them was the largest Arab that Kenyon had ever seen. The man stood over seven feet tall, and his wide girth was covered in a flowing white robe. His black hair glistened with styling gel.

  The guard held up a hand to stop deWolfe and Kenyon from advancing any further. He beckoned them to hold up their arms for a weapons search.

  The giant quickly and expertly frisked both men. He pulled out the Geiger counter, examined it briefly, then returned it to the agent. He then silently motioned deWolfe and Kenyon to follow. Hazzim remained in the foyer.

  Both men glanced curiously around as they advanced through the apartment. Garbajian’s home consisted of several large rooms furnished with an impressive mix of Western and Oriental furniture, including a carpet collection that Kenyon figured would do a museum proud.

  Most striking, however, was the art collection. In addition to the Warhols and Picassos, Kenyon recognized an impressionist oil painting depicting water lilies; Monet.

  The Arab turned down a hallway and stood to one side of a doorway. He beckoned deWolfe and Kenyon to enter.

  The room was a large semi-circle of about twenty-five feet in diameter. The outer wall was a phalanx of floor-to-ceiling glass; Kenyon could make out the cruise boats on the Thames, far below. The three inner walls were decorated with an eclectic display of modern art. One oil painting looked like cans of white, yellow, and red paint had been poured onto a block of rapidly spinning plywood; another display consisted of a large, sealed aquarium in which a pickled lamb floated in formaldehyde. Kenyon idly wondered what you were supposed to do if it if ever sprung a leak.

  DeWolfe nudged Kenyon. “There it is,” he whispered.

  Techno 69 was tucked into one corner, almost out of sight. It measured only one foot by eighteen inches and, like Maggote’s other works, was a mix of electronic components fixed to a flat surface and daubed with bright paint. It struck Kenyon as almost ludicrous to think that someone might have been killed over it.

  “Gentlemen, it is a pleasure.”

  Kenyon and deWolfe turned to face a small, rotund man. Abdul Garbajian was in his mid-forties, but his smooth, round features and large brown eyes gave him the appearance of a much younger man. He was dressed in a dark grey business suit, blue shirt, and red silk tie. He turned and pointed to the large bodyguard. “Please forgive Ali for having to search you for weapons. He is very thorough when it comes to my safety.”

  DeWolfe waved a hand dismissively. “Think nothing of it, Herr Garbajian.” He turned toward Kenyon. “May I introduce Professor Kenyon, of the Atomic Energy Commission.”

  The two men shook hands. “It is an honor to meet such an esteemed scientist,” said Garbajian.

  “You have a lovely home,” replied Kenyon. “I can’t help but admire your collection.”

  Garbajian smiled shyly. “It is a trifle,” he said. “But it is something that I hold very dear.”

  “Ja,” interrupted deWolfe. “And we would not want anything untoward to happen to it, now would we?”

  Garbajian’s tentative smile disappeared. “This issue that we spoke about, it is dangerous?”

  DeWolfe turned to Kenyon, raising one eyebrow.

  “Probably no worse than minor genetic mutation,” said Kenyon. “You weren’t planning to have children, were you?”

  Garbajian turned white and placed his hands over his groin.

  DeWolfe placed a protective arm around Garbajian’s shoulders. “Why don’t we leave Professor Kenyon to his work? I would love to examine that charming Matisse hanging over the bar.”

  Garbajian slapped his head. “Where are my manners? Perhaps you would like a schnapps, yes?” The two men departed for the main living room.

  Unfortunately, to Kenyon’s dismay, Ali remained behind, his arms crossed, staring at him intently. When Kenyon pulled the Geiger counter from his lab coat pocket and turned it on it emitted a low clicking. He slowly and methodically ran the sensor over the pickled lamb, hoping that the guard might lose interest.

  No luck. Ali kept his gaze focused closely on Kenyon. The agent crossed the room, nearer to the Maggote, and pointed the Geiger counter at an oil painting that depicted a group of nuns despoiling a Hun. He flicked the volume control on the device and the clicking rose to a cacophonous shriek.

  Still, Ali held his place. Probably doesn’t have any family jewels to worry about, thought Kenyon to himself. The Maggote was only a few feet to his right, but he couldn’t think of a way to distract the guard.

  Suddenly, Garbajian let out a piercing shriek. It was followed by a second wail. In a flash, Ali was out the door, racing for the front of the apartment.

  Kenyon wanted to follow, but he quickly turned and stepped toward the Maggote. Dropping the Geiger counter, he ran his fingers over the artwork, searching for a loose component. There. He tugged at a two-inch microchip, and it immediately came loose from the surface. Turning it over, he held it up toward the light.

  A tiny figure of Mickey Mouse waved brightly back. The painting was real.

  Kenyon had no time to think; a third scream, this time from deWolfe, jerked his attention back to the living room. Jamming the microchip into his pocket, he raced out of the den and down the hall.

  The scene in the living room pulled him up short. Garbajian was writhing on the floor, pulling on the back of his shirt in an effort to drag the tails out of his trousers. Ali stood across the room, pinning deWolfe by his neck against the wall. The art evaluato
r, his feet at least a foot off the ground, struggled vainly to breathe.

  “Drop him!” shouted Kenyon.

  Ali simply looked back and forth between Garbajian and deWolfe, torn between helping his master and throttling his attacker.

  Kenyon needed to act quickly. He stepped forward and grabbed the prone Garbajian by the shoulders. “Tell him to drop deWolfe!”

  In a flash, Ali dropped the art evaluator. He also pulled out a knife from his waistband and advanced on Kenyon.

  The agent stood up and stepped back. “Whoa! I’m not going to hurt anyone!”

  Ali lunged forward, his knife held high.

  The agent spun to his left and kicked Ali hard in the knee. The big man screamed and bent forward in pain. Kenyon cracked him on the chin with his elbow. Ali went down in a heap. He kicked the knife from Ali’s hand, then went to deWolfe’s aid.

  The art evaluator was crumpled against the base of the wall, grasping his throat.

  “Can you breath?” asked Kenyon.

  “Barely,” deWolfe gurgled, as he pushed himself into a sitting position.

  By this time Garbajian, the back of his shirt fully out of his trousers, was on his feet. “Hazzim!” he shouted. “Come here!”

  Hazzim appeared at the door carrying a Czech-made submachine gun. He flipped the safety and pointed it directly at Kenyon, then looked at his master.

  “Get out of my house, at once!” demanded Garbajian.

  Kenyon gripped deWolfe by the shoulder and turned him toward the foyer. “Come on, Hadrian, we got what we wanted.” The men retreated to the elevator, the snout of Hazzim’s weapon following them until the door closed.

  As soon as they were descending, Kenyon turned to deWolfe. “What happened?” asked the agent.

  DeWolfe coughed, clearing his throat. “The guard was not about to leave you alone, so I had to improvise.”

  “What did you do?”

  DeWolfe smiled slyly. “I dropped an ice cube down Garbajian’s back.”

  Kenyon grinned. “I guess that would make me scream, too.”

  Both men laughed until they reached the bottom.

  Eighteen

  The Anne Boleyn pub was located on King’s Road, about half a mile north of Garbajian’s apartment. Outside the pub, a small, deserted patio opened onto a side street that ran off the busy main street.

  DeWolfe and Kenyon sat at a table on the patio, quietly nursing their drinks. The agent pulled out the microchip and showed the cartoon figure of Mickey Mouse to the evaluator. “It’s definitely a genuine Maggote,” said Kenyon.

  “Ach,” replied deWolfe, shaking his head. “I was certain that it would be a forgery.”

  Kenyon sipped at his pint of beer. It was warmer than he usually liked, but it had a full, nutty flavor he enjoyed. He looked at deWolfe. “So, what to do now?”

  DeWolfe stared at Kenyon closely, his snifter of cognac forgotten. “This escapade is not really about forgery, is it?

  Kenyon glanced away from deWolfe. “No, it’s not.”

  DeWolfe kept his gaze focused on the agent. “I am waiting for an explanation.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Kenyon. “I can’t tell you everything.”

  DeWolfe turned his attention to the street. “I have gone along willingly and have not asked too many questions because I trust you.” He placed his snifter down on the table and crossed his arms. “Now it is time to trust me. Otherwise, I must leave.”

  Kenyon thought about Gonelli’s advice to keep his mouth shut, but he needed deWolfe’s help. He took a deep breath. “I know you may not believe this, but Lydia was murdered.”

  DeWolfe stared openmouthed at Kenyon. “She died in a car accident,” he finally blurted out. “The police said so.”

  “Yeah, well, I know different.”

  DeWolfe picked his glass up and took a gulp of his cognac. That seemed to help his nerves. “How do you know differently?”

  “Somebody blinded her and forced her car off the road. The police didn’t spot it at first, but I have proof.”

  “Why on earth would anyone want to kill Lydia?”

  “I don’t know.” Kenyon twirled the beer in his glass. “All I can think of is it has something to do with these forgeries.”

  DeWolfe leaned back in his chair. “Mein Gott, I had no idea.” He took another drink of his cognac. “I have not been completely truthful with you.”

  “What?” asked Kenyon.

  DeWolfe stared down at the patio tiles beneath his feet. “When Lydia called me in about the forgery last year, she had her suspicions about someone. We just couldn’t prove it.”

  “Who was it?” asked Kenyon.

  “That young man who works for her: Bruno Ricci.”

  • • •

  It was almost midnight by the time they arrived at the Kenyon Gallery in Mayfair, and the evening sky hung black and cloudless. The streets were deserted and deWolfe had no problem parking his Volvo sedan directly in front of the gallery.

  Kenyon pulled out his keys and unlocked the front door. He punched the code into the keypad that deactivated the alarm, and the two men entered the gallery.

  Light from the street filtered into the main display room. The shadow cast by a small Degas bronze extended its way across the floor like a long crooked finger. Kenyon fumbled against the left wall until he found a dimmer switch, then turned up a series of halogen display lamps just enough for them to see their way around. The agent didn’t want to attract the attention of a roving bobby; no point in having to explain what they were doing there at this late hour.

  “Ricci’s office is over here,” said Kenyon. The two men moved to the back of the display room and stepped behind a jutting wall that hid them from view from the street. Ricci’s office door was open and they went inside and turned on the light.

  The gallery manager’s office was about the same size as Lydia’s, but without the skylight. The room was decorated in modern Scandinavian chrome and leather chairs, and the desk was made of frosted glass and rough-cast aluminum. A still life of animal intestines on a hubcap hung from one wall.

  The wall shelf was crammed with art books and catalogues. DeWolfe began to examine the books, lifting each one out and fluttering the pages to see if anything had been tucked inside.

  Kenyon sat in the chair behind Ricci’s desk. The side drawer was empty except for a carved wooden box about the size of a hardcover book. Kenyon lifted the box out and placed it on the top of the desk.

  The carving featured a naked Asian man and woman entwined in a convoluted sex position, an illustration from the Kama Sutra. Kenyon lifted the lid and peered inside; it contained nothing but a small mirror, a safety razor blade, and a rolled up bank note.

  Kenyon removed the mirror and held it to the light. He could see traces of white powder on the surface. He licked the end of the bill; the acrid taste of cocaine emanated from the end of his tongue.

  DeWolfe turned from the bookshelf. “Nothing here,” he announced.

  Kenyon held up the mirror and rolled note. “It seems Ricci has a taste for coke.”

  “Vile habit,” deWolfe said, wrinkling his nose.

  “Yeah, and expensive, too.” Kenyon continued his search, checking for a false bottom in the desk, poking around in the chairs, but finding nothing. He finally nodded to deWolfe, and the two men retreated to Lydia’s office.

  Kenyon sat down in Lydia’s chair, facing deWolfe across her desk. He rubbed his forehead. “You were telling me how tough it is to fake a modern artist, right?

  “Ja.”

  “So how come Ricci chose Maggote?”

  “I was referring to a live artist,” said deWolfe. “If the artist is recently deceased, you can arrange a scam that is known as the ‘Greedy Buyer.’”

  “How does the scam work?”

  “When an artist dies, he normally leaves behind a large supply of unsold pictures,” began deWolfe.

  Kenyon interrupted. “Like that stuff of Maggote’s in storage?”r />
  DeWolfe nodded. “Exactly. It isn’t in the interest of the estate to flood the market all at once, because that will lower the value of all the rest. On the other hand, if you do not release any at all, people lose interest, and the market value also drops.”

  DeWolfe leaned back in his seat, pursing his fingers together. “Generally, an astute executor announces that they are only going to sell half a dozen or so a year, in order to keep the price increasing.”

  Kenyon began to catch on. “I take it some collectors start to get too eager?”

  “Indeed, they do,” replied deWolfe. “Hence the name, the Greedy Buyer.”

  “Let me guess the rest,” Kenyon offered. “A forger with an inside to the dead artist’s gallery approaches a collector and says, ‘I’ll give you a break and sell you one outside of this year’s quota, but you have to keep it quiet.’”

  DeWolfe nodded. “Essentially, yes. The forger uses the cover of the gallery to fake the authenticity, and the buyer hides it so that no one will know he got the inside break.”

  “It sounds almost foolproof.”

  “It is. The forger generally has a much greater knowledge of the techniques used by the artist, and can fool any amateur investigation of authenticity that a buyer might muster.”

  “Unless, of course, the buyer knows more than the forger.” Kenyon flipped open one of the buyer’s files. There was a personal number listed in the address. He picked up the phone.

  “Who are you calling at this late hour?” asked deWolfe.

  Kenyon looked up as he dialed. “An unsatisfied customer.”

  The phone rang once. “Yeah?”

  Kenyon recognized the bookie’s voice. “Mr. Lump, it’s Jack Kenyon.”

  “Well, well, if it ain’t my favorite little Fed in the whole wide world. I got to tell you, lad, I ain’t larfed so hard since me dear, fat ol’ mum got stuck in the loo.” Lump’s voice lost its levity. “What do you want?”

  “I want to apologize,” said Kenyon. “I was wrong to threaten your clients. It was an abuse of my official powers.”

  There was a brief silence on the other end. Kenyon had no doubt it was the first time anyone in law enforcement had ever said he was sorry to Lump.