Secret Combinations

by Gordon Cope

  Harry slowed the cab as they approached the address. Ricci’s apartment was located in a large, modern brick building on the south side of Brompton Road. The front of the building was lined with antique stores, draperies, and a chic cafe. Harry turned at the corner and drove down the side street paralleling the building, and parked.

  Kenyon glanced at his watch. They were about twenty minutes early. “Wait here, I’ll be right back,” he told the cabby as he got out of the cab and entered Ricci’s building.

  The entrance to the apartment portion of the building was reached by walking down an aisle between the cafe and an antique shop specializing in clocks. The glass door leading to the apartment’s tiny foyer and elevator was locked. A row of buzzers by the door indicated about twenty apartments in the building, and Kenyon spotted Ricci’s immediately. The penthouse, naturally.

  A little old lady with a ginger-colored Pekingese came out of the elevator. Kenyon helped hold the door open for her as she exited. “Thank you, young man,” she said. Kenyon noticed that the collar on her jacket was made of fox. The head of the animal, still on one end, made it look like roadkill.

  Kenyon returned to the street and walked up to Brompton Road. The sidewalk was still crowded with tourists in garishly colored running shoes, most of them gawking at the floodlit facade of the nearby Harrod’s department store. The tiny patio of the corner cafe was full of customers enjoying cappuccinos and French pastries.

  Kenyon sauntered past the cafe to a newsstand. He bought a USA TODAY, noting that, even though it was two days old, he was still charged the full price. He stood beneath a street lamp and flipped through the pages. The Giants had lost their last game to the Angels, eight to seven. Damn, they gotta get a bullpen, he thought.

  His reading was interrupted by squealing tires. Kenyon glanced up to see a scuffed-looking Range Rover come around the corner and tear off down Brompton Road at a fast rate. He had only a second to peer at the driver, but even a quick glance was enough to confirm that it was Raymond Legrand.

  Kenyon walked back to the road where Harry was parked. “That Range Rover that just drove by—you see where it came from?” he asked.

  “Yeah, it must have been parked behind the building,” said Harry.

  “It was Legrand,” said Kenyon. “Think he was following us?”

  “Not a chance,” said Harry, puzzled. “I’d a spotted him in a second.”

  Kenyon glanced at his watch; it was almost midnight. “We’ll worry about it later,” he said. The agent took out his cell phone and dialed Harry’s number. “We got work to do.”

  With phone contact established, Kenyon headed for the front door. He pushed the button for Ricci’s apartment, then waited. There was no answer. He pushed again and waited for another minute, but still no response. Kenyon turned and glanced out toward the street, wondering if Ricci hadn’t come home yet.

  Their nightly promenade done, the old lady with the dog came walking up to the entrance. She unlocked the door, and Kenyon held it for her again.

  “Who are you here to see?” the old woman asked.

  “Mr. Bruno Ricci,” Kenyon replied.

  “Oh, such a delightful young man,” responded the woman. “He is so fond of my little Pierre.” She held up the Pekingese, who tried to nip Kenyon’s hand when he gave it a pat on the head. Since Ricci hadn’t answered the buzzer yet, Kenyon simply entered behind the pair.

  The foyer was done in a reddish marble, with large, stuffed chairs that looked too uncomfortable to sit in. The little old lady headed down the hallway of the first floor; Kenyon got onto the mirror-lined elevator and rode up to the fifth.

  Kenyon found Ricci’s apartment door at the end of the hall and rapped twice on the brass knocker. He stood quietly and listened, but couldn’t hear anyone moving around inside. He waited for a few moments, then knocked again. Frustrated, he leaned forward and glanced through the peephole, though he couldn’t see anything. He rapped on the door once more, this time, harder. Still no answer. Kenyon reached forward and tried the doorknob. To his surprise, it was unlocked. He swung the door open and leaned in. “Ricci? It’s Jack Kenyon.”

  The apartment faced east, toward Harrod’s. Advancing slowly into the foyer, Kenyon could see the upper-most part of the department store’s façade: a thousand tiny lights twinkling in the darkness.

  Off to his right, Kenyon could hear Latin music playing on a stereo. It sounded like the Gypsy Kings. He cautiously moved in that direction.

  A wide arch marked the entrance to the living room. The carpet was a pale lilac, and the furniture was finished in a rich green fabric. Several modern abstracts hanging on the wall added bright splashes of red and blue. Kenyon didn’t recognize the artists. The overall impression was expensive and outlandish.

  A pale oak dining table rested in a large bay window facing north over Brompton Road. A cup of tea and a plate with bread crumbs sat beside a copy of the Times. Kenyon walked over to examine the paper; this morning’s edition. He continued through the kitchen. There was a pot of tea brewing on the counter; it was still warm to his touch.

  Kenyon came to the main hall and headed toward the bedroom door, which was ajar. The deserted room was dominated by a queen-sized bed on a modern sculpted steel frame. A large duvet was jammed to one side, and several pillows spilled to the floor. Articles of men’s clothing were tossed haphazardly about the room. A wallet and keys sat atop a bleached wood bureau. The agent could hear water running in the bathroom adjacent to the bedroom. Kenyon thought Ricci was in the shower and hadn’t heard him at the door.

  “Ricci?” he called out again, louder, but there was still no reply. Kenyon moved cautiously forward. The agent came to the closed door of the bathroom; he noticed a dark puddle running from under the door. He pushed the door open; a thin veneer of pink water was lapping the black and white tile floor.

  Ricci rested in the bathtub, nude, his head rolled back, his eyes closed, his lips pursed in silent thought. It looked as though he were asleep, except for the slashed wrists and the bloody knife on the floor.

  Kenyon moved forward. Ricci’s wrists were a mass of blood. He checked for a pulse on the gallery manager’s neck, just below the left jaw. The skin was warm to the touch, but there was no pulse. Carefully, Kenyon lifted one eyelid. Ricci’s sockets had rolled up, lifeless.

  Kenyon stepped back into the bedroom and lifted the cell phone out of his pocket. “Harry? You there?”

  “Yeah,” replied the cabby. “What’s up?”

  Kenyon took a deep breath. “You better call the cops. Ricci killed himself.”

  Twenty-two

  Thursday, July 14

  The police arrived fifteen minutes later. The man in charge, a heavyset detective sergeant named Ruffy, asked Kenyon to wait in the living room while his men dealt with Ricci.

  Kenyon sat at the dining room table, staring absently at the unfinished toast on the plate. Before the police arrived, Kenyon had done a quick search through the apartment. He had hoped that Ricci might have written something down detailing Lydia’s death, but he hadn’t found a scrap. Whatever Ricci had known about Lydia’s death, he had taken it to his grave.

  An assistant forensic practitioner was just carrying his photographic equipment out the front door when Detective Inspector Humphrey Arundel arrived. Arundel didn’t even glance in Kenyon’s direction, but immediately went with Ruffy down the hall. They inspected the scene for several minutes, before Arundel returned and entered the living room.

  The detective sat in the chair opposite Kenyon. He turned the Times, glanced at it, then returned it to its original position. “What, may I ask, is your relationship with Mr. Ricci?”

  “He’s the manager of Lydia’s—my—gallery.”

  “When did you last speak to him?” he asked.

  “This afternoon.”

  “Did he seem despondent? Depressed?”

  “No.”

  Arundel nodded, almost to himself. “When did you arrive?”
r />   “Shortly before midnight,” said Kenyon. “I buzzed, but Ricci didn’t answer. One of the residents let me into the building. When I got to his door, I knocked, but nobody opened the door.”

  Arundel stood and walked over to the teapot and placed his palm against the side. “What did you do then?”

  “The door was unlocked, so I opened it and called out. I could hear music playing, so I came inside.”

  Arundel lifted the pot and glanced idly in. “What did you see?”

  Kenyon pointed to the table. “Pretty much what you see here.”

  Arundel sniffed at the contents of the teapot, then dipped a finger in and tasted the contents. “Did you touch anything in here?”

  Kenyon thought for a moment. “The front door, then that teapot, to see if it was warm.”

  Arundel returned to his place across from Kenyon. “How did you discover the body?”

  “I spotted water coming under the door, and pushed it open.”

  “Did you touch or disturb anything in the bathroom?”

  “I touched his neck.” Kenyon indicated a spot below his own jaw. “He was still warm, but there was no pulse.”

  “And then?”

  “I had Harry call you.”

  “Ah, yes. Mr. Happy Harry. How does he fit into this scenario, exactly?”

  “He’s my cabby.”

  “Ah,” said Arundel, flatly. “Your cabby.”

  “Yeah, my cabby.”

  “And was he acting in any other capacity for you this evening?”

  Kenyon immediately recognized the warning in the question. He glanced at his watch. It was almost one, plenty of time for Arundel to interview Harry. Arundel was telling him it would be dangerous to lie. The agent took a deep breath, and let it out. “Yeah. He was my back-up.”

  “Why would you need a back-up to visit your gallery manager?”

  “Because I discovered Ricci was forging paintings and selling them through the gallery.”

  Arundel raised one eyebrow. “You suspected a felony, and you didn’t report it to the police?”

  Kenyon stared down at the newspaper. “I didn’t know for certain. I came here tonight to find out.”

  Arundel stood and walked over to the counter. He idly opened a drawer. “It might make for a good mystery novel, but it is my general experience that organized criminals do not spill the beans as soon as someone confronts them with the evidence.”

  Kenyon winced. “I was hoping to talk some sense into him.”

  “At the very best, you were hoping to intimidate him.” He lifted a bread knife out of the cutlery drawer and examined the grip. “You don’t strike me as a brutish man, so I will eliminate violence. What was it, Kenyon? A threat to go to the police?”

  “No.”

  Arundel turned his head to one side as he peered at Kenyon. “Something more subtle, then.”

  Kenyon stirred in alarm. Harry knows about Lump, but he wouldn’t say anything about that, thought Kenyon. Kenyon decided to keep his mouth shut.

  Arundel continued. “Yes, I think it must have been something so devious, so diabolical, that Mr. Ricci had no alternative but to take his own life.” He replaced the bread knife and closed the cutlery drawer. “Now, would you be so kind as to submit to a voluntary search?”

  Kenyon stood up. “I’m assuming I either comply or face the consequences.”

  ”An excellent assumption,” said Arundel. “Now, place both of your hands here on the counter, palms down, and spread your legs.”

  Kenyon did as he was told, smiling grimly.

  Arundel turned and signaled to a burly constable standing nearby. “If you would be so kind as to do the honors?”

  The constable stepped forward and began to frisk Kenyon, removing each item from his pockets.

  “What do you expect to find?” asked Kenyon. “A matching carving fork?”

  “I was thinking more of a suicide note,” said Arundel.

  The constable placed several items on the counter, including Kenyon’s keys, his wallet, and the cell phone and extension mike cord.

  Arundel flipped through the wallet as the constable continued his search, removing the wad of pound notes and riffling through them. He briefly examined the keychain, making particular note of the skeleton key to the safe. He picked up the cell phone, pressing the function key several times to check the stored data.

  The constable finally finished his search and nodded to Arundel. The DI dismissed the man, then nodded to Kenyon to sit back at the table. “I am relieved to see, Mr. Kenyon, that among your many faults, concealing material evidence is not among them.”

  Just then, an investigator came in holding a small wooden box. Kenyon immediately recognized it from his search of Ricci’s office at the gallery.

  “Found this in his sock drawer, sir,” the constable said to Arundel.

  The DI admired the carving on the lid for a moment, then opened the box and lifted out a small bag of white powder. “Ah, it would seem that Mr. Ricci had nasal indisposition.”

  Arundel placed the cocaine back into the box and handed it to the constable, then turned back to Kenyon. “Let’s assume, for the moment, that Ricci was motivated to suicide by a fear of prosecution over the forgeries. Not a normal fear, but, when you take into account the tendency of cocaine addiction to induce paranoia, not an unlikely one. All it took was your threat of exposure to push him over the edge, and he took the coward’s way out.”

  Kenyon sat with his head bowed, saying nothing.

  Arundel continued. “Odd that Ricci didn’t write one, don’t you think?”

  Kenyon glanced up. “What?”

  “A suicide note.” He nodded toward the table. “He makes a last supper, laces his tea with some form of barbiturate, then retires to the bathtub for a nice, soothing soak before slitting his wrists. All very clean, proper and tidy. Except for the suicide note. Most unusual.”

  Arundel was interrupted by the return of the investigator. “Found this concealed in the closet, sir.” In his gloved hand, he held a small metal tube about the size of a fountain pen.

  Arundel snapped out a red silk handkerchief and took the object in his hand. He pointed the device out an open window and rotated its head a quarter turn. A powerful red beam of light instantly shot across the road. Arundel traced the thin, brilliant red dot along the side of the Harrod’s store for a moment.

  Kenyon sat motionless, staring out the window at the side of the store.

  Arundel turned the laser pen off and placed it on the table. “Well, now we know what frightened him so, don’t we?”

  Kenyon turned to the DI. “I . . . I didn’t know.”

  “No?”

  Kenyon stared down. “No. I accused him of the forgeries and threatened to expose him if he didn’t confess in full.”

  “And?”

  “He offered information to keep me quiet.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “He said he would tell me who killed Lydia.”

  Arundel’s eyebrows rose. “He offered to confess to her murder?”

  “No. He never said anything about confessing. His words were, ‘I know what happened to Lydia.’”

  Arundel nodded toward the laser pen. “I suspect he did. In fact, I don’t doubt that forensics will turn up his prints, and only his prints, on this device.”

  The DI turned to Kenyon. “Now, since our prime suspect can no longer confess, you must tell me precisely what happened. And I warn you, leave nothing out.”

  Kenyon took a deep breath. “Ricci was forging works of an artist named Maggote.”

  “The Frenchman who overdosed on drugs?”

  “Yeah. Lydia represented his estate. It was easy for Ricci to whip up new works, authenticate them through the gallery, and sell them to clients under the table.”

  “How did Lydia uncover his scheme?”

  “By chance. One of the clients discovered he had a fake, and called her up. She paid to keep his mouth shut.”


  “But her suspicions regarding Mr. Ricci were aroused.”

  Kenyon nodded. “She dug around and discovered Ricci had made a copy of a painting, Techno 69, and swapped it for the real goods. Lydia unknowingly sold the fake to a corporate client.”

  “How did Lydia react to this discovery?”

  “Zoë, her receptionist, told me she had a big fight with Ricci, then threw him out and changed the locks.”

  “When was this?”

  “Two days before her death.”

  Arundel nodded. “So, Mr. Ricci had time to set up an ‘accident.’ Very clever, really. If it hadn’t been for the entirely fortuitous donation of her retinas, we would never had discovered it.”

  “It still doesn’t make sense,” said Kenyon.

  “How so?” asked Arundel.

  “I never said anything about Lydia’s murder. Why would he confess?”

  Just then, the coroner wheeled the remains out of the bathroom. Both men watched silently as the dolly containing a black plastic bag passed by.

  “Well,” said Arundel. “It would appear that we shall never know.” He sighed, and nodded toward the laser pen. “Normally, I would thank you for uncovering the means and motive for a murder. But this is not a normal situation. You have behaved in a manner that casts disrepute upon the FBI. Not only have you hopelessly tainted any opportunity for the Crown to prove a case of murder against Ricci, but you have precipitated a suicide. I hold you personally responsible for the death of this man.” Arundel motioned for Kenyon to pick up his wallet, keys, and phone. “Get out of my sight.”

  Kenyon rode down in the elevator, silently steaming. Arundel was right, he had acted like a fool. He had rushed in blindly, not knowing how close he was, and now he would never know the whole truth of his aunt’s death. “I’m sorry, Lydia,” he said, aloud. “I’m sorry.”

  • • •