by Gordon Cope
“Then, we’ll prove you killed Lydia.
“You are truly delusional,” said Legrand. “I loved Lydia.”
“She was nothing to you,” said Kenyon. “Just like Ricci.”
“Ricci? Lydia’s gallery manager?”
Kenyon leaned forward. “Yes, your accomplice. I saw you outside Bruno Ricci’s apartment near Harrod’s the night he was killed. You murdered him because he was going to squeal on you about Techno 69.”
“This is complete madness,” said Legrand.
“Is it?” Kenyon pointed to the briefcase. “Open it.”
Legrand stared at the briefcase, his face suddenly pale. “No.”
Kenyon stuck the barrel of the Luger in his face. “I said, open it.”
Legrand reluctantly drew the briefcase to himself and unlocked the clasps. He began to lift the top open.
“Stop!” said Kenyon. “Hand it here.”
Legrand pushed the partially open briefcase across the coffee table to Kenyon. Holding the Luger in his right hand, he cautiously opened the briefcase and peered inside.
The Louis Vuitton was filled with a large pile of papers and photographs. Most of the papers were newspaper clippings. All the photographs showed Kenyon.
The agent stared at the pile in disbelief. “What is this ?”
“It is your life,” replied Legrand.
Kenyon flipped through the pile. Some of the photographs were taken when he was a young boy. “Is this some kind of surveillance file you kept on me?”
“No,” replied Legrand. “Lydia accumulated it, ever since you were a baby.”
Kenyon read some of the newspaper clippings. One was an account from a Boseman, Montana, newspaper when he had won the state football championship with his high school team. Another was the notice of his acceptance into the FBI.
“This is what Lydia bequeathed to you in her will?”
“Yes,” said Legrand.
“And this is what you broke into my house to steal?”
“Yes,” replied Legrand. “I am sorry if I hurt you with the door. I did not mean to do it. I panicked.”
“I just have one question,” said Kenyon. “Why would my mother bequeath this to you ?”
Legrand stared at his hands in his lap for a long moment.
“Because I am your father,” he finally replied.
Thirty
Kenyon leveled the gun at Legrand’s heart. “You’re lying.”
Legrand placed his hands on his knees and slowly eased himself erect. “May I pour a drink?”
Kenyon waved the barrel of the Luger in assent.
Legrand walked slowly over to a sideboard and opened a door to reveal a well-stocked liquor cabinet. He pulled out a dark bottle of liqueur and poured a thimble into a glass, then mixed it with soda water. The smell of black currant drifted across the room.
“Cassis,” he explained, holding it up.
Legrand poured a second drink, this time a scotch. He returned to the couch and offered it to Kenyon. “I believe this is your favorite?”
“I’ll pass,” said the agent. “As I said, I think you’re a liar and a fraud.”
“You are perfectly correct,” he agreed. “I am both. But even a scoundrel such as myself may have an interesting story to tell.”
Legrand settled back into the couch and sipped his drink. “Let me take you back to the early 1970s,” he said. “I was a young man, just out of military service for my native country of France, and I was living the high life in England.”
Legrand tilted his head, recollecting. “You should have seen me then,” he said. “I was young and brash, so full of myself. I could conquer the world.” He nodded toward Kenyon. “When I look at you now, it is just like peering into a mirror into the past.”
Kenyon scowled, not pleased with the comparison. “Does any of this have a point?”
“I bore you?” Legrand smiled. “The impetuousness of youth. Do not worry; there is, I assure you, a point to my story.” Legrand took another sip of his drink. “As I was saying, it was the early 1970s. I began working for Sir Rupert Ingoldsby.”
“I’d hardly call it a job,” replied Kenyon. “You made a deal with him to marry Ilsa.”
“Sir Rupert drove a hard bargain,” said Legrand. “One of the conditions of my lucrative employment was the hand of his daughter in marriage.”
“It must have been tough.”
Legrand stood and went to refresh his drink. “I must confess, I found it easy, at first. Ilsa was not without her charms, and I looked forward to eventually inheriting the fruits of Sir Rupert’s labors.”
“But it went sour, didn’t it?”
Legrand returned to the couch. “Ilsa wanted a family badly, but it was not to be. After several years of trying, the doctors finally told us Ilsa could not have children.”
“That’s not enough to ruin a marriage.”
“You are correct. It is I who ruined the marriage. When Ilsa found out that she could not have a family, she threw herself with a passion into horse jumping. She was often gone for long periods of time to competitions.”
“And you started tomcatting around.”
Legrand waved his glass in the air. “I had affairs with a tennis instructor at Wimbledon and a young model at Ascot,” he said. “They meant nothing to me. I was careful to keep my dalliances secret from Ilsa.”
“Smart move,” said Kenyon. “I’ve seen her shoot.”
“She has her father’s volcanic temper,” agreed Legrand. “And it would have remained dormant, were it not for one mistake.”
“What was that?” asked Kenyon.
“Lydia,” replied Legrand. “It was the fall of 1977. By this time, Sir Rupert had set up this private investigation business to keep me busy.”
“I’ll bet you were snooping into his business partners,” said Kenyon.
“What can I say?” replied Legrand. “The world is full of scoundrels.”
It takes one to know one, thought Kenyon. He almost smiled.
“Ilsa was in Belgium at an equestrian event,” continued Legrand. “The weather in London was very hot for that time of the year, and the streets were alive with young people. I went down to Soho one Saturday evening to a cafe. That is where I met your mother.”
“What was she like?” asked Kenyon.
“She was very pretty,” said Legrand. “Her hair was long and straight, like a golden waterfall, and she wore a tiny pair of blue granny glasses on the tip of her nose.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“Oh, no. Not at first. I was too shy. I simply sat in a corner and listened to her play the guitar.”
“She played the guitar?” asked Kenyon.
“And she sang,” said Legrand. “She had a voice like an angel. I finally got up the courage to ask her to sing a song for me: ‘Lili Marlene.’”
“Did she sing it?”
“No. She only knew Joan Baez. But she did laugh at my shirt and tie. She said I looked like a fuddy-duddy.”
“What did you do?”
“I bought a pink silk shirt and came back the next night.”
Kenyon couldn’t help but smile at the thought of the hapless Frenchman in such a get-up. “What did she say when she saw you?”
“She said I looked like a circus clown,” replied Legrand. “My ears burned in shame, and I turned away, but she grabbed my arm and hugged me. She said she was just teasing me. I did not like this teasing, but at the same time, she filled my soul with sunlight. I had never met an American girl before. She was so vibrant, so full of fun. For the first time in my life, I knew what it was like to lose my heart to another.”
Kenyon picked up the scotch and took a sip. “Tell me more.”
“I came to the cafe, night after night, and watched her perform,” said Legrand. “Then, one evening, she disappeared.”
“What happened?” asked Kenyon.
“The cafe owner told me she had gone to help some squatters take over a government wa
rehouse by Waterloo Station. I rushed over, and there they were, hundreds of them, all trapped in the building by a ring of police.”
“Where was Lydia?”
“On the rooftop, singing songs of protest,” said Legrand. “I snuck inside through a back entrance and joined her, shouting defiance at the police”
“How long did you hold out?” asked Kenyon.
“Three glorious days,” said Legrand. “Every day, we would hurl insults at the police, and every night we would sneak out to bring food back to our comrades. It finally ended when the building burst into flames.”
“The cops set fire to it?” asked Kenyon.
“No. We were trying to roast a pig in an old steel drum and we set the floor ablaze,” said Legrand. “We all had to flee.”
Kenyon tucked the gun into his waistband. “What happened next?” he asked.
“We came back here.” Legrand waved his hand around the flat. “It was late, and we were covered with soot. We lit some candles, and climbed into the old claw-foot tub in the salle-de-bain. I scrubbed upon her back with a bar of soap. She turned, and held me close, and kissed me. I knew that I would love her the rest of my life.”
Both men sat quietly for a few moments. Finally, Kenyon broke the silence. “What happened?”
Legrand sighed. “Ilsa returned from her competition. I tried to keep my newly stirred passions hidden within my heart, but a woman can see right through a man. She knew that something was amiss. Then Lydia came to me with the news that she was pregnant.”
“Me?” asked Kenyon.
Legrand nodded toward the bedroom. “You were conceived here, that night. When I learned, my soul was filled with joy, and I wanted to leave my wife and run away with Lydia.
“But you didn’t?”
“No. Tragedy struck.”
“Ilsa found out?” asked Legrand.
“Worse. Sir Rupert discovered my transgression.” Legrand smiled bitterly. “It seems that he kept an eye on all of his business partners, including me. He was terribly upset.”
“What business was it of his?” said Kenyon. “This was between you and Lydia and Ilsa.”
Legrand shook his head. “The old man was being considered for his knighthood, and he feared that the news would cause him to be taken off the Queen’s Christmas list. He wanted to avoid a scandal, at any cost.”
“What did he do?” asked Kenyon.
“He secretly went to Lydia,” said Legrand. “He threatened to harm the child if she went through with the pregnancy. She packed her bags and fled.”
“Why didn’t you follow her?” asked Kenyon.
“I had no idea what happened,” said Legrand. “The landlord of her flat said she left in a hurry, with no forwarding address.”
“Didn’t you wonder about your child?”
“Every day. The torment of not knowing what had happened almost drove me mad.” Legrand gestured with his arm. “What had I said? What had I done? I thought she had left because of me.”
Kenyon thought about the birth certificate that Deaver had shown him. “She went back to Montana, where I was born,” he said. “Then she returned to London.”
Legrand stared off into the distance, and sighed. “The day I saw her walking down the street, I almost fell to my knees,” he said. “I hugged her and I wept for joy.”
“And Lydia?”
Legrand arose, and went to stand by the window. “Something in her had changed. The spark of life still burned fiercely, but the joy was gone.” He stared down into the empty street. “I asked her what had happened to our child, and she told me that she had terminated the pregnancy.” Legrand turned to Kenyon. “For most of your life, I never even knew you existed.”
Kenyon wanted to know more. “What happened between you and Lydia after she returned?”
Legrand shrugged. “We didn’t speak of our passion for many years. Lydia opened a gallery and became very successful. She surrounded herself with the sparkling lights of society, including my wife. We all pretended to be happy.”
“How long did that last?”
“Over thirty years,” said Legrand. “And then, one night late last year, Lydia invited me to her home. She told me how Sir Rupert had threatened you with harm. She explained how she had hidden you at her parents’ home, cutting off all contact.”
“I can’t believe he threatened her that badly,” said Kenyon.
“I know Sir Rupert,” said Legrand. “If he had known the truth, your life, and Lydia’s, would have been in grave jeopardy.”
“Why did she suddenly tell you, after so long?” asked Kenyon.
“Sir Rupert had a stroke,” said Legrand. “It crippled him. Overnight, he went from being a dangerous enemy to a feeble old man. Lydia was no longer afraid of him. She could finally reveal the truth.”
“And did the truth set you free?”
“No. I went to Ilsa and told her about Lydia and you, that it was all in the past. I had hoped she would understand in some way, but it was not to be.” Legrand shuddered. “She was furious. She said she’d have her revenge on us all.”
Kenyon thought about the time he had innocently wandered into her gunsights. He was glad she hadn’t taken the opportunity to load him with buckshot right then and there. “What about me?” he asked. “When was I going to find out?”
“Lydia wrote you a letter,” said Legrand. “She was killed before she had a chance to mail it.”
Kenyon stood at the window overlooking the park for a long time, breathing the night air and thinking. Far off in the distance, the spires of the Royal Courts of Justice gleamed in their spotlights. Where’s the justice in any of this? Kenyon thought. Where’s the justice for me? Kenyon didn’t even notice Legrand was gone until he returned with a humidor.
“Care for a cigar?” he asked.
Kenyon declined and Legrand lit one up, then sat down on the couch, where he silently puffed away.
There was something about the smell of the cigar that took Kenyon’s memory back to the day in San Francisco. He thought about the stakeout, and how it had gone wrong. The pool of blood under Simon flashed before his eyes, then the chase through San Francisco. And finally, the abandoned warehouse, where he had stalked up to the office, following the suspect’s scent.
The scent of a cigar.
Kenyon placed one hand on the butt of his Luger and turned to Legrand. “How do I know any of it is true? How do I know that it’s not a complete pile of bullshit?”
Legrand put down his cigar and walked over to a small writing desk that served as a phone stand. “If there was someone you trust who could confirm my story, then would you believe me?” asked Legrand.
“Who?” replied Kenyon, laughing in derision. “Sir Rupert?”
“No. Someone you’ve known all your life.” Legrand began to dial a number.
“Who are you calling?” asked Kenyon.
“Cyrus.”
Kenyon held Legrand’s phone, picturing the other end in his mind. Cyrus would be standing by the wood-burning stove, holding the ancient black hand-piece of the wall phone in his right hand.
“It’s all my fault,” Cyrus said, in a deep, cavernous voice. “I hated to live a lie, Jack. It hurt me deep.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” asked Kenyon.
There was a pause. “I was ashamed. I couldn’t stand folks around here thinkin’ you was a bastard.”
“Did you hate me for it?”
“No, I hated myself. But I took it out on you. I’m sorry, son.”
Kenyon’s throat constricted. It was the first time in his life Cyrus had ever apologized to him. For anything. “I forgive you,” said Kenyon.
“Thank you, son. I love you.”
That was the first time Cyrus had ever told him that, as well. “I love you too, dad.”
There was a pause. For a moment, Kenyon thought the line had gone dead, but then he heard Cyrus’ voice again.
“I ain’t your dad anymore, Jack. I’m your grandfather
. I don’t know this Legrand feller, but he’s your real father now. Don’t let him slip away.”
“I won’t, Cyrus. I’ll talk to you again, soon.”
Kenyon hung up the phone and turned to Legrand. For several moments, the two men stood staring at one another.
Finally, Kenyon spoke. “You got a place I can stay for the night?”
Thirty-one
Friday, July 15
When Kenyon awoke on the couch the morning sun was coming through the window of Legrand’s flat. The Frenchman was in the kitchen, cooking on the gas stove. The smell of coffee and bacon hung in the air, making Kenyon’s stomach growl in appreciation.
Legrand noticed Kenyon was awake. “I hope you had a comfortable rest.”
Kenyon pushed the blanket off his shoulders and sat up. “I slept like a log.”
“Excellent. A good night’s sleep always makes for a good morning’s appetite, no?” Legrand carried the frying pan to a small dining table, where he loaded up a plate. With a flourish, he invited Kenyon to join him.
Kenyon sat down while Legrand poured the coffee. In addition to a large helping of bacon, the plate in front of him was heaped with toasted bread and an omelet. The agent realized that he hadn’t eaten for over a day. He dug right in.
“This is great,” said Kenyon, pointing to the omelet. “What’s in it?”
“Some fresh mushrooms and onions.” Legrand, coffee in hand, joined him at the table. “I fry them in butter and pepper, then fold the concoction into the omelet with a slice of brie.”
“It’s delicious,” said Kenyon, his mouth full. “I could eat two.”
Legrand laughed. “I am afraid this is all I have. I was not expecting company.”
Suddenly, Kenyon realized the predicament his presence had put Legrand into. He put down his fork and stood to leave.
“Where are you going?” asked Legrand.
“Away,” said Kenyon. “Just being here could get you into a lot of trouble.”
“Do not leave,” demanded Legrand. “It is extremely important that we talk, first.”
Kenyon reluctantly sat down again. “About what?”
“Someone went to great lengths to set both of us up for some espionage plot. Whoever did that is far more dangerous than the police. Before you leave this house, I want to know who did it, and why.”