by Gordon Cope
Kenyon sipped his coffee. It was hot and strong, the way he liked it. “Before I say anything else, there’s one thing I have to know,” said Kenyon.
“What is that?”
“Did you kill Bruno Ricci?”
“No,” replied Legrand, staring him straight in the eye. “I did not even know it was his apartment, until you told me.”
“Then what were you doing there?” asked Kenyon.
“I was following a man. His name is Hadrian deWolfe.”
“Hadrian ?” Kenyon stared at Legrand.
“You know him?” asked Legrand.
“Yeah,” replied Kenyon, suddenly on guard. “He’s an art evaluator from Switzerland.”
“That is his cover,” said Legrand. “He was a paid informant for the SVR, the Soviet Foreign Intelligence service. For a while, he worked as a double agent for MI6. He was considered quite useful.”
“What happened to him?” asked Kenyon.
“The SVR suspected his treachery, and he fled to Britain. There were rumors he was subsequently involved with arranging arms for terrorists in the Middle East. Nothing was ever proven, but he was too suspect for MI6 to keep on.”
“Is that why you were following him?” asked Kenyon.
“No.” Legrand stared at his hands in his lap. “I believe he was having an affair with my wife.”
Kenyon’s head started to spin. “Ilsa ?”
“Yes. Once she learned of the ancient affair between Lydia and myself, she became very distant and cold. At first, I assumed it was because of me, but soon, I began to suspect there was someone else involved.” Legrand stared off into the distance. “She would leave Ingoldsby Manor and come home at odd hours. There were phone calls. When I answered the other person would abruptly hang up.” Legrand turned his gaze to Kenyon. “Eventually I had one of my staff follow her. He tailed her late one night to a small apartment in Kensington.”
“Near Lydia’s?” asked Kenyon.
“Yes,” said Legrand. “My investigator observed deWolfe arrive shortly after. They stayed there until early in the morning.”
“That doesn’t prove they were having an affair.”
“Of course not,” agreed Legrand, ruefully. “Perhaps they were just playing bridge.”
“Did you ever confront her?” asked Kenyon.
“I asked her face to face if she was involved with another man. She did not answer my accusation, she simply ordered me to leave Ingoldsby Manor.” Legrand waved a hand around the apartment. “I have been here ever since.”
Kenyon sipped his coffee for a moment, thinking about deWolfe. Why had he fingered Ricci as the man who might have the fake Techno 69 ? “Tell me about the night you followed deWolfe,” he said. “The night Ricci was killed.”
“I had been staked out for several hours in front of his apartment when I saw him leave at about 10:00 PM,” said Legrand. “I thought he might be heading for an assignation with my wife. I followed him in my car.”
Kenyon took another sip of his coffee. “What did he do?” he asked.
Legrand shrugged. “He parked behind Harrod’s and went into the apartment. He stayed for about one hour, then came out. I followed him, but he simply returned to the flat.”
“When did he leave Ricci’s?” asked Kenyon.
“Shortly after 11:00 PM.”
“Was deWolfe carrying anything when he left? Something fairly big, like a painting?”
“Not that I recall,” replied Legrand.
Kenyon pondered for a moment. “You said deWolfe’s apartment is in Kensington.”
“Yes, it is near Lydia’s—your—home,” said Legrand.
Kenyon tucked the Luger into his pocket and headed for the stairs. “Let’s go.”
Legrand jumped up and followed him. “Where?”
“To pay a visit to Hadrian deWolfe.”
• • •
The inside of Legrand’s Range Rover was a lot cleaner than the exterior, which pleased Kenyon. He was also grateful for the tinted glass, He wouldn’t have to crouch down to conceal himself from the police.
Traffic through downtown London was fairly light, and the two men made good time. After about twenty minutes, they reached Hyde Park, and headed west along Kensington High Street until they came to Gloucester Road. They turned left and headed south.
Legrand turned off Gloucester Road and meandered through a mews until he came to a spot just around the corner from Lydia’s. He nodded to an empty parking stall marked “Private.” “DeWolfe usually parks his car here,” he said. “He must be out.”
“Just as well,” said Kenyon. “It gives us a chance to scout around.”
A group of workmen were busy drilling a hole in the roadway near the front of deWolfe’s apartment. Legrand pulled the Rover in behind their truck and parked. He then got out, flipped up the back hatch and began rummaging in the tailgate area, filling up a rucksack with various items.
Kenyon joined the PI at the back of the Rover. “What are you doing?”
“Since Monsieur deWolfe is not home, I suspect we will need a few things they did not hand out in Quantico.” Legrand handed Kenyon a pair of latex gloves. “Put these on.”
They walked toward the front door of deWolfe’s apartment block. It was part of a row of townhouses similar in design to Lydia’s, but divided into apartments. They reached the front door, which was locked. Legrand peered through the glass at the top of the door, then pulled a seagull’s feather out of his jacket pocket. Inserting it through the crack at the top of the door, he began to wiggle it back and forth.
“What are you doing?” asked Kenyon.
“There is a motion detector that automatically unlocks the door as you leave,” said Legrand. “The motion of the feather activates it.”
“Where’d you learn that?” asked Kenyon.
“From a cat burglar in Marseille.”
There was an audible click, and the PI pushed the door open. The foyer of the building led to a steep flight of stairs. They ascended for several floors, finally emerging at the topmost landing.
Legrand fished around in the duffel bag, pulling out a thin tube attached to a small LCD display panel. He pushed the tube under the door. An image of the flat appeared on the tiny monitor. Legrand gently twisted the tube, and the image did a pan of the interior. As far as he could see, the apartment was deserted. “No one is home,” he announced.
“Great, but how do we get in?” said Kenyon. The door was solid wood, with a deadbolt locking it shut. “We’d need a forklift truck to bust down this door.”
“We have something better,” said Legrand. He fished around in his duffel bag again and drew out a small car jack and a telescoping steel pole. He attached the pole to the top of the jack, then expanded the pole until it was the width of the hallway. “Hold the end of the pole against the deadbolt,” he commanded Kenyon, as he braced the base of the jack against the far wall.
The agent stared at the pole. “You know, I could get in a lot of trouble for this.”
Legrand gave him a look. “Tell me, do they still hang spies in your country?”
“Good point.” Kenyon lifted the pole and held it against the lock.
Legrand cranked the jack several times, until the pole was snug against the lock.
“This is going to make a hell of a bang when it goes,” says Kenyon. “Won’t somebody hear it?”
“Not if we time it correctly,” said Legrand. Just then, the road crew outside began work and Legrand cranked the jack several times. The sharp crack of the splintering wood was drowned out by the din outside. The two men quickly entered the flat.
The tiny apartment consisted of a living room, kitchen, bathroom and bedroom. Legrand glanced through the kitchen cupboards. Most of the shelves were bare, with only a few condiments and scattered jars. The bathroom was equally Spartan, with a roll of toilet paper on the loo and a bar of hotel soap in the sink. There was no sign of a painting.
Kenyon entered the bedroom. A dou
ble bed occupied one wall; it had been slept in, but not made. A large bureau stood against another wall, closed. A gabled window looked north.
The agent walked over to the window and looked out. He was startled to see that the window overlooked the park that fronted Lydia’s street. He could plainly see the front of her home.
A pair of powerful binoculars sat on a table beside the bed. Kenyon adjusted the lens for his eyes and peered out. The door of Lydia’s home appeared so close it seemed he was standing on the front porch. He angled the sightlines higher and could see right into Lydia’s bedroom.
Kenyon continued to scan the street. He suspected that the police would have set up a surveillance post in case he returned. The agent’s practiced eye soon picked up the crew: an electrical contractor’s truck was parked about one hundred feet up the road. Two men in coveralls were standing on the far side of the van, conferring. Kenyon glanced at his watch; it was eleven. Probably shift change, he thought. Curious to see if there was any other surveillance watching his house, the agent opened the window and leaned out.
The view down the street was blocked by a small saucer. At first, Kenyon thought it was a TV satellite dish, but he took a closer look and realized that it was the same type of dish used by the FBI when they mounted surveillance. A black electrical cord led out the back of the dish and into the room. Kenyon followed the line into the back of the large bureau. The agent opened the bureau. It was empty except for a large aluminum briefcase on the floor. Kenyon leaned forward and snapped the clasps on the case. Inside, couched in soft foam, were a sophisticated digital receiver, recorder, and cell phone.
“Raymond, get in here,” said Kenyon.
Legrand entered and scanned the equipment. “It would appear deWolfe has a tap on someone’s line.” Legrand pressed rewind on the recorder and let it spin for several seconds, then stopped it and pressed play.
“Marge,” Kenyon heard his own voice over the speaker. “It’s Jack calling. Ricci didn’t commit suicide; he was murdered. The cops think I did it, but I saw Legrand there that night. I think he was out to revenge a blackmail plot. I need to know how to handle this. Call me as soon as you can.”
Kenyon sat down on the edge of the bed, stunned.
Legrand rewound some more tape, and the men heard Kenyon talking about his findings at TEQ. He rewound further and there was Kenyon’s lament about Ricci’s death.
“God, I yapped about the whole case!” said Kenyon. “No wonder deWolfe knew so much. The bastard’s been stringing me along like a fool.”
Legrand picked up the cell phone and turned it on. He activated the previous call’s function and a number appeared on the screen. The investigator handed it to Kenyon. “Is that your number?”
Kenyon shook his head. “No, I don’t know whose it is. Only one way to find out, though.” He pressed the send button.
The phone rang for a moment, then was answered. “Hello?” said a woman’s voice. “Hadrian?”
Neither man said anything. There was no need. It was Ilsa.
Kenyon disconnected the phone, and the two men left.
Thirty-two
Kenyon and Legrand sat on a park bench on the south shore of the Thames. A flock of pigeons mooched for crumbs at their feet. Legrand was staring out over the river.
“You okay?” asked Kenyon.
Legrand shrugged. He continued to stare silently into the flowing river.
The agent was glad that Legrand was quiet; he needed time to think. Ever since they had left the apartment, his mind had been racing to make sense of what was happening.
Obviously, deWolfe had used him to try and find the fake Techno 69. He had snuck in under the guise of Lydia’s friendship and planted a bug, then strung him along. There was no doubt now in the agent’s mind that deWolfe had murdered Ricci. But why? What made the forgery valuable enough to kill over?
It had to have something to do with the Cyberworm investigation. Deaver and Arundel had been willing to make a deal with Kenyon to turn over the painting. They already suspected he had the virus. Somehow it must have something to do with the encryption code.
Kenyon turned to Legrand. “You ever hear of a painting called Techno 69 ?”
Legrand stared at Kenyon for a moment, obviously caught up in his own thoughts. “Yes,” he finally replied. “It is a Maggote.”
“How do you know about it?”
“Ilsa bought it for the TEQ Corporation and hung it in the boardroom. I hated it. Little blobs of paint on bits of transistors. That is not art, it is garbage.”
Kenyon ignored the art criticism. “So, you worked at TEQ?”
“Yes. I consulted with Dr. MacQuaig over security.”
“Then you know about Cyberworm,” said Kenyon.
“Only in the vaguest terms. It is some sort of software, no?”
“Yeah, a real bad-ass virus. It was developed by Nebula Labs in San Francisco.”
“Ah!” said Legrand, suddenly animated. “An American scientist showed up several months ago from Nebula. A very suspicious fellow. Dr. MacQuaig said he was trying to get the encryption code. He sent him on his way.”
“What happened to the painting?” asked Kenyon.
Legrand thought for a moment. “Ilsa donated it to charity. Dr. MacQuaig told me Lydia came and picked it up two days before the auction.”
So, Lydia had the painting for two days, more than enough to make the switch and conceal it, thought Kenyon. But it wasn’t in her house; it wasn’t in her gallery. Legrand didn’t have it. Garbajian didn’t have it. Where did she hide it?
Perhaps she had said something to Legrand. “When was the last time you talked to Lydia?” asked Kenyon.
The PI stood up and walked to the ledge overlooking the river. “On the night of the auction,” he finally replied.
“I’m surprised you were invited.”
Legrand turned and smiled ruefully at Kenyon. “Ilsa likes to keep up appearances. I was there as co-host.”
“That must have been pretty uncomfortable,” said Kenyon.
Legrand shrugged. “She was not there for much of the night, fortunately.”
Kenyon was suddenly interested. “Why not?”
“Gladys, the maid, came down from the upstairs midway through the auction. It seems Sir Rupert had a setback, and was calling for her. I didn’t see her again that evening.”
“Tell me about the auction,” said Kenyon.
“It was a large affair, with several hundred people” said Legrand. “Ilsa has been holding them for about ten years. We used to stage them in the main drawing room, but they had become so popular that we had to set up a reception tent on the lawn.”
Kenyon thought back to the auction video. Lydia dressed in her long, red silk evening gown and string of pearls. “What was Lydia doing?”
“It would be easier to tell you what she was not doing,” said Legrand. “Between greeting guests, attending the kitchen, and overseeing the preparations, she barely had a moment of rest.”
“Did you speak to her before the auction?”
“I tried, but she only had her girl there, Zoë, and there was much to attend to. It wasn’t until after the auction that we had a moment alone.”
Kenyon thought for a moment. “What kind of a mood was she in?”
Legrand turned away from the river and came back to the bench. He sat down and faced Kenyon. “She was very agitated.”
“Did you ask what was bugging her?”
Legrand nodded. “She brought out a letter from her purse.”
“Who was it for?”
“It was addressed to you,” said Legrand. “She said it revealed everything.”
Kenyon wondered if Lydia had left a clue to the whereabouts of the fake painting. “Did you read it?”
“No,” replied Legrand. “I did not want to read it. And I did not want her to send it.”
“Why not?”
Legrand looked Kenyon in the eye. “I was afraid you would hate her, and that she
would be crushed. I wanted her to leave well enough alone. When I told her that, she became very angry at me, and left.” The PI turned and stared out over the river. “That is the last I ever saw of her alive.”
Kenyon thought about what Bernie the gardener had told him; Lydia had stormed out of the house, smashed the rear of her car, then roared off down the road. To her doom.
“What became of the letter?” Kenyon finally asked.
“I called a friend in the coroner’s office,” said Legrand. “They did not recover the letter. I thought it might still be in her car.”
Kenyon had a sudden flash. “So, you had it released from police custody, and searched it at the dealership,” said Kenyon. “Did you find the letter?”
“No.”
Another dead end, thought Kenyon. Lydia had to have left some sort of clue. “Did she ever say anything to you about the Techno 69 painting?”
“No.” Legrand held a finger up, as though remembering. “But, she did say one thing that puzzled me.”
“What’s that?”
“She said, ‘If Jack should ever ask, tell him to look for the secret behind my smile.’”
Kenyon stood up from the bench and headed for the Rover. “Let’s go,” he called over his shoulder.
“Where are we going?” asked the PI.
“To check out a smile.”
Legrand, bewildered, followed Kenyon.
They crossed the Thames and meandered their way north through side streets until they came to a quiet lane lined with tall, Georgian mansions. Kenyon directed Legrand to park at the side of the street under the shade of a plane tree.
“Who lives here?” asked Legrand.
“A mutual friend,” replied Kenyon. “Come on, I want you to meet her.”
The two men got out of the car and approached the building. Kenyon glanced up; the balcony doors to Tanya O’Neill’s apartment were open. She was home. He pushed the buzzer at the front door. “Tanya, it’s Jack,” he said.
Kenyon glanced at Legrand. The older man’s eyes had gone wide, and he looked a little pale. “You all right?” asked the agent.