by Ron Benrey
Conan tipped his head toward the trolley full of cartons. “As soon as I push these provisions into the kitchen.”
“You push; I’ll pull.”
When Nigel entered the Hawker Suite, he noted with some surprise that Flick had rearranged the furniture while he was gone. She had moved the sofa and armchair away from the back wall to create a large area of easily accessible surface. On one side she had taped public relations photographs, borrowed from Nigel’s files, of the four remaining suspects. On the other side she had affixed floor plans of the museum’s four levels.
Conan, who walked in right behind Nigel, said, “What’s this all about, then?”
“A backward brainstorming session,” Flick said. “We have two questions on the table today. First, how can someone get in or out of this building without triggering the perimeter alarm? Second, what do we really know about these four people?” She tapped the page-sized color photos of Marjorie Halifax, Dorothy McAndrews, Matthew Eaton, and Iona Saxby.
Nigel could imagine what Conan, a man of action, must be thinking about the idea of doing detective work via brainstorming. The chief of security seemed disorientated by Flick’s initial explanation, but he was clearly too good a soldier to express his doubts verbally. He sat down on the sofa—knees together, his hands resting in his lap—and awaited further orders. Nigel sat down in the armchair.
“What makes our brainstorming session backward,” Flick continued, “is that Nigel and I are going to come up with intentionally silly ideas. As our expert on the museum, it will be your job to shoot them down with all the ferocity you can muster.”
Conan’s eyebrows rose. “You want me to argue with you, ma’am?”
“Tooth and nail. We need you to be merciless.” Flick moved an easel with a large paper pad closer to the wall. She picked up a marker pen and unsnapped its cap. “I’ll also be secretary and write down the interesting stuff that emerges as we talk.” She glanced at Nigel. “If you please, Mr. Acting Director, tell us your silly idea for fooling our perimeter alarm.”
Nigel worked to mask his own skepticism. He had had much the same reaction as Conan when Flick explained “my little game,” as she called it, but her enthusiasm had won him over—not to mention her extraordinary smile. For some unfathomable reason, she looked more beautiful this morning than she had yesterday. He had agreed, albeit reluctantly, to give her approach a try.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
“Actually,” Nigel said with a sniff, “I believe that I’ve come up with a rather brilliant idea. I enter the museum as a visitor during normal opening hours, but then find a convenient cubbyhole where I can hide until the museum closes that day. I now have the ability to skulk around to my heart’s content, doing nefarious things, while the cleaning crew is working and the motion detectors are off.” Nigel leaned forward conspiratorially. “Now here’s the really clever bit. I open a window and use a rope to lower a real antiquity to my confederate waiting outside. Then use the same rope to haul up the fake. When the cleaning crew leaves, I return to my cubbyhole and spend the night. The next day, I join the new crowd of visitors and leave the museum—with no one the wiser.”
Flick smiled at Conan. “Mr. Chief of Security, please explain to Nigel why that is an impossibly dumb idea.”
“Well, sir, it is an unworkable idea for three reasons.” Conan gazed down at his big hands, apparently unwilling to call his boss’s idea dumb. “The first is that we count visitors entering and leaving the museum and compare the numbers. We would know if someone decided to spend the night inside. The second reason is that every window has a sensor. The security guard in the kiosk gets an immediate warning signal should anyone open a window. The third reason is that we don’t have any cubbyholes big enough to hide a person. Every cubic inch of space in our building is accounted for, and most are protected by at least one motion detector. Even the loos and coat closets have them. The only area in the museum without a motion detector is the Hawker Suite.” He glanced uncomfortably at Nigel. “Because the suite was rarely visited by Hawkers in the past, we presumed that locking the door would provide sufficient security. Dame Elspeth’s…unusual use of the suite demonstrates that we were wrong. I will correct our oversight as soon as possible.”
“Excellent!” Flick gestured triumphantly in the air with her marker pen. “Conan just provided three important facts about the museum that I certainly didn’t know.” She made three entries on the large pad: We Count Visitors! Windows Protected! No Cubbyholes! Flick turned from the easel and looked expectantly at Nigel. “See how my game works?”
Nigel laughed. “I do indeed. You take advantage of that most powerful of human drives—the primal craving to explain why another person is wrong.” He did not add that he, too, had not known about the process of counting visitors or that opening a window would signal the guard. There was no need for Conan—or Flick—to doubt that the acting director was aware of all operating procedures.
Mental note: Read Conan’s security manual in its entirety.
“Now it’s my turn to propose a silly idea.” Flick took a moment to gather her thoughts. “I envision a member of the cleaning crew who decides to replace real antiquities with counterfeits. He constructs a garbage can with a false bottom—to smuggle fakes into the museum and real antiquities out. The security guards are so used to seeing him go in and out with his garbage can that they give it only a cursory inspection each evening and never spot the false bottom.”
Nigel found himself thinking hard. Why was that a dumb idea? It seemed eminently possible. In fact, Flick may have come up with the answer to the mystery. He glanced at Conan in time to see the man’s face quiver with despair. The man appeared almost distraught at the prospect of destroying Flick’s hypothesis. Did she realize the angst her little game was causing the chief of security?
“Well, you see, ma’am…” Conan paused, then began again. “It’s this way. The museum provides the trashcans to the cleaning crew, along with their other equipment. If we had a dishonest cleaner—I am sure we don’t, because we do background checks on all staff—he wouldn’t have the opportunity to do what you suggest. But even if he did, the tags would stop him.”
“What tags?” Flick and Nigel asked in unison.
“Every item on display in the museum is tagged with a little gizmo the size of a one-pound coin. Our antitheft tags work in much the same way as the devices that discourage shoplifting in stores. We have sensors on the doors that detect the tags and sound an alarm should someone try to carry a protected object out of the museum. Unless one uses a special tool, it is impossible to remove the tag without damaging the antiquity.” Another sigh. “We don’t talk much about the antitheft tags. It is best not to share our security secrets with everyone.”
Nigel swallowed hard. I am not blithering “everyone.” I am the acting director.
Mental note: Order Conan to provide a detailed security brief.
“Rats!” Flick said as she wrote Antitheft Tags! on the pad. “The tags shoot down my next dumb idea before I can ask it. I was going to propose that Matthew Eaton smuggled the fakes in and the real objects out by hiding them in the pots of the plants his firm donates to the museum.” She made a hazy gesture toward his picture on the wall. “You know—stash the Tunbridge Ware tea caddies beneath a sick ficus tree or a droopy philodendron.”
Conan shook his head. “Sorry, ma’am. Every egress from the museum has an antitheft tag sensor.”
“Including the loading dock?” Nigel asked.
“Well, the same as not to make any difference. The loading dock is really part of the greenhouse, sir; as such, it has its own alarm system. The last tag sensor is on the door that leads from the Duchess of Bedford Tearoom to the greenhouse. That door is the only way to travel from the museum to the loading dock. All of Mr. Eaton’s plants enter or leave through that door.”
Flick uncapped the marker pen and wrote Tag Sensors on Every Door.
“Another point to co
nsider,” Conan went on, “is that Mr. Eaton has been associated with the museum for the past twelve years, first as our horticulture consultant and then as a trustee. I have never known a man with larceny on his mind to demonstrate that much patience.”
“A pity,” Flick said. “A man who deals in plants would have ready access to oleander leaves. She added Matthew Eaton = 12 Years! to her growing list, then reached over and tapped Marjorie Halifax’s photograph. “Nigel, you told me you had a silly idea involving our favorite local politician.”
“I shall begin with the obvious,” Nigel said. “Marjorie’s last name is Halifax, and we know that Neville Brackenbury’s son went off to Nova Scotia. That presents an extraordinary coincidence, don’t you think? But even more relevant, Marjorie is well connected in local government. I assert that she was able to acquire copies of the museum’s building plans on file with the authorities and consequently discover a secret tunnel”—he winked at Flick—“that leads into the building and completely bypasses our perimeter alarm system. The tunnel enables Marjorie to enter the museum whenever the motion detectors are disabled—and leave with any objet d’art she can carry.”
“Highly improbable, sir,” Conan said. Nigel noticed that the chief of security was now sitting tall on the sofa, that his hands moved with much animation, and that his voice had returned to its former gravelly splendor. Conan definitely had warmed to Flick’s game and had shed his initial inhibitions about challenging his boss.
“If you reflect on your idea even a little bit, you will realize that this building was purpose-built as a museum. The design of the museum simply doesn’t support secret tunnels. In fact, our foundations are unusually thick so that our basement can serve as a proper archive. And there are no nearby structures to provide a terminus for a tunnel, even if one wanted to create one.”
Flick wrote No Tunnels Possible!
“And as for Mrs. Halifax’s bona fides”—Nigel felt sure he could see a sneer on Conan’s face—“you may not be aware, sir, that she was born a Griffiths, one of Kent’s oldest families.”
“You are sure of that, Conan?” he asked futilely.
“Completely, sir. I vet all new proposed trustees. Have done so for more than ten years.”
Flick appended Marjorie Halifax = Old Family! and gazed at her easel.
Nigel watched Flick chewing on the end of her marker pen and felt a twinge of disappointment. She had fixed her mind on the brainstorming session; she seemed determined to make sense of her list. Why hadn’t she mentioned their kiss this morning? His thoughts kept wandering back to the night before; why not hers? Perhaps she had found the kiss silly rather than romantic? Which led one to the inevitable question: How did she feel about him? He had made his feelings about her reasonably clear, but she had said nothing. Yes, she did agree to go to church with him on Sunday, but that hardly qualified as a proper date. Nigel let himself sigh.
So truly many important questions to answer, and Flick Adams insists on thinking about theft and murder.
Flick chewed on the marker pen and decided that her snap decision to suggest backward brainstorming had been a mistake. The exercise wasn’t going well. She had expected the technique to trigger an Aha moment for Conan Davies—a flash of insight that would immediately explain how the thief had been able to swap fake antiquities for real ones. Instead of simplifying the challenge, Conan had made it more difficult. Why hadn’t Nigel known about the antitheft tags and the open-window warnings?
She peered at Nigel. He had glanced at her once or twice, then descended deep into thought about something. Nigel knew how to guard his emotions—it wasn’t easy for her to read his expressions. But he looked vaguely worried. Maybe he regretted their kiss the night before. Nigel was a stickler for well-defined policy; he undoubtedly had written a whole set of rules that forbade relationships between people who worked together. She could imagine him brooding about the possible damage that he had done to his precious career by rashly kissing his chief curator.
Let’s get this ridiculous session over with!
Flick rapped the marker pen against the easel to get Nigel’s and Conan’s attention. Both men looked up—neither with apparent enthusiasm.
“We are making significant progress,” she said brightly. “Let’s move on to Dorothy McAndrews. She is an antiques expert who would have little difficulty finding someone to manufacture counterfeit antiquities. She is also the trustee most concerned with the gift shop. My silly idea is that she bypassed our security system by the simple expedience of using the Royal Mail. Our gift shop ships many items each day to customers around the world. An extra parcel every week or so would hardly be noticed.”
Conan answered immediately. “A bad idea for two reasons. She would require the connivance of a gift shop employee to succeed. Further, she would need to sneak the antiquities past the ground-floor kiosk to reach the gift shop. My security guard sits in it after hours, and Margo McKendrick is on duty when the museum is open.”
“I have a third reason,” Nigel chimed in. “It would seem a trifle challenging to post the Japanese tansu chest.”
She wrote Conspiracy Unlikely! on the pad and fought back the urge to write off this session as a horrible mistake. “I agree that it is difficult to think of good bad ideas about Dorothy McAndrews—but that very fact makes her a likely suspect.”
Nigel merely shrugged, but Conan gawked at her as if she had lost her mind.
Oh dear. Time to move on.
Flick pointed to the last photograph on the wall. “Nigel, do you have any scary thoughts about Iona Saxby?”
She gasped audibly. It was not what she had meant to say. Nigel’s eyes went wide and he began to laugh. Flick started giggling; she felt herself begin to blush.
Conan abruptly surprised them both by saying, “I can give you a scary thought about Iona Saxby.” He had spoken in such an ominous tone that Nigel instantly stopped laughing.
Flick looked at the chief of security. “Please—”
“Iona Saxby is a very wealthy woman. If she chose to try, she might be able to bribe one of my security guards. If that happened, Iona would be able to get into the museum any time the guard was willing to accompany her. He would have the codes to disarm the perimeter alarm and a proper finger image to disable the motion detectors. Working together, the pair could carry the largest antiquity in the building and move it right to the loading dock.”
“The power of money,” Nigel said softly.
Conan nodded. “Money is the one variable that must be feared by anyone running a security operation. The most honest of people can be bent if the price is high enough.”
“But you don’t think that has happened—right?”
Conan’s expression loosened. “No. I trust my staff. But that doesn’t stop me from also doing periodic checks to find out if anyone is unexpectedly rolling in cash.” He added, “It’s a part of my security audit program.”
Conan evidently saw the puzzled look on Flick’s face. He spoke before she could frame a question. “Have you ever been to a magic show?”
“Sure.”
“Well, one of the principles that a stage magician applies is to show his audience what they expect to see. That’s a way to fool people. Seeing what one expects to see is a problem in security, too. Consequently, once each year I ask an independent security expert to review our operations. A new pair of eyes can recognize things that don’t look right, that shouldn’t be there.”
Flick stared at Nigel, who was staring at her just as intently.
An image popped into Flick’s mind. She felt sure that Nigel had also conjured up the same image.
“The pantry!” she screamed.
“It has to be!” he replied.
“What about the pantry?” Conan said.
“Follow us!” they shouted at the same time.
Flick stayed three steps ahead of Nigel. She charged down two flights of stairs, past a dozen bewildered visitors, lurched through the World of Tea Map
Room, and flew past four people waiting to be seated in the Duchess of Bedford Tearoom. She made a sharp right turn into the kitchen and came face-to-face with Alain Rousseau, a tall, portly man with a well-trimmed beard and a short temper for trespassers in his bailiwick.
“Mademoiselle Adams,” he said, then jumped in surprise as Nigel and Conan skidded to a halt behind her.
“Carry on, Alain!” Flick said. She raced down the steps into the pantry, turned right, and lunged for the wardrobe-sized gap in the shelving against the wall. She flung aprons, towels, and Alain’s coat behind her.
“That was my face you just whapped,” Nigel said. She ignored him and also the steady stream of pithy French spoken by Alain Rousseau from the pantry door.
She dropped to her knees and inspected the wall in the gap. “Does anyone have a flashlight?” She tossed her head in frustration at the differences in English spoken on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean. “I mean a torch.”
“Try this one.” Conan reached over her shoulder and offered a small, high-intensity pencil torch.
Flick used the bright beam to illuminate the paneling on the wall.
“I can see a very fine seam,” she said. “I think there’s a door here.” She looked up at Conan. “What’s on the other side?”
“A small storage room. It’s part of the greenhouse.” He added, “You both wait here. I will go to the other side.”
“This would explain everything,” Nigel said. “A door through this wall bypasses our perimeter security system.” He ran his finger along the almost invisible seam. “I guess we do have a secret passage after all. Right into Matthew Eaton’s private storeroom.”
Flick heard metal rattling and glass clinking behind the paneling. She guessed that Conan was shifted gardening chemicals, tools, and whatever else stood close to the wall. There was silence for several seconds, then a gentle wood-against-wood squeak. A square section of the wall—some four feet on each side—seemed to disappear in front of her eyes.