Secret Combinations (22 page)

Kenyon rubbed the bump on his head. “I wish I'd done the same.”

“I understand you are not well. We had intended to talk to the receptionist Zoë today. Do you wish to postpone it?”

“No,” replied Kenyon. “Meet me at the gallery in one hour.”

“Very good.”

Kenyon hung up the phone, then knelt back onto his knees and gripped the handle firmly. He took a deep breath, then pulled the steel door open.

Except for a small rectangle of paper, the safe was empty. Disappointed, Kenyon leaned in and picked up the paper; it was one of Raymond Legrand's business cards.

He turned it over; on the back was a handwritten message.

“Please forgive me” was all it said.

Harry was in his usual
spot outside Lydia's home when Kenyon came out of the house. “I hear you had a little fun last night,” said the cabby as the agent climbed in.

“Who told you that?” asked Kenyon.

“Mrs. Santucci,” said Harry, winking. “She's a bit of a peach, that one.”

“It wasn't fun, and I don't want to talk about it,” said the agent. “Just drive me to the gallery.”

Harry shrugged, putting the car into gear.

As they drove, Kenyon tried to piece together the significance of the business card. “Please forgive me,” it said. Was it addressed to him, or Lydia? He had no way of knowing how long it had been there, but it made no sense for Legrand to break into his house and rob him.

Or did it?

What had Legrand said the day he came looking for the suitcase left to him by Lydia? That Lydia had a hiding spot. Maybe that nonsense about searching in the wine cooler had been a distraction so that Legrand could run up and check the safe, thought Kenyon.

No, that didn't work; he had only been in the cooler a few seconds. Kenyon tried to picture the kitchen scene again: him in the cooler, Legrand sitting at the kitchen nook table playing with Lydia's set of keys.

The keys.

Kenyon dug the set out of his pocket and sure enough, there, tucked under the tooth of the safe's skeleton key, was a tiny fleck of soap. All of the other keys appeared clean, but when he held the front door key up to his nose, he could smell the faint aroma of lilac.

So, the Frenchman had distracted Kenyon long enough to make a soap impression of the front door and safe keys and one of Legrand's assistants at his private investigation firm could make copies. The broken window and stolen spoons had been a misdirection. Legrand wanted it to look like a simple burglary.

Kenyon shook his head. Why go to all that trouble to steal something that was already yours, and then leave a calling card?

The cab entered the short side street to Lydia's gallery, and Kenyon reluctantly pushed the puzzle out of his head for a more immediate concern—what to do about his gallery manager, Bruno Ricci. He hoped that the receptionist knew something that might be relevant.

By the time he reached the gallery, Kenyon's head had cleared enough to put together a plan of attack. He paid the cabby, but before he got out of the car, he leaned forward. “Sorry about snapping at you, Harry. The last few days have been hard.”

“That's all right,” Harry replied affably. “I know what it's like to get a bump on the old noggin'.”

Kenyon held out a fifty-pound note. “I'm worried about Señora Santucci. Do me a favor and keep an eye on the house for a few hours?”

Harry pushed away the bill. “Consider it done, mate.”

Kenyon smiled. “You see Raymond Legrand snooping around, you give me a call, okay? But if you see a guy around six feet tall, short blond hair, walks with a limp, you give the police a call.”

Harry held a thumb up. “You got it. You an' me, we'll give 'em what-for, right?”

Kenyon held his thumb up. “Right.”

As Kenyon approached the front door, deWolfe got out of his parked car and approached the agent. “How shall we do this?” asked deWolfe, nodding toward the gallery.

“If Bruno is in, you put the whammy on him so we can talk to Zoë alone,” said Kenyon.

The receptionist buzzed the two men through the doorway. Kenyon had a quick look around; the gallery appeared deserted.

“Is Bruno in?” asked Kenyon.

“Not today,” replied Zoë. “Would you like me to make you a cup of tea?”

“Yeah, that would be great,” said Kenyon. “Meet us in my office when it's ready. I'd like to have a talk.”

The two men went to Lydia's office. A few minutes later, Tigger appeared with a tray containing three cups and a porcelain teapot shaped like a cabbage. She set the tray on Lydia's desk and sat down beside deWolfe, opposite Kenyon.

“When does Bruno usually get here?” he asked.

The receptionist shrugged. “It's hard to say. He sort of comes and goes as he feels.”

Tigger poured the tea and handed a cup to deWolfe and Kenyon. The agent blew on the hot surface for a moment, then sipped the beverage; it was tart and bitter, with a hint of lemon. “You don't like Bruno, do you?” asked Kenyon.

Tigger sipped her tea for a moment. “No,” she finally replied.

“Well, can I let you in on a little secret?” said Kenyon. “I don't like him much either.”

Tigger smiled into her teacup, but said nothing.

“In fact, I like you a lot more,” continued Kenyon. “My guess is, you do most of the real work around here, don't you?”

A blush spread across Tigger's cheeks. “I try my best.”

“I'll bet Lydia trusted you a lot.”

“I'm the first one here, opening up the shop,” said Tigger.

Something twigged; Kenyon suddenly remembered that Ricci had asked for a new set of keys. “So, when Lydia got the locks changed just before she died, she gave you a set, but not Bruno?” he asked. “Why is that? Isn't Bruno the manager?”

The receptionist's shoulders sagged. “I'm not supposed to say anything.”

“Who told you not to?”

“Bruno.”

Kenyon's face darkened. “He threatened you?”

Tigger nodded, silently.

“It's okay,” said the agent. “I'm here. Nobody's going to hurt you. Please, tell me what happened.”

Tigger took a long breath. She glanced once at deWolfe, then returned her attention to Kenyon. “It was just a few days before Lydia died. Bruno and Lydia had a big fight. I was on front desk, but I could hear the shouting.”

“What were they arguing about?”

“I don't know. They were down in the storage room. It was too far away to hear clearly.”

Kenyon glanced at deWolfe, then continued. “What happened then?”

“Bruno stormed out,” said Tigger. “Lydia asked me to call for someone to change the locks and codes.”

“Did Bruno ever come back to the gallery while Lydia was alive?” asked deWolfe.

“No,” said Tigger.

“Did you ask Lydia what happened?” continued Kenyon.

“She didn't want to talk about it,” said Tigger. “We were too busy arranging the auction. It was only two days away, and I had to take over all of Bruno's work.”

“I take it Bruno wasn't at the auction that night,” said Kenyon.

“I think Lydia would have strangled him if he did show up,” said Tigger.

I wish he had
, thought Kenyon.

“Who collected the donated pieces for the auction?” DeWolfe asked. “Was it Ricci, before he left?”

“No,” said Tigger. “Most were gathered by the auctioneers, except for one that Lydia insisted on picking up herself.”

“Which one was that?” asked Kenyon.

Tigger pondered for a moment. “A piece by Maggote. A company called
TEQ
donated it. I can't remember the exact name.”

“A picture called
Techno 69
?” asked Kenyon.

Tigger brightened. “That's the one.”

“Did you ever notice a copy of
Techno 69
in the gallery?” asked Kenyon.

Tigger looked puzzled. “Why would anyone make a copy?”

Kenyon changed the subject. “Before Lydia changed the locks, did Bruno have a key to the downstairs storage?”

“Of course,” said Tigger. “He was in charge of storage. Lydia never went down there.”

Bingo, thought Kenyon. “Thank you, Zoë, you've been a big help. Do you mind returning to the reception desk? Mr. deWolfe and I have something to discuss.”

Tigger stood, taking her tea. She smiled at the two men and left.

Kenyon closed the door, then returned to his seat. “I think I know how Garbajian ended up with the real
Techno 69
,” he said.

“How?” asked deWolfe.

“Bruno had a forgery made that was an exact duplicate of
Techno 69
, and swapped it with the real one down in the storeroom,” began Kenyon.

“
Ach
!” replied deWolfe. “That is very good. That way, when Lydia sells the fake, his tracks are covered. Bruno can market the real one to a buyer on a different continent at his leisure, with little fear of being caught.”

“But Bruno outsmarted himself,” continued Kenyon. “After Lydia sold the fake to
TEQ
, he hid the real one in storage, where only he ever went.”

“Until Lump's fake turned up,” said deWolfe. “Then, Lydia went to check the rest of the Maggotes herself.”

“And what did she find?” continued Kenyon. “A painting she had already sold months before!”

“She must have been furious,” said deWolfe.

“She blew her top,” agreed Kenyon. “Lydia raked Bruno over the coals, then threw him out the door and changed the locks.”

“That
would
explain why Garbajian has the original,” agreed deWolfe.

“Yeah, Lydia must have swapped back the real
Techno 69
for the fake when she picked it up for the auction,” Kenyon's face became grim. “And it also explains why Ricci killed Lydia.”

“So it would seem,” said deWolfe. “Should we go to Scotland Yard?”

Kenyon shook his head. “Arundel would laugh me out of the building. I need solid proof.”

DeWolfe tapped a finger against the side of his jaw. “If Bruno has the fake, then we
will
have solid proof,
ja
?”

“He'd be nuts to hang onto it,” said Kenyon.

“Perhaps not,” replied deWolfe. “If he is in such dire need of cash, he may think he can alter it enough to create a whole new Maggote. That is why he is still hanging around: he is waiting for the moment to sneak into the gallery records and create a new authentication.”

“Which he hasn't been able to do, because he doesn't have keys,” agreed Kenyon.

“The trick is, how do we get him to cough it up?”

“I suggest that another ruse is precisely what is in order,” replied deWolfe. “But what?”

“I got it,” said Kenyon. “I'll offer him a deal: either he gives up the fake
Techno 69
, or I spill the beans.” He opened up Lydia's daybook and began to search for Ricci's home number.

“Do you really think he will turn over the painting if you threaten to expose him to the police?” asked deWolfe.

Kenyon found the number, and began to dial. “Who said anything about the police?”

The appraiser's eyes went wide in sudden realization. “Ah, brilliant.” He leaned forward and pushed the speaker button. “Do you mind? I want to hear the scoundrel's reaction.”

“Okay,” said Kenyon. The phone in Ricci's apartment began to ring. “Just keep quiet and let me do the talking.”

Someone answered the phone. “
Ciao
.”

“Ricci? It's Kenyon calling. I've got a deal for you.”

“Ah, you have accepted my offer for the gallery, no?”

“No,” said Kenyon. “This is another deal, one you're going to be a lot more interested in.”

“I am all ears.”

“I know about your forgeries, Ricci.”

There was a brief silence on the other end of the phone. “What do you mean?”

Kenyon continued. “You had quite an operation going with the Maggotes.”

“I deny everything.”

“I found the proof in Lydia's files,” countered Kenyon. “You've committed a very serious crime.”

“You cannot prove anything in a court of law.”

“I'm not thinking of telling the police, Ricci. I'm thinking of telling Archie Lump.”

An audible gasp emanated from the speaker phone. “You cannot . . .”

“Oh, I can, and I will, Ricci, unless . . .”

“Unless, what?”

“Unless you hand over something I want.”

“Anything. Please, what is it?”

“The fake
Techno 69
, Ricci. I want it. Now.”

“I cannot.”

“Oh, yes, you can, Ricci. You know how angry Mr. Lump can get. It's either your eyes, or the fake.”

“I cannot give it to you, because I do not have it!”

“You're lying, Ricci.”

“No! It is the truth!”

Kenyon glanced at deWolfe, but the appraiser sat transfixed, staring at the speaker. What to do now?

Suddenly, Ricci broke the silence. “I cannot give you the painting, but I have something better.”

“What?” asked Kenyon.

“I know what happened to Lydia.”

DeWolfe was so startled that he fell forward, his arm outstretched toward the phone. Kenyon reached over a grabbed him by the wrist at the last moment, before he hit the console. He eased deWolfe back into his chair.

“What happened to Lydia?” Kenyon asked.

“Not over the phone,” said Ricci. “Meet me at my house. Tonight, at midnight. I will tell you what I know, in exchange for your silence.”

“Tonight, at midnight,” repeated Kenyon. He pressed the speaker button, and the phone disconnected.

“You can't possibly trust him,” said deWolfe.

“I don't.”

“He's setting up a trap.”