Secret Combinations (8 page)

The man stuck out his hand. “Strand, here. I'll show you Lydia's car.” He escorted the agent around to the garage beside the showroom.

Inside the garage, the whine of pneumatic tools filled the air as several mechanics in overalls bent over partially dismantled cars. Spare tires, car fenders, and tailpipes littered the floor. An automobile rested to one side of the workshop under a canvas tarpaulin. Strand walked over and pulled off the cover.

Once upon a time, Kenyon imagined, it had been a beautiful car. The body was indigo, and the interior was upholstered in red leather. Now, however, the front wheel wells and hood were bent and scraped. The windshield had been crushed flat, and the interior was spattered with leaves, dried dirt and gravel. Kenyon noted, almost clinically, that there was no evidence of blood or other human remains.

“If you want me to repair it, I can do the job for five thousand pounds.” said Strand.

Kenyon was amazed. “Is that all? It looks like a total write-off.”

“We build the Morgans tough, and we build them smart,” replied Strand. “The engine and chassis are still intact. Most of the damage is cosmetic. We just need to replace the body parts, and she'll be good as new.”

Kenyon rubbed his chin. He pictured himself flying up the Pacific Coast Highway, the winding, two-lane blacktop that bordered the Pacific Ocean. “Is it a good car to drive?”

Strand smiled. “That it is. It's very quick, going from 0 to 60 in under six seconds. It has excellent handling abilities on curves, and a top speed of one hundred and thirty miles per hour. We rent them by the day, if you'd care to try one out.”

“Maybe I will,” said Kenyon. “You know, it sounds like a lot of car for Lydia to handle.”

“She'd have boxed your ears for that, lad,” replied Strand. “Miss Kenyon qualified for her competitive driving license ten years ago. She placed fifth at the time trials at Silverstone racecourse just last summer.”

Kenyon whistled. “I didn't realize she was such a good driver.”

“That's the odd part,” said Strand, his glance returning to the car. “She's the last person I imagine would lose control and kill herself.”

Kenyon stared silently at the wreck. Every time he thought he had a handle on Lydia, someone turned it upside down. He glanced over at one of the gleaming models, and made up his mind. “I'd love to fix it,” he said. “Is any of the cost covered by insurance?”

Strand frowned. “I thought that was already settled.” He pointed at the car. “Didn't
you
send it here?”

“No. I just got to London yesterday.”

“That's odd,” replied the manager. “We had an assessor from the insurance company in last week after it arrived from the police compound.”

Kenyon scratched his head. “Lydia's lawyer must have had it released. Listen, I'd like to get the ball rolling. Mind if I use your phone?”

“Certainly. Let me take you to my office.”

Strand's office was a little cubbyhole just big enough for a desk and chair. Kenyon pulled out Tanya O'Neill's business card and dialed her number.

The solicitor was glad to hear his voice. “How was your first night at Lydia's?”

“You want to know the truth? It was spooky. I kind of expected her ghost to come up the stairwell at midnight.”

O'Neill was sympathetic. “It can be unsettling sleeping all alone in a big house like that,” she replied.

Kenyon liked the direction their conversation was taking. Before he got sidetracked, however, he wanted to get the information he needed to start the garage working on the car. “What's the name of Lydia's car insurance company?” he asked.

“I have no idea,” replied O'Neill. “Why do you need to know?”

She listened while Kenyon explained the situation.

“I didn't release the car,” the solicitor replied. “I have no idea how it got there.”

Well, if you didn't do it, and I didn't do it, then who did? wondered Kenyon. “Let me check it out, and I'll get back to you.”

Kenyon returned to the garage. He found Strand filling out a work order form on a clipboard.

“How did the car get here?” he asked the manager.

Strand thought for a moment. “It probably got towed here.”

Kenyon pointed to the clipboard. “Is there a release form?”

Strand shook his head. “Not at this end. The tow-truck operator might need something at the police compound, though.”

“Let's have another look at the car,” Kenyon suggested.

The door handle was a simple latch. Kenyon opened the driver's side door and squeezed inside. The dash had four small analog dials for gasoline, temperature, oil, and voltage. There were two larger dials behind the wood-grain steering wheel, a speedometer and tachometer. Kenyon leaned across and checked the small glove compartment on the passenger side. It was empty.

He got out of the car and had a closer look at the exterior. From what he could tell, the front right side seemed to have taken the worst damage. “Do you know how the accident occurred?” I asked.

“The article in the
Times
said she rolled it late at night,” replied Strand. “I don't know much else.”

Kenyon walked around to the back of the car, which was relatively intact, except for a broken rear taillight and a black smudge, like that from a bumper. It looked like it had been rear-ended by another
car. He pointed out the damage to Strand. “Is this old, or new?” he asked.

Strand bent over and looked closely. “I certainly don't recall it being there when she brought it in for tuning the week before,” said Strand. “Maybe it happened during the crash.”

“Did the insurance assessor leave a number to call?” Kenyon asked.

“No, but they rarely do.”

“Do you remember what he looked like?”

Strand shrugged his shoulders. “We get so many assessors through here, Mr. Kenyon . . .”

“He was a tall man, older.”

The agent turned. A mechanic with Rasta-curls was sitting nearby on a pair of tires, drinking his tea and eating an apple. The name “Cecil” was stenciled on his blue coveralls.

“Do you remember anything else?” Kenyon asked.

Cecil shrugged. “Didn't seem like much of an assessor, you know? He just looked in the secret compartment. Wasn't interested in the damage, man.”

Kenyon glanced at Strand. “Morgans have a secret compartment?”

“Not all,” replied the manager, “just Lydia's.” He pointed to the unlatched windows. “As you can see, it's child's play to get inside.” Strand walked to the back, and flipped open the trunk. “Lydia wanted a place to store oddments securely, so we custom-built her one.” He pulled on the rear cover of the trunk to reveal a compartment big enough to hold a case of wine.

Kenyon leaned into the trunk and peered into the compartment. There was nothing inside. He backed out of the trunk and closed the lid. Something wasn't right; an unauthorized assessor pulls the car out of the police compound, then all he does is search a secret compartment? “Do you remember which pound it got shipped from?” he asked.

Cecil took a sip of his tea. “Somewhere from the south of London. The lad with the tow truck, he bitched about the traffic around Richmond.”

Kenyon turned to Strand. “Do you mind if I hold off on a decision about the car for a day or so? There's a few things I want to check first.”

Strand shrugged. “We're not too busy at the moment, we can keep it here while you make up your mind.”

“Good. Don't touch it until I give you the say-so.”

Kenyon left the dealership and returned to Lydia's home, pondering the strange events as he walked along. When he reached 61 Herringbone Gardens, he went up to the office and phoned O'Neill. “The insurance assessor sounds like a phony,” he explained. “Lydia had a secret compartment in the Morgan. My guess is, he wanted to get it out of police custody so he could search the car.”

“It doesn't make any sense,” replied O'Neill. “Unless, of course, he was a thief, and he thought there might be something valuable left in the car.”

Kenyon pondered that for a moment. “If a thief was looking for something to steal, he would have broken into her empty house. I haven't seen any evidence of a forced entry here.”

As they talked, Kenyon idly pulled Lydia's Filofax out of the pigeonhole and flipped to the calendar section. There was a page for each day. Lydia's notations were entered in clear, legible fashion, not at all like Kenyon's own chicken-scratch writing. Most of the entries were for picking up dry-cleaning, meeting clients for lunch, and various appointments.

Curious, Kenyon turned to the day she died, Saturday, July 2. There was a notation for “Auction, 8:00
PM
.” “The video of the auction you gave me; was that the night Lydia died?” Kenyon asked.

“Yes. Lydia was coming home when she ran her car off the road.”

Kenyon thought for a moment. “There's some damage on the back of the Morgan that the dealership can't account for. It almost looks as though someone rear-ended her car.”

“You think it wasn't an accident?” asked O'Neill.

“I want to talk to the police investigator,” replied Kenyon. “Do you have a contact name?”

O'Neill put down her receiver. She was back on the phone quickly. “Here's a name; Sergeant Barker. He's listed on the accident report as the collision investigation officer at Scotland Yard.”

“Scotland Yard?” Kenyon thought back to his brief meeting with Stan Fairmont at Heathrow airport; what was the
FBI
's contact name at Scotland Yard? He fumbled out his wallet and found the card; Detective Inspector Humphrey Arundel. “I'll call and see if they'll speak to me,” said Kenyon.

“Ring me later,” O'Neill replied. “I'd love to hear what you discover.”

Kenyon had been amazed how
quickly Scotland Yard responded to his request. He had spoken to Arundel, and the detective inspector had given him directions to a park near the south edge of London. They were to meet that afternoon at the parking lot, and proceed from there.

Kenyon returned to the Morgan dealership and rented a car. Strand was right, thought Kenyon, as he drove the Morgan through the streets of London; this car was a hell of a lot of fun to drive. There wasn't much to it but a big engine, a tough suspension, and a tight steering arc. Except for some discomfort from the bullet wound as he worked the clutch, it was a joy.

Driving on the left wasn't as difficult as Kenyon thought it would be, except for the roundabouts. The first time the agent headed into one of the circular intersections traveling left, he went completely around the circle, twice. He quickly got the hang of judging when to enter and exit, however, and was soon making good time as he drove south.

Traffic was heavy, but no worse than San Francisco on a Saturday afternoon. The sun was hot and bright, and he was glad that he had packed his shades.

The diesel fumes from an ancient Mercedes sedan ahead of Kenyon poured into the cockpit of the car. A break appeared in the oncoming traffic, and he hit the accelerator. The sports car whipped effortlessly ahead of the lumbering sedan.

Kenyon crossed the Thames and drove past Kew Gardens and Richmond Park. The suburbs, packed with row after row of brown-brick houses, gradually gave way to fields and stretches of forest preserve.

Kenyon soon spotted the North Downs Park sign; the entrance was just ahead. He geared the Morgan down and it responded with a throaty growl. He turned right, across the road, pulling into a graveled car park.

A large man dressed in the dark blue uniform of the Metropolitan Police was standing beside an ancient limousine. It was a 1936 Bentley Sedan in mint condition. The officer was busy polishing the dark blue paint until it gleamed.

Kenyon parked the Morgan beside the Bentley and climbed out of his car. “Excuse me, I'm looking for
DI
Humphrey Arundel.”

When the officer turned, Kenyon saw he was a large and beefy man. He had small brown eyes and the dark shadow of a beard on his jowls. He glanced Kenyon up and down, then, without a word, turned to the back door of the limousine and opened it.

Intrigued, Kenyon stepped through the wide door. In spite of the heat of the day, the rear passenger compartment of the limousine was cool and dry. The seats were upholstered in burgundy leather, with brass fittings on the door. A sliding glass panel separated the driver's section from the rear compartment.

The man sitting inside was slight of build and dressed in an expensive, single-breasted suit. He extended a carefully manicured hand. “Detective Inspector Humphrey Arundel, Special Branch,” he said in a languorous accent.

“Special Agent Jack Kenyon,
FBI
.”

“Simply charming to meet you,” said Arundel. “Please, have a seat.”

A crystal set of brandy snifters tinkled as Kenyon eased himself onto the burgundy upholstery. “Some squad car you have here.”

Arundel pulled out a silver cigarette case and lit up. “We're not allowed to smoke in police vehicles, so I bring the family car when expeditions arise.” He pointed to the officer standing outside. “In case he didn't introduce himself, that is Collision Investigation Officer Barker. He was in charge of investigating Lydia's accident.”

“I'm glad you could meet me on such short notice,” said Kenyon. “I know what a collision officer does, but I'm not familiar with Special Branch.”

Arundel pushed back a patch of lanky blond hair that hung over his forehead. “Oh, you
know
 . . . we handle
special
situations.”

Arundel's intonation was very precise, and he had a way of emphasizing every third word that reminded Kenyon of a florist who had a shop near his apartment in San Francisco.