The Da Vinci Deception (23 page)

Tony played the scene flawlessly. He forced an ingratiating smile. “This Tobias chap will phone tomorrow and I want you to answer his call. You will say you have no further information on Anthony Waters and you will acknowledge that Curtis Stiehl is an employee and was in London with Mr. Kalem. But do so only if Tobias specifically indicates that he knows Stiehl was with Mr. Kalem. I told Tobias I was Mr. Kalem's brother. Albert was the name I used.”

“But Mr. Kalem doesn't have a brother,” Miss Braymore interrupted. “What if that's discovered?”

“Unlikely. Please understand that I did not wish to have my personal embarrassment involve Mr. Kalem in any way. Tell Chief Tobias you have no record of my whereabouts . . . that I have not been seen for several months.”

Miss Braymore dutifully recorded her instructions in a shorthand pad. Her usual calm was becoming unstuck; she was plainly confused by
Tony's deception. “I'm afraid Detective Tobias may come to the office to speak with us in person.”

“That crossed my mind. Give him as little time as possible, but be courteous. Reveal nothing more than what I have told you.”

“But if he should talk to others. They have seen you here in the past few days.”

“They've seen me as Keith Habershon. And I've kept apart from the staff since returning.”

“It all seems so strange . . . that they would ask the New York police to search for you because of a misunderstanding over the purchase of some property.”

“You don't understand the English.” Tony smiled. “A contract is a bond not to be broken. It's tradition and it's a bloody bore.”

Miss Braymore easily saw past the effete Keith Habershon disguise to Tony Waters's strong, smiling face. “I think we can take care of Detective Tobias, Mr. Waters, but please don't get into any more disagreeable situations.”

Tony waited until he was alone, then returned to sit behind the great desk. There was risk in bringing Miss Braymore into his confidence, but the greater risk was in silence. It had taken Walter Deats seven days to uncover his identity; his Keith Habershon cover could crumble in less than two days. Stiehl had become obstinate, his growing independence made supervision of his work nearly impossible, and he had asked about Sarah Evans. Tony was the clear loser in the earlier confrontation over the quills.
He had turned his apartment into a pen factory. What else was he doing without Tony's knowledge or Mr. Kalem's approval?
Stiehl could grow careless and may have shifted more of his work away from the security of his studio.

Tony stayed in the office for the remainder of the day, then minutes before five o'clock asked Miss Braymore for Stiehl's address. He departed through a small door off a narrow balcony suspended halfway up the high library walls.

S
tiehl was living in the small city of Hoboken, New Jersey, because he knew the territory and would be closer to his daughter Stephanie. A square mile of ethnic neighborhoods, Hoboken was chockful of family-owned grocery shops, taverns, and small churches. The first-ever game of baseball was played on its Elysian Fields, and John Jacob Astor built a summer home along the Hudson River, though no plaque marked the spot. There was the little stuff of history in Hoboken but no greatness. But then, Hoboken had never laid claim to any.

A cab took Tony the short ride through the Lincoln Tunnel. Police barricades were set across the streets leading off the main avenue, and lights had been strung over the streets; bunting and flags fluttered from wires stretched between houses and telephone poles. Stiehl lived in a converted brownstone in a second-floor apartment. A bay window overlooked the intersection of Garden and Eleventh Streets.

“There's a street carnival goin' on,” the driver announced.

“Drive as close as you can to Garden Street,” Tony directed.

“I've been here three times in my life, mister. All I know is it's down where them people are. You'll have to walk.”

Tony walked toward the sounds of a steel band and a blue haze rising from smoking braziers. The humid air captured the odors of broiling sausages and skewered lamb; the sweetly spiced scent of peppers, nuts, and pastries blended with unshucked corn roasting over charcoal. A trio of accordionists dressed in Bavarian costumes marched past. Crowds were gathering—chattering, laughing, some dancing a polka to music that had not yet begun.

On Garden Street the strings of lights were even more profuse, the colored bulbs casting their variegated glow in the growing darkness. Emblazoned across a banner that stretched the width of the street were the words ST. TERESA BLOCK PARTY.

Tony continued on Garden Street to 126. He had picked either a poor night or the best of all nights to break into Stiehl's apartment. The crowds concealed him when he stationed himself across the street, where, unnoticed, he sized up the situation.

He studied the building, his eyes moving from window to window. The curtains in the bay window were pulled aside and Stiehl could be clearly seen looking down to the crowds. A young girl was beside him. His daughter, Tony correctly assumed. The figures disappeared, then the lights in the bay window went out. Minutes later Stiehl and Stephanie walked from the entrance and were quickly absorbed by the crowd.

Tony waited until he was certain that Stiehl was caught in the spirit of the block party. Then he moved out of the shadows and crossed the street. He reached the steps leading to the vestibule when two men ran by him and into the building. Again he waited. Lights went on in the rooms where the men had gone. Tony darted up the steps.

In the dimly lighted vestibule he found six mailboxes with a name and doorbell under each. Stiehl's neatly printed name was under a box that had a crudely stenciled “2A” above it. The door leading to the upper floors was locked. A phonograph played behind the door leading into the first-floor apartment, the music contrasting with the jumble of street sounds. He took a set of steel probes from his pocket and kneeled to pick the lock. The dim light was less a handicap than was the noise from the street. He wanted to hear the pieces of metal in the lock sliding against each other. Then new sounds came from laughing voices and footsteps growing louder as they raced down the stairs. He stepped beside the door just as two children flung it open and continued through the vestibule and out to the party.

Tony caught the door before it closed and quickly ran up to the second floor. The lock to Stiehl's apartment was a Schlage—durable, common, and easily picked. He inserted a thin probe, then with a vibrating motion moved the tumblers into position and turned the chamber. It did not move. He tried again with a stouter probe: this time the handle turned. He entered into what had formerly been a bedroom and now served as a living room with its wide, high bay windows. Glints of red and blue light shone eerily through the curtains. In the middle of the bay he could make out a long table, and on it a metal lathe, assorted power tools, and a small drill press. Before turning on a light he pulled the curtains.

Street noises blotted out the soft creaking sound of the dry floorboards,
and just as he switched on the lamp he realized he was not alone. He swung around expecting to find Stiehl glaring at him but he saw only a dark object falling toward his head.

He turned to avoid a direct blow and a thick length of wood glanced over his ear splitting the skin. He was thrown off balance but his instincts remained sharp. From a crouch he reached out to grab his attacker.

The weapon arced through the air again, this time crashing into the lamp. Now only a trickle of light came through the curtains. Tony lunged forward, his powerful hands searching for the legs of his assailant. Then the hunk of wood crashed painfully onto the bone at the top of his shoulder. As he frantically reached out again he was struck a final time. The last blow was devastating and sent him sprawling on the floor.

Immediately the attacker turned Tony onto his back then pressed an ear to his chest. He found a towel in the bathroom, soaked it, and wrapped it around Tony's bleeding head.

He retrieved the lamp, found another bulb, then set it in the center of the table. He next took a camera and took shots of the machines, the boxes of pens and quills, and the half-dozen pages of sketches and notes found beside the lathe. Finally he shone the light on Tony and finished off the roll of film.

The attacker turned Samaritan inspected Tony's ear and the cuts higher up on his scalp. Apparently satisfied that the damage was not serious, he switched off the light and left Tony to the emptiness of the apartment.

Tony remained unconscious for ten minutes, then experienced additional minutes of semiawareness. The pain in his head and shoulder intensified, and when he was fully conscious, he discovered the wet towel and ran it over his face, then pressed it against his bleeding, hot ear. He attempted to push himself into a sitting position but his shoulder felt as if a barbed needle had been twisted deep inside him. He fell to the floor and lay motionless.

He could hear the singing from the crowds outside the window; a brass band playing off-key paraded by. The pain became near paralyzing, then lessened. He gripped the leg of the table and pulled himself to a sitting position. For an hour he sat, painfully awake at times, thankfully asleep at others.

The door to the apartment opened, and the light from the hall spilled over him.

“What in hell . . .”

“It's me. Tony.” He struggled to his feet, reaching for an anchor to steady his unsteady legs.

“You sneaking bastard. You've gone too far.” Stiehl flipped on the ceiling lights.

“Stop acting so damned tough and help me.” Tony found a chair and fell into it, his head sagging and the towel now soaked in blood. “You might thank me for taking this beating. He'd've given it to you if you'd returned sooner.”

“Let me see what he did to you.”

Stiehl gently probed the cuts then dabbed the wound with peroxide and applied a bandage. While first aid was administered, Tony explained he had come to fulfill his obligation to Jonas Kalem.

“Precautions are necessary. The fact someone's been in your apartment is proof that without tight security the entire operation could be exposed. Who was it, Stiehl? What was he looking for?”

“I'd guess it was a Treasury guy who knows I'm out and thinks he can hang another bad-paper rap on me. I was told they might come snooping.”

“Could it have anything to do with the da Vinci papers?”

“Only four people know what we're doing.” Stiehl shook his head. “No. Nothing to do with Leonardo.”

“Don't be too sure only four people know about Leonardo. A call came in today from the New York police. They've been asked by Scotland Yard to find you and me and ask questions.”

“Questions about what?”

“I don't plan to find out. They won't know to look for Keith Habershon, and I want to keep it that way.”

“I asked you earlier about the policewoman. Is that why they're looking for you?”

Tony didn't answer. He went into the bathroom and put cold water on the cuts. Then he sat at the table that held Stiehl's metal-working tools and the pens he had made.

“I came to see your goddamned pen factory and, having nearly lost my life doing that, feel entitled to an explanation of what I'm looking at and what you've been up to.” There was the tiniest glint of humor in the way he said it. He may well have been on a fool's errand, but had came close to a tragedy.

“It's all right there,” Stiehl said. “A few tools, some strips of thin steel, and a box of pens.”

Tony picked up several pages of drawings. “What are these?”

“Designs for the pens I've made. They can't be bought, so I made them.”

Tony was hurting and was in no mood to prolong his investigation. “Mr. Kalem won't be happy with our news.” He reached the door, a hand to his head. “I predict he'll want both of us out of New York. And soon. My advice to you is stay clear of the other workers.”

“Why are the police looking for us? I've done nothing.” Stiehl went to Tony's side. “The police have linked me with you and it's you they want. Why?”

Tony didn't answer.

“Why, damn it?” He grabbed Tony by the collar. “Did you kill that policewoman?”

“You're out of your bloody mind.” Tony broke loose, opened the door, and rushed down the stairs and out to the laughter and music.

S
eptember was ending without a cool wind to relieve the humid dreariness. Walter Deats tried to fight off the unaccustomed heat but his wardrobe was suited to the English countryside, not the phenomenon of a hot, breezeless Bermuda high smothering Manhattan.

His plea to Windsor's chief of police for the opportunity to trail Anthony Waters had been agreed to only after Elliot Heston interceded with an informal deputation and a small financial subsidy. But a final decision wasn't made until late on Monday, and Deats scrambled to catch a flight on Tuesday afternoon. His plane was on the ground at 2:48 and the taxi deposited him at his hotel on West Thirty-fourth Street at 4:45. Quickly he registered, sent his bag to his room, and was back in a cab on his way to meet Alexander Tobias at police headquarters.

Chief of Detectives Alexander Tobias stood at the door to his office at the end of a long corridor that linked the chief 's command center with central reception. Tobias was in his mid-fifties. He had a broad, friendly face and a full head of salt-and-pepper hair. He advanced down the hallway to greet his guest.

“Welcome, Superintendent. Sorry it's like a sauna in here but our air conditioner's on the fritz.”