Happy Harry’s taxi was waiting out on Piccadilly when Kenyon and deWolfe emerged from the Ritz hotel.
The cabby took them north for several blocks on Bond Street, then turned onto the side road housing Lydia’s gallery.
Tigger buzzed the two men through the front door. The receptionist looked carefully at Kenyon as he entered, clearly concerned about his abrupt departure the day before. “Is everything all right, Mr. Kenyon?”
“Yeah, I’m okay, Zoë,” he said. He turned to his companion. “This is Hadrian deWolfe. He’s going to help me evaluate some art. We’ll be down in the storage room.”
Hearing Kenyon’s voice, Bruno Ricci emerged from his back office and approached the reception area. “Oh, there you are, Kenyon,” he called, languidly pushing back the locks of curly black hair that had fallen over his forehead. “My banker is a pig. There is an overdrawn account, you can help, no?”
Suddenly, Ricci noticed deWolfe. Without another word, he exited the gallery and strode swiftly down the street.
Kenyon scratched his head. “What the hell got into him?
DeWolfe’s eyes grew wide in perplexity. “Perhaps, I look like his banker, ja ?” He shrugged, then turned and headed toward the back of the gallery.
Kenyon glanced briefly out the window at the rapidly retreating form of Ricci, then followed deWolfe. He would ask the gallery manager about his rude behavior later; right now, he had more important concerns.
The storage room was located in the basement of the gallery. Kenyon pulled out Lydia’s ring of keys and unlatched the two deadbolts that firmly fixed the door to the frame. He flicked on the light switch and the two men descended the heavy wooden stairs.
The basement walls of the gallery were bare concrete. A workshop was situated on the near side of the cellar, with a long, flat table and a toolkit holding a saw, hammer, and various other implements.
DeWolfe ignored the workshop and headed directly for the far wall, which was covered by a long storage cabinet. Constructed of steel, the cabinet held twenty vertically mounted drawers. He strolled slowly up and down the length of the cabinet, carefully reading the contents list on each drawer. He finally turned and came back to the center of the cabinet. “Please, unlock this one,” he said, pointing to a drawer. DeWolfe then went to the workbench and fished through the toolkit. He returned with a portable fluorescent light in one hand, a blacklight in the other, and a jeweler’s loupe on a chain around his neck.
Finding the correct key, Kenyon unlocked the first vertical drawer and slowly drew it out. Four paintings hung on a steel-mesh frame. They depicted various English outdoor scenes, including a fox hunt and a young, cherub-cheeked boy eviscerating a grouse for his master.
Kenyon glanced dubiously at the dark, lacquer-encrusted paintings. “Why are you looking at these?”
“These landscapes are 19th-century oils after the school of Constable.” DeWolfe tapped a stag hunting scene with a long finger. “Remember, I mentioned a forgery that we uncovered in Lydia’s gallery last year? It was by this artist, Johnson. It had already passed through several hands before we caught it.”
“How did you spot the fake?”
DeWolfe turned on the fluorescent light. “Fortunately, it is easy with 19th-century works. The lacquer used to preserve the surface remains clear under daylight, but glows yellow when exposed to fluorescence.”
He held the light close to the painting, and the surface glowed a distinct amber.
“Well, it appears that this one is authentic—hardly surprising, considering Lydia’s experience in the past.”
Kenyon closed the first drawer and pulled open the second. It held four paintings depicting cattle skulls resting in various desert landscapes. “I recognize these from art class in high school,” he said. “They’re by an American artist.”
“Georgia O’Keeffe,” agreed deWolfe. “Early and mid-20th century. A very prolific painter, and quite desired by you Americans, hence the popularity among forgers.”
DeWolfe peered closely at the horn on one painting. “O’Keeffe used a white pigment with a high calcium content that glows purple under ultraviolet light. They don’t concoct it anymore, and only the most dedicated forgers go to the bother of mixing authentic pigment.” He sniffed. “Lazy lot.”
The evaluator turned on the black light and held it up to the paintings; on every work, the white pigment glowed a healthy violet hue. He looked at Kenyon and shook his head; the paintings were genuine.
“You sure?” said Kenyon. “Every single one of these works is okay?”
DeWolfe glanced down the long row of drawers. “I could go through the rest, but I would need more sophisticated equipment, and a lot more time.”
Kenyon leaned against the workbench, dejected. “Well, thanks for trying.”
DeWolfe walked over and joined Kenyon beside the workbench. “Of course, if you were to be more explicit, it might help me narrow the search considerably.”
Kenyon stared hard at the evaluator. How much could he really trust deWolfe? If word got out that Lydia’s gallery had a plague of fakes, it would ruin the reputation of the business. On the other hand, he felt he had to trust somebody. What good was the gallery if Lydia’s killer went free?
Kenyon made up his mind. “Lydia got a call the week before she died. A client claimed she sold him a fake. She bought it back.”
DeWolfe leaned toward Kenyon. “Who was the artist?”
“Some Frenchman named Maggote.”
“Ah,” replied deWolfe, straightening. “It is beginning to make sense.”
“What is?”
“Lydia rang me a few weeks ago in Zurich. I cannot remember when, exactly. She asked me to come in and have a look at one of Maggote’s works, when I had the time.”
“Did she say why?” asked Kenyon.
“No, but that is not unusual. You do not want the evaluator to come in with any preconceived notions.”
“What did you find?”
“I never made it here,” replied deWolfe. “I was just leaving to examine a collection of 19th-century lithographs in Hungary when she called. By the time I returned, Lydia was dead.”
Kenyon walked over to the cabinet and examined the content lists. “There’s a couple of drawers with Maggote’s stuff in it. Do you want to have a look now?”
The evaluator looked dubious. “Well, post-modern is not exactly my cup of tea . . .”
“I think I can help. Maggote had a secret way of identifying his works. I know what it is.”
“Indeed?” said deWolfe. “I am already intrigued.”
Kenyon unlocked the first of the drawers containing Maggote’s work and drew it out. There were four paintings, all done in the same style that Kenyon had seen in Lump’s collection: bits of electronic hardware affixed to a plywood surface and splashed with paint.
Kenyon bent over the first painting. “Maggote would paint a cartoon character behind a microchip and hide it on each work.” The agent pried off a memory chip from the upper left corner. A profile of the French cartoon character, Tintin, had been neatly painted on the rear. “See?”
DeWolfe placed the loupe back in his right eye and examined the character. “How did you discover this?”
“I have my sources,” said Kenyon.
DeWolfe turned to Kenyon. “There is more to you than meets the eye, Herr Kenyon.” He tested the three other paintings. All of the works in the drawer had a hidden character. “It appears as though all these ones are authentic,” said deWolfe. “Let’s look at the rest.”
There were a total of fifteen Maggote works in the storage room. They worked their way down through the drawers, but each painting contained a hidden cartoon character.
Kenyon pushed the last drawer shut, strangely disappointed that they were all real. “I guess that shoots that lead down.”
“Not necessarily,” said deWolfe. “Sometimes, what’s not there is just as important as what is.”
“What do you mean?”
The evaluator tapped a list on one of the drawers. “This inventory says that there should have been four paintings in this drawer, but there are only three.”
Kenyon glanced at the list. “That’s right.” They pulled open the drawer again, and deWolfe checked the numbers on the back of each work against the list.
“Techno 69 seems to be the one missing,” said deWolfe. “Odd name; it sounds familiar.”
Kenyon stared at the list. “Yeah, it rings a bell.” Where had he seen that name?
“Well, it’s the only one that appears to be missing,” said deWolfe. “Perhaps it was the one that Lydia wanted me to look at.”
Suddenly it struck Kenyon; Lydia had written Techno 69 in her Filofax a few days before she was murdered. Careful to conceal his excitement, he turned to deWolfe. “Where do you think she might have put it?” he asked.
DeWolfe shrugged. “Perhaps it was sold. We can check the files.”
Kenyon nodded in agreement. “Sounds like a plan.”
The agent closed the drawers, and the two men went up to the main floor. After locking the storage door, Kenyon led deWolfe down the hall to Lydia’s office.
The agent pulled open the client drawer on the filing cabinet and went through the contents. Each artist had their own file, arranged alphabetically. He flipped through the folders until he found Maggote’s, then returned to the desk.
The folder was quite thick; each work had an authentication certificate, color photo, and provenance listing the ownership trail. The works in the basement storage room were filed up front; they showed Maggote’s estate as the owner. Kenyon flipped to the back; there were about a dozen paintings marked sold. He worked through the pile until he found Techno 69.
The color photograph showed a painting similar to the rest of Maggote’s work; electronic components had been affixed to a plywood board and splashed with blobs of red, yellow, and orange paint. As far as Kenyon could see, the only item differentiating Techno 69 from the rest of the works was a square, glistening solar panel in the lower left corner. Kenyon handed the photograph to deWolfe, then read through the paperwork. “Techno 69 was sold last year,” he said. “Some outfit called TEQ Plc bought it.”
“Oh, dear,” replied deWolfe, waving the photograph in the air. “Now I know why the name is familiar.” He stood up and ran through a pile of magazines on a shelf until he found a slim catalogue. He flipped through the slim volume until he found what he was looking for. “It’s in here,” he said, handing the catalogue to Kenyon. “It was donated to the auction.”
Kenyon glanced at the cover. “Charity Auction, Ingoldsby Estate, Surrey,” was written in large script across the top. “Saturday, July 5,” the day of Lydia’s death, appeared beneath.
“I wonder who bought it?” said Kenyon.
“I believe Regency House handled the actual auction,” said deWolfe. He pointed to a pile of mail. “They may have sent a list of the sales.”
Kenyon found a large manila envelope from the auctioneer. He ripped it open, pulled out the list, and scanned the contents until he found what he was looking for. “Someone named Garbajian bought it for ninety thousand pounds.”
DeWolfe leaned back in his chair. “Abdul Garbajian—I know the man. A very important patron of modern art. Also very guarded of his privacy.”
Kenyon handed deWolfe the rest of the Techno 69 papers. “You think it might be a fake?”
DeWolfe scanned the papers. “Everything seems to be in order. Certainly, there is no way that Lydia would knowingly sell TEQ a forgery.”
“Yeah, but anything might happen once it’s out of her hands,” said Kenyon. “I think we should see this painting for ourselves.”
“I agree,” replied deWolfe. “I do have a concern with Herr Garbajian, however.”
“What’s that?”
“He has a bad temper. He might not react well to being told he spent ninety thousand pounds on a forgery.”
“Yeah, well, that’s understandable,” agreed Kenyon. “I don’t see any way around not telling him, though.”
DeWolfe lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Perhaps there is a way we can check its authenticity without unduly alarming our dear friend.”
“What do you propose?”
The evaluator rubbed his hands together. “Just a harmless ruse. Do you have a white smock?”
“Say what?”
“Oh, what do you Americans call them? A lab coat.”
Kenyon thought he’d seen one in Lydia’s studio. “Yeah, I think there’s one at home.”
“Excellent. You go fetch it, and in the meantime, I shall arrange everything with Garbajian.”
Kenyon escorted deWolfe out the gallery door and onto the sidewalk and waved down a passing taxi. “Give me a call when you have something set up.”
“Will do,” replied deWolfe, nodding as the cab drove off.
If Kenyon hadn’t followed the cab with his eye as it departed down the street, he never would have noticed the man crossing the road at the corner. As it was, deWolfe’s taxi passed the pedestrian when he was almost in the taxi’s lane, forcing him to abruptly turn back. He was wearing a cap over his short hair and a large pair of sunglasses, but there was no concealing the distinctive limp.
“Dahg,” said Kenyon aloud.
A bus driver honked his horn in anger as Kenyon crossed the busy thoroughfare. He tried to close the gap between himself and his prey, but the sidewalk was clogged with people. He jumped high several times to try and keep Dahg man in sight, but the man suddenly disappeared from view.
It took Kenyon fifteen seconds to reach the point where he had last seen the fugitive. He stopped in front of the entrance to a long, narrow arcade filled with jewelry shops. The walkway was crowned with an arched glass ceiling and crowded with shoppers eyeing the diamonds and pearls. There was no sign of Dahg.
Kenyon approached an ancient Warder standing guard at the entrance to the arcade. “Did you just see a man about six feet tall, with short blond hair and a limp go by?”
The Warder removed his thick glasses and rubbed them on his bright red tunic. “No, sir. Ain’t seen no gentleman like that.”
Dahg had disappeared so quickly, for a moment Kenyon doubted his eyes. But in his heart, he knew what he’d seen.