The show began just as Kenyon sat down. To the pounding of recorded rock music, a blond woman dressed in a schoolgirl’s outfit wandered onto the stage, seemingly lost. The stage had been decorated in purple plush velvet curtains. A fireman’s pole had been set up to one side, and a large, round bed dominated the center of the stage.
Kenyon leaned back in the bench and stared ahead, his eyes unfocused. He thought about the fact that Lydia was his mother. For the first time, his strange life started to make sense.
Kenyon knew that Lydia had come to London to study in the late 1970s. She would have been young, probably only twenty or so. For a small town girl from Montana, it must have been like another planet.
Suddenly, a large black man dressed in fireman’s pants slid down the pole and landed at the blond girl’s feet. He pulled down his pants to reveal a large, throbbing erection. The schoolgirl screamed in apparent fright.
Kenyon tried to picture a young woman with long, straight hair and chinos running into some British rock star in stovepipe jeans and a leather vest. Kenyon barked a short, loud laugh that made the stoned kids glance his way. For all he knew, his father could be Joe Cocker.
By now, the schoolgirl had gotten over her fright and was sucking the fireman’s cock with great relish. He, in turn, pulled down her chemise to reveal an impressive set of breasts. He picked her up and flung her onto the bed.
It didn’t matter a bit who the father was, thought Kenyon, Cyrus must have hit the roof when his daughter came home pregnant. An abortion would have been legal, but that wouldn’t have mattered to Cyrus and Daisy: they were God-fearing fundamentalists. They would have ordered Lydia to have Jack, then arranged to formally adopt their daughter’s bastard.
After that, guessed Kenyon, the old tyrant tossed his mother out on her ear, ordering Lydia never to darken his door again.
A second man, dressed in a Santa suit, came out and ripped off the schoolgirl’s skirt. He and the fireman then took turns screwing her doggy-style.
How could Lydia abandon him just like that? Never a visit, never a card, never even a phone call. Maybe she just wanted to forget he ever existed. The thought filled his heart with sadness.
The agent glanced at his watch. What if deWolfe decided not to show? What if he called the police? The agent couldn’t stand waiting any longer. He arose and went to the front door of the Pussycat, glancing out to see if the coast was clear.
Just then, deWolfe’s car appeared, pulling up in front of the entrance. Abandoning caution, Kenyon sprinted over and hopped into the passenger side.
“Sorry about the delay, the traffic was dreadful,” said deWolfe. He pulled away from the curb.
“Listen, I really want to thank you,” said Kenyon, his heart pounding. “You don’t even know what trouble I’m in.”
“Tell me,” said deWolfe.
“The police think I murdered Lydia and stole a military secret.”
The driver glanced at his passenger askance. “Did you?”
“No. I’m being framed.”
DeWolfe squared himself against the wheel. “Then I think you owe me an explanation,” he said. “Now.”
Kenyon didn’t know where to start. “There’s this computer virus called Cyberworm. Somebody tried to steal it in San Francisco. Only they set it up so it looked like I was the one stealing it.”
“That’s terrible,” said deWolfe.
“It gets worse,” said Kenyon. “The code to the computer virus was here in England. The police think I tried to steal it. Somehow, they think that fake Techno 69 has something to do with it.”
DeWolfe slammed on the brakes; a lorry behind almost rear-ended them. “Do the police have the fake?” he asked.
“No, they don’t know where it is,” said Kenyon.
The truck driver angrily beeped his horn. deWolfe pulled over for a moment and rubbed his face. “Dear God, what is the matter with this world?”
Kenyon patted him on the back. “It’s all right. We’ll catch them, don’t you worry.”
DeWolfe smiled grimly. “You are a very brave man, Jack Kenyon, to be thinking about catching the murderers when the whole world is pursuing you.”
“Yeah, well, I got a personal stake here. Unless I figure out who did it, they’re going to lock me up and throw away the key.”
DeWolfe squared his shoulders. “Well, whatever you do, you will not do it alone. I will help you.”
“Thank you, Hadrian. I’m going to need all the help I can get.”
DeWolfe put the car in gear and pulled back into traffic. “Where do we start?”
Kenyon sighed. “I don’t know. I just wish Ricci hadn’t been killed. I think he was going to spill the beans.”
DeWolfe turned his head to Kenyon. “What do you mean, killed? Did he not commit suicide?”
“No. The police called me back last night to his apartment. Someone drugged him and slit his wrists to make it look like a suicide.”
“So, if we find out who killed Ricci, we have the mastermind.”
“I think I know who did it,” said Kenyon. “I saw Raymond Legrand outside Ricci’s apartment the night he as killed.”
“You mean, the husband of Ilsa?”
“Yeah. I think Legrand killed Ricci because he was blackmailing Lydia.”
Suddenly, deWolfe stared ahead. Traffic had slowed to a crawl in front of the houses of Parliament. “Keep down,” he warned. “There are always policemen on duty out front.”
Kenyon kept low in the seat until deWolfe gave the all clear. By the time he arose from under the dash, they were near the Thames, heading west.
“Where are you taking me?” asked the agent.
“I have a friend with a small apartment in town,” said deWolfe. “He is gone for the month. You will be safe there.”
They drove in silence for a few minutes, until deWolfe spoke. “How do you know Ricci was blackmailing Lydia?” he asked.
Kenyon stared out the window. “The police found compromising footage in Ricci’s recorder.”
DeWolfe pondered this for a moment, then continued. “But if Legrand killed him and made it look like a suicide, why would he not take the film?
“I don’t know,” said Kenyon.
“I do.” DeWolfe slapped his hand on the steering wheel. “Because he planted it.”
“What?” said Kenyon. “Why would he do that?”
“How much do you know about Sir Rupert Ingoldsby?” asked deWolfe.
Kenyon shrugged. “Not much. He owns TEQ, the company that made the encryption code for the stolen virus. Other than that, he’s just an old, drooling fart.”
DeWolfe shook his head. “There was a time he would have killed you for saying that. During the Second World War, he was a senior intelligence officer. He was well known for his angry temper and ruthlessness.”
“He must have been hell on his family.”
“Ilsa, worst of all.”
“He beat her?”
“No, he adored her. But she could not wed. No man would risk her hand in marriage, they all feared Sir Rupert so much.”
“Legrand did.”
“Sir Rupert bribed Legrand with a senior position in his firm,” said deWolfe. “He comes from a distinguished family, but they’ve been broke for years. For a penniless Frenchman, it was a dream come true: a beautiful wife and a secure job. All he had to do was wait until the old man died. Only, he could not wait.”
“What do you mean?” asked Kenyon.
“Are you aware that Legrand and Lydia were having an affair?”
“Yeah, I knew that.”
“So did Ilsa,” said deWolfe. “She was going to divorce him.”
“So?”
“Legrand was used to riches and high society. He needed a new source of wealth.”
“Are you saying he’s the one trying to steal Cyberworm?” said Kenyon, incredulous. “No way. The guy’s a bumbling private investigator!”
“Do not let the exterior fool you,” said deWolfe. “He is a former intelligence officer with the French military. He is quite capable of anything.”
Kenyon sat back and pondered the concept of Legrand as mastermind. “You know, it almost fits,” he said. “He’d know about the project through his wife. He could probably gain access to the encryption code somehow. All he’d have to do then is arrange for a mule to pick up Simon’s end of the virus in San Francisco. He works it so that Lydia and I end up taking the fall.”
“Ingenious,” said deWolfe.
“Hang on, though. There’s a problem.”
“What is that?” asked deWolfe.
“They found fifty thousand dollars with Dahg in San Francisco,” said the agent. “If Legrand was broke, where’d he get the money to pay the mule? He’d need at least one hundred thousand dollars to set this up.”
DeWolfe thought for a moment. “How much money was blackmailed from Lydia?”
“I don’t know exactly, at least one hundred thousand pounds.”
“Ah. Who do you think was blackmailing Lydia, Jack?”
They drove on for a while in silence. Kenyon’s head was reeling. It all tied together: the mysterious e-mail, the blackmail of Lydia. “He set it up all so perfectly,” he said.
“Not quite,” said deWolfe. “Legrand did not expect Lydia to stumble on the false Techno 69. He killed her before he realized she had hidden it.”
“Oh, God,” said Kenyon, aloud.
“What?” asked deWolfe.
“I know where Lydia hid it.”
“Where?” asked deWolfe.
“She hid it in her last will and testament,” replied Kenyon.
DeWolfe stared at the agent, puzzled. “I do not understand. How can you hide a painting in a document?”
“She bequeathed a suitcase to Legrand in her will,” said Kenyon. “The fake Techno 69 must be in the suitcase.”
“Of course,” said deWolfe, understanding. “All we have to do is find the suitcase.”
“We’re too late,” said Kenyon, grimly. “Legrand has it.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was the one who broke into Lydia’s house the other night,” said Kenyon. “He stole something out of a hidden safe. It must have been the painting.”
“This is terrible,” said deWolfe. “We must stop him.”
“How?” asked Kenyon, bitterly. “He’s got every cop in town after me.”
“Open the glove compartment,” said deWolfe.
Kenyon flipped it open to see a Luger 9mm pistol laying on top of some maps.
“We must find Legrand and take him at gunpoint to the police,” said deWolfe. “They will drop the charges and you will be free.”
The traffic began to slow. DeWolfe peered ahead. “Oh, dear,” he said.
“What’s wrong?”
“There appears to be some sort of police roadblock.”
Kenyon could see the lights of a police cruiser reflecting off the buildings about a block ahead. He lifted the Luger out of the glove compartment and checked the clip; it was loaded. He tucked the gun into his pants and pulled the Virginia Tech sweater down over the butt.
“Time to bail,” he said, opening the passenger door.
DeWolfe reached over to grab Kenyon by the shoulder, but he was already out the door. “Where are you going?” shouted the evaluator at the retreating agent.
“I’ll call you when I get there,” said Kenyon. He closed the car door and quickly disappeared into the stream of pedestrians on the sidewalk.