by Thomas Swan
Deats acknowledged that that would be helpful. “Better yet, I’d like to meet with Oxby while I’m here.”
“That’s not Jack’s style.” Heston pointed at the city beyond his window. “He’s out there someplace, gumshoeing in his own strange way, as the Americans might say.”
“He still assigns himself to the cases he likes and works up his own agenda. And you let him.”
Heston nodded. “Yes, and for a quite simple reason. Those are the ones he always solves.”
In the apartment-building lobby Deats took a deep breath then pushed the button next to Sarah Evans’s name. A male voice sounded on the intercom, and after Deats announced he was from the Windsor police, a buzzer sounded. He walked the flight of stairs and was met at the top by a short, heavyset man.
“Officer, I’m pleased to meet you. I’m Teddy O’Mara, brother to Sarah’s mother, who’s tendin’ to matters at the funeral home.” His face was pink and sad and his heavy Dublin-accented voice was pitched high and nearly squeaked as he spoke.
Deats extended his hand. “I’m terribly sorry we’re meeting under these circumstances. Please accept my condolences. I’m hopeful you might let me look around the room where Sarah worked on her police matters. I’m looking in particular for some reports.”
“You come right in, lad. She was a hardworking girl and would want you to have whatever belongs to the department.” O’Mara led Deats to Sarah’s bedroom.
He surveyed the room then quite methodically began a search of the closet and bureau. The papers he came across were of a personal nature. Then he sat at the desk and sorted through a dozen or so files that lay next to a framed photograph of Sarah and her husband. He pulled at the single drawer and found it was locked. He tried to force it open. He stopped pulling at the drawer and stared at the keyhole. “Keys!” he said aloud. “We didn’t find any keys.”
O’Mara had been standing in the doorway. “You’re sayin’no keys was found at Sarah’s accident? She carried a pound of keys, she did. I joked she looked like a night watchman with all them keys.”
“I could be wrong, Mr. O’Mara. I don’t recall seeing them.”
Cynthia was now standing in the doorway, the spaniel sitting beside her.
“Is it the key to her desk you’re lookin’ for, Superintendent?” O’Mara asked.
“Yes, do you know where one might be?”
“No, I wouldn’t be knowin’ where Sarah kept it. Here now, that’s Cynthia over there. Maybe she knows.”
Deats sat at Sarah’s desk. He spoke quietly to the little girl. “Cynthia, my name is Superintendent Deats. I’m very sorry about your mommy.”
Cynthia didn’t stir, nor did she cry. Her tears had been exhausted when she came to the realization her mother would never return. Now she was in the numbing twilight that shock brings on.
“Cynthia, did your mommy carry a lot of keys in her pocketbook?” When the child did not respond, he tried again, a warm smile across his face. “Did mommy have keys like this?” He showed her his own set of keys.
She looked at his hand and nodded.
“Mommy carried lots and lots of keys?”
Again Cynthia nodded. Deats pointed to the desk drawer. “Do you know where to find the key to this lock?”
She stepped closer and shook her head negatively. “My mom has the keys and she won’t be home anymore.” Her voice was a whisper but she spoke clearly and looked directly into Deats’s eyes when finally she broke her silence.
Deats tugged at the drawer, then concluded he would have to force it open or wait for help. “May I use the telephone, Mr. O’Mara?”
“Certainly, Superintendent. It’s in the other room next to the television.”
Deats reached his office and confirmed that no keys had been found. He ordered another search of the car and grounds surrounding the accident site. “Check the desk she used at the library again. Notify security at the Castle that we’re looking for them and advise all foot and patrol constables to be on the alert.”
As Deats returned to Sarah’s room the dog suddenly began barking. Cynthia picked him up and stroked his long ears.
“You must forgive the little animal,” Mr. O’Mara said. “He’ll be skittish with strangers since he got tossed about last Saturday.”
“Oh? What was that about?” Deats asked almost absently.
“Some gent was here lookin’ to install a computer here in Sarah’s room. Clover got scared and snapped at his hand and got throwed against the door.”
“Who was the man? Did he give identification? A card?”
“Can’t say that I know. I can’t say that anybody here knows. My sister said she thinks his name was, oh dear, what was that name . . . Mr. . . .”
“Black.” Cynthia spoke up.
“Black. That’s right, Cynthia. Good for you.”
“He hurt Clover. See?” Cynthia held out the dog’s paw to Deats. She had wrapped a piece of gauze over a small wound. “Clover bit his hand,” she said triumphantly.
“What did he look like, Cynthia?”
“I dunno,” she replied, shaking her shoulders. “He had whiskers all over and a funny hat.”
Deats realized he couldn’t rely on Cynthia’s description of Black but perhaps the grandmother could furnish more details. “Mr. O’Mara, here’s my card. When your sister returns, and if she’s up to it, ask her to phone a description of this Black fellow. Ask if she remembers anything else about him—the way he was dressed, the name of his company—that sort of thing.”
“I will, Superintendent, but don’t be expectin’ a fast call. Wendy’s pretty upset right now. I should be with her but, well, Cynthia here.”
“I quite understand. There’s one last favor I’m going to ask. It’s important for me to see inside the desk, and if you have a long, flat knife in the kitchen, I might be able to open it.”
O’Mara inspected the desk drawer and took a penknife from his pocket. He deftly slid the blade between the drawer and wood strip above it, jiggled it a couple of times, and the drawer opened. “I was a cabinet maker a ways back, learned a few tricks that come in handy now and then.”
“That’s an excellent trick, Mr. O’Mara. Thank you.”
Deats sifted through the folders and papers and letters still in their envelopes. After sorting through all the papers he concentrated on the folder marked “Library Dossiers.” Sarah had designed a two-page form, much like one might complete when applying for a position. On the form she was able to record a brief biographical sketch of each employee, and had somehow managed to secure a fingerprint on an index card or piece of stationery that was stapled to the report. A few prints were clean, others smudged. All part of her training, Deats concluded. He counted eleven completed forms, all library employees. Beneath the completed record were additional blank forms. He thumbed through the sheets and discovered that the bottom page contained a mass of scribbles and red lines.
It was a single sheet of lined notebook paper and on it were two columns of names. One was headed “Library Staff ” and the other “Heldwicke Workers.” Sarah had recorded tiny notations and dates in pencil and ink on what was apparently a summary or worksheet. Deats glanced again at the completed forms, noting that all the names matched those under the “Library Staff ” heading.
A red line was drawn through each name except for one in the Heldwicke column. Next to Gregory L. Hewlitt’s name was a penciled comment that Deats had difficulty reading. After several attempts he made it out: “Awaiting report from C4 and fingerprint confirmation.”
Chapter 10
At precisely 9:00 A.M. Monday morning, Jonas entered 6 Grosvenor Street and took the elevator to the top floor and the London offices of Jonas R. Kalem & Company, Ltd.
His mood was dark, and he immediately went to a corner office reserved for his occasional visits. The room was spartan compared to the sprawling opulence in New York. He grunted a “good morning” to Claire Haydon, the very competent general director of the London
operation. Claire was of substantial British stock—good breeding, fine education, considered a first-rate manager, and destined never to arouse the sexual appetite in the men with whom she associated. Claire was effective. She had tapped into the phenomenal growth of London-based advertising agencies with their appetite for expansion throughout Europe and the States. Accounts in the London office had reached a new high in the year ended, and Jonas knew the reason why. But this morning he chose to be alone and instructed Claire to take all messages and turn visitors away.
He threw the morning Times on his desk and stared at the paper folded to reveal the short article that had soured his humor. The headline leaped off the page: INVESTIGATION INTO POLICEWOMAN’S DEATH CONTINUES. He crashed his fist onto the newspaper. “Goddamned stupid luck!”
He stared out the window. Below was Mayfair. A few blocks distant was Regent Street, where tourists and tarrying office workers brought the street of shops alive at this morning hour. His glance fell to two photographs on top of the credenza, obligatory decorations that somehow lent respectability to a shattered personal life. One recent photo was of his son David and daughter Ceil, both caught with a hint of happiness on otherwise dull, expressionless faces. The other picture was of Jonas with his estranged wife Margaret, who had been captured in one of those self-conscious poses that magnified her plain looks. He felt as he often did that he was totally removed from these people who were his family. Why did he regard them simply as people he knew, not as his flesh, not attached to him in anyway? Why not even a trace of the sweet love he once felt for the children? He knew it was because they could not meet the standards he set for himself. He had set the hurdles too high for his family to leap over and so they remained on the other side.
The world would look differently on Jonas Kalem once it was announced that he had discovered the missing Leonardo manuscripts.
But his careful plans were threatened by Tony’s impulsive solution to the meddling policewoman. Tony, the enforcer and valuable asset, had turned himself into a dangerous liability. He took the phone and dialed the library at Windsor Castle. Fearing a tap may have been put on the lines into the library, he spoke in what best could be described as South London Yiddish. He asked for Mr. Hewlitt.
“Mr. Hewlitt, this is Mr. Braymore. You inquired about some mercury switches last week. I think we can help you.”
Tony’s response came slowly. Jonas had not forewarned him he might use the Braymore name as a cover.
“Ah . . . yes, Mr. Braymore. That’s good news.”
“You didn’t give me all the information and said you’d call. You’ve got my phone number; perhaps if you still need them, you’ll ring back with the specifications.”
“Indeed. I’ll check on the matter.”
Jonas was satisfied that Tony had gotten his message and would find a public phone. Fifteen minutes later Jonas answered a ring on his private line.
“Yes?”
“Did you figure they spiked the lines so quickly?”
“No more risks, no matter how slight. I’ve decided you should retire from the air-conditioning business. Immediately. Do as we discussed. Take leave to visit your family.”
“The police were waiting for us this morning. One from Windsor, another said he was from Scotland Yard. We all had to fill out a damned bloody form asking for personal information. Where we live and the cars we drive. That sort of thing.”
“I told you to clean house, now be damned sure you do. Be careful how you leave matters at the library. Make it appear you’ll be returning.”
“My flat’s clean. All that’s left are some clothes and a toilet kit.”
“Listen closely.” Jonas breathed heavily into the phone. “Shave off the beard, buy a new suit, then meet me at the Tate Gallery cafeteria at 2:30. No hitches and don’t leave any trails.”
He put the phone down and stared at the instrument. The intercom light flashed and a buzzer sounded.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Kalem, but there’s someone on the line who insists on talking with you. He’s called before and claims it is extremely important.” Clair Haydon’s voice was low-pitched and had a certain Margaret Thatcher-like authority.
“Who is it?” Jonas asked.
“He won’t identify himself. I told him you were busy, that you would call him back. He has an Oriental accent, if that helps.”
“I’ll take it, Claire.” Jonas waited a full minute before answering. When he spoke, he was all business.
“This is Jonas Kalem. What may I do for you?”
“Thank you for coming to the phone, Mr. Kalem. I know you are very busy.” The voice was strange sounding, as if it were in falsetto, and the accent decidedly Oriental. “I will be brief. For reasons of great confidence I cannot reveal my identity at this time. I represent someone who shares your interest in art—particularly the work of the great masters. Leonardo da Vinci specifically.”
“There are many thousands who are similarly inclined,” Jonas intoned.
“But none who have the intense interest you have shown in recent months.”
“We have nothing in our inventory. For that matter there are no Leonardos available. Not even a sketch.”
“But in your speeches you have been saying that there will be new discoveries.”
“That’s true,” Jonas replied. “We have every hope that will happen.”
“As do we. And for that reason I should like to talk with you in person. Perhaps Thursday evening?”
“I don’t know what we can discuss.”
“Large sums of money and the continued safety of your associates. Those seem worthy topics for discussion.”
This was preposterous talk, yet Jonas maintained his composure. “Large sums of money in the art world are commonplace. As for my associates, I believe none are in any peril.”
“I disagree, Mr. Kalem. Valuable works of art and millions of dollars are often a formula for danger.”
“You must identify yourself. I will not agree to a meeting until I know who you are and who you represent.”
“You seem to forget, Mr. Kalem, that you have appeared in public to make predictions concerning new Leonardo discoveries. We interpret these presentations as an invitation for serious collectors to contact you. Often the collectors must be anonymous.”
“I understand. But I am not now prepared to hold discussions. If you will give me your name, I shall contact you when the time is right.”
“Your speech to the Da Vinci Association in Paris was most compelling. I wish to hear in person the progress you and your associates have been making.”
The presentations Jonas had given had attracted more than a hundred responses, but this was the first invitation to meet. The reference to his associates was particularly disquieting. Did they know about Curtis and Eleanor?
“It’s out of the question that I meet with you until I know who you represent and who will be present.”
“You must not make so much of identification. It will be very much in your interest to follow the instructions I will give you. Please make note of them.”
Jonas cupped the phone to his ear and jotted down the procedure he was to follow on Thursday evening.
“When we meet, you must be alone. Do not come accompanied.” There was a click and the phone went dead.
The Tate Gallery on Millbank along the Thames is Britain’s home to its own great artists. The permanent collection includes Turner, Blake, Constable, Reynolds, Gainsborough, and the works of more recent painters not yet listed among the famous. Jonas reached the gallery at two o’clock and mingled with the crowd viewing a special exhibition of Whistler who, while American, had been adopted by the British.
A few minutes past 2:30, Jonas descended to the lower-level cafeteria. A clean-shaven Tony was seated at a corner table. Jonas moved slowly through the line then carried his tray to Tony’s table. They met as strangers, talking idly about the Whistler exhibition and other gallery offerings. Satisfied that they blen
ded into the noise and crowd, Jonas became all business.
“Is your flat cleaned out?”
“Like a bloody whistle. Tidied up my work at the library, then contacted the field manager. Told him I had a family emergency and that I’d be away for several days. The work’s nearly done, only a carpenter and the painters will be there until the end of the week.”
“Excellent. There’s a good chance you won’t be missed for a week, about as long as it will take them to discover that Gregory Hewlitt is a fiction.” Jonas studied the face across from him. It was lightly flushed where the beard had protected his skin and contrasted with the ruddiness of his forehead and upper cheeks. Jonas detected a lift to Tony’s eyes and a mouth set as if to speak some piece of brash arrogance.
“This insane thing you’ve done is all over the papers. We have no choice but to adjust our plans and move ahead. I want you to assume a new identity. Shorten your hair, wear glasses, you know the tricks. Remember that Greg Hewlitt was tweeds and a beard, and I want you in serge with a close-trimmed look. Buy a new wardrobe. Conservative, dark colors. You’ll stay at the Connaught. Giorgio arrives Wednesday afternoon. We’ll study the material he will bring with him, then on Friday you will take it and my instructions to Curtis in New York. I’m flying to Milan on Sunday, then on to Florence, where I’ll meet with Eleanor Shepard for several days. I’m going to give you an envelope. It contains five thousand pounds, enough to cover expenses. Any questions?”
“I’ll need new papers. Passport, visa, personal cards, that sort of thing.”
“Of course you will.” Jonas spoke impatiently. “You have your old sources for those items.”
“They’re expensive.”
“I would expect so. How much?”
“A few years ago a passport was over three hundred pounds. It is a great deal more today.”
Jonas slid several large-denomination notes into the envelope. “That should cover it. Can you trust the people you’re dealing with?”
