INTO THE DARK : A TOM DEATON NOVEL

by Richard B. Schwartz

  “Don’t sell yourself short,” she said. “You’d be a good spokesman for your Department; people would assume that it was a skilled one if you were a representative member of it.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “That’s very kind. This is our floor.”

  The elevator door had opened, but Diana’s attention was focused on Tom. “Let’s walk,” he said, as they approached the revolving door beyond the concierge’s desk at the rear of the hotel. “Stop for a second and check out the clothing in the window of the store on the right. Remember, we’re supposed to be here for some personal time and some serious shopping.”

  “Right,” she said, pausing at the second window and looking at a pink Chanel suit with large, black and gold buttons. “A little over the top for me,” she said. The price was in four figures.

  “Too old for you,” Tom said. “I see you in something less garish.”

  He put his arm around her waist and they strolled down Park Street as if they had all the time in the world. “By the way, look at those decorative pieces.” He pointed to two four-foot, matched Chinese vases in the window of an antiquities dealer named Rostof. Each was heavily ornamented with emperor dragons chasing each other’s golden tails.

  Diana smiled and took Tom’s hand in hers when he extended it. They passed the restaurants, galleries, and styling salons on Mount Street and entered the northwest corner of Berkeley Square. “Tenedos is on Dover Street. We’re only five minutes away,” Tom said. I’ve got 9:35. We may be a little early, but that’s OK. I’d like to take a look first before we actually go in.”

  The traffic around the square was heavy and every metered space was filled, even at £1 for a bare fifteen minutes of parking time. They crossed at the zebra on Charles and headed east toward Berkeley Street, then south past the Mayfair Hotel. “There’s an alleyway behind the Holiday Inn,” Tom said. “Right over there,” he said, pointing. “It’s like a tunnel. It’s called Dover Yard.”

  The passage way was dark and narrow but the link with Dover Street was convenient and the pedestrian traffic steady. Emerging on the other side Tom checked the address in his notebook and decided to turn left. He took two or three steps and stopped abruptly. “It’s right here,” he said, “just one door above the tunnel.”

  At the ground level was a gallery display window with three large oils, the most prominent an impressionist landscape of brooks, cottages and distant pastures in late autumn light. Tom studied it for a second or two. “Your brother would have added something,” he said, “there would have been more than simple technique.”

  Diana nodded and squeezed his hand. “There,” she said, indicating the door to the above floors and the list of occupants on the adjacent plate. “Second floor. What we call third.” They looked up but the windows were all curtained. “Just a second,” Tom said, taking her back through Dover Yard and checking the back of the building. The windows were dark and there was no rear exit. There was a door on the Yard from the building that abutted Tenedos’ but it looked as if it hadn’t been opened for years. “OK,” Tom said, “let’s go in.”

  They walked up the steps and opened the main door, then climbed the stairs to the first floor. The stairs were narrow; the bannister had been repainted recently in shiny black lacquer. The single resident of the first floor was an insurer of fine art called Carstairs Ltd., the single resident of the second, Tenedos. Not the Tenedos Corporation. Not the Tenedos Society. Not Tenedos, Inc. or Tenedos, Ltd. Just the single, anglicized word: Tenedos. The name was carved in the center of a windowless, solid-oak door, with a heavy brass knob. Tom looked at Diana and then raised his hand and knocked.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Dover Street, Mayfair

  Friday, 9:51 a.m.

  There was no answer after the first knock and none after the second. Tom walked over to the edge of the staircase, looking up and down and listening patiently. Then he returned, slipped on a pair of plastic gloves, took out his pocket knife, and quietly slipped the bolt. He extended his hand toward Diana, indicating that she should come around behind him. He handed Diana a pair of gloves, turned the knob slowly and quietly opened the door.

  Nothing. The room looked like an abandoned Dickensian counting house, with unpadded, dark brown chairs, mahogany desks and library tables stacked with papers and photographs. Tom closed the door behind them and locked it.

  The art on the wall was of high quality, with discreet but alarmed security wires. Early twentieth-century mostly, but with an occasional later piece. There was no sculpture and no antiques, except for the functioning office furniture. Diana started through the material on the tables and Tom checked the desk drawers. Most of the correspondence concerned appraisals and restoration estimates. The principal clients were European collectors, galleries, and insurance agencies. The file cabinets contained more of the same, with correspondence dating back to the 1940’s. Diana showed Tom an invoice dated 1947.

  There were bills for paints and chemicals but no such substances in evidence and no room for restoration work within that office. There was no safe, either wall or walk-in, and no special lights, tools, or imaging equipment beyond simple magnifying glasses. The restoration work was either done off site or in situ.

  The appraisals were short and precise, the language terse and to the point, with straightforward figures in local currencies. Restoration estimates were equally brief, with a minimum of information and explanation. The letterhead read, simply, TENEDOS and all correspondence was signed ‘Walter Kepler.’ Diana showed one of the letters to Tom, pointing silently at the signature. The letterhead was printed in black ink and the samples adduced by Diana suggested that its design had not changed in fifty years.

  The drawers of Kepler’s desk were filled with pen nibs and pencil stubs, staples, simple metal paperclips, and rubber stamps with black-ink pads. There was even a box of carbon paper. No rolodex, post-it pads or flash drives; no cd’s, mouse pads, indeed, no computer. And no copying machine, fax machine, or portable phone. Kepler’s rotary-dial relic sat at the side of his desk, next to a Royal manual typewriter—top-of-the-line and state-of-the-art in 1954.

  Tom turned to the oak filing cabinet behind the desk. It was unlocked. Inside were personal bills of Kepler’s, some addressed to the Tenedos office address, some to an address in Cobham, Surrey. Tom wrote down the number and street in his pocket notebook. Except for utility charges the bills were widely spaced. Most were from repairmen, a few from grocers and department stores. Mr. Kepler had purchased a new suit in 1992 and two pairs of shoes in 1996. He had had the collars of his shirts turned in 1997.

  Twenty minutes later they stood at the door, ready to leave. Tom listened for a moment, turned the bolt, and opened the door. They slipped into the hallway, down into the street, and through Dover Yard. “Welcome to the 1950’s,” he said.

  “Remarkable,” Diana answered. “Every appraiser, restorer, insurer, and art historian has a computer now. They work from flash drives or images on the Web. Kepler doesn’t even have slides or reference books.”

  “He doesn’t need them,” Tom said. “He carries it all in his head. That’s why his invoices and estimates are so short and sweet. He’s saying take it or leave it. I’m the best and this is what I charge. There’s no persuasion, no justification, just the bottom line. He’s been in that office forever and he doesn’t care to change.”

  “Or increase his business,” Diana said.

  “No. He does what he does, discreetly and well. That’s why the French would have called him in, or why someone would want us to think that the French called him in. Quiet, conservative, old-fashioned, and no doubt highly competent.”

  “Also no paper trail, at least not on Pech-Merle.”

  “Was there any paperwork on any other French cave art?” Tom asked.

  “None that I could find,” Diana answered.

  “Spanish or Australian?”r />
  “No.”

  “I take it his name doesn’t ring any bells.”

  “Not with me, but I’m hardly an expert. His only work with the U.S. was with old master paintings in a small handful of museums, some of it from twenty and thirty years ago.”

  They slipped into the restaurant at the May Fair Hotel, now a part of Radisson, and ordered coffee. They had been greeted by a British woman, served by a younger, German woman.

  “No biscuits or sweets?” the waitress asked.

  “No thank you,” Tom answered. She looked at Diana, who smiled and shook her head no. The waitress smiled politely, turned, and whispered something to the other woman, who was now checking the cash register.

  “Most of his work consisted of large commissions,” Diana said. “His client list was small, but his prices high. And probably worth every penny.”

  “He can’t be very young,” Tom said. “If he had sufficient reputation to attract that kind of business fifty years ago he must be semi-retired by now. He may only come in a few days a month.” Tom checked his watch. “I’ll call the Tenedos number in a little while and see if he’s there. If there’s no answer, let’s go to his home.”

  “What was the name of the Englishman at Pech-Merle who warned them about the green disease?”

  “Something like Hayman,” Tom said. “Just a second.” He checked his notebook. “Not quite. His name was Hayward.”

  “And he was young.”

  “Yes, mid-twenties to early thirties,” Tom said, going over his notes. “Tall, blonde, business dress. He was carrying an attaché case.”

  “Not Walter Kepler. Perhaps his assistant or grandson?”

  “Could be,” Tom answered.

  Tom called Tenedos at 11:00 and again at 11:30. No answer. Rather than negotiate London traffic, they took a taxi to Heathrow, rented a car, drove west on the circle road and picked up the M25. The traffic was heavy but it was moving briskly. It took them twenty-five minutes to reach the A3 and, shortly thereafter, the Cobham exit.

  An overgrown Surrey village between Woking and Esher, Cobham was bisected by its High Street and anchored by lanes of freestanding, brick two-stories for well-heeled London commuters. Walter Kepler’s home stood alone in a copse of planes and chestnuts near the A3, opposite the river Mole. The stucco and beam elevation was vaguely Tudor. The roof was spotted with gray-green moss, the gravel driveway dotted with scattered patches of weeds. Some were beginning to flower. There was no car parked there. A shed was visible in the rear of the property. The curtains of the main house were partially drawn and the bright midday light reflected off the central windows.

  Tom parked the rental car off the road, beneath the line of sight, and he and Diana walked back to the house, the sound of the gravel under their feet barely audible. A dog began to bark; Tom could hear its paws rattling loudly against the sides of its pen. They walked toward the house as if they were invited guests. There was a small cement apron in front of the main door. Tom knocked and they waited for a response.

  Fifteen seconds later he knocked again but there was still no answer. They walked around to the back where Tom could see the neighbor’s dog, its paws pressed against the top bar of its pen. It was a bull mastiff, large and brown, with drool along its jaws and anger in its eyes. Diana knocked on the window of the back door. The dog matched each knock with a loud bark. Inside she could see a kitchen. There were no lights on and no dishes stacked in the sink. The cupboards were closed, the table empty and both of its two chairs neatly in place.

  There was no response when she knocked a second time. Tom slipped out his knife, opened the door, and let them in. The dog continued to bark, even after Tom closed the door. The house was still. There was a slight musty smell. Tom cracked a door off the kitchen and smelled the rising damp from the walls of the cellar below. They walked into the living room and found themselves again in another era. The room was filled with faded velvet couches, overstuffed chairs with antimacassars covering the arms and backs, ornate glass lamps, and hand-carved chests and tables, the corners reinforced with polished steel plates. The grandfather’s clock on the far wall was made of walnut, with elaborate claw feet and swirled finials. Tom pointed at the weights; the clock had been rewound recently. As it chimed 2:00 Tom checked his watch. Then came the voice.

  “Do not move. Raise your hands very slowly.” When they did, the voice told them to turn around.

  She was young, no more than thirty-five, dressed in plain black slacks and a white cotton blouse. She was wearing black leather shoes with low heels. Her hair was light brown, her eyes blue. She was wearing rimless glasses and holding a large, double-barreled shotgun. Tom thought it was Italian. The workmanship was exquisite, from the inlays on the stock down to the fine metal fretwork surrounding the trigger housing. It was pointed at their eyes.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Cobham, Surrey

  Friday, 2:01 p.m.

  “Who are you?” she asked. “Why are you here?”

  “We’re looking for Mr. Kepler,” Tom said. “We believe he’s been falsely implicated in a crime.”

  “What crime?”

  “I’d prefer to speak with him,” Tom answered.

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Deaton; I’m a police detective from California. This is Diana Bennett.”

  “Diana Bennett . . . David Bennett’s wife?”

  “I’m David’s sister,” Diana said.

  “I was sorry to hear about your brother, truly sorry.”

  “Thank you,” Diana said. “Please put down that gun. We don’t mean you any harm.”

  “Does this have anything to do with the death of your brother?”

  “We think that it does,” Tom said. “Has Mr. Kepler been in France in the last several weeks?”

  “He hasn’t been in France since last March,” the woman answered. “Is that where the crime was committed?”

  “Yes.”

  “How was Mr. Kepler implicated?”

  “There was a fraudulent restoration project that actually involved the theft of a major art object. Tenedos was represented as the restoration agency.”

  “What art object?”

  “Please, we need to discuss that with Mr. Kepler.”

  She paused, stared into Tom’s eyes and then Diana’s, and said, “Mr. Kepler is upstairs.”

  She pointed toward the stairs with the barrels of the shotgun and tipped her forehead in their direction, the shotgun now held at the level of Tom’s and Diana’s waists.

  “Is he all right?” Diana asked. “We knocked but there was no response.”

  “He’s upstairs, go ahead and see.”

  Tom put his hand on Diana’s back, signaling her to go ahead. Following closely behind her, he shielded all but the top of her head from the shotgun’s line of fire. The woman followed closely behind but with enough room to prevent Tom from striking or kicking her.

  “He’s in the room at the end of the hall,” she said.

  The upstairs was dark. The doors had all been closed and the small pane of rose-colored glass in the center of the hall was shaded by one of the chestnut trees. The hallway was free of furniture except for a single Austrian chest with flowered patterns that had been hand-painted in four colors. There was a small arrangement of family photographs on the walls, all in sepia and all at least seventy or eighty years old. The frame of the door at the end of the hall was outlined in light.

  “Go on in,” the woman said, as they got closer.

  Tom put his hand on the door, pressed slowly, and saw the bathroom tile beneath the door. He opened the door, caught a glimpse inside, and then asked Diana to stay in the hallway.

  “Why?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “Please,” he said.

  Walter Kepler was sitting upright in his bathtub. The wa
ter, which came up to just below his armpits, had long since cooled. The blood on his left wrist was now dark and crusted. A pool of dried blood covered the floor beneath his wrist and the side of the tub was streaked with red stains. His right hand was in the water, resting in his lap, and the water was a light magenta. The afternoon sun cast a glow on the right side of his face. The lace curtains swayed with the west wind. Two flies and a small bee had come in through the open window and were inspecting the body.

  Tom walked closer and saw the razor on the side of the tub, next to the red, hot water handle. It was an antique, with an ivory handle with black inlays forming a compass pattern. The side of the blade was inscribed with another compass pattern, this one elongated. The edge of the blade was streaked with dried blood. On the wall next to Kepler’s right arm was a succession of spurt marks. One of the flies was fluttering above it, like a small boy leaping across the stones of a rushing brook.

  Tom felt Diana’s hand on his shoulder and when he turned toward her he saw that the woman was now holding the gun at her side.

  “Did you find him?” Tom asked.

  “Yes, this morning.”

  “Was his body still warm?”

  “No. I think he must have died sometime during the night. I talked to him in late afternoon.”

  “And you’re certain it was him on the phone.”

  “I’ve worked with him every day for the last twelve years, Mr. Deaton. I would recognize his voice.”

  “You were his assistant?” Diana asked.

  “I am his student,” she answered. “My name is Margaret Harrell.”

  “Was there any reason to suspect that Mr. Kepler was considering suicide?” Tom asked.