Gauguin Connection, The by Estelle Ryan Page B

smile used all those facial muscles indicating insincerity. Most likely he used it to charm his way around other hapless victims. This was the first time that I felt him to be a threat. I moved away from him to a small wooden table I had bought from a Cambodian art dealer.
    “What are you doing?”
    “Phoning the police.”
    “I’m afraid that won’t work.”
    Without taking my eyes off him, I picked up the receiver of my home phone only to be met with a dead instrument in my hand. I shook it slightly towards him. “What have you done?”
    “Played it safe.” Surprisingly he looked apologetic. “I’ve also switched on a scrambler that won’t allow you any reception on your mobile phone.”
    My life had been in such controlled harmony until two days ago. Now I had to deal with a lapse not only in my carefully cultivated control, but also in my home security. All of this had started with that blasted Manny and his case. Not being one to believe in coincidence, I was leaning towards the intruder’s visit having something to do with the photo and Manny’s case.
    “I don’t want to frighten you, Jenny.” The intruder turned his palms outwards, but it was the true concern on his face that had me convinced. This time.
    Using a shortened version of my name grated on my nerves. I desperately wanted to release all the pent-up frustration of the last few days in a lecture about respecting people’s names. But this might not be the wisest move. I considered all my options and sighed. “Your name and then we talk.”
    “Fantastic.” He took a step closer and stretched out his hand in introduction, but immediately stopped when I stiffened. His hand floated to his side. “Sorry. My name is Colin Frey.”
    The little time I had already spent with this intruder had been enough for me to have established a baseline. This enabled me to know that at that very moment he was telling the truth. I replaced the dead receiver and gave my reading chair a look of disgust. I stepped to the left and sat down on one of the two wingback chairs that completed my seating arrangement in the reading area. Colin took his place again in my chair, much to my dismay. I would have to disinfect my entire apartment.
    “What do you want, Mister Frey?”
    “Colin, please.” He looked unsure how to continue.
    “Please just state your business so that you can leave.”
    “You work for Rousseau & Rousseau. It is not quite stated what you do there, but it seems that you’re working in the fraud detection department.”
    “Your business, Mister Frey.” I was not going to allow him the pleasure of drawing information out of me. I studied every movement of his facial muscles and found my eyes continuously drawn to his lips.
    “Please call me Colin.” One corner of his mouth lifted in a self-deprecating smile and the penny dropped.
    “You are him!” I sat up in my chair, eyebrows raised and my heart racing. “You are the poet-man.”
    Colin closed his eyes, which was as much as an admission. “How did you know?”
    “Your lips. They are the same lips as those of Sydney Goddphin, John Milton and Isaac Watts.”
    “How do you know?” He shook his head. “Those photos in the newspapers. I knew they were going to come and bite me in the arse one day.”
    “How far back does this go?” I forgot all my previous concerns. The man in front of me was much more fascinating than any safety concerns. “I only looked back five years, but I have a feeling that you’ve been doing this much longer.”
    “I would prefer to not implicate myself at this very moment.” He rubbed his wrists as if he could feel handcuffs tightening. “But I must admit that in all the time the poets have been in existence, no one has once even come close to making any connection.”
    “How did you know that I had made the connection?” Wasn’t the EDA computer supposed to be secure?
    “You did a Google search.”
    “Surely my Google search didn’t make direct contact