Secret Combinations by Gordon Cope Page A

nothing fit the description. He checked all the other closets, peering into the recesses in case he had missed it, but his careful scrutiny failed to turn up a briefcase.
    He pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, puzzled. Where did Lydia put the briefcase? Kenyon could just imagine Legrand’s reaction when he told him it couldn’t be located; he thought back to the way the man had stared at him, and shuddered.
    Just then, the doorbell rang. Kenyon made his way down to the foyer and opened the door.
    A tall man of about thirty, with dark, short-cropped hair and large brown eyes stood outside. “Herr Kenyon?” he asked. “My name is Hadrian deWolfe.” He spoke with a distinct German accent, and wore an expensive dark grey suit and shiny black Italian shoes. “I am sorry to intrude in your time of sorrow, but I was an acquaintance of Lydia’s,” he explained. He held out his right hand. “I came by to introduce myself, and offer my condolences.”
    â€œThanks,” said Kenyon. “Please, come in.” He escorted his visitor into the living room, pointing toward an ornate chair.
    Rather than sit down, however, deWolfe advanced to the suit of armor. He took out a magnifying glass and examined the suit closely, tracing his right index finger along the filigree. “A marvelous example of 15th-century Milanese ceremonial armor,” he announced. “I have seen one just like it in the Duke of Kent’s mansion.”
    â€œAre you some kind of expert?”
    â€œSorry,” said deWolfe. “Where are my manners?” He pulled out a silver container, withdrew a business card, and handed it to Kenyon. It said, “Hadrian deWolfe, Art and Antiques Evaluator.” There were addresses for Zurich and London.
    â€œYou’re an antiques dealer?” he asked.
    DeWolfe nodded. “I handle all aspects, from verifying authenticity to bidding at auction. Mostly, I work from my home in Switzerland, but I also have many clients in Britain.”
    â€So, why are you here?”
    â€œLydia was always very kind and generous to me,” said deWolfe. “I know it is not much, but I came here today to offer you my services, should you ever decide to liquidate her estate.”
    Kenyon slapped his forehead. “Oh, I get it; you’re the guy Tanya promised to send on by to look at Lydia’s stuff.”
    â€œ Ja ,” replied deWolfe.
    â€œWould you like something to drink? A glass of white wine?”
    DeWolfe glanced around the room, Kenyon already half forgotten. “That would be splendid.”
    The agent went to the kitchen and rooted around in the wine closet. He opened a bottle of Pouilly Fumé and poured a glass.
    When Kenyon returned to the living room, deWolfe was examining the marble-topped sideboard. “Lydia had excellent taste,” he commented, running a long finger across the smooth top.
    â€œYou could have fooled me,” Kenyon replied, handing him the glass. “I don’t know a thing about this stuff.”
    â€œNo one could ever fool Lydia,” he responded. “She could spot a counterfeit almost immediately. She had a very shrewd eye.” DeWolfe sniffed the wine’s bouquet then, satisfied, took a sip.
    â€œYou worked a lot with Lydia?” asked Kenyon.
    â€œI came for her advice on several occasions regarding market prices.” DeWolfe put his wine glass on a table, then got down on his hands and knees and peered under the couch. “I was, in turn, most helpful to her regarding the—how do you say it?—provenance of certain objets .”
    Kenyon eyed the crouching man. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of him.
    His inspection of the underside of the couch finished, deWolfe stood up and carefully dusted off the knees of his trousers. “Now, if you will pardon me for being so abrupt—what do you intend to do with Lydia’s belongings?”
    â€œGood