Free Secret Combinations by Gordon Cope Page A

you need to know?”
    She listened while Kenyon explained the situation.
    â€œI didn’t release the car,” the solicitor replied. “I have no idea how it got there.”
    Well, if you didn’t do it, and I didn’t do it, then who did? wondered Kenyon. “Let me check it out, and I’ll get back to you.”
    Kenyon returned to the garage. He found Strand filling out a work order form on a clipboard.
    â€œHow did the car get here?” he asked the manager.
    Strand thought for a moment. “It probably got towed here.”
    Kenyon pointed to the clipboard. “Is there a release form?”
    Strand shook his head. “Not at this end. The tow-truck operator might need something at the police compound, though.”
    â€œLet’s have another look at the car,” Kenyon suggested.
    The door handle was a simple latch. Kenyon opened the driver’s side door and squeezed inside. The dash had four small analog dials for gasoline, temperature, oil, and voltage. There were two larger dials behind the wood-grain steering wheel, a speedometer and tachometer. Kenyon leaned across and checked the small glove compartment on the passenger side. It was empty.
    He got out of the car and had a closer look at the exterior. From what he could tell, the front right side seemed to have taken the worst damage. “Do you know how the accident occurred?” I asked.
    â€œThe article in the Times said she rolled it late at night,” replied Strand. “I don’t know much else.”
    Kenyon walked around to the back of the car, which was relatively intact, except for a broken rear taillight and a black smudge, like that from a bumper. It looked like it had been rear-ended by another
car. He pointed out the damage to Strand. “Is this old, or new?” he asked.
    Strand bent over and looked closely. “I certainly don’t recall it being there when she brought it in for tuning the week before,” said Strand. “Maybe it happened during the crash.”
    â€œDid the insurance assessor leave a number to call?” Kenyon asked.
    â€œNo, but they rarely do.”
    â€œDo you remember what he looked like?”
    Strand shrugged his shoulders. “We get so many assessors through here, Mr. Kenyon . . .”
    â€œHe was a tall man, older.”
    The agent turned. A mechanic with Rasta-curls was sitting nearby on a pair of tires, drinking his tea and eating an apple. The name “Cecil” was stenciled on his blue coveralls.
    â€œDo you remember anything else?” Kenyon asked.
    Cecil shrugged. “Didn’t seem like much of an assessor, you know? He just looked in the secret compartment. Wasn’t interested in the damage, man.”
    Kenyon glanced at Strand. “Morgans have a secret compartment?”
    â€œNot all,” replied the manager, “just Lydia’s.” He pointed to the unlatched windows. “As you can see, it’s child’s play to get inside.” Strand walked to the back, and flipped open the trunk. “Lydia wanted a place to store oddments securely, so we custom-built her one.” He pulled on the rear cover of the trunk to reveal a compartment big enough to hold a case of wine.
    Kenyon leaned into the trunk and peered into the compartment. There was nothing inside. He backed out of the trunk and closed the lid. Something wasn’t right; an unauthorized assessor pulls the car out of the police compound, then all he does is search a secret compartment? “Do you remember which pound it got shipped from?” he asked.
    Cecil took a sip of his tea. “Somewhere from the south of London. The lad with the tow truck, he bitched about the traffic around Richmond.”
    Kenyon turned to Strand. “Do you mind if I hold off on a decision about the car for a day or so? There’s a few things I want to check first.”
    Strand shrugged. “We’re not too busy at the moment, we