Free Secret Combinations by Gordon Cope Page B

can keep it here while you make up your mind.”
    â€œGood. Don’t touch it until I give you the say-so.”
    Kenyon left the dealership and returned to Lydia’s home, pondering the strange events as he walked along. When he reached 61 Herringbone Gardens, he went up to the office and phoned O’Neill. “The insurance assessor sounds like a phony,” he explained. “Lydia had a secret compartment in the Morgan. My guess is, he wanted to get it out of police custody so he could search the car.”
    â€œIt doesn’t make any sense,” replied O’Neill. “Unless, of course, he was a thief, and he thought there might be something valuable left in the car.”
    Kenyon pondered that for a moment. “If a thief was looking for something to steal, he would have broken into her empty house. I haven’t seen any evidence of a forced entry here.”
    As they talked, Kenyon idly pulled Lydia’s Filofax out of the pigeonhole and flipped to the calendar section. There was a page for each day. Lydia’s notations were entered in clear, legible fashion, not at all like Kenyon’s own chicken-scratch writing. Most of the entries were for picking up dry-cleaning, meeting clients for lunch, and various appointments.
    Curious, Kenyon turned to the day she died, Saturday, July 2. There was a notation for “Auction, 8:00 PM .” “The video of the auction you gave me; was that the night Lydia died?” Kenyon asked.
    â€œYes. Lydia was coming home when she ran her car off the road.”
    Kenyon thought for a moment. “There’s some damage on the back of the Morgan that the dealership can’t account for. It almost looks as though someone rear-ended her car.”
    â€œYou think it wasn’t an accident?” asked O’Neill.
    â€œI want to talk to the police investigator,” replied Kenyon. “Do you have a contact name?”
    O’Neill put down her receiver. She was back on the phone quickly. “Here’s a name; Sergeant Barker. He’s listed on the accident report as the collision investigation officer at Scotland Yard.”
    â€œScotland Yard?” Kenyon thought back to his brief meeting with Stan Fairmont at Heathrow airport; what was the FBI ’s contact name at Scotland Yard? He fumbled out his wallet and found the card; Detective Inspector Humphrey Arundel. “I’ll call and see if they’ll speak to me,” said Kenyon.
    â€œRing me later,” O’Neill replied. “I’d love to hear what you discover.”

Seven
 
    Kenyon had been amazed how quickly Scotland Yard responded to his request. He had spoken to Arundel, and the detective inspector had given him directions to a park near the south edge of London. They were to meet that afternoon at the parking lot, and proceed from there.
    Kenyon returned to the Morgan dealership and rented a car. Strand was right, thought Kenyon, as he drove the Morgan through the streets of London; this car was a hell of a lot of fun to drive. There wasn’t much to it but a big engine, a tough suspension, and a tight steering arc. Except for some discomfort from the bullet wound as he worked the clutch, it was a joy.
    Driving on the left wasn’t as difficult as Kenyon thought it would be, except for the roundabouts. The first time the agent headed into one of the circular intersections traveling left, he went completely around the circle, twice. He quickly got the hang of judging when to enter and exit, however, and was soon making good time as he drove south.
    Traffic was heavy, but no worse than San Francisco on a Saturday afternoon. The sun was hot and bright, and he was glad that he had packed his shades.
    The diesel fumes from an ancient Mercedes sedan ahead of Kenyon poured into the cockpit of the car. A break appeared in the oncoming traffic, and he hit the accelerator. The sports car whipped effortlessly ahead of the lumbering