The Da Vinci Deception (10 page)

“I won't be takin' much time, ma'am. If you could show me the room where she does any work when she's home, that's probably where she'd want to put it.”

“I wish she had said something to me about all this. She gets so closemouthed at times.”

“Mr. Evans, her husband, would he know?”

“Oh, there isn't no Mr. Evans anymore. That's the problem around here. She doesn't have her man to help.”

“Well, we can sort it out. Is there a desk where she'd be doing some of that work she was tellin' us about?”

“Yes, there, in her bedroom.”

Tony had surveyed the sitting room and determined it was Cynthia's playroom. In the bedroom was a desk on which was piled a stack of files, and next to it a typewriter table with an old Olivetti on top of it. “I'm sure this is where she wants to have us put the computer.”

He pulled out a metal tape and began measuring distances from the desk to the windows and to the electrical outlets. He scribbled numbers on a pad. Sarah's mother and daughter stood in the doorway watching in silent curiosity. He patiently continued, waiting for them to leave.
Didn't they know to leave? Didn't they know he needed to be alone?
Time was passing
and he expected the phone to ring or the bell to go off signifying that representatives from Scotland Yard had arrived in the lobby. He turned to Sarah's mother as he made a pretense of sniffing the air through his putty nose. He asked if he smelled coffee burning on the stove.

Sarah's mother said the woman next door always burned coffee, but that she did not. “I can brew you a cup if you would like.”

He seized the opportunity. “That would be nice, ma'am.” It would take several minutes to bring water to a boil. Important minutes.

Sarah's mother started for the kitchen, Cynthia tagging after. “Come with me, Clover,” she said, but the dog took a position inside the door and watched Tony search through the desk.

One drawer was locked. He tried the small keys on the ring he found in Sarah's pocketbook. The second one fit. He took out a half-dozen manila folders and hurriedly sorted through each. One was marked “Staff,” and in it were brief write-ups on each employee. Another was labeled “Heldwicke.” The name on the first file was Charlie McKean. Quickly he jammed the folder into his zippered briefcase. As he did, he knocked a pen to the floor and it rolled toward Clover. As he reached for it, the dog leaped at his hand. Sharp little teeth punctured the glove and sank into his flesh. “Damn it!” he shouted, and flung the dog against the door. The startled spaniel raced from the room squealing and yapping. He closed the drawer and locked it just as Cynthia ran from the kitchen and chased her pet under the sofa. She sat on the floor and began to cry.

“My God in heaven, what's the calamity?” The grandmother ran from the kitchen to see Cynthia trying to placate the dog while all the time tears streamed down her reddened face.

“I dropped my pen, and when I went to pick it up, I frightened your dog. It bit my hand, ma'am.” Tony peeled the glove back, revealing two punctures in the skin, one on each side of his scar. Before he could pull his hand back Sarah's mother saw spots of blood oozing from the teeth marks.

“It'll be fine,” Tony said, attempting a cheerful tone. “Is your dog all right? I didn't mean hurting it.” The question was aimed at Cynthia but he was not interested in an answer. He had moved to the window and could see that a black sedan had pulled to a stop directly across the street and two men were about to enter the apartment building.

“Thanks for the coffee but I'd best be gettin'back to work out the details for Mrs. Evans. Please tell her to call when she's of a mind to have
us go ahead.” He stood at the door and looked back at the woman and the little girl, sadness and unhappiness in their faces. In minutes they would learn of the crushing tragedy, but he could not let that be of any consequence. A little smile froze on his face and he said indifferently, “I'll be going now, and thank you for helping me.”

Through the closed door he could hear the intercom bell ring as the police announced their presence. He ran down the steps and hid in the shadows of the hall until the two men were admitted and began climbing to the first floor. Then he exited to the street and walked toward his car as fast as the crooked limp would permit.

From Battersea Park to St. James Square is a distance of about two miles. Tony covered it in eleven minutes, including a momentary delay caused by a crowd of tourists in front of Buckingham Palace. He was to meet Jonas by the statue of William III. He was early and saw that Jonas was also ahead of schedule. “It's me, all right,” Tony announced as he shuffled forward. “I got the papers, no problem about that. The police showed just as I was leaving.”

Tony took a copy of the morning
Times
from Jonas and felt for the thin box in the folds of the paper. He slipped it into a pocket of his raincoat.

“Curtis was a very angry man when I told him to spend the night with the drawing,” Jonas said in a solemn tone. “He'll presume something's gone off the track very quickly, so its best you stay away.”

“I've got no reason to mix with him. Besides, I've got enough to worry about. I've thought it through and there will be no Greg Hewlitt after today.”

“If Hewlitt disappears, they'll know for certain the woman was killed.”

“They may still find it out. Where will that leave me?”

“You made it look like an accident. Now you've got all her papers. If you should suddenly evaporate, someone is bound to be curious. Tell your supervisor you have a family matter to settle, that you must be away for several days.”

Tony returned to his rental car and proceeded to Heathrow, claimed his own car, and drove to Windsor. After exiting from the M4 he pulled off the road where he removed his makeup, brushed the powder from his hair, and changed clothes. He proceeded on his usual route to Windsor, aware he would pass the accident scene. As he neared the fatal bend his hands tightened on the steering wheel, causing him to feel a twinge where Cynthia's dog had bitten him. Flashing red lights atop
a wrecker's truck marked the spot. A dozen or more cars were parked off the road and photographers were using their flashes in the stillmurky light. His pulse beat more rapidly as he drove through the curve.

Approaching the service road leading to the castle, he slowed then, with an abrupt change of mind, stepped heavily on the accelerator. He continued into Windsor Borough and to Kings Road, leading south out of the town. In minutes he was in rolling farmland. He turned onto a narrow, unpaved road and stopped.

He gathered the disguise he had worn earlier, remnants of makeup, and the briefcase containing Sarah's papers and wrapped it all in the old raincoat. He hid the bundle under a pile of leaves behind a row of shrubs. He removed the right rear tire and replaced it with the spare. He then punctured a hole at the base of the valve stem on the tire he had removed. His last act was to cut the skin on the back of his hand where he had been bitten. The cuts were only deep enough to obscure the marks of the dog's teeth. He then drove back to Windsor.

The library was empty, save for Reginald Streeter, the punctilious history scholar. He was a gentle man with a puckish face and balding pate. Streeter read voraciously and in midproject would lay out a dozen references, reading from one source, then another, then finally concentrate on the extensive notes he was compiling in several thick notebooks. His life was wrapped up in the lives of English royalty and his expertise on the subject was widely acknowledged.

Tony spread his engineering drawings on a desk near the new system's control panel and busied himself rewriting the report he had prepared the previous afternoon. All ducts, compressors, blowers, and controls were installed and the system was receiving its final fine tuning. The room was silent except for the low whir of the compressors.

Tony was surprised by the soft voice of Streeter, who had quietly come to his side: “The weekend is a good time to hear how quietly the new machinery performs.”

“Yes, thank you. We're pleased about that.”

“Are you just as pleased that the humidity levels are correct and constant? That's been our big problem, you know.”

“We have good control for the most part, but we're getting too wide a fluctuation in the rooms with large windows. Some of the new windows weren't as tightly sealed as specified and that's something I'm looking into today.” Tony pointed at two windows in the adjacent room. “I'm afraid those are the culprits.”

“My, that's an angry cut on the back of your hand, Mr. Hewlitt.”

Tony retracted his hand quickly. “It's nothing. Looks bloody nasty but I only scratched it changing a tire.”

“Wash it clean,” Streeter said amiably. “You don't want an infection.”

He stepped away, then turned back to Tony. “You have a quite nice accent, Mr. Hewlitt. Accents are a hobby of mine and I place you near Liverpool. Are you a Liverpudlian?”

Tony reacted quickly. “No, I was brought up in Leeds.”

“Surely you spent time in Liverpool when you were young. Perhaps in Manchester?”

“No, Mr. Streeter. Neither city.”

“Then these old ears are playing tricks on me. People are constantly moving about these days, perhaps that's the problem.” The older man sighed. “Well, I must get back to my unhappy Queen Anne. Such a poor dear she was.”

Again he started away, then turned back. “There is one thing more I must not forget to say. You and your men are owed our thanks for the splendid work that's been done. The great treasures in this library will be enjoyed by many more generations. You have indeed made a valuable contribution to our country's great heritage.”

“Thank you, Mr. Streeter,” Tony said earnestly. He was happy to see the old scholar finally return to his work and ask no further questions about cut hands and telltale accents. The apprehension he felt when he entered the library at five minutes past noon had not lessened, and while he was not looking forward to a confrontation with the police, he preferred they begin their investigation while he was diligently working and involved in the rhythm of his job and the engineer's role he had learned to play so well. Shortly after 1:00 P.M. his hopes were realized.

Streeter answered a rap on the door and admitted a police sergeant and a well-dressed man who walked through the reception room and on to the First Gallery. Neither man spoke until they had made a complete sweep of all the rooms and found that Streeter and the bearded man were the only occupants. The well-dressed man spoke to Streeter.

“I am Superintendent Deats of the Windsor police and this is Sergeant Pelkinton. We're making inquiries into an accident that involved a member of the library staff. Perhaps you might first tell us your name.”

Deats spoke slowly and quietly. Tony continued with his report, not looking up but able to hear the conversation across the room.

“My heavens. Nothing too bad, I hope. Who has had an accident, Superintendent?”

“Miss Evans.”

“Oh, dear Sarah. Sarah the smiler, I call her. Is it serious?”

“She was in the library yesterday?”

“Indeed. I believe she was here when I left last evening.”

“When was that?”

“My usual time. Five-forty. I meet friends at Boar's Tavern and I try to be there promptly at six o'clock.”

“Were there others here when you left?”

“Yes. I believe one or two. Mr. Hewlitt, to whom we owe our gratitude for the splendid new air-control system, was still hard at work. He's the gentleman over there.”

“And after leaving the library, did you see Miss Evans again during the evening?”

“Not at Boar's Tavern,” Streeter said with a smile. “We don't encourage the ladies to come there in the evening. It's all but a men's club nowadays.”

“Thank you, Mr. Streeter. If we have further questions, we'll contact you.”

“But you haven't told me what happened. What kind of an accident did Sarah have?”

“Automobile.”

“Was she hurt badly?”

Deats did not reply. Tony was aware that the detective was walking toward him. He sized up Deats as a professional who knew how to ask questions and knew when to answer questions fired at him.

“Mr. Hewlitt, my name is Deats, Windsor police. May I ask a few questions?”

Tony looked up as if he had only at that moment become aware that Deats and his sergeant were in the library. He stood, his right hand in his pocket. “Of course. How can I help?”

“One of the employees of the library, a Sarah Evans, was involved in an automobile accident last night. Mr. Streeter has stated that you and Miss Evans were in the library when he left at 5:40. Were there any others here at that time?”

“I don't recall that there were.”

“You are sure of that?”

“Sarah went on before I did, then I phoned the security guard after completing my work. He checked all the rooms before locking.”

“What time was that?” Deats took his tape recorder from his pocket and turned it on.

“Sometime after six, I believe.”

“And did you see Sarah Evans after you left the library?”

Deats had asked the big question, the one Tony hoped might end further police questions and speculation.

“Superintendent, I'm not on staff in the library. I'm employed by Heldwicke Air-Control Systems and the installation is near completion.” He forced a weak laugh. “It's no jolly fun winding up one of these things, weekend work and all that rot.” Then with a very concerned expression, he asked, “What has happened to Miss Evans?”