Secret Combinations Read Online Free PDF Page A

hear about your aunt,” Fairmont said. “The ambassador tells me she was a fine woman.”
    â€œThanks,” said Kenyon. “I didn’t really know her, myself.”
    Fairmont stopped abruptly in front of an exit and glanced at his watch. “I’ve only got a few minutes before I have to run, but here’s the drill. I know you’re here in an unofficial capacity, but if you need any help, anything at all, I want you to call my guy at Scotland Yard.”
    Fairmont pulled a card from his wallet and handed it to Kenyon. It read “Detective Inspector Humphrey Arundel, Metropolitan Police.” “He’s an odd duck, but don’t take him lightly,” said Fairmont. “He’s connected.”
    Kenyon tucked the card in his pocket and shook Fairmont’s hand. “Thanks for taking time to greet me, Stan, but I can see you’re busy, so I’ll just grab a cab . . .”
    â€œHey, don’t even think of it,” said Fairmont. “I brought you some wheels.” The legal attaché led Kenyon outside, where a black Lincoln town car rested by the curb.
    â€œCompliments of the ambassador,” said Fairmont. “When he heard you took one in the ass for your country, he coughed up a free limo ride.”
    A Marine sergeant hopped out of the driver’s seat, saluted Kenyon, and grabbed his carry-on bag. Kenyon eased into the back seat and turned his attention to the interior of the car, but Fairmont tapped on the window. The agent found the button and lowered the smoked glass.
    â€œRemember, anything comes up, you call Arundel, got me?”
    Kenyon smiled. “Got you.”
    Fairmont nodded to the driver, then disappeared back into the terminal.
    The marine climbed back into the car. “Where to, sir?” he asked.
    Kenyon handed him the address, then leaned back into the plush upholstery as the driver wheeled onto the main highway.
    It was a hot, sunny day, and traffic moved briskly down the left-hand side of the road. Kenyon shook his head; he was still on San Francisco time and it felt like the middle of the night. Having all the traffic reversed added to his sense of unreality.
    The driver was engrossed in his task, giving Kenyon the opportunity to sit back and observe the city as it rolled past. The streets were wide and lined with row houses of red brick and white stone. Many of the buildings rose up to a height of five stories, with impressive entrances flanked by columns of carved marble. They passed several palaces and landscaped parks, and an immense monument dedicated to Wellington’s victory at Waterloo.
    After almost an hour’s ride the cab drove under a limestone arch inscribed “New Square.” The square was a large, rectangular park carpeted in green lawn and fringed by a ring of four-story, brown brick buildings. Men and women dressed in long black gowns and white wigs walked along the perimeter of the square. Several of them stared at the limo as it passed, trying to see through the tinted glass windows.
    The large automobile pulled up to the curb about halfway around the square. “This is it, sir,” said the marine. “Shall I wait for you?”
    â€œNo thanks,” said Kenyon, glad to be out of the big, ostentatious car. “I’ll grab a cab when I’m done.”
    The marine removed Kenyon’s luggage from the trunk and, after one final salute, drove away.
    Kenyon double-checked the address before advancing up the walkway. An unpolished brass plate on an ancient oak door proclaimed this to be “Burnham Sharpley & Co. Law Firm.” The door was open and Kenyon entered.
    The interior of the building was dark and gloomy and looked to be several hundred years old. Kenyon took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the low light of the reception room.
    A male clerk sat at a desk, pecking away at a grimy keyboard. He looked up irritably. “What is it?” he