Tedd and Todd's secret (36 page)

"Anyone who paid that amount of money for this piece of rubbish needs a shrink," Dylan Blair said to no one in particular. "And on top of that, paying a price like this says on the label the buyer should be shot."

The people around him were shocked by the millionaire's comments, as he studied the painting hanging before him, unaware of the ruckus he was causing with his sharp criticism.

"Your problem is that you don't know how to appreciate art," an angry woman standing near him said. "But that doesn't surprise me given the little education you've had."

"As far as education's concerned you're probably right, but I can assure you that I appreciate art," Dylan said without taking his eyes off the painting. "I'll give you an example. Some people steal, while others work… and so on. Without going any deeper, I made a deal in order to make my fortune, which makes me deserving of figuring in the lowest strata of humanity. But someone capable of finishing a painting in such a grotesque way, of drawing absurd scribble like this, and getting people to pay millions for it is a canon artist of the highest level. That person without any doubt is a master of a special art, swindling."

The woman was furious and battling to control more than just her words. "I find your opinion uneducated and expressed in a very offensive way."

"You're not paying any attention to me, madam," Dylan said, waving his hands in the air. "I'm somewhat more unbearable than usual when I feel frustrated. Do you understand? I've sold my soul to the devil to be where I am today, and now it turns out that this subject has been able to do the same vomiting over a canvas. At last, I'm going to do that to him. There's no going back."

"To tell the truth I don't like the painting either," a small man wearing glasses that were too large for him said. "This impolite individual is right. It seems nothing more than diarrhoea on canvas."

Dylan clapped him. "Well said, friend."

Others, obviously infected by the comments of the two men, began to talk about the painting, and, attracted by the ruckus that was beginning to take place, more visitors to the gallery came over to the improvised group of art critics.

The tone of the argument was getting worse. There were now more than thirty there and personal criticisms were gaining momentum. The woman who had been arguing with Dylan from the outset expended a lot of energy and reaffirmed, without realizing it, that she'd become the spokeswoman for those who defended the painting. A task that was increasingly difficult since the detractors now outnumbered supporters. Never before had the talent of the painter been questioned with such fervour.

The director of the gallery arrived, accompanied by two security guards and managed to impose order after a few difficult minutes. His grave voice rose above the general clamour and, backed up by the burly guards, he got the group to stop arguing and disperse.

"I thought that this was the best place to give one's opinion about art," Dylan said stubbornly. "We were only giving our impressions."

"That's enough!" the director bellowed, seeing that someone else was about to agree with Dylan and start the whole process over again. He got close to him and in the lowest voice possible, murmured, "I beg you not to keep upsetting the visitors, Mr Blair."

"Naturally," Dylan responded, pleased that he'd been recognized. "Really, my intention was to speak with you in private, if that's all right with you, of course."

The director understood straight away what this sudden shift away from the near riot meant. Dylan Blair was famous for his public outbursts. He was capable of employing an impressive dose of imagination, sustained by his fortune, to obtain what he wanted, without worrying in the slightest that his reputation would suffer even more. And now he was warning him that he would have to attend to him or risk seeing the plan that he'd conceived ruin his day.

"How can I help you?" the director asked, leading Dylan to his office.

"It's something simple. I've got to celebrate an important meeting and I need a place with style. Your gallery would be perfect, except for that miserable painting of course. I'd like to rent the gallery for a day."

"I regret I can't help you there. We don't offer that sort of service. If it was in my hands…"

The director was left speechless when he saw Dylan open the briefcase he was carrying and reveal its contents. It was loaded with cash, an incalculable amount. More than the director had ever seen in one place in his entire life.

"I need an immediate answer," Dylan said smiling. "Nobody will want the gallery today. Close it and leave it at my disposition until tomorrow morning. Or would you prefer me to walk off with this obscene quantity of money?"

He didn't take a second to think it over. The director took the briefcase out of Dylan's hands and, holding it as if his life depended on it, he called his employees together and gave them the day off.

In less than an hour, Dylan Blair stood alone in the gallery. Everyone had gone. The millionaire walked around the gallery and stopped in front of the painting that had caused so much argument. He grabbed a fire extinguisher that was on the wall beside it and emptied its contents all over the painting.

"I still believe that something as ugly as this can't make a man rich," he said to an empty gallery.

"I still don't understand it, Aidan," Carol said. "Chess? That can't be it. It's impossible."

"It's no more impossible than any of the other things that we've witnessed in the last few days."

They'd left Helen White and returned to the car, retracing the steps they'd shared with James White a little earlier. Aidan Zack was convinced of what he was telling Carol, but he knew it was hard to believe. If he hadn't seen so many episodes between the Blacks and the Whites with his own eyes he would never have believed it himself. He knew only too well that if someone told him that a five-foot-something man grew into a seven-foot woman he'd be checked for drugs on the spot. And trying to explain it to Carol was a good test of whether he was just completely mad or that someone else could accept it.

"The first thing to take into account are the surnames. They're either Black or White, the colours of chess. Then the pawns are identical. James like William, the one he beheaded."

"All those were pawns then?"

"The short ones, yes," Aidan said. "Visualize chess pieces standing on a board. The pawns are always the smallest pieces. And which are the biggest?"

"The queen and the king?" Carol answered straight away.

"Let's leave the king out of it for the time being. The tallest is the queen. Helen at seven feet."

"Then the bodybuilder, Earl, must've been a castle."

"Exactly. And following the scale of heights, Kodey was a knight, which fits to a certain extent with the weapon he used. The boomerang spun through the air, which goes with the movement of a knight, that is in the form of an L. The tall thin clone was a bishop."

"It's hard to believe."

"Their numbers coincide. Remember there were thirty, fifteen in each gang, which only leaves the kings."

"Your wife and Otis!"

"Yes. If I'm right they're players and kings at the same time. Remember you found out that among Tedd and Todd's clients there are always two people with another surname. They're players. Don't ask me how, but I believe that Tedd and Todd have been playing chess for one hundred and fifty years using London as a board."

Carol let out an hysterical chuckle. "OK, let's say I go with that, but why one hundred and fifty years?"

"You found that out. The firm was established the same year Big Ben began marking time."

"What's Big Ben got to do with chess?"

"Haven't you ever seen two professionals play? Every time they make a move they hit the clock to mark the time before the next move. In this case the movements of the pieces coincide with a change of address. You found that out too. Each time they moved house, the clock was affected. Big Ben's a chess clock!"

"That's over the top, bizarre. Do you really believe that?"

"It fits, and there's no other explanation that makes sense. Let's stay with it for a while longer. When one of them kills another, they move house. Visualize one chess piece taking another. When they do it they drive the other piece from the board and they occupy the other's square, or in this case, the home. What happened to Kodey when you had that accident that killed Lance? He said he couldn't go any further. Without realizing it, you'd arrived at the edge of his square. That's why he couldn't go on."

"Then, James's transformation…"

"Pawns can be exchanged for any other piece once they get to the last square. Normally, they are swapped for queens, which are the strongest pieces."

"What about Earl and his talent for teletransporting himself?"

"That's the part that's been the hardest to understand for me," Aidan admitted. "I still don't have that too clear, but I'm not worrying too much about it. The castle is the only piece that can make a special movement together with the king. It's called castling. And it can only be done once in a game."

Carol looked dumbfounded with this attempted explanation. She needed a moment to digest what she had just heard. She paced around the room in silence for a while. She couldn't find any logical way to deny Aidan's explanations, except that… it was impossible! There was no such thing as live chess. So why did she feel that it was right? Why was this strange feeling of knowing doing the rounds inside her as she walked in circles around the room?

"I admit that there are some weak points to the theory, but in particular, what has immortality got to do with the game? Why can't they simply die?"

"So that the game's not ruined. If James had died in the fire then Ashley would have been left without a pawn for reasons that had nothing to do with the game. For example, she could contract a killer who could take care of the Blacks and then she would win without having to play the game. That's why they're immortal. They can't die unless at the hand of another piece."

"But according to what we've seen, Ethan killed two of them a long time ago."

"Then he was a player. He was the white king and as a consequence he was a piece. The pieces have to stay where they are until they're taken by another piece. If you want to guarantee that the game will continue you can't kill a Black or a White. That's the part that James mentioned about having to fulfil. The poor bastard knew he was a pawn and that his destiny was in the hands of the white king, who couldn't give a damn about him. It must be horrible to live like that, knowing that you're going to die when and how someone else decides."

"It's shocking," Carol said. "It doesn't surprise me that it took us so long to work it out."

"There's still more to find out. Who set the whole chess concept up in the first place, for example? And why these particular people are playing?"

He didn't say it aloud, but Aidan had to find out why his wife was involved in all of this. And why she was standing against a certain Otis. The reason had to be pretty good to keep it hidden from her husband for five years.

He accompanied Carol to her car.

"It has to be Tedd and Todd," she said. "There must be some important secret connected with chess. It seemed that James was forbidden to speak about it."

"Carol, you've got to help me. See if you can find out who Otis is."

"Of course I'll help you. But wouldn't it be better to find Tedd and Todd?"

"I'll look after that. You find out what you can about this bloke who's fighting against my wife. There's got to be some good reason why he wants to kill her."

Ashley Zack got up from the wheelchair, leaving her calculations to finish Otis to one side, as she looked intrigued at the young man who had just arrived.

"I didn't expect to see you now. But I'm glad."

"I've come to say goodbye," Ethan said.

"That can't be easy. I know that Otis is your friend and I'm just about to finish him."

The vision of Ashley near her imminent victory brought back memories of old times to Ethan. He'd been in the same situation before. It was a pleasure to be so close to victory that you could smell it. It was a critical moment. He remembered the brutal tension that he'd had to bear when it was his turn to checkmate his rival. It meant the end of the game and his coronation as victor.