Table of Contents

Excerpt

Enigma Variations

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

A word from the author…

Thank you for purchasing

Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

“Mister Vincent,” Jutting said, clearing his throat. “I’m disappointed.”

“So am I,” I replied.

“What have you to be disappointed about? You’re the one who has invaded my property, seeking to steal from me.”

“I wouldn’t call it stealing. I’d call it recovering stolen property. The notes you have that were used by Saint Martin to decode the enigma were stolen from a friend of mine. I simply want them back.”

Jutting’s eyes flashed with anger. “Wolhardt is a fool! He had no idea how to use the information. The one useful thing Nigel Bathmore ever did for me was stealing those notes. Of course, he didn’t intend to be doing me a service. The idiot thought I would pay him.” Jutting laughed, a short bark that echoed around the room and rang in my ears.

“Still, you can’t really call it stealing.”

“I’ll call it what I like, Mister Vincent. You are in no position to argue semantics. I’m afraid I have important business to attend to this evening. Your presence is not wanted. You will remain our guest here in this room until morning. My people will turn you over to the chief constable tomorrow along with your possessions which are rather incriminating. I understand there are quite a few tools in your backpack specifically designed for breaking and entering. Chief Constable Doyle is a very loyal friend of mine. He will know just how to deal with you.”

“Interesting. I assumed you would just get rid of me.”

Enigma Variations

by

Bradley W. Wright

The Justin Vincent Series, Book 2

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Enigma Variations

COPYRIGHT © 2020 by Bradley W. Wright

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

Cover Art by Jennifer Greeff

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Crimson Rose Edition, 2020

Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-3240-6

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-3241-3

The Justin Vincent Series, Book 2

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

For S & T and all the robot eagles

Acknowledgments

The material quoted in Chapter 13 is from The Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini, in public domain, found at:

http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/4028

~

Special thanks to Kevin Dolan (AKA Dino OʼDell) for advice and consulting on music theory matters.

Special thanks also to my editor Laura Kelly for not giving up, and forcing me to make this a better book.

Chapter 1

Two Brothers

May 25-June 6: Nice, Genoa, Paris

I borrowed my girlfriend Gabrielle’s BMW and left for Genoa mid-morning. We had attended an opening the night before and then stayed at Gabrielle’s apartment in town. I crept slowly along the Promenade des Anglais and up narrow, sun dappled streets. Traffic was light passing through the industrial outskirts of the city. Soon I merged onto the A10, leaving modern civilization behind, rolling back and forth between tranquil sea and low, green hills inland. I had made the trip up and down the coast several times but I was not yet immune to its charms. The Ligurian seaboard, unlike the melodramatic, breathtaking coast of my home in northern California, was warm, inviting, and restful to the eye. The drive from Nice to Genoa would take about two and half hours. I had plenty of time to admire the scenery. The American Bach Soloists’ recording of the Mass in B Minor came on the radio and I settled back in my seat as the first chord exploded like an epiphany of golden light from the speakers.

I was on my way to meet Signor Petru Ortoli about a job. I had very little information about Ortoli aside from his address in Genoa and his name. He was an associate of Santu Cartini, Gabrielle’s father. I assumed he was, like Signor Cartini, wealthy and connected to an old Corsican family. He was probably also connected to organized crime. Close association with mobsters was not something I would have chosen but I had fallen into that world while completing my previous job and had stayed there because of Gabrielle.

Driving that coast I thought about the escapade that had led me to the south of France and introduced me to Gabrielle. I thought about Benoit Legere, the psychopathic lawyer who had come very close to killing me before he took a fatal fall from a cliff in the hills outside of Nice. I thought about Patrice Antonetti and his chateau in the country with a basement crypt full of stolen art. It seemed like years ago but it was only six months since I had stood in Antonetti’s secret gallery and realized the painting I had come to recover was a fake. He had been double crossed by his associates back in San Francisco. I got the real painting back eventually. I didn’t know whether or not he ever figured out his copy was a forgery. We hadn’t heard a word from him. I had seen him a couple of times at events I attended with Gabrielle but he stayed away, across the room, and seemed not to even notice us. He knew Gabrielle’s father would not let him live if anything happened to her. He probably assumed I was under similar protection.

I thought, too, about the months I had spent with Gabrielle—hiking in the countryside, reading by the fire in the evenings, drinking a little too much, eating a bit too well. I felt dissipated and unsure of my own identity. I had been away from my home for too long. I yearned for some kind of activity. I needed to

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