The Faberge Egg (13 page)

“What is this in reference to?”

“Poultry products,” McGuffin answered.

“Poultry?”

“Mr. Kemidov will know what I’m talking about,” McGuffin said.

“May I have your phone number?” the Russian asked.

McGuffin recited his number. “Does this mean I’ll hear from him?”

“I cannot say,” the Russian replied, followed by a dial tone.

“Well?” Shawney said, as McGuffin replaced the receiver. “Is he here?”

“I’m not sure,” McGuffin replied slowly.

“What do you mean - what did they say?” she demanded.

“There may be a Kemidov,” he answered. “But if he found the egg in the bottom of that bag, I’m sure he’s in Russia by now.”

“And if he didn’t?”

“If he didn’t, I think we’ll hear from him.”

“But if he does have the egg, that means we’re off the hook, doesn’t it?” she asked. McGuffin looked at her but said nothing. “I mean there’s no reason for him to kill us if he has the egg, is there?”

“No, there’s no reason to kill us,” McGuffin answered.

Her cheerful expression changed to concern. “You don’t seem very happy, Mr. McGuffin.”

“I’m a pessimist by nature,” he explained. “And the name is Amos.”

“Amos,” she repeated. “Such an unusual name.”

“It’s short for Ambrose,” McGuffin said, a rare admission. He wondered why he had told her, then went on nevertheless, “It means ‘belonging to the immortals.’ Strange choice for a private eye, huh?”

When she smiled and shook her head, her hair fell again over one eye. “I don’t think so.”

“I was going to be a lawyer,” he said, reaching a hand slowly to the fallen wave, “until I ran into your father.” His fingers brushed her temple as he pushed her fallen hair away. “I loved your father.”

She raised her hand to his and pressed it lightly against her cheek. “Yet I have the feeling he disappointed you.”

“You were why he did it. There isn’t much a father won’t do for a daughter. I hope you’ll remember that, Shawney.”

She nodded and lifted her face to be kissed, like a little girl.

They spent the entire day and a good part of Saturday night poring over Miles Dwindling’s files, searching for a clue that would lead to the Fabergé egg, but found nothing. After a quick dinner in North Beach - hurried because the jet lag was suddenly upon her - McGuffin dropped Shawney at her apartment and then swung by Goody’s. The place was nearly empty, but Sullivan was there, waiting to escort Goody to his car with the week’s take.

“Don’t ask,” the cop said, before McGuffin could. “That fuckin’ girl doesn’t exist.”

“Perhaps,” McGuffin allowed, reaching inside his raincoat, “but these are her fingerprints.”

Sullivan watched as the detective carefully unwound a white napkin to reveal a recently used wineglass. “You found her?”

“I won’t know for sure until you run these prints through the bureau. Can you do that for me?”

“It’ll cost ya,” Sullivan said, holding the glass at the edge of the base and turning it slowly in the light.

“Goody, give him a drink on me,” McGuffin called.

“I’m closed,” Goody snarled.

“He’s still pissed at you,” Sullivan said, peering closely at a print.

“See any good ones?”

“Several. How come it ain’t smeared?”

“She fell asleep after a couple of sips.”

“You sleepin’ with her?”

“No, but it’s not a bad idea,” McGuffin answered. “She’s beautiful, a New York actress, goes by the name of Shawney O’Sea.”

“You serious?” Sullivan asked, placing the glass on the bar. McGuffin nodded. “How’d you find her?”

“She found me. Apparently the Russians are after the egg, too.”

“This is turnin’ into a fuckin’ international incident,” Sullivan observed, as Goody, despite his threat, approached with Sullivan’s bottle.

Goody slammed the bottle on the bar and demanded irritably, “Whattaya, buyin’ your drinks someplace else and bringin’ ‘em to my joint?”

“No!” McGuffin shouted, as Goody swept the wineglass from the bar and plunged it into the soapy water.

“What the fuck you shoutin’ about?” Goody muttered, as he washed Shawney O’Sea’s fingerprints from her wineglass.

McGuffin and Sullivan stared dully as the barkeep rinsed and carefully polished the glass with a clean towel, something they had never seen him do before. When he was finally satisfied, he replaced the sparkling glass on the bar and stepped back to admire it. McGuffin turned and walked slowly from the bar.

“Now what did I do?” Goody asked.

The phone was ringing when McGuffin opened the office door. Thinking, hoping that it might be Marilyn, he lunged over the scattered files and snatched the receiver from the desk. “McGuffin!”

“Thank God,” Shawney O’Sea said.

“What’s wrong?”

“Someone’s been here. They tore the place up,” she answered.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes - scared, that’s all. I’ve been calling for an hour. I didn’t want to call the police until I’d spoken to you.”

“No police,” McGuffin blurted. “Just stay put, I’ll be right over,” he said, then hung up the phone.

Shawney O’Sea opened the door as far as the chain would allow, uttered McGuffin’s name, then quickly closed and opened it all the way. She surprised him, lunging at him, wrapping her arms tightly around him the moment he cleared the doorway.

“It’s okay,” McGuffin said, idly stroking her back as he peered over her head at the trashed room. Couches and chairs lay overturned, their bottoms ripped away to expose springs and stuffing, and the floor was littered with the contents of every cabinet and drawer in the apartment. He pried her loose and walked into the living room, gave it a quick glance, and went into the bedroom. More of the same, mattress torn open, drawers ripped open, and the contents strewn about the room. The chair under the chandelier and the toilet tank lid on the bathroom floor told him that someone had searched every cavity in the apartment for the Fabergé egg.

Even the china had been taken down from kitchen shelves and spread out on the floor for examination. McGuffin stepped delicately through it, stooped to pick up a Wedgwood bowl and cover, then turned to Shawney, huddled fearfully in the doorway. “Nothing seems to be broken,” he remarked.

“Am I supposed to be grateful?” she asked. “I’m sorry,” she added, when the detective regarded her with a raised eyebrow. “At first I was only frightened, but now I’m becoming angry and frightened.”

“Next comes despondency,” McGuffin said. “Then you’ll know you’re getting over it. Did any of the neighbors hear or see anything?”

“If they did, they haven’t volunteered it,” she answered.

He placed the bowl on the kitchen table, looked around again - he didn’t expect to find a clue as to the identity of the burglars, but it would be embarrassing to overlook a dropped wallet - and walked back into the living room, followed by Shawney. He peered through the bedroom door at Shawney’s empty suitcase and clothes strewn over the torn mattress. “Are any of your things missing?” he asked, turning to her.

She shook her head, knocking her hair down over one eye. “Not even my jewelry - such as it is.” She crossed her arms over her chest and rubbed her upper arms as if she were cold. “What does it mean, Amos?”

“It could mean a lot of things,” McGuffin answered, removing his raincoat. “It could mean that Vandenhof followed me here this morning, then busted in later, thinking I had passed the egg to you, or you had brought it here for me. Or it could have been Kruger, for the same reason. Or Kemidov,” he said, placing his coat over her shoulders. When he tugged it closed, she reached through the opening and squeezed both his hands.

“Is it always so cold here?” she asked.

“Only in the summer,” McGuffin answered, peering closely at her violet eyes. He was thinking of one last possibility - that Shawney had trashed her own apartment. No one had seen or heard of the Fabergé egg for more than eighteen years, with the possible exception of Shawney O’Sea. If this were the case, if Miles had gotten the egg to her before he was killed, what would she have done with it? Keep it, a struggling actress, or sell it? And if she was now told by a mad Russian either to produce the egg or be killed, what would she do? Admit that she had once had it, but sold it? Or deny that she had ever seen it and claim that the young PI who was working for her father at the time of its disappearance must have stolen it? And then, to give credibility to her story, to make Kemidov believe that others, too, suspected the PI, she trashed her apartment after their first visit, knowing that Vandenhof or Kruger would be thought responsible. Maybe she was only trying to save her own skin - just as he was only trying to save the lives of his daughter and her mother - and setting him up was the surest way to do it.

Another thought: Maybe Shawney O’Sea isn’t Miles Dwindling’s daughter, but an imposter hired by Vandenhof, Kruger, or Kemidov. Or maybe there was no Kemidov.

His speculations came suddenly to an end when she pressed her lips against his for the second kiss of the day. His coat fell to the floor as her arms went around his neck and she pressed tightly against him.

“Stay with me,” she said. “I don’t want to be alone.”

McGuffin held her away and looked again into those violet eyes. She was afraid of something, he knew. Afraid of being alone, afraid of dying? For some reason, at that moment, she reminded him of Hillary.

“You aren’t alone,” McGuffin said, tilting his head to kiss her again.

By the following morning, McGuffin knew that Shawney O’Sea was not innocent. She made love with such a combination of uninhibited passion and intense scholarship that by the end of the night, the worldly detective had the feeling that he had experienced a global sex tour with a partner from every race, nationality, and erotic creed. “Now what are you doing?” he croaked once shortly after the sun had begun its futile attack on the San Francisco fog.

“A Persian love secret, thousands of years old,” she responded.

“Must have been a very advanced civilization - and a little degenerate,” he whispered.

“Wait until we get to the Egyptians.”

“I have the feeling I’ll be extinct long before then.”

They were on the Victorians when the phone rang shortly after eight o’clock. Both of them bolted up, looking for the phone, which was on McGuffin’s side of the bed. He picked it up and handed it to Shawney. She raised it slowly and spoke hesitantly. “Hello?” Her violet eyes widened as she pressed the phone to her breasts and announced, “It’s him! He wants to talk to you!”

“Him?” McGuffin repeated, reaching for the phone. “Who is this?”

“The name, Mr. McGuffin, is Kemidov. And I am sure Miss O’Sea has told you about me,” he replied in slightly accented English.

“Not nearly enough,” McGuffin said.

“Then I suggest we meet.”

“Why?”

“To discuss the price of eggs - one, in particular.”

“Where and when?”

“The Russian consulate in one hour?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Good.” There was a smile in the Russian’s voice. “Take a cab, Mr. McGuffin. Instruct the driver to leave you off directly in front of the main entrance. Remain there until I come and fetch you. Is that clear?”

“Clear enough,” McGuffin answered.

“And come alone,” Kemidov added before hanging up.

“Where are you going?” Shawney cried, as McGuffin sprang naked from the bed.

“To the Russian consulate,” he answered, striding quickly into the bathroom.

“No! You mustn’t go there!” she exclaimed.

Her further protest was muffled by the sound of the shower. She was waiting to go on, however, when McGuffin emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later. She was sitting on her haunches atop the bed with a corner of the sheet draped demurely over her lap. McGuffin smiled. It was an ironically modest touch after the events of the night before.

“. . . and these people are dangerous!” she was saying. “They’ll kill you! What -! What’s so funny about that?” she blurted, pounding her fist on the mattress.

“I was thinking of something else,” McGuffin said, sticking a foot through his pants.

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said!”

“I heard every word,” McGuffin assured her. “They’re dangerous and they’ll kill me. Most of the time when I hear something like that, I turn down the job. But this time I can’t,” he said, pulling the tie around his neck.

“Of course you can!” she said, jumping up from the bed. “No one’s forcing you to go there!”

“I’m afraid they are,” he said, watching her in the mirror as he tied his tie.

“Who?”

“A couple of friends of mine,” he answered, staring into her reflected wide, violet eyes.

“Close friends?”

“Very close.”

“You mean - my father and me?” she asked hesitantly.

McGuffin looked at her and nodded slowly. “That’s right, you and your father.”

“Amos, you’re a very sweet man,” she said, then put her arms around his neck and kissed him, long and hard. “And I don’t want you dead,” she murmured against his lips.

“Not to worry, Kemidov is not going to kill me in the Russian consulate and create an international incident. So why don’t you just wait right here until I get back, and then we’ll do that Persian thing again.”

“I only do the Persian thing in the dark,” she whispered, pressing tightly against him.

He ran his hand down her long, lean back and gently slapped her taut behind. “Gotta go.”

She released him, and McGuffin fled.

* * *

The Russian consulate is a six-story mansion occupying about a third of a block in posh Pacific Heights. The main floor is white stucco, with a large pair of mahogany doors front and center bearing a brass plaque announcing that visiting hours are from 9:00 a.m. until noon, Monday through Friday. The top five floors are of sand-colored brick, graced by many evenly spaced windows across the front, an expression of capitalist greed fallen to the communists, guarded now by a six-foot-high wrought-iron fence, sophisticated detection devices, and several strategically placed Panasonic cameras. On the roof is a small addition that some claim contains microwave spy equipment, although this has never been confirmed.

McGuffin learned much of this from a fetching female cabbie who confessed to really being a writer. “Look!” she pointed, as the cab drew to a halt opposite the gate. “A Reebok-clad, face-lifted, Pacific Heights housewife walking a Russian wolfhound! Do you suppose it’s a symbol of international goodwill or a brazen flaunting of capitalistic-aristocratic privilege?”

“I don’t know, but there ought to be at least a short story in it,” McGuffin said, exiting the cab in front of the oncoming matron and her wolfhound. She watched as the man in the damp trench coat and misshapen rain hat skipped around the puddles and across the street to the front gate of the Russian consulate, wondering perhaps if he was the communist responsible for the shed on the roof that obstructed her view of the bay.

McGuffin halted in front of the gate and posed for the camera behind the three-inch hole in the mahogany door, first a smiling head-on shot, then a profile of his good side, while wondering what the bureaucrats in Moscow would make of this. When he turned his bad side to the camera, he caught sight of the black limousine clearing the steep Green Street hill and turning for him. The car halted abruptly, and the rear door was thrown open. “Get in, Mr. McGuffin,” a voice from the rear of the car instructed.

McGuffin walked to the car, stooped, and peered inside. Mr. Kemidov, wearing the sort of dark twill suit favored by military men on civilian outings, sat stiffly beside the curtained passenger window, his hands resting on a brass-topped walking stick poking up between his knees. For a man who had to be in his late sixties or even early seventies, he looked remarkably fit, with still thick salt-and-pepper hair cut military style and alert gray eyes above high Slavic cheekbones. He was a man easily pictured standing resolutely before the artillery in the face of oncoming panzers. McGuffin slid past him and settled in the opposite curtained corner as the door was pulled shut, and the car raced away from the curb.

“Where are we going?” McGuffin asked.

“For a ride - as they say in the gangster movies,” the Russian answered with a thin smile.

“This is my first ride in a communist limousine,” McGuffin observed. It came with all the decadent capitalistic luxuries - moonroof, television, refrigerator, bar, and smoked glass all around.

“I hope it won’t be your last,” Kemidov said.

“So do I, Colonel.” Kemidov turned a lazily arched eyebrow on the detective. “It is Colonel, isn’t it?” McGuffin asked. “Colonel Kemidov of the KGB?”

“I am sorry to disappoint you, Mr. McGuffin, but it is nothing so - so dramatic as that. I am here as part of a peaceful trade mission, nothing more,” he assured the detective.

“What your boys did to Shawney O’Sea’s apartment last night was hardly peaceful,” McGuffin pointed out.

Kemidov leaned forward on his cane and studied the detective for a moment before replying, “I must say, Mr. McGuffin, even for an American, you are most direct.”

“And I must say, lay off her, she doesn’t have the egg,” McGuffin shot back.

“Then why were you so eager to find her?”

“Because I thought her father might have somehow gotten the egg to her before Kruger killed him, but I was wrong, she doesn’t have it. And neither does Klaus Vandenhof or Otto Kruger.”

“Then that leaves only you.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Colonel, for a couple of reasons, but I don’t have it either.”

“Then why did you contact Vandenhof if not to sell him the egg?” the Russian demanded.

“To find Kruger,” McGuffin snapped.

“To sell
him
the egg.”

“No! To get my. . .” McGuffin stopped.

“To get your wife and child back,” the Russian finished for him.

“How did you know?”

“I know everything that in any way concerns the Fabergé egg,” he answered in a quietly assured tone. He laced his fingers over the brass ball at the top of his cane, leaned back in the plush seat, and stared straight ahead. They were now driving, McGuffin noticed, through the Presidio military reservation. “I have spent more than fifty years in the service of my government,” the Russian agent went on. “Forty of those years have been spent in pursuit of the Fabergé egg - among other things, of course,” he added with a nod in McGuffin’s direction. “My career has been marked by many successes and many honors. By any objective measure, I am a hero to the Russian people, and yet, if I go to my grave without finding and returning the egg to its rightful place in the Kremlin, I will die a failure, disgraced. I tell you this, Mr. McGuffin,” he said, nodding again, “because it is so very important to your welfare that you fully appreciate the depth of my vocation.”

“I understand, but I’m afraid you don’t fully appreciate mine,” McGuffin put in. “All you have at stake is your career; I have my daughter, and your threats mean nothing to me because her life is more important than my own. So with all due respect, Colonel, your vocation is nothing more to me than a hobby - like duck carving.”

The Russian turned his clear gray eyes on the detective and nodded sadly. “You don’t understand, Mr. McGuffin. I am not threatening you. I am threatening your daughter.”

“Hillary -! How - how can?”

“I know where they’re being held,” he interrupted. “I waited eighteen years for Kruger’s release, expecting him to lead me to the egg, when instead he led me to an abduction.”

“Are they all right?” McGuffin blurted.

Kemidov shrugged. “Bored perhaps, but it seems they’re being treated well enough.”

“I don’t suppose you’d tell me where he’s keeping them?”

“I’m afraid not,” Kemidov answered. “But rest assured, my people have them under constant surveillance. Whenever it suits me, I can order either their release or their . . . But never mind that. I’m only telling you this, Mr. McGuffin, because it occurs to me that we can work together. I believe you when you say you don’t have the egg. If you did, I’m sure you would give it to Kruger in exchange for your wife and child, foolish though that would be. Deliver the egg to me, Mr. McGuffin, and I will see to the release of your wife and child. I give you my word as an officer and a gentleman.”

“That’s the fourth offer I’ve had this week, Colonel. Why should I throw in with you instead of the others?”

“Because you have no other choice,” Kemidov replied easily. “Vandenhof is obsessed with the egg; once he has it he will do nothing to help you obtain the release of your family. And Kruger is unstable; he despises you for sending him to hospital, and would gladly kill his hostages once he has the egg.” He stopped and looked quizzically at McGuffin. “You say there are three offers besides mine?”

“Shawney O’Sea.”

“Ah, so, a mistake on my part. Miss O’Sea is no longer a pawn in our game. You and I, Mr. McGuffin, are the only serious players.”

McGuffin nodded. “Exactly. When I give you the egg, you’ll forget all about my wife and daughter and take the next Aeroflot back to Moscow. Forgive me, Colonel, but I’d rather take my chances with a homicidal maniac than the KGB.”

“I said you have no other choice, Mr. McGuffin, and I meant just that. You will either find the egg and deliver it to me and no one else, or I will order the execution of your wife and daughter.”

McGuffin looked at the Russian’s eyes. They were hard and cold and gray as gun metal. “You’re bluffing.”

“Then call me. It makes no difference to me one way or the other,” the Russian said, shrugging easily. “If you manage to deliver the egg to Kruger, I will simply take it from him - after killing your family. So you see, Mr. McGuffin, it’s not American poker we are playing, but Russian chess. And you, sir, are checkmated.”

McGuffin glared defiantly at the Russian for a moment, then sighed the sick sigh of defeat. There was little doubt, the KGB was a more formidable foe than Klaus Vandenhof and Otto Kruger combined. “I don’t have the egg,” he sighed. “I know Miles Dwindling had it, but he must have gotten rid of it sometime before he was killed.”

“That is obvious, but what did he do with it?” the Russian asked peevishly.

“I don’t know,” McGuffin answered testily.

“You must have some idea, you are my last connection to the dead!” he insisted.

“I don’t know!” McGuffin shouted. “Unless it was in the black leather bag your men took from my boat.”

Kemidov’s gray eyes opened wide as artillery muzzles. “I don’t know what you are talking about. My men have not been near your boat.”