The Faberge Egg (17 page)

“Jesus!” McGuffin breathed, when he stepped onto the lighted porch and saw his rented car. All four doors were lying open, as well as the hood and trunk lid; the headliner hung in shreds from the ceiling, and the torn seats were lying on the grass, soaking up the falling rain.

“Don’t vorry, buddy,” Kruger said, taking McGuffin by the elbow and steering him down the stairs, “I’ll pay for the car - once I haf the egg. You can stop, Karl!” he called, as Karl ripped away a piece of dashboard. “You go vit Hans to the car vile I talk to Karl,” he said, giving McGuffin a nudge in the direction of the barn.

McGuffin glanced back once as he and Hans splashed through puddles to the barn. His buddy was engaged in purposeful conversation concerning the disposition of his ex-wife and daughter. He waited while Hans unlocked the barn door and rolled it back. The grape wagon, McGuffin saw when Hans switched on the light, was still in the same place.

“Would you close the door after I’ve pulled the car out?” Hans called as he walked toward the back of the large barn.

“Good idea,” McGuffin said, starting for the cart. He waited until Hans was getting into the car, then climbed quietly over the side and dropped into the wagon. He found his gun in the corner of the wagon where he had thrown it in his haste to escape from Schatze, grape-stained but operable. He slipped it into his coat pocket with the claim check and climbed quickly out of the wagon, a moment before Hans backed the big Mercedes out of the barn. While McGuffin was pulling the heavy door closed, he saw Karl drive off alone in a station wagon, presumably to pick up Marilyn and Hillary. Everything’s going to be all right, McGuffin told himself as he walked through the slanting gray rain to the idling Mercedes. He slid into the front seat, and Hans rolled the big sedan around to the front of the house where Kruger stood waiting beside the wrecked rental car. Hans stopped, and Kruger got into the backseat.

“You vill tell Hans how to go,” he instructed, as Hans pulled the car away.

“Just drive to the square,” McGuffin said. From the top of the drive, he was able to glimpse the station wagon turning left onto the road below, only a moment before it disappeared around the turn. “I assume Karl has gone for the hostages,” McGuffin said.

“Everything has been taken care of,” Kruger assured him, as Hans negotiated the twisting drive.

The drive was not a long one, but Hans drove cautiously over the rain-slick road that twisted along the valley floor past darkened vineyards, and it was nearly half an hour before the town appeared, glowing dully through the lead-gray rain. Hans drove wordlessly to the north end of the square, then glanced questioningly at McGuffin.

“Right,” McGuffin said. “Then left at the corner.”

Hans did as directed, and the big Mercedes rolled slowly along the edge of the square, past the few lighted inns and hotels still open. The hotel where the Fabergé egg resided, lying diagonally across the corner of the square, was down to a single light above the front door.

“Park here,” McGuffin instructed.

Hans parked diagonally, facing the park. The headlights reached briefly through the rain, across the park to the buildings opposite, then went out. McGuffin twisted around to the rear of the car and spoke to Kruger.

“Where are they?”

“They should be here shortly,” Kruger answered, glancing at his watch. “Vhere is the egg?”

“I’ll get it after I’ve seen them.”

“Ven Karl arrives, he vill flash his lights twice. That is the signal that he has them.”

“Not to me it isn’t,” McGuffin replied. “I’m not moving until I see them standing outside the car.”

“Karl already has his instructions. They cannot be countermanded,” Kruger informed him tersely. “Ven you give the egg to Hans, Karl vill release them. In the meantime, if you even attempt to move toward them before I haf the egg, Karl vill immediately execute his hostages. And you,” he added.

“That wasn’t our deal!” McGuffin protested.

“I’m sorry. They are my only insurance. I cannot take the chance that you vill escape vit the hostages and the egg.” He reached forward and patted McGuffin on the arm. “Don’t vorry, Mr. McGuffin. You keep your part of the bargain, and I’ll keep mine. Ve are buddies now.”

“If we’re such good buddies, why don’t you tell Hans to give me back my gun?” McGuffin suggested.

Kruger smiled. “Ve are not yet such good buddies as that.” As he spoke, headlights flashed twice from the end of the square opposite the hotel where the egg rested. “They haf arrived,” Kruger said, pointing left through the wet windshield.

McGuffin peered through the rain across the dark square. He could barely make out the dark station wagon, glistening wetly in the last edge of light from a wind-tossed street lamp, and he could see none of its occupants.

“Listen carefully, Mr. McGuffin,” Kruger ordered. “The lives of you and your family depend on you following my instructions exactly. You and Hans vill go together to get the egg. Ven you haf it, you and Hans vill valk to the center of the square. Karl vill proceed at the same time from the opposite side of the square vit your vife and daughter. Ven you meet in the center of the square, you vill give the egg to Karl, and he will surrender his hostages to you. Is that clear?”

“Yeah, that’s clear,” McGuffin answered.

“And remember, Mr. McGuffin, there vill be three guns trained on you at all times,” he warned as McGuffin opened the car door.

“That’s hard to forget,” McGuffin said, then slammed the car door.

He pulled his hat down against the pelting rain, then stuck his hands deep in his coat pockets, wrapping one around the claim check and the other around his grape-stained automatic. Kruger and Hans were locked in conversation inside the closed car, but McGuffin could hear only the rain beating on the roof and hood. A few moments later, Hans stepped out of the car and the two men started in the direction of the hotel.

“What was that all about?” McGuffin asked.

“He told me to shoot you if you tried anything,” Hans replied impassively as they turned at the corner.

McGuffin studied the profile of the blond youth as they continued to the hotel. Yeah, he’d do it, he decided. He stopped in front of the hotel and motioned with his chin. “This is it.”

“After you,” Hans said, motioning with the gun in his raincoat pocket. “I’ll be right behind you.”

McGuffin said nothing as he climbed the few steps to the porch and opened the front door. The clerk was napping lightly behind the desk, so McGuffin hit the bell. The old man snapped to his feet with the practiced efficiency that comes from working nights. “Good evening,” he said, glancing from the still unshaven Mr. Andrews to the clean-shaven youth standing a few steps behind him. “Something I can do for you?”

“Yeah, you can give me my package,” McGuffin said, laying the number 14 disk on the counter.

“Certainly,” the old man said, and retreated to the office behind. He emerged a few moments later with the manila envelope which he placed on the counter. He watched as Mr. Andrews folded the envelope tightly around the ball inside and stuffed it into the left pocket of his soaked trench coat. Then he turned and walked wordlessly out of the lobby, followed by the effeminate young man. Never would have guessed Mr. Andrews leaned that way, the old man said to himself as he went back to his nap.

Hans hurried to catch up as McGuffin walked across the street, and side by side the two men stepped out onto the village green. Their shoes made squishy sounds on the wet turf until McGuffin stopped. “I don’t see anybody coming,” McGuffin said.

“Keep walking, they’ll come,” Hans assured him.

McGuffin proceeded another twenty yards, and still, there was no movement from the opposite side of the square. When he stopped again, Hans prodded him with the gun. “Keep walking.”

“What’s he done with them?” McGuffin demanded.

“Walk!” Hans ordered, pulling the gun from his pocket.

“He’s killed them!” McGuffin said, walking backwards toward the center of the square. “Tell me, goddamn you, tell me!”

Suddenly the headlights from the Mercedes flashed on, followed by the station wagon, catching McGuffin in the cross-light. “Where are they?” he shouted, shading his eyes with his left hand, trying to see behind the lights.

“Does he haf it?” Kruger called from McGuffin’s left.

“Yes!” Hans replied.

“Get it!”

“No!” McGuffin shouted as Hans extended his free hand for the Fabergé egg.

The 9mm slug passed through McGuffin’s trench coat and Hans’ open hand before striking Hans in the sternum and slamming him to the ground.

“Karl, shoot!” Kruger called, as McGuffin spun and dropped to one knee.

McGuffin heard a shot, felt or imagined it passing close to his head, and searched desperately for a target in the blinding light. There was a second shot and the sound of feet splashing for him, then a dark silhouette as Karl appeared in the field of light. He fired once, and the dark form kept coming. McGuffin’s shouted curse and the sound of another shot, this from his left, echoed through the streets of the little town as the gun twitched and Karl appeared, hurtling through the air in a suicidal dive, falling heavily to the ground, and sliding across the wet grass to within several yards of his executioner.

Or so McGuffin thought until he saw the head come off the grass, followed by the gun. He fired once more, putting a small hole in the front of Karl’s skull and a much larger one in back.

Then he swung to his left like a revolving artillery piece, to where Kruger waited in the dark, as another explosion rang in his ears and something wet and heavy thudded against his face. The explosion continued to echo as he hurtled through a dark void, clutching a piece of damp turf that had been torn from the earth, twisting and spinning while something, death perhaps, pulled at his coattails, pulling him down to the depths of hell. Then he smelled the wet grass and felt a searing pain as if he were pinned to the ground by a lance driven through his brain.

Fighting the pain (something told him he must), he got to his hands and knees and surveyed the battlefield. He saw two lifeless bodies - no, Hans was alive - and three guns. He picked up his own and his rain hat and got to his feet. He became aware of lights flashing on around the perimeter of the square and the murmur of puzzled voices.

He touched the pain in his brain and came away with blood on his fingertips, then saw the hole in his battered rain hat. Hans was trying to speak - or was he speaking, but McGuffin couldn’t hear? - and the Mercedes had disappeared. McGuffin patted his now empty pocket, placed the hat on his bleeding head, and staggered across the square in the direction of the still beaming headlights of the dark station wagon.

The residents of the town stood on porches or in open windows, but no one made an attempt to stop the gunman lurching across the green to the car at the edge of the town square. The gunman glanced into the backseat, seemed to stifle an anguished cry, then stumbled into the front seat. He started the car, backed it up somewhat unsteadily, then swung it in a wide turn and wove hesitantly down the street and out of town.

Slowly the onlookers came down from their porches and out onto the square to gather around the two bodies sprawled in the mud. A few minutes later, a siren wailed and a police car with flashing lights bounced over the curb and across the square. Now even more townspeople, no longer afraid of bullets or rain, streamed out onto the square to see what had happened.

Only the old hotel clerk knew for sure. To him, it was a love triangle, plain and simple. Mr. Andrews had left the hotel with the clean-shaven youth, then had a run-in with the lad’s boyfriend, and nobody could tell him any different. Hell, he could tell from the look in that bearded man’s eye that he was nobody to mess around with, gay or straight.

Closing one eye, McGuffin discovered as he drove uncertainly back to the Hauptmann Vineyards, eliminated his double vision, but nothing could stop the throbbing pain. It was like being drunk and having a hangover all at the same time. The bleeding seemed to have stopped, stanched by the handkerchief he had managed to stuff under his hatband with one hand while steering wobbily with the other. Never knew drunk driving could be educational, McGuffin said to himself as he turned off 128 and started up the twisting drive to the darkened house at the top of the hill.

The eviscerated rental car was where it had been, its parts strewn over the lawn, but there was as yet no sign of the Mercedes - although it could be behind the closed barn door, McGuffin realized. But just in case Kruger hadn’t yet arrived, he pulled the station wagon around to the back of the house and parked beside a pickup truck. He lifted the still warm gun from the seat beside him, opened the door, and stepped out into the dark wet courtyard.

There was no warning from the stealthy hunter other than the rhythmic splashing, like a horse on a sloppy track, until suddenly she appeared out of the darkness, fangs bared, racing for the intruder’s throat. It seemed for a moment like a slow motion movie, Rin Tin Tin charging through the silver rain on a mission of mercy, until two sharp bursts from McGuffin’s gun, of which he was scarcely aware, abruptly destroyed the illusion. Schatze died as Karl had died, hurtling through the air, then falling heavily to the ground and sliding across the wet grass to within a few feet of McGuffin. He stood poised to pump another bullet into the animal, but Schatze was a dead dog.

“Good dog,” McGuffin said, as he stepped over her and started to the back door. Light flashed from the upstairs window, fixing a dull, rain-laced spotlight on the place McGuffin had stood a moment before.

Finding the kitchen door locked, McGuffin shattered a section of mullioned glass with the butt of the Smith & Wesson, then reached in and turned the knob. Staying low, gun ready, he lunged into the kitchen, then held and waited. A few moments later, a light appeared in the doorway across the room, revealing a flight of carpeted stairs.

“Hans?” a thin, apprehensive voice called from upstairs.

“Mr. Hauptmann?” McGuffin called, moving cautiously toward the light.

“Yes - who is there?”

“A friend, don’t be alarmed. Who else is in the house?”

“Just the cook.”

“Come to the top of the stairs,” McGuffin ordered.

Moments later a frightened old man in striped pajamas appeared at the top of the stairs. “Where is Kruger?” McGuffin asked, as he climbed the stairs.

The old man shook his head. “They haven’t come back.”

“What about my wife and daughter, where are they?” McGuffin barked, peering down the corridor in both directions. The cook stood at one end of the corridor, partially visible in the doorway. “Where is he keeping them?” he shouted to the cook.

“We know nothing about that,” the woman replied.

“Don’t lie to me!” McGuffin shouted. “I’m running out of patience!”

“Please, she is telling the truth,” the old man said. “I know my son and Otto are up to something - something bad - but we don’t know what. We know nothing about your wife and daughter, believe me.”

“I’m gonna tear this place apart, old man, and if I find them, it’s going to be very hard on you! Do you understand?”

The old man nodded. “You won’t find them. We don’t know where they are.”

“Goddamnit!” McGuffin wailed, then threw open the first door he came to. The bedroom was neatly made up, ready for any guest that might drop in, but there were no guests in sight. McGuffin went up and down the corridor, finding the same thing in each room. The bedrooms on the third floor, too, were void of occupants, but none of these rooms were made up, and some were being used for storage. Hauptmann and the cook were waiting at the foot of the stairs when McGuffin returned. He sat on the stair and rested his head in his hands, the gun pointing to the ceiling.

“We heard shots,” the old man said.

“I had to kill the dog.”

“Good,” the cook said.

Hauptmann didn’t correct her. Instead, he asked, “Is my son in any trouble?”

The detective took his hands away from his face and looked up at the old man’s watery blue eyes. “I don’t think so.”

“Your head,” the woman pointed. “Can I help you?”

McGuffin touched the blood-caked handkerchief and shook his head. “I’m fine.” The bleeding had stopped, along with the double vision, and the ache had greatly subsided. “Where would he go?” McGuffin asked. He didn’t know if the question was to them or to himself.

“Who?” the cook asked.

“Otto - he means Otto,” Hauptmann answered. “He is supposed to remain here - those were the conditions for his parole. I should not have agreed. It was bad for Hans, all this talk of money. I agreed because he was an old friend, a countryman, but I think he is not a good man anymore.”

“What talk of money?” McGuffin asked. “Ransom?”

The old man shook his head. “A jewel. Hans said Otto would make him a millionaire. Why? When I die, he will be a millionaire. I never should have let Otto come here. I should have made Klaus take him.”

“Klaus Vandenhof? I don’t think that would have worked,” McGuffin said. “Vandenhof threw him out a long time ago.”

“It doesn’t matter, Otto still loved him - like a woman loves a man.”

“Otto told you that?” McGuffin asked, climbing quickly to his feet.

“Many times. Sometimes, after too much wine, he would talk about Klaus and tears would come to his eyes,” the old man said, looking to the cook who confirmed with a nod.

McGuffin stared incredulously from one to the other, as Otto Kruger’s words came back to him: “Now everything vill be like it vas.” Why hadn’t he seen it? Because he was a homophobe, as Toby had claimed? Probably - because had it been heterosexual love, such a possibility would have figured in the equation from the outset.

“Where’s the phone?” McGuffin demanded.

“There is one in the kitchen,” the cook pointed.

McGuffin raced down the stairs, found the wall phone, and quickly dialed. “Be there, be there,” he murmured as he paced - then blurted, “Goody, it’s Amos!”

“McGuffin, where the hell are you? No, don’t tell me! Did you kill all those people?”

“I’ll tell you about it later. Is Sullivan there?”

“‘Course he ain’t here, he’s out lookin’ for you, like every other cop in San Francisco. He told me to tell you to come in, Amos. And get a lawyer - not O’Brian, a Jewish lawyer – ‘cuz you’re in deep shit, Amos.”

“I’m coming in, but not just yet,” McGuffin replied. “In the meantime, I need a favor.”

“Anything.”

“Get Sullivan down there and keep him there until you hear from me. I’m going after Marilyn and Hillary, and I may need some help.”

“Bring Sullivan here, right,” he repeated.

“Thanks,” McGuffin said, and hung up before Goody could reply.

He nearly bowled the cook over as he pushed past her and hurried down the hall to the front door. He fitted the front cushion back into the rented car, then jammed the rear cushion in haphazardly, followed by the door panels and dashboard section. Then he closed the hood and trunk, got in, and started the engine on the third attempt. He tore the dangling strips of headliner from in front of his face as he slipped and slid down the drive before going into a skidding turn onto 128 and heading south. He glanced at the digital clock in the remaining section of dashboard. It was almost midnight. Kruger was possibly there already.