The Faberge Egg (18 page)

The dark Mercedes was parked in front of Vandenhof’s house when McGuffin drove up in his tattered rental car. He got quickly out of the car, hunched down against the rain, and made a dash for the front porch. The door was unlocked; an amber light seeped down the stairs into the foyer. McGuffin flattened himself against the doorpost and pushed the door open with the muzzle of his automatic. “Otto?” he called, doing a passable imitation of the late Klaus Vandenhof.

“Klaus, is that you?” Kruger called from the source of the amber light, somewhere upstairs.

“Yes,” McGuffin answered, as he stepped quickly inside.

“Is Toby vit you?”

“No,” McGuffin answered, stepping onto the first carpeted stair.

“Good. I hope you’re not angry that I came, Klaus.”

“No,” McGuffin answered, taking the next stair.

“I haf brought you a gift, Klaus - a most vonderful gift. Something you vant more than anything in the vorld. I am sorry for vut came between us, Klaus - so sorry,” he went on in a breathless, high-pitched voice, as McGuffin continued to climb the stairs. “But ven you see vut I haf brought you, everything vill be vonderful again, Klaus, I promise. Everything vill be just as it vas. Vhere are you, Klaus - are you coming?”

“Yes.”

“I am here, in our old room, the room vhere ve made love so often before. Hurry, Klaus. I vant to see your face ven you see vut I haf brought - you!” he exclaimed, seeing the detective in the doorway.

Otto Kruger, wearing only a blue silk kimono, sat atop a darker blue bedspread, propped up on one arm, feet tucked up under him, trying to look seductive. A dull light bathed the antique-strewn room in a pinkish haze that lent the Fabergé egg, carefully arranged in the center of the bed, a smoldering golden hue. His jaw worked wordlessly as the detective walked across the room and snatched the egg from the bed.

“. . . dead,” he managed, pointing at McGuffin.

“That was somebody else,” McGuffin said, pointing the automatic directly between the old man’s bulging round eyes. “And you’re about to join him if you don’t tell me what you’ve done with Marilyn and Hillary. Talk!”

“You vill ruin everything!” he shouted suddenly, eyes bulging madly. “Give me the egg! Klaus vill be here at any minute!” The old man climbed to his knees, clutching the kimono around him with one hand while reaching for the egg with the other. “Please.”

McGuffin slid the egg into his coat pocket, then slowly raised the gun until it was pointed directly between Otto Kruger’s pleading eyes. “I’ve gone as far as I can,” McGuffin breathed wearily. “You murdered my boss, you kidnapped my little girl and her mother, you violated our agreement, and you caused me to kill three people. Now tell me where they are before I make it four.”

“Three people!”

“What?”

“You killed three people. Hans and Karl - who vas the other?”

“Toby,” McGuffin answered.

The old man’s eyes grew still wider as he stared at the detective and shook his head slowly. “No -,” he whispered, settling back on his haunches, pushed by an invisible force. “He’s not coming? Klaus - is dead?”

“I didn’t kill Klaus,” McGuffin said.

“Who?” he asked, tears welling in his eyes.

McGuffin hesitated, then replied, “A woman.”

“Woman?”

“A business associate.”

“Klaus is dead,” Kruger said, as if speaking to a small child. A tear fell from one bulging eye and coursed down his cheek. He smacked his lips and clenched his hands in a tight ball, then pulled them apart, as if releasing a bird in the room. “It vas all for nothing.”

“What - what was all for nothing?” McGuffin asked.

“I only vanted it for Klaus - so he vuld take me back. He didn’t love Toby, he never did,” he said, shaking his head vigorously. “He loved me, only me. Toby was only an infatuation.”

“Eighteen years is a long infatuation,” McGuffin remarked.

“It vuld not have been so long vere it not for your boss,” Kruger replied angrily. “He vas the villain. I hired Mr. Dwindling to steal the egg and deliver it to me, but he vas a greedy man. Not even I knew the combination to Klaus’ safe - he vuld think that Toby vas the thief, not I. Then I vas going to find the egg in Toby’s possession and return it to Klaus; then Klaus vuld throw Toby out and take me back! But your Mr. Dwindling ruined everything, so I killed him! And now, ven I had another chance for happiness, you haf ruined it again - you haf killed the only man I ever loved!” he wailed as the tears coursed freely down both cheeks.

“I told you, it wasn’t me,” McGuffin protested. “And it wasn’t me who stole the egg, it was Dwindling. But he’s dead and so are a lot of other people because of the goddamned thing. So unless you want to make it one more, tell me, what have you done with them?” McGuffin demanded as he sighted down the barrel at the old man’s head.

Kruger wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his kimono, then looked up at McGuffin with a thin smile. “Do you think I can be threatened by death ven I haf lost the only thing in life that mattered to me?”

“How about pain?” McGuffin asked, replacing the gun in his coat pocket. “A pain nearly as equal to the mental anguish you’ve caused me as I can make it. Get up.”

“Vut are you going to do?” Kruger asked, pressing back against the pillows.

“You’re going to the oven,” McGuffen said. “Sound familiar? I’m gonna crank it up to about 500 degrees and then I’m gonna bake you, one piece at a time, until you’re nicely charred on the outside and pink and juicy on the inside. And if that doesn’t get me the answer I’m looking for, I’m gonna get mean.”

“Barbarian!” the old man gasped.

“Up,” McGuffin said, motioning with his fingers.

Kruger lifted his chin and looked down his nose at his tormentor. Please, God, let him fold, McGuffin prayed. He watched in stunned disbelief as the old man fumbled with the pillows and struggled to rise. He’s going to make me do it!

Kruger got to his knees, flung his arms wide and exclaimed, “Let this, too, be on your conscience!”

The bayonet flashed briefly in the amber light as it appeared from the billowy fold of a kimono sleeve, then disappeared near the point where the lapels crossed his chest. He uttered a short plosive sound and fell forward, driving the long knife through his body and out his back. The bayonet had been under the pillow, McGuffin quickly realized. He must have intended to kill himself if Klaus had spurned his love.

“May God damn you,” McGuffin said, then turned and walked slowly out of the room.

The woman at the auto rental desk stared fearfully at the man pushing through the glass door. A bloody bandage peeked out from under his wet felt hat, he wore an Arafat beard and a trench coat that he must have wrestled from a wino, and he seemed intent on rape and murder. He stopped in front of her, reached under his damp, blood-stained coat and came out with an envelope.

“I’m returning the car,” he said, pointing a thumb over his shoulder.

“Car?” she repeated, looking through the window at the car by the curb, its upholstery in shreds, the seat cushion poking through the rear window. He’s a customer! she realized.

“I’m afraid there’s been a little damage, so if you’d like me to fill out an accident -”

“It’s quite all right,” she interrupted. “If you’ll just sign here, I’ll take care of everything.”

McGuffin shrugged, then reached across the desk for the contract. “I wish I had been with your company the last time something like this happened to me.”

“The last time?” she asked.

“In Los Angeles,” McGuffin said, as he read what he was signing. “Some surfers pushed my car into the ocean, so I had to get a replacement. Then some Arabs pushed that one off a cliff on Mulholland Drive. The president of the company threatened to sue me and to fire anyone who ever rented me a car again,” he said, as he signed his name.

“What company was that, sir?” she asked, taking the contract from him.

“I’ve forgotten the name of the company, but the president’s name was Worthy.”

“Not Ronald Worthy!” she gasped.

“Gee, I’m sorry,” McGuffin said.

She shrugged. “I was about to quit anyway.”

“Sorry,” McGuffin said again, then hurried out of the office.

She waited until he had gotten into a cab and driven off, then went outside to examine the car. She didn’t understand it. It was obvious from his bloodied head and the trashed interior of the car that the man had been in a terrible accident - yet the outside of the car didn’t have so much as a scratch on it.

Goody was nodding off at a table in the back of the saloon when McGuffin limped in. He opened his eyes slowly and stared at the bedraggled detective as he dropped heavily onto the last barstool. “If I didn’t know you was on a case, I’d say you been on one hell of a tear,” Goody observed.

“I feel like it,” McGuffin replied.

“You didn’t find ‘em?”

McGuffin shook his head slowly. “I’ve run my string; I’m calling in the feds.” He removed his hat and let it fall like a defective parachute to the bar. “Where’s Sully?”

“He got called downtown - on account of you. They come up with a couple of more stiffs in Napa which they’re layin’ on you, and Sullivan’s boss thinks he might be coverin’ for you.”

“If he is, he can quit,” McGuffin said, reaching into his coat pocket for his automatic, which he laid on the bar beside his rain hat. “I’m turning myself in just as soon as I’ve filed a Missing Persons report.”

When he turned, Goody asked, “What happened to your head?”

“A bullet hit it.”

“Oh,” Goody said, climbing to his feet. “You want some coffee?”

“Just a little - with a lot of Paddy’s. I’m off the case,” he added, before Goody could object. “All I have to do now is phone the FBI, and I can do that drunk. Do you think those goddamned tax eaters get in before nine?” he asked, glancing at his watch.

“I doubt it,” Goody said, as he waddled stiffly to the hotplate behind the bar. He poured three fingers of coffee into a beer glass and filled the rest with Irish whiskey.

“No whipped cream?” McGuffin asked, as he reached for the glass.

“This ain’t the fuckin’ Buena Vista,” the barkeep growled. “And if I was you I’d shave before I turned myself in,” he warned. “You get your picture in the paper lookin’ like that and you’re dead. There’s a razor in the toilet.”

McGuffin stroked his beard and stared at his hollow eyes in the mirror, the eyes of a killer. He, who had never before even fired a gun at anyone, had killed three people in the last twenty-four hours, and he felt nothing, absolutely nothing. Maybe later, when I have Marilyn and Hillary, I’ll feel something, he thought, as he lifted the glass to his lips. The coffee and whiskey fell on his empty stomach like a hammer. He waited for the pleasant numbing sensation that would follow, but it didn’t come. Instead, a sickness rose in his throat and crawled through his body.

He pushed the drink aside and climbed unsteadily to his feet.

“You okay?” Goody asked, as McGuffin lurched to the phone.

“Just tired,” McGuffin answered. “Gonna call Missing Persons.”

Goody waited and listened while McGuffin filed a lengthy report, first with the San Francisco Police Department, then the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He had a hard time convincing the federal clerk that it was within his jurisdiction and came close, several times, to blowing up.

“I’m trying to tell you,” he said, in a voice barely concealing his restrained anger, “that they did not just wander off, they were kidnapped by Otto Kruger who killed himself before telling me where he was holding them.” Eventually, the clerk decided that the matter might warrant the assignment of an agent and promised that one would phone shortly. “Thank you,” McGuffin sighed.

He replaced the receiver on the hook and walked slowly back to the bar. “Done,” he said, resting heavily on his elbows. “Now all I have to do is turn myself in.”

“You want I should call O’Brian?” Goody asked.

“Would you?” McGuffin asked.

“Sure,” Goody said, turning to the cash register. He perched his reading glasses on his nose and leafed through a stack of business cards and scribbled messages, stopping suddenly at a yellow scrap of paper. “I almost forgot, your landlord called yesterday.”

“Probably renewing eviction proceedings,” McGuffin grumbled as he reached for his coffee and whiskey.

“He said it was important - maybe he knows something about Hillary,” Goody suggested.

Knowing better, McGuffin slid off the barstool and walked back to the phone. As expected, Elmo was annoyed at the recent homicide aboard the
Oakland Queen.

“Are you trying to ruin me, is that it?” he wailed, after McGuffin had identified himself.

“If that’s all you’re calling about, I’ll have to hang up,” McGuffin said.

“Whattaya mean all? You kill a guy on my boat, and I don’t even get an apology?”

“The matter is pending in court. All I can say is goodbye, Elmo.”

“Wait!” Elmo shouted. “I wasn’t callin’ about that. I was callin’ about that night the cops jumped me when I was trying to bust into your office.”

“What about it?”

“I just wanted you to know that that’s not my style, Amos. I didn’t go there with the intention of bustin’ in, I was just gonna throw all your stuff in the storage room off the boat - as sort of a warning, that’s all. But then I came across this black leather bag with a lot of tools and shit in it, and that’s when I got the idea to bust in.”

“You took the bag?” McGuffin interrupted.

“I didn’t take it, I just borrowed it,” Elmo corrected. “No big deal, I’ll bring it back. Hell, you probably didn’t even know it was missing.”

“As a matter of fact, I did notice it was missing,” McGuffin said. “But you’re right, it’s no big deal - I thought the KGB had taken it.”

“That’s not funny,” Elmo said.

“You’re right. It wasn’t. So long, Elmo.”

“Good luck,” Elmo replied.

McGuffin replaced the receiver on the hook as Sullivan charged through the door, saw him, and shouted, “What the fuck do you think you’re doin’, McGuffin?”

“He’s makin’ a phone call,” Goody answered.

“It better be to a lawyer! Did you kill those two guys in Napa?” he demanded.

“It was self-defense,” McGuffin answered wearily.

“What about the old guy in the kimono?”

“Hara-kiri.”

“And the guy on your boat, and the couple in the apartment on Leavenworth? Jesus Christ, Amos, not even the fuckin’ hillside strangler does six in one night!”

“I only did three,” McGuffin replied.

“He had a bad night,” Goody said. “Leave him alone.”

“What about me? You think I’m havin’ a good night with everybody bustin’ my chops to find him and bring him in?”

“So you found him, relax. He didn’t murder nobody, you know that,” Goody chided the cop.

“I ain’t sayin’ he’s a murderer!” Sullivan protested. “But when somebody abducts your wife and daughter, and then six people turn up dead, you gotta admit there’s at least a hint of suspicion. I mean you can’t blame the Commissioner for wantin’ to ask him a couple of questions.”

“And I’m ready to answer them,” McGuffin said, thrusting his hands out in front of him. “You want to put the cuffs on me? Will that make you look good for the Commissioner?”

“I’m not tryin’ - ah, forget it,” he said, turning to Goody. “Let’s all have a drink, and then we’ll take McGuffin to jail.”

“Good idea,” Goody said, slamming two more glasses on the bar.

McGuffin walked listlessly to the bar and sat beside the big cop while Goody poured. Sullivan turned and studied the bloody handkerchief sticking to McGuffin’s head, then asked, “What happened?”

“I got shot.”

“Good,” he said with a satisfied nod. “I mean it’s good evidence for a self-defense,” he quickly amended.

“I know what you meant,” McGuffin said, as Goody pushed Sullivan’s drink across the bar.

Sullivan’s hand all but concealed his drink. “Does it hurt?” he asked, taking another look.

“Only when I think.”

“Be grateful for that,” the cop said, hoisting his glass. “To the successful, if messy, conclusion of still another baffling case by the brilliant and dashing San Francisco private -” He stopped. “You did find them, didn’t you?”

McGuffin shook his head. “Not yet.”

“What!” he exclaimed, looking from McGuffin to Goody. “They’re still missing, and you want me to take you in?”

McGuffin shrugged. “I’ve reported them. There’s nothing more I can do.”

“Whattaya mean, nothin’ more? We’ll get in the car and go look for ‘em! We’ll take this fuckin’ town apart brick by brick!” he exclaimed, waving and splashing his drink.

“I’ve been everywhere, I don’t know where else to look,” McGuffin replied wearily.

“They gotta be somewhere!” Sullivan said, as the phone rang. He continued to harangue McGuffin – “I’m willin’ to put my career on the line, and all you do is sit here!” - while Goody went to the phone.

“I made a mistake. I should have reported it to the FBI right at the beginning,” McGuffin lamented.

“McGuffin!” Goody shouted.

“What?”

“It’s Marilyn!”

“Marilyn? Marilyn!” McGuffin shouted, stumbling from the stool and rushing to the phone. He snatched the receiver from Goody’s hand and babbled excitedly, “Marilyn, is that you? Where are you, are you all right?”

“Amos, please, you don’t have to shout,” his former wife replied calmly.

“Hilly - how’s Hilly?” he stammered.

“Hilly is fine.”

“Thank God, oh, thank God,” McGuffin gasped.

“Amos, are you all right?” she inquired.

“Never mind me. Did he hurt you - did he hurt either of you?”

“Did who hurt me?” she asked.

“Otto Kruger, the man who abducted you.”

“My God, you’re drunk,” she said. “It must be what - about ten o’clock in San Francisco, and you’re drunk already?”

“I’m not drunk. I haven’t had a drink since you and Hillary disappeared. And what do you mean, ‘about ten o’clock in San Francisco’? Where are you calling from?”

“New York.”

“New York! He took you to New York?”

“Who?”

“Otto Kruger!”

“Who the hell is Otto Kruger?” she shouted across the continent. “And if you say the man who abducted me, so help me, Amos, I’ll hang up!”

“No, don’t hang up!” McGuffin pleaded. “Please, don’t hang up. Just tell me what you’re doing in New York.”

“Auditioning.”

“Auditioning?”

“Congratulate me, Amos, I’ve been accepted in the Actors Company!”

“The Actors Company.”

“Amos, why do you keep repeating everything I say?”

“I’m sorry, just bear with me a moment. You’re telling me that you went to New York of your own free will, that no one abducted you?”

“Amos -,” she warned.

“Marilyn, if you weren’t abducted, who the hell was the old man who came to the apartment and took you and Hillary away in the car?”

“Otto Kruger?”

“Yes!” McGuffin exclaimed.

“I’m kidding,” she said. “How would I know who he is? He was just some guy the airport limousine service sent.”

“But Mrs. Delia told me he forced Hillary into the car! What kind of chauffeur is that?” McGuffin demanded.

“That’s ridiculous!” she protested. Then in a softer voice, “I’ll admit that she might not have been all that excited about the idea, but -”

“Then what about the newspaper clipping of the Dwindling murder trial?” McGuffin interrupted, while Goody and Sullivan stared raptly. “How did it get on top of your chest of drawers?”

“Oh, that,” she said, followed by a pause which, McGuffin knew, meant she was drinking coffee. “I found it in the bottom of that old leather suitcase of yours when I was packing. It must have been there for twenty years.”