The Faberge Egg (15 page)

McGuffin moved to one side as Vandenhof crossed the room, hungrily eyeing the Fabergé egg atop the desk. His hand shook as he reached for it, raised it slowly to within a few inches of his fervid eyes, and licked his fat lips, as if he were getting ready to swallow it. His shallow breathing became audible, resembling a chuckle, until he gasped suddenly, almost orgasmically, “Beauty, you are mine!”

McGuffin was sickened. “What about our deal?” he asked, knowing it was futile.

“Our deal -” Vandenhof repeated, followed by a short laugh, “required that you deliver the egg to me, not Otto. You betrayed me, Mr. McGuffin. Not that it matters,” he added, chortling softly, “for I never had any intention of helping you obtain the release of your wife and child once I had the egg. So let’s say we are even,” he proposed, snapping a white silk handkerchief from his breast pocket while clutching the egg in the same hand. He spread the handkerchief out on the desk, placed the egg in the center, folded the corners over it, and dropped it into the side pocket of his jacket.

McGuffin was looking for an opportunity to jump for the gun and Toby saw it. “Go ahead, beat the bullet,” the gunman urged.

“Amos, don’t -!” Shawney pleaded.

“Toby, dear, be patient,” Vandenhof soothed as he waddled back to his place beside the door.

McGuffin’s chances of beating two guns were about a hundred to one, but his and Shawney’s chances of living if he did nothing were nil, he now knew. “If you think you’re going to kill us and walk away, there’s something you’d better know,” he began, talking fast. “This boat is under constant police surveillance. The cops saw you come aboard, they know who you are. You might kill us before they get here, but you’ll never get off the boat.”

“I’m afraid the surveillance is not exactly constant, Mr. McGuffin. They come by every half hour, which gives Toby,” he said, glancing at his watch, “about twenty-four minutes to kill you. You won’t require any more time than that, will you, Toby?”

“It’ll take about a millionth of a second,” Toby replied.

“It won’t work, there are people in the offices downstairs,” McGuffin tried.

Vandenhof shook his head. “They’re all gone for the day.”

“But why kill us? You’ve got the egg, take it and go,” McGuffin urged.

“I only wish it were that easy,” Vandenhof said with a sad face. “Some men can forget, if not entirely forgive, a betrayal - even if it means the loss of one’s wife and child. Others, the Elie Wiesels of this world, can never forget. Injury, imagined or otherwise, renders such men forever indifferent to self, impervious to comfort, beauty, wealth, or any of the other opiates that an otherwise harsh society might provide a certain privileged few. And you, Mr. McGuffin, although you would have me think otherwise, are an avenger.”

“I prefer to think of it as justice,” McGuffin said.

“While I must think of survival,” Vandenhof countered. “If I allow you to live, you will not allow me to live. Please, don’t deny it.”

“I’m not, I just want to know how you got the egg in the first place before I’m killed for it.”

“It was given to me in exchange for a trainload of Jews,” Vandenhof answered, shrugging easily.

“Yeah, I thought it was something like that,” McGuffin said. “And the Jews, were they saved?”

The fat man chuckled. “One trainload of Jews for a Fabergé egg? Surely you are not serious.”

“You’re right, Vandenhof, you have to kill me.”

“You are most understanding, sir.”

“But not her.”

“I will take care of her,” Vandenhof said, taking Shawney by the arm. When she cried Amos’ name, the fat man yanked her to the door. “Now I’m afraid Toby must get on with his business before your friends return.” He opened the door and pulled Shawney through the hatchway after him, stopping and turning for a final shot. “I must say, Mr. McGuffin, even though you won’t be needing any more references, that I found your services most satisfactory. Thank you, sir, and goodbye.”

“Amos!” Shawney cried again as Vandenhof slammed the door.

McGuffin turned from the door to Toby.

“I thought this day would never come,” the executioner said.

“You aren’t that dumb, are you, Toby?”

“Just keep up with the insults, McGuffin, so I won’t feel bad taking you down piece by piece,” Toby said, shifting the big automatic from hand to hand.

“He’s setting you up to take the fall. Why else do you think he removed himself from the scene?” McGuffin argued desperately. “If I’m killed, the cops will come straight for you and Vandenhof - they know all about you.”

“Knowing is one thing, proving is another,” Toby replied, unmoved by McGuffin’s brief.

“No,” McGuffin said, shaking his head, “that’s not the way it’ll be. These guys are friends of mine. They won’t bother with the legal niceties. These guys will go to work on the two of you, and when they do, one of you will crack. And you know who that’ll be, don’t you, Toby?”

“Nobody will crack,” Toby replied confidently. “But keep it up, I like to see you squirm.”

“Your boyfriend will crack,” McGuffin predicted. “They won’t beat him with a rubber hose like they will you. No, he’ll get the velvet glove treatment. In exchange for testifying against you, they’ll let the fat man walk. You’ll go to the gas chamber, and your boyfriend won’t even come to your funeral.”

“You know what you are, McGuffin? You’re a homophobe. You think people like us are fickle and unreliable. You can’t understand that the love of one man for another can be every bit as good and lasting as the love between a man and a woman. Klaus loves me. He’d never do anything to hurt me,” Toby insisted.

“He loved Otto Kruger, too,” McGuffin reminded him. “But he threw him over for somebody younger and prettier. Why shouldn’t he do the same to you when the time comes? Especially if it means staying out of jail. Wise up, Toby. Kill me and within six months you’ll be on death row, and Vandenhof will have a new, young boyfriend.”

“Shut up!” Toby shouted, thrusting the gun to within a few feet of McGuffin’s face. “You don’t know what you’re talking about! Klaus can’t testify against me because I know where the bodies are buried! Don’t think you’re the first! He’s killed before - over things a lot less valuable than an egg! And besides - besides, I know what Klaus did in the war!” he went on, gun and eyes dancing jerkily.

Come a little closer, McGuffin said to himself, watching as the gunman struggled to regain control. There was a thin line between awareness and abuse, and McGuffin knew he was dangerously close to stepping over it. Back off, talk about Klaus for a while. “What did he do in the war?” McGuffin asked softly.

“He - he sent thousands of Jews to the camps. First in Holland, then in France. But first he stole everything they had. Klaus made millions on the war. So even though I may be getting a little older, I guarantee you, McGuffin, he’ll always prefer me to the Israelis.”

“That doesn’t change things,” McGuffin insisted, knowing full well that it did. “He’ll still have to save his own skin first from the district attorney, and for that he’ll have to give them you.”

“Enough!” Toby cried suddenly. He raised the gun until McGuffin could see into the bore, then pulled the hammer back until it fell into position with a solid click. “I’d like to stay and watch you crawl, but I’ve got to go before your friends come around again. You understand.”

The shot followed only a moment later, a split second after the detective, knowing that, at that moment, he presented the smallest target, had jerked his head to one side and lunged blindly forward. Their bodies collided vaguely - McGuffin’s head struck something that crunched and gave as he groped blindly for something to grab and hold on to, preferably a gun. Someone cried out. A second shot was fired, and McGuffin felt himself falling blindly, out of control, until he was stopped by something soft. He was lying on top of the struggling Toby, he realized after a moment, and the gun lay across the deck beside the trunk. When Toby’s knee found McGuffin’s groin, he grunted painfully and rolled off the smaller man, then scrabbled after him, racing crabs, McGuffin by a claw.

He found the gun and rolled onto one side as Toby appeared above him. The automatic jumped once in his hand, and Toby fell like a shot bird across McGuffin’s legs. Keeping the gun at the ready, he extricated himself and climbed to his feet. When he slipped a toe under Toby’s shoulder and flipped him over on his back, he saw what had crunched against his head. Toby’s formerly aristrocratic nose was now lying over to one side like a mongrel’s ear, and although it had been discharging blood prodigiously only a moment before, now it was still, its pump stopped by .45-caliber slug.

“I knew it couldn’t last,” McGuffin said, as he slid the warm automatic into his jacket pocket. Until now, he had been in the PI business for eighteen years without killing anyone.

It’s difficult to find a cab in the rain during the dinner hour in San Francisco, even if it’s a matter of life and death. It was a few minutes after eight when McGuffin’s cab pulled to a stop in front of Shawney O’Sea’s temporary quarters on Leavenworth Street. He stepped out, unmindful of the rain, dug under his trench coat for a twenty and passed it through the driver’s window.

“In case you haven’t noticed, Mac, your head is bleeding,” the driver informed McGuffin as he passed him his change.

McGuffin touched his forehead and came away with blood. “It’s not mine.”

“So whose is it, Mac?” he asked, waiting for his tip.

“The guy I just killed,” McGuffin answered, pocketing the tip. He hated guys who called him Mac.

“Very funny,” the driver said uncertainly, then stomped on the pedal.

McGuffin turned his face to the rain and looked up at the ugly, green fortress on the side of the hill. A pale, yellow light glowed dimly from behind the lace curtains on the first floor, but that didn’t mean anyone was there, he knew, as the desk lamp was always on. He removed a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped Toby’s blood from his face, snagging the cotton material in his beard. It was Monday evening, and he hadn’t shaved since Saturday morning, he realized, as he started up the stairs to Shawney’s apartment.

The front door was closed and singly locked, but the detective managed to open it easily with a plastic card. He removed Toby’s Beretta from his coat pocket, suddenly aware that he was now carrying two guns, both of them Toby’s, then slipped quickly into the dimly lighted foyer. The only light in the living room came from the reading lamp on the desk near the window, and seated at the desk with a startled look on his face was Klaus Vandenhof.

“Keep your hands on the desk where I can see them,” McGuffin ordered, stepping quickly into the room behind the sweeping Beretta. “Where is she?”

Vandenhof said nothing.

“Did you kill her?” McGuffin demanded.

“No,” Vandenhof replied. “She killed me.”

It was only then that McGuffin saw the dull stain spreading slowly under Vandenhof’s lapel where, under layers of fat, his heart should approximately lie. The hole was scarcely visible, no wider than the silver pen clutched in the fat hand resting next to an open checkbook. McGuffin walked to the desk and picked up the checkbook. It was made out to Brigid LeBlanc in the amount of $10,000 and signed by Vandenhof.

“Who’s Brigid LeBlanc?”

“I am. Don’t turn around, or I’ll shoot!” the woman whom McGuffin had until now known as Shawney O’Sea/Ivey Dwindling barked sharply. “Place the gun on the edge of the desk and step away slowly.” McGuffin did as instructed. “Good. Now turn around with your hands in the air. And please don’t do anything foolish, Amos,” she said as he raised his hands and turned. She had a small silver automatic pointed at his chest, the kind favored by women who have learned the hard way that karate was never meant to be a coed sport. “Killing Klaus was a public service. You, I wouldn’t enjoy. Open your raincoat and let it fall to the floor.”

“I’m not in the habit of carrying two guns, if that’s what you’re thinking,” McGuffin said as he unbuttoned his coat and let it fall softly to the floor. He waited for the order to remove his jacket, but it didn’t come.

“I told Klaus you’d be too much for Toby, but he didn’t believe me,” she said, brushing the hair from over her eye.

“So that was the reason for the victim act,” McGuffin guessed.

“Exactly. Even if you survived Toby, I expected to be in South America by the time you learned Klaus hadn’t killed me. But now you’ve messed up my plans, Amos. I don’t know what to do.”

“Why not throw in with me?” McGuffin suggested.

“Seriously?” she asked, amused.

“Seriously. Let me have the egg long enough to get Marilyn and Hillary, then I’ll take it back from Kruger and give it to you. You’ll be free to go. I’ll never bother you again, I give you my word,” he pleaded.

“What about Kemidov?” she asked.

“He’s a lousy actor, forget him,” McGuffin advised.

She laughed shortly. “So you saw through that one, did you?”

“I wasn’t certain of anything then, but now it’s reasonably clear,” McGuffin answered. “I made the mistake of telling Vandenhof the little I knew about Miles Dwindling’s daughter, so he hired an impersonator to keep an eye on me. I must say, you’re a better actor than Kemidov. I was suspicious at first, but when you came out with that high school identification in the name of Ivey Dwindling, I tumbled.”

She smiled, obviously pleased with herself. “That was my idea. Klaus had the card made up. He was very good at forgery and art swindles and things like that, poor dear,” she said, glancing his way. The blood had spread over his entire shirt front and his face was ashen. If he was not already dead, he soon would be, McGuffin guessed. “Harold - that’s Kemidov - and I worked with Klaus several times. We were usually the aristocratic, but destitute refugees who had to sell off the family collection to one of Klaus’ rich but dumb customers. It seemed a lark at first - Harold and I are both serious but penniless New York actors, or at least I
was,
he still is - but lately it’s become absolutely dangerous!” she exclaimed, wide-eyed. “That’s why I decided to retire - with the Fabergé egg, of course. But I’m so happy that my last performance was so utterly true and convincing!”