The Kills (27 page)

Josephine
Baker, the Revue Nègre, the French Resistance, and General Charles de
Gaulle. I thought of the letters
R du R,
the old Parisian label in the mink coat that Tiffany Gatts had stolen from the
apartment, and I traced them with my fingertip against the green desk blotter.

"Ransome du Roi,"
I said to Mike
Chapman. "The King's Ransome."

Less than
half an hour had elapsed since Battaglia had mentioned Farouk's name. Paige
Vallis's father had tutored the playboy prince in the mid-1930s. Then Vallis
had also been posted in Egypt later on, when Farouk's monarchy was deposed. I
had not even had the chance to tell Mike about my talk with Battaglia before
walking into the room to meet Spike Logan.

"These
tape recordings you made with Queenie, where are they now?" Mike asked.

"In
a bank vault on Martha's Vineyard."

Dozens of
questions raced through my mind, and I needed to break in on Mike's interrogation.
But I didn't want to interrupt the flow of Logan's answers by stepping out of
the room and bringing Mike up to speed. I didn't want Logan to know that he
might have hit on something of consequence.

"You
mind turning them over to us?" Mike asked.

Logan
hesitated.

"Ms.
Cooper can give you a subpoena."

The slip
of paper would have no authority in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, and it
might take me a few days to secure one via the local prosecutor, but Logan
didn't know that.

"Let
me think about it," Logan said.

"Why,
what's on 'em that concerns you?"

"That's
all the lady's private thoughts, Mr. Chapman. I signed a contract with her,
through the Schomburg, that none of the stories of her intimate relationships
would be made public until twenty-five years after her death. You know, it's
got anecdotes about lots of famous people-some of them still alive today."

I stepped
on Mike's toe, signaling him to lay off the issue of the tapes. I'd find a
legal way to get them produced so we could explore them for any information of
value.

"What
can we tell you about Ms. Ransome?" I asked. Perhaps by making this
process a two-way street, we could soften Spike Logan to give us more facts.

He asked
questions about how she died, whether anyone had appeared to claim her body or
her possessions, and what point we had reached in the investigation.

When we
had satisfied his interest, I turned the tables again. "I'm fascinated
about this relationship with the Egyptian king. Do you know how all that
started?"

Mike
Chapman stood and opened the door. "You and your girlfriends eat up all
this crap about the royals. A commoner like me couldn't get lucky in your crowd
if I was hung like a stallion. Either of you guys want coffee?"

"Yes,
please. Get me two. Spike?"

"Could
I have a sandwich and some soda?"

"Sure.
Be back in ten."

It was
obvious that Logan liked talking about McQueen Ransome. "So Josephine
Baker was responsible for taking Queenie to Europe to perform. There was never
quite the color barrier there that there was for entertainers in this
country."

"Paris?"

"That's
where it all started, dancing in the Folies-Bergère. But once they got
involved with Resistance work, Queenie was sent on missions all over Europe.
Farouk had become king of Egypt in 1936, but by 1939, the British had taken
over control of the country. Rommel was in the desert, ready to pounce, so the
Allied troops packed the Egyptians off to guard the Suez Canal, and took over
the government, basically."

"And
what became of Farouk when the British took charge?" I asked.

"Just
left to be a figurehead. He was barely in his twenties, with a net worth of one
hundred fifty million dollars. He had the full run of a five-hundred-room
palace, freedom to play with all his toys-yachts, airplanes, racing cars,
breeding horses-and to chase broads."

"Was
he married?"

"Not
very happily."

"How
did Queenie meet him?"

"She'd
been sent to Egypt supposedly to entertain the troops. It was much later in the
war-about forty-four. And she performed at the king's favorite nightclub in
Cairo-Auberge des Pyramides."

"Farouk
went to clubs during the war?"

"That's
how he got the nickname the Night Crawler."

Chapman
had used the same phrase himself, but he referred to the vermin who crept
around the city streets from dark to daybreak, looking for trouble.

"Every
night he was out carousing-belly dancers, jazz bands, caviar and champagne.
Next to Mussolini and Goebbels, who got private tours of the pyramids, his
favorite people were showgirls."

"So
Queenie was really ordered there for the purpose of seducing Farouk?"

"She
took the assignment as kind of a dare. She didn't believe he'd go for
her."

"Looking
at those pictures, it would be hard to imagine why not."

"'Cause
he liked them blonde, Ms. Cooper, and he liked them no older than sixteen. She
was the same age as the king, and a bit more mocha than he usually fell
for."

"What
happened?"

"Queenie
Ransome danced. She came out onstage and moved that magnificent body like no
one else could."

I thought
of her photograph in the Scheherazade costume and imagined her dancing in it
for Farouk.

"After
the performance, one of his bodyguards came backstage and invited her to join
the king's party. King Farouk stood up to greet Queenie, and when she curtsied
to him, he took a necklace out of his pocket and draped it around her neck.
'This is your passport to my palace,' he said. 'The guards will bring you to me
later tonight.'"

Logan
stopped to laugh. "Queenie told me she unhooked it and took a look at it.
Sapphires all around it the size of quail eggs. She dropped it into his soup
bowl and told him, 'I think you have me confused with the next act, Your
Highness. She's the whore. I'm just a dancer.'"

"She
walked away?"

"Right
out the door and back to the Red Cross headquarters, where she was staying.
Night after night Farouk came to the club to ply her with gifts but she refused
to see him. When he finally showed up empty-handed, and came backstage to
apologize, it was the first time Queenie agreed to speak with him." Logan
paused. "She played hard-to-get for a few more weeks. Demanded a real
courtship."

"And
then?"

"The
royal affair. Nights in the palace, cruises up the Nile, mingling with all the
high society in Cairo and Alexandria, which were quite sophisticated places at
the time. There was a big American colony in Egypt. Queenie said Farouk used to
invite dozens of Americans in to see Hollywood's latest propaganda-movies like
Casablanca,
musical scores from brand-new
Broadway shows like
Oklahoma!
"

"Was
she on duty or in love?" I asked.

"It
started as an assignment. Hell, she was picking up whatever intelligence she
could from within the bedroom. She was there when President Roosevelt and
Winston Churchill stopped to meet Farouk on their way back from the Yalta
Conference. Farouk's wife even moved out of the palace-"

"Because
of his affair with Queenie?"

"Not
entirely. Because she had failed in her efforts to produce an heir to the
throne. Three daughters, but not the son that Farouk needed to guarantee
succession for the Egyptian monarchy. It just meant that Queenie had his full
attention at the time, and his complete confidence. And yes, she fell in love
with him."

"Did
she tell you why?"

Logan
thought for a minute. "He wasn't the pathetic old exile the world got to
know later on, when he had worked himself up into a three-hundred-fifty-pound
glutton. Queenie showed me the photo of him that was on the cover of
Time
magazine when he was crowned, sort
of the great white hope of the Middle East. Prince Charming in the land of the
pharaohs. He was smart, spoke seven languages, was a high-liver, and he loved
women."

"I
guess the sapphires didn't hurt, either."

"Queenie
had a good laugh about that one," Logan said. "The necklace he tried
to give her the first night? A total fake. He carried costume jewelry with him
every night that he went out on the town to give away to the showgirls and
hookers. He had millions, but he was a real cheapskate with the ladies. I think
it fascinated him that Queenie didn't care about his possessions-the jewels,
the cars, all the other things."

"What
do you mean, 'things'?"

"The
king was a collector. Of things, loads of things. Weird things, expensive
things. He just had to own whatever he could get his hands on."

"What
exactly did he collect?"

"The
way Queenie talked, to me it sounded like everything. You know about the
pornography, right?"

"No,
no. I don't."

"Hasn't
anyone told you about those pictures in Queenie's bedroom?" Logan asked.

"The
ones by James Van Derzee?"

"Not
them. Those are great photos. Really classy. The Schomburg has his whole
collection of those-very artistic, very elegant."

I didn't
want to tell Logan that the killer had stopped to pose his victim the same way
the great photographer had memorialized her. Maybe he already knew that.

"What
pornography do you mean?"

"King
Farouk had the world's most extensive pornography collection. Erotic art,
objects and devices of every kind, timepieces with fornicating couples gyrating
on the watch face as the hands moved around. Pornographic neckties, playing
cards, calendars, corkscrews. Then he got the bright idea to make Queenie pose
for photographs."

"And
she did?"

"She
did at first. She never minded displaying that body of hers. It was only after
the king wanted her to perform sexual acts with other men, so that they could
be photographed for his collection, that she objected. She refused to do that.
It was the beginning of the end of their relationship."

"The
pornography-what became of all of it?"

"Queenie
took whatever pictures she could with her when she left Egypt in 1946. When
Sotheby's auctioned the rest of Farouk's collections after he was deposed, she
contacted them to see whether she could buy some of the photographs, so they
wouldn't become public. But at the last minute Sotheby's withdrew the pornography
from the auction, along with some other royal loot. She never knew what
happened to the stuff. Didn't much matter, though. Her spirit was already
broken."

"Because?"

"Fabian,
her son."

"Had
he died?"

"Yeah.
He had contracted polio. Infantile paralysis. Nineteen fifty-five, a few months
before the vaccine was approved for use in the States. Shortly before the
auction."

I did the
math in my head. "Fabian was-"

"King
Farouk's son. The prince of Egypt, heir to the throne."

We were
both silent.

"That
blond child with fair skin looked exactly like his old man," Logan said.
"I'll show you the pictures."

"She
must have been devastated."

"Still
couldn't talk about it without breaking up, Ms. Cooper. I mean, she knew long
before she became pregnant that she wasn't much more than one in a long line of
royal concubines. There were belly dancers and British diplomats' wives in the
same club as Queenie. Two of the king's favorite mistresses were Jewish-it was
a different Egypt in those days-but none of them was likely to become the
queen."

"Did
he know she was pregnant when she left him?"

He nodded
his head. "She was too proud to tell him. But after she gave birth to
their son here in the States, she sent him some photographs, knowing how badly
he wanted a male heir, and seeing how closely the child resembled the young
Farouk. She did the
F
thing,
too."

"What?"

"Farouk's
father, King Fuad, had once consulted a seer, who told him that all his good
fortune derived from the letter
F.
Fuad then demanded that everyone in the royal family be named based on that
prophecy-Farouk himself, and his sisters Fawzia, Faiza, Faika. Like that. He
had even made his wife change her name. Queenie thought she'd get his attention
that way. 'Here's your prince, Fabian, just look at him.'"

"Did
Farouk respond to her?"

"She
never heard from him again. He divorced his wife and married a sixteen-year-old
girl, who finally gave birth to an heir-the next Fuad."

"Did
he ever contact Fabian? Support him?"

"Queenie
didn't want money from him. She just wanted him to acknowledge the boy, to know
that she had done what the royal princess failed to do until that time."

"But
how did she live? Did she continue to dance?"

"Not
for very long," Logan said, stopping to open his mouth wide and stroke his
goatee. He seemed to be thinking about whether to go on. Then he leaned back
and reached into the pocket of his jeans.

"Queenie
gave this to me in June, for my birthday," he said, handing me a pocket
watch.

It was in
a solid-gold case, and on the back were the initials
F.R.
"Farouk Rex," Logan said. "Given to him
by his pal, the Duke of Windsor."

"And
Farouk, he gave things like this to Queenie?"

"Not
exactly," Spike Logan said, smiling. "My girl got a few kicks in
before she left town to come back to Harlem. She stole this from the
king."

McQueen
Ransome stole a gold watch from the King of Egypt. What else of value might she
have taken in a fit of pique, out of favor and heading for home?

"Did
she tell you," I asked Spike Logan, "whether she took any of Farouk's
other 'things' when she left?"

"Hey,
it all started as a prank. There was a well-known story at the time about
Farouk pardoning a famous pickpocket from one of Alexandria's penitentiaries.
In return, the king wanted lessons from the guy. So the thief agreed, and
taught His Majesty how to steal by sewing tiny bells into each of his own
pockets, like little alarms, before filling them with objects. By the end of
his lessons, Farouk had mastered the art of light-fingered lifting. You never
heard the story about Churchill's watch?"

"No."

"Churchill
was visiting the troops and stopped to have dinner with Farouk, who lifted his
watch from the prime minister's waistcoat during cocktails, without the great
statesman having a clue. Only after the meal, when Churchill asked the time,
did the king pull out the old guy's watch from his pocket and tell him."

I laughed
at the image.

"Farouk
thought it would be fun to teach Queenie, too. She got a platinum cigarette
case off Noël Coward one night, and the money clip that Jack Benny carried
in the inner pocket of his dinner jacket when he came to perform for the
troops."