Killerfest (13 page)

CHAPTER 22 - JULIETTE

 Scarne took
the subway to 79th Street and Broadway, where he knew he could find a liquor
store. During his search he passed a small bookstore. In its window was a
picture of Sebastian Quimper, framed in black crepe. In it, Quimper was at a
computer, his fingers on a keyboard scowling back at the photographer as if he
had been interrupted. He was younger in the photo, Scarne noted. Maybe the
author had actually been writing something on his own. He stared at the
portrait a long time.

A little early
for dinner with Sealth, Scarne headed over to Harrison’s Tavern on Amsterdam
Avenue, once a favorite watering hole of his. It wasn’t there anymore. In its
place was a maternity shop. Suddenly feeling older, he found another bar a few
doors down. It was trendy, loud and filled with college students. That didn’t
make him feel any better.

“What will you
have, mister?”

He looked at
the kid behind the bar. Mister?

“Jack Daniels,
rocks, splash of bitters.”

The TV was
tuned to the news. It was all about the Quimper murder.

“Some shit,
huh,” the bartender said as he put down Scarne’s drink. “Damn terrorists.”

“How long has
Harrison’s been closed,” Scarne asked.

“Harrisons?”

“Never mind,”
Scarne said, morosely.

He finished
his drink and left. It was a warm night and people just coming home from work
were shopping in the open air markets or sitting down at tables outside the
many upscale cafes and bistros that made the area so attractive. He and Emma
had often come to the neighborhood for dinner. He wondered how she took the
news of Quimper’s killing.

“Great
bodyguard,” he muttered.

 Scarne
finally spotted a liquor store and bought two bottles of a good French bordeaux.
Then remembering Sealth’s pride in Washington State’s vineyards, he added a
Williamette Valley pinot noir. 

Noah and
Juliette Boudin lived on the third floor of a four-story walk-up on West 81st
Street off Amsterdam Avenue near the Museum of Natural History. As he turned
the corner on their block, Scarne reflected on his first meeting with the
ex-Seattle homicide cop. Only the intervention of a couple of F.B.I. agents had
prevented the two of them from coming to blows in Scarne’s office. But I showed
him, Scarne recalled. Noah had been eying the last two donuts provided by
Evelyn Warr during the contentious meeting, so Scarne had taken a bite out of
each.

By the time he
was buzzed through the vestibule of his destination his good humor had
returned. Upstairs, the woman who opened the door was not what Scarne expected.
Noah Sealth was a big, burly dark-skinned man. His Juliette couldn’t have been
much over five feet tall. She was trim and pretty, with sharply intelligent
black eyes to match her short-cropped hair.

“Jacque, how
nice to finally meet you,” she said in a lilting French accent, leaning up to
kiss him on both cheeks. “Noah has told me so much about you.”

I must remind
him about the “dickwad” comment, Scarne decided. 

***

Sealth had
just opening up the second bottle of Scarne’s wine and began filling all their glasses
amid the remains of Juliette’s excellent cassoulet.

“What is
‘dickwad’,” she asked, pronouncing it
“deek-wad.”

“It has many
meanings,” Sealth said. “But basically it refers to someone who eats all the
donuts.”

He remembers,
Scarne thought happily.

Juliette
looked confused and then gave him a Gallic shrug.

“Jacque, Noah
tells me that, like him, you have some Indian blood.”

“The
politically correct term is Native-American,” Sealth said.

“Merde.
Native-American, African-American, Anglo-American. What is this love affair you
all have with hyphens? Why can’t you simply speak English?”

The men
laughed.

“I couldn’t
agree with you more, Juliette,” Scarne said. “But, yes, I do have a bit of Indian
blood. Cheyenne on my mother’s side.”

“Cheyenne.
What a lovely word. Very romantic. Could almost be French. Not like Duwamish,
which was the name of the tribe from which Noah has roots. That sounds like a
dish detergent.”

“I’ll have you
know that I was named after the original Noah Sealth, Chief Seattle, a great
warrior.”

“Who signed
the treaty that gave away the tribe’s territory to the white settlers,” Scarne
said. He was having a very good time. “Without a fight.”

“I take it the
Cheyenne were not so compliant,” Juliette said.

“I think
Custer would agree,” Scarne replied. 

“Are you two
finished distorting history and mocking my heritage,” Sealth said.

“For now,”
Scarne replied. “But the night is young.”

“Good.
Juliette, tell Jake what you found out.”

She became all
business. The transformation was amazing. Juliette the hostess, the gourmet
coup, the teasing French lover, became Juliette the cop.

“I do not know
how helpful this will be, Jacque.” Scarne was beginning to like her
pronunciation. “But there is a man in Brussels named Gaetan Mendelsohn. A
veteran of the Staatsveiligheid, the Belgian State Security Service, he now
owns an exclusive art gallery. Mendelsohn has many patrons and is widely
respected in cultural circles. No criminal record. His known weaknesses are
other men and good food. Many men. Much food. He only eats at the finest
restaurants. He has lived beyond the means that even his pension and income
from his successful gallery could reasonably provide. When I was at the Sûreté
and later, at Interpol, he was known as a facilitator, someone who could
arrange special activities of a clandestine nature, using a small stable of
operatives he knew from his former life.”

“Killers for
hire,” Scarne said.

“For the most
part, yes.” Juliette’s mouth turned down. “In certain Government circles, he
was considered a useful asset, since he made it known that he only facilitated
assignments outside Europe.”

“So they look
the other way as long as the bodies turned up on other continents.”

“Much the way
your C.I.A. operates,” Juliette said, eyes flashing.

“Point taken.
What makes Mendelsohn so interesting?”

“He was the
person one went to when you needed a woman assassin. There aren’t that many,
despite what Hollywood would have us believe. Do you remember that woman who
seduced and killed the Mossad agent in the movie
Munich
?”

Scarne nodded.

“She really
existed,” Juliette continued. “Another Belgian by the way. Perhaps there is
something in the water in that country. But after the Israelis killed the woman
there really was no one else like her. That is until recently, my sources say.
Mendelsohn reportedly has access to a female assassin even deadlier than the other
one. This time, a German. Supposed to be very beautiful, but a caméléon, able
to change her appearance at will. No one knows her name. But she has achieved a
legendary status on both sides of the law. That doesn’t mean she had anything
to do with the Quimper affair, of course.”

Juliette held
out her glass for more wine and smiled. Scarne knew something else was coming.

“But the woman
has a nickname,” she said. “‘Der blonde tod.’”

“The blond
death,” Scarne said.

“I wonder if
she’s a natural blond,” Sealth said.

“Only one way
to find out,” Scarne said.

“Ces hommes
sont des porcs,” Juliette said, wrinkling her cute little nose.

CHAPTER 23 - TIGER BAIT

The next
morning Scarne called Bengal Publishing and asked to speak to Chandra Khan.
Using his cover as a book reviewer for Shields, he eventually cut through
several protective assistants and got through to the publisher.

“I remember
you, Mr. Scarne, from the conference. You were offended when I joked that you
might tilt your reviews in favor of Schuster House. It was in poor taste. I
hope you have forgiven me.”

“Water under
the bridge, Mr. Khan.”

“Very good.
I’m glad. Now, what can I do for you? My secretary said something about an
urgent matter.”

Scarne knew he
had to play his cards very carefully.

“Well, it may
be more sensitive than urgent. Unless I’m right, of course. It has to do with
the murder of Sebastian Quimper.”

There was a
pause. Scarne tried not to read anything into it.

“A tragedy. We
are all devastated. My staff is just now putting together the arrangements for
me to attend the funeral.”

Presumably the
mortician was putting Quimper’s body together, Scarne reflected. It had been
released that morning by the Medical Examiner.

“I was
wondering if I could speak to you in person, Mr. Khan. I’d rather not talk to
you over the phone. It’s rather delicate.”

“Well, I’m
afraid that I am booked solid all day. And then I am playing in a backgammon
tournament at the All India Club tonight. Can’t miss that, you know. But I’ll
tell you what. If you can come by my home, say, around seven, I can give you
some time. We’ll have a drink. I always have one before I play. It helps me to
relax.”

***

It was gloomy,
cloudy twilight, with thunder in the distance, when Scarne arrived at Khan’s
brownstone. But the neo-Greco building itself was anything but gloomy. It was
magnificent. Textured glass and jeweled panels on the on the antique front
double doors and the windows on every floor shimmered with interior light.
Similar, and almost as resplendent, brownstones dotted the block on both sides
and Scarne briefly imagined how the street must have looked in Victorian times
when the homes were constructed. He half expected to hear the clip-clop of horse-drawn
surreys behind him on the street.

The genteel
illusion was shattered when the door opened and Scarne stood face to face with
Boga Gulle.

“Good evening,
my good man,” Scarne said pleasantly. “Is Professor Higgins at home?”

Khan’s brutish
bodyguard gave him a malevolent stare, his nostrils flaring.

“Not a fan of
My
Fair Lady
, I take it. That’s OK. Neither am I. They should have let Audrey
Hepburn sing her own songs. Look how successful
Les Miserables
was as a
movie. Anne Hathaway won an Oscar for singing one tune. Anyway, Mr. Khan is
expecting me. Jake Scarne.”

“Follow me.”

Gulle led
Scarne through the foyer down a long marble-tiled hallway bordered by rosewood
mirrors and cabinets, and illuminated electrically by “gaslight” sconces. It
was like entering a museum or fine art gallery. Each room they passed looked as
if it should have been cordoned off with a red velvet rope. They came to a
small elevator. Gulle motioned Scarne inside and then followed. It was close
quarters and Gulle’s animal smell was sickening. He pressed the top button and
then turned to face Scarne.

“Russell Crowe
can’t sing,” he said.

“No argument
there,” Scarne said.

The elevator
door opened and Gull turned and walked out. Scarne followed him into a
conservatory, obviously on the brownstone’s top floor. Chandra Khan was sitting
at a small marble-top table by a mosaic fountain, looking intently at a
backgammon board, occasionally referring to a small leather-bound volume. The
last of the day’s sunlight streamed in through a massive skylight and stained
glass windows. As he walked closer Scarne was struck by the strange-looking
chandelier above the table. It seemed to be made out of elephant tusks. A huge
tiger skin hung on the wall behind a nearby wet bar.

Khan rose at
their approach. He gave Scarne a warm smile and a firm handshake.

“What will you
have to drink, Mr. Scarne? Believe it or not, Boga makes a mean Manhattan. With
sour mash.”

“That would be
fine.”

“Boga. Two
Manhattans. Straight up, lemon twists. And turn on some lights. Now sit a
moment Mr. Scarne. Bear with me. I am almost finished.”

Gulle walked
over to the wall and hit a switch and the conservatory brightened. Then he went
over to the bar and started making the cocktails. Khan said “double” to himself
and picked up a cup and shook out the dice. They came out a one and a three.

“Idiot!” He
laughed. “Forgive me, Mr. Scarne. I just cost myself ten thousand dollars. It
was a stupid double. The odds were against me. Fortunately, here I’m playing
both sides. So, I’ll break even. But if I did this in the tournament I might be
eliminated. The money is serious, but the blow to my pride would be even worse.
Do you play?”

“I know how to
play. But I’m strictly an amateur.”

Not quite
true, Scarne thought to himself. He’d learned the game from some coalition
troops during his military service and kept his hand in with occasional games
in Washington Square. After being badly burned in some early matches, he’d gone
to the Strand bookstore in Greenwich Village, where he found a used copy of
Backgammon:
The Action Game
, written by Prince Alexis Obolensky and Ted James. By
studying that classic backgammon bible, he was now at least holding his own
against the street hustlers who frequented the park.

“Backgammon is
a game of skill and chance, Mr. Scarne. In equal parts. Over the long term
expert players will always prevail, especially if the stakes are high, since
they can intimidate lesser players. The dice will even out eventually. But
unlike chess, for example, in a single backgammon game, it is possible for a
rank amateur to demolish even the most skilled of players.” He laughed again.
“Hell, I just demolished myself, and I am considered world-class.”

Their drinks
arrived. As advertised, they were excellent.

“Boga,” Khan
said. “We leave in 40 minutes. Shower and change your suit.”

Gulle turned
and walked away. Scarne stared at Khan.

“You are
shocked, Mr. Scarne. Boga is in most respects a superb adjutant. But he comes
from the lower classes in my country. His hygiene leaves something to be
desired. When he gets ‘above the curry,’ as they say, my friends at the club
complain. I want no distractions tonight. Now, drink up and let’s have a quick
game while you tell me what is so delicate that we couldn’t discuss it over the
phone.”

Khan quickly
and efficiently set up the board, placing the 30 circular white and black
checkers, or men, in their respective positions. The board itself was a work of
art, and Scarne said so.

“It was
handcrafted by Italian artisans from a variety of exotic woods such as white
pearl, elm, walnut and briar,” Khan said proudly. “The men are made of olive
wood. The key, locks and latches are solid brass plated with 24K gold. The dice
and doubling block are made of ivory from the tusk of a white rhino.”

“I couldn’t
help but notice the chandelier and the tiger skin. I thought all these animals
were endangered.”

“Presumably,”
Khan said, nonchalantly, “but it’s not like I killed them. Anyway, I believe
the tusks are from an African elephant, not Indian.” Khan seemed to think that
made it OK. “As for the dice, this whole set belonged to a Saudi prince,
hopefully another endangered species. Must have cost him a small fortune.
Mediocre player. I won it from him in a game.” He gave Scarne a sly look. “By
the way, do you like to wager.”

“I’m not much
of a gambler,” Scarne lied again, smiling inwardly at the memory of a $20,000
golf bet he’d won a few years earlier. “And certainly not at your stakes. But I
suppose I can afford a few bucks.”

“Good. What is
that saying? Playing for nothing is like kissing your sister? Is $100 out of
line?”

Khan said it
deprecatingly, but Scarne didn’t take offense. The rich often can’t help
themselves.

“That’s fine.”

“But as you
are my guest, I will not use the doubling cube, and I would advise you against
using it.” The doubling cube, or block, was a square die, larger than the
regular playing dice, with the numbers 2, 4, 8, 16, 32 and 64 on its sides. A
player who was doing well, or just wanted to take a chance, can ask to double
the stakes. If the opponent accepts, the cube is rotated to show the new bet.
Theoretically, the original bet could go up astronomically. “But if you don’t
mind, I like to play traditional rules. You could lose $300.”

Khan was
referring to the fact that there are three ways to win at backgammon. There is a
simple win, going to the first person to bear all his men off the board. Then
there is a “gammon,” when the loser still has all his men left on the board.
The rare “backgammon” occurs when the loser has more than one man stranded in
the winner’s home board or on the center rail. Khan was implying that Scarne
would likely be crushed.

“Of course,”
Scarne said, trying to sound nervous. With just a little luck he knew he might
make Khan eat his words.  

“Perhaps you
can expense it to Randolph,” Khan said, laughing.

He picked up
his cup and rolled a single die. A one. Using his own cup, Scarne threw a six.
He would go first, using the six and one of the combined roll.

“What are
these cups made of,” Scarne asked. “They are exquisite.”

“Yes. They
didn’t come with this set. They are mine. Cobra skin. Like all reptiles, they
must be skinned alive to achieve the right texture. Been in my family for
generations.”

“Tough on the
cobra,” Scarne said. “Are you planning to skin me alive?”

“Of course!”

Scarne playing
white, moved one of his men from Khan’s 12-point line to his own bar point and
one man from his 8-point to his bar point. It was a classic six-one opening
move and blocked three points, or rows. Khan looked at him appraisingly.

“I would have
expected those moves from a skilled player,” he said, picking up his cup. “Am I
being hustled?” He then rolled a two and a one. “Damn. The worst opening roll.
Well, I guess I will have to concentrate.”

Which he
proceeded to do. The only thing that kept Scarne in the game was a series of
good rolls that included two double sixes, which allowed him to move his men
twice per die. Still, at the eight-minute mark, he was in serious trouble.
Remembering some contrarian advice from Prince Obolensky, who believed that an
unorthodox play at the right moment could turn around a losing position, he
picked up the doubling block and turned it so that the 2 was facing up.

“Double,
Khan,” he said.

The stakes
jumped to $200.

His opponent
looked surprised.

“Are you sure,
Mr. Scarne?”

“What the
hell.”

Gulle had
returned. Couldn’t have been much of a shower, Scarne mused. But he did smell
better.

“Do you think
I could have another drink,” Scarne said. “That was damn good. Will you join
me?”

“Of course you
may.” Khan signaled to Gulle, who was hovering a few feet away, staring
intently at Scarne. “But I will pass. I only have one drink before a
tournament. One cocktail relaxes me. But too much alcohol can impair the
judgment.”

Scarne knew it
would take more than two drinks to impair his own judgment, but he wanted to
act a little tipsy so that his host would think he let down his guard. Gulle
brought over the second Manhattan and Scarne drained half of it in one gulp. He
then rolled another pair of sixes! He was thus able to obliterate most of
Khan’s gains.

“This game is
easy,” he said, purposely slurring the
thish
.

Khan’s laugh
had a slight edge to it.

“With rolls
like that,” he said, “it is.”

“Well, it’s
about time I had a little luck,” Scarne said, waving his drink. “That
son-of-a-bitch Shields fired me today. Blames me for the Quimper thing.”

Khan was
actually surprised. The dice rattled in the cup he was holding.

“But why? You
are only a book critic.”

“Nah. That was
just my cover story. I’m a private investigator.” Scarne heard Gulle snort.
“Shields hired me as backup protection for Quimper.”

Scarne belted
back the rest of his drink and held it out to Gulle. Khan nodded and his
bodyguard took the glass.

“That’s
certainly too bad,” Khan said, shrugging, “but I can see Randolph’s point. No
offense, but you and the others hired to safeguard Sebastian failed. Someone’s
head had to roll.” He actually laughed as he rattled his dice in the cup. “Poor
choice of words. I’m sorry.”

“But why
mine,” Scarne said, trying to sound aggrieved. He took his third drink from
Gulle, who was smirking. “I warned them about the jerk’s sex habits. He was a
horny bastard. Like I could have stopped him from sneaking that blond Kraut
babe up to his room.”

Khan was in
the midst of throwing the dice when Scarne said it. He missed the board
entirely and the cubes tumbled off the table and clattered across the marble
tile floor.