Killerfest (3 page)

CHAPTER 3 - ALBATROSS

Scarne considered
what he had just been told. And didn’t like it.

“Let me get
this straight, Emma. Quimper and this Arhaut fellow write a spy novel that
denigrates Islam. Arhaut is subsequently murdered by someone shouting ‘Allah is
great!’ and you hoped it would all blow over? I hope you at least told Quimper
about Arhaut and the first letter.”

Emma saw the
anger.

“Jake, I know
it sounds callous. And you have to believe I had nothing to do with the cover
up. Of course we told Sebastian. He has been lying low, taking precautions. He
already has a security service and both he and us augmented it. But it’s been
almost two months and nothing else happened. We thought we might be in the
clear.” 

“Then you got
the second letter.”

“Yes, Schuster
House did, a few days ago. And it had details of the Arhaut murder that could
only have come from the killer, or killers. What do you think, Jake?”

Scarne’s
cognac glass was empty. Emma’s was still half full. He signaled the waiter for
another. At $30 a glass, it was the best cognac on the menu. Up yours,
Randolph.  

“Well, Quimper
would be a fool not to take the threat seriously,” Scarne said after the waiter
left. “Making an example of him would certainly have a chilling effect on other
writers, and would be a huge coup for the terrorists. Who knows about this?”

“Just his
publisher, agent and the law enforcement types he’s told. And us, of course. It
hasn’t hit the national media yet, but that’s inevitable. There’s bound to be a
leak. Hell, we’ve asked some of our own reporters, both in print and on the
cable side, to dig into the story. They know it’s delicate but there is no way
they will sit on it forever.”

“Look, Emma.
Quimper should take reasonable precautions, go to ground again. What else can
he do? Give the cops a chance to find this ‘Arms of Allah’ group.”

 “That’s our
feeling, too. It’s not like he isn’t already pretty safe. He’s not out in
public much. He lives in Greenwich, and has other homes in Colorado and in
Europe, and only travels by private jet. He’s probably not that vulnerable,
with all the extra security he’s put on. He’s pretty hard to find at any given
time. He’s going to cut back on TV appearances and other major public events
after the Killerfest, and hope this whole thing blows over.”

“The
‘Killerfest’?”

“Yes, that’s
the annual conference put on by World Thriller Writers Inc., the industry trade
group. It brings together hundreds of writers, agents, editors, would-be
authors and fans for four days of panels, book signings, schmoozing and
deal-cutting. Sebastian is the honoree this year. It costs at least a thousand
dollars to attend the conference and that doesn’t include accommodations for
people coming from out of town.”

“Where is it?”

“Anticipating
that Sebastian will be their biggest draw ever, the Killerfest people moved the
conference to the Bascombe. They built the whole program around him.”

“He could say
he has the flu. Or Ebola. Anyone can get sick. It’s better than being kebobbed
to death.”

Emma shook her
head.

“Once it’s
known that he’s been threatened, no one will believe the illness excuse. His
reputation will go down the toilet. It’s not like Rushdie. Quimper writes about
heroes, for God’s sake.”

“And a Shields
money machine grinds to a halt.”

She looked
uncomfortable.

“Don’t get all
moral on me, Jake. I said this was a business proposition, didn’t I? There’s
something else you should know.” She looked around and lowered her voice.
“Schuster House is going to merge with Albatross Publishing.”

“The big trade
paperback group?”

“Yes.
Combined, Schuster Albatross will be the dominant player in the publishing
business.”

“Didn’t I read
someplace that Bengal Publishing was courting Albatross?”

“It is, or,
rather, was. Our offer is better. Khan can’t match it.”

“Khan?”

“Chandra Khan.
Bengal’s chairman. New Delhi’s answer to Donald Trump. He’s been a thorn in our
side ever since he came over from England. He’s a tough, shrewd businessman. If
he got Albatross, it could be a problem for us. But we hear that he’s
overextended financially. Bengal is still a private company. Ever since we went
public we have a lot more money to draw upon.” Scarne knew it was Emma who had
first convinced her father and brothers to take Shields Inc. public, and then
structured the deal so that the family maintained control through its “A”
shares, while millions of “B” shares traded in the over-the-counter market.
“All of this is strictly confidential, of course.”

“You mean I
can’t run out and tell Bob Huber at the
Times
?”

“Don’t be an
ass. I know you keep my confidences. I just want you to realize why Quimper is
so important to us right now. I mean, I don’t want the man harmed, but there is
a lot at stake.”

Scarne got it.

“No Quimper,
no merger.”

“Right. And we
plan to announce the merger at the Killerfest, so he can’t be hiding under his
bed when we do.”

“Is this what
they call inside information?”

“As inside as
you can get.”

Scarne smiled
lasciviously.

“Well, I don’t
know about that.”

Emma’s eyes
crinkled.

“The night is
still young,” she said, laughing.

“What happens
after the conference?”

“Sebastian
will head for one of his mountaintop retreats and probably put in a fucking
moat and a mine field. But he will have made his point about not caving in to
terrorism. No one will blame him for being cautious. He can always say he is
writing his next opus. He may even try it, if he remembers how.”

“What do you
mean?”

“Quimper
hasn’t written a novel in years. They are all generated by the co-authors like
Arhaut. He doesn’t even read them.”

“You can’t be
serious.”

“I’ll tell you
something else. He is really pissed about Arhaut. Not because the poor schmuck
got killed. Sebastian didn’t bother to read or edit
From Here to Tehranity.
But
now because of it his life is in danger. The irony is, Quimper is one of those
pro-Palestinian liberals. It’s driving him absolutely nuts that people he
basically agrees with want to kill him.”

“Yes. I can
see why dying for someone else’s principles might be annoying. But I still
don’t know why you plied me with good food, drink and sex.”

“If I recall,
the sex came first,” Emma said, smiling. “And it was your idea to come here.
Dad would like you to augment Quimper’s security at the Bascombee during the
Killerfest, which starts in two weeks.”

Scarne was
unsuccessful in stifling a laugh.

“Randolph
probably hopes I’ll take a bullet for Quimper.”

“That’s
unfair, and you know it. Dad has mellowed in his opinion of you.”

“Well, it’s
not like he could have gone much further in the other direction.” Scarne turned
serious. “But Emma, why in the world would I want to get involved with a
world-class jerk like Quimper?”

“Other than
the ungodly amount of money we’ll pay you?”

“Yes.”

“Because I’m
asking you. Will you?”

Scarne cupped
his snifter and then finished the cognac.

“Yes.”

Emma reached
across the table and covered Scarne’s hand with her own.

“Thank you. I
knew I could count on you.” She smiled mischievously. “I hope it’s not because
I screw your socks off.”

“Of course
not,” Scarne replied. “You had me at ‘ungodly’.”

CHAPTER 4
–
WESTERN CIVILIZATION

“It occurs to
me that I’ve never properly thanked you for saving Emerald’s life.”

Scarne could
tell from Randolph Shields’s tone that he had little practice in expressing his
gratitude.

“There is no
need,” Scarne replied. “Besides, I had considerable help.”

“Yes. The
mysterious assassin. I suppose I should thank him, as well. But I don’t imagine
that’s practical.”

“I wouldn’t
think so. But if I ever run into him again, I’ll pass your sentiments along.
Assuming he doesn’t try to kill me.”

“It’s amazing,
he spent a good deal of effort trying to do just that, and then you wind up
sharing a cab together.”

“New York is a
great city,” Scarne said. “But cabs are expensive.”

“So I’ve
heard,” Randolph Shields said, laughing.

As he looked
out the helicopter window at Manhattan as they sped north two thousand feet
above the East River, Scarne wondered when Shields had last been in a cab. It
had been almost two weeks since Scarne’s dinner with Emma. She was already in
Europe.

“Sheldon liked
the subway,” Randolph said.

His voice had
changed at the mention of his brother. The two men exchanged glances. It was a
touchy subject.

“Nigel,”
Shields said, turning to the trim black man sitting near them, “did you get the
books to Mr. Scarne as I asked.”

Wow, Scarne
thought, a “Mr.” Could “Jake” be far behind?

“Yes, Mr.
Shields,” Nigel Blue replied, in a tone used by every long-suffering adjutant
in the world: polite, efficient, with just a hint of exasperation. “Both
From
Here to Tehranity
and
Life and Death in Polgradsky.”

Blue had
picked Scarne up at his apartment that morning and taken him to Chelsea Piers,
where the Shields yacht,
Emerald of the Seas
, named for Emma, was
docked. There they met Randolph, who was already in the helicopter on the
200-foot ship’s small flight deck. They were clattering into the air a minute
later. It would have been almost as quick to drive to Greenwich to see
Sebastian Quimper, but Scarne knew that people like Randolph Shields didn’t
think that way. After all, what were yachts and helicopters for?

“I’m almost
afraid to ask,” Shields said, “but what the hell is
Life and Death in
Polgradsky?
”

“The other
book Arhaut wrote,” Blue replied.

“Who the hell
is Arhaut?” Shields said.

Amazing,
Scarne thought. He decided to help Blue out.

“Arhaut is the
co-author of
Tehranity
, the one who was murdered at the book signing
outside of Philadelphia.”

“Oh, yes, of
course,” Shields said quickly. “Forgot the name. Poor bastard. Well, what did
you think about the books?”

“I should have
asked you for more money,” Scarne said.

Both Shields
and Blue laughed.

“That bad?”

“Actually,
Arhaut has, or had, talent.
Polgradsky
is depressing, but well-written.
I glanced at a couple of earlier Quimpers on my Kindle and it’s obvious that
Sebastian didn’t have much, if any, input in
Tehranity
. Too literary.
I’m rather surprised they put it out without dumbing it down some. It makes it
look like Quimper recently had a brain boost.”

“Actually,
Sebastian is a very intelligent man,” Shields said. “But the quality has
suffered after so many books.”

A flock of
geese flew by, not 500 feet away. Scarne wondered if they could bring down a
copter as easily as a jetliner. 

“Aside from
this latest threat,” he said, putting the thought from his mind, “doesn’t that
bother you? He’s the franchise.”

Shields shrugged.

“Of course it
bothers me. I’m not proud that we’re putting out such drivel, but his sales
have been going up! It’s almost as if he’s got the reading public on the
literary equivalent of heroin. They buy whatever has his name on it. Did you
see the book cover. His name takes up half the space. Then the title. And then
in small type at the bottom there’s a “With Roger Assholt,” or whatever the
guy’s name was.”

“The man’s
name was Ralph Arhaut,” Nigel Blue said wearily.

“My point,
exactly. No one gives a crap who the other author is. The Quimper name sells
books. But Jake makes a good point.”

Scarne smiled
inwardly. Now it’s “Jake.” The old bastard would probably adopt him soon.

 “Someone is
dropping the ball,” Shields continued. “Let’s talk to the people at Schuster
about keeping the tone and style of Quimper’s books consistent. He can’t sound
like George Bush in one novel and F. Scott Fitzgerald in another.”

“It’s the end
of Western Civilization as we know it,” Blue said.

“Don’t be such
a snob, Nigel,” Shields said, smiling. “The end of Western Civilization goes
straight to our bottom line, and, not so incidentally, pays your salary.”

Shields looked
thoughtfully at Scarne.

“You know
about the merger.”

Scarne
remained silent.

“Of course you
do,” Randolph said. “Emma would have told you. Pillow talk? Now don’t look so
offended. I made a lot of money that way. I know she trusts you, and I guess I
do, too. Something, by the way, I never expected to happen.”

“Actually, it
was at Babbo,” Scarne said evenly. “Thanks for the cognac, by the way.”

He saw Blue
smile. Probably handled the bill.

 “Anyway,”
Shields continued, “one man’s crap is another man’s gold. I need Sebastian
Quimper alive.”

Twenty minutes
later the copter landed on a broad expanse of lawn on Quimper’s 10-acre estate
north of Greenwich. It was met by three golf carts, driven by tough-looking men
who Scarne took to be private security. His impression was confirmed when the
jacket of his cart driver fell open to reveal a holstered Glock. When they got
to the main house they were met by another guard who opened the door for them.

“No metal
detector?” Scarne said.

“It’s being
installed next week,” the guard said. He saw the look Scarne gave him. “Hey,
what can I say?”

Inside the
main foyer stood a young woman, her white blouse neatly tucked in a red skirt.
She looked to be in her early 20’s and was quite beautiful.

“My name is
Audrey Perkins. Mr. Quimper is in the living room. Please follow me.”

 They all
walked along a long hallway to find Sebastian Quimper standing in front of a
roaring fireplace. There was a painting of William Shakespeare above the
mantle. Blue nudged Scarne and smiled.

“Randolph, how
good of you to come.” The two men shook hands. “Blue, good to see you again.”

“A pleasure,
Mr. Quimper,” Blue said.

They shook and
Quimper turned to Scarne.

“And you are
the famous private eye.”

“Aw, shucks,”
Scarne said, holding out his hand. “Randolph has been bragging about me again.”

Blue coughed
into his hand to suppress a laugh and Shields looked like he had sucked on a
lemon.  

Quimper turned
to the young woman.

“When are you
leaving?”

“In about an
hour.”

“And when will
you be back?”

“Early next
week.”

“Make sure you
come by before you go.”

“Yes, sir.”

Quimper turned
to his guests and gestured at some seats around a low-slung ornate coffee table
made out of what looked to be white ash. It had cherubs carved into its side
and on each leg and in the center was an ivory inlay. Quimper noticed Scarne
admiring the table.

“Cost me a
fortune,” he said. “It was owned by Mark Twain.”

Scarne smiled
at the irony and said, “He was known for his sense of humor.”

Quimper looked
confused and Nigel Blue quickly said, “It’s quite beautiful, Sebastian.”

They had
barely sat when another young woman brought in a coffee service that included a
tray of small pastries, including some cheese Danishes. She  poured the coffee,
casting nervous glances at Quimper before hurrying out.

“She’s new,”
he said.

After some
preliminary chit-chat, Randolph Shields got to the point of the visit as
Scarne, who never met a pastry he didn’t like, took a Danish. With the ice
broken, Nigel Blue grabbed one, too.

“Sebastian, I
know you think your security is adequate, but I would like to bring Mr. Scarne
on as backup, at least until after the conference.”

Quimper took a
sip of his coffee.

“Do you know
something I don’t, Randolph?”

“No, no.
That’s not it. I’m just being cautious. Call it overkill.” As soon as he said
it, he regretted the word. “I mean, just another layer of security.”

“All this is
very tiresome, Randolph. And intrusive. What’s so special about Scarne?”

“He’s a bit
unconventional, but gets the job done. Seems to always be in the right place at
the right time. We’ve had our differences, but he’s top drawer.” Shields turned
to Blue. “Isn’t that right, Nigel?”

Despite the
compliments, Scarne was annoyed at being discussed like a lamp.

“He’s very
good,” Blue said.

“I don’t think
my security team will take kindly to an interloper. I don’t need him.”

Scarne had
enough.

“Do I have to
be here for this meeting? Perhaps I can lope somewhere and find a book. I’ll
read quietly until you three are finished. There must be a Quimper lying
around. I can probably knock it off before you get to your second cup of
coffee.”

The author
stared at Scarne.

“I don’t find
you particularly funny, Scarne.”

“I get a lot
of that, Seb. Here’s the deal. These gentlemen want to offer you some extra
protection. You’d be a fool not to take it. We don’t want overkill. What we
want is underkill. From the look of that army division you have outside, I’d
guess you’re not as sanguine about your situation as you pretend.”    

  Shields
jumped in.

“Look,
Sebastian, you know how fond of you I am. You are a national treasure. Why, I
was just telling Emma that ….”

Shields was in
mid-sentence when Quimper jumped up. Audrey Perkins had come into the room and
now stood by the open door to an adjacent study.

“Excuse me
gentleman,” Quimper said, “I’ll only be a moment.”

Without
another word he walked quickly into the study. The young woman followed in his
wake and then shut the door, smiling back at the other three men.

“What the
hell?” Shields said.

“He won’t be
long,” Blue said.

“Is he doing a
Simenon?” Scarne asked Blue.

“Yes. It never
fails. I don’t know if he does it for effect, to impress people, or if he
really is a satyr.”

Shields stared
at the two men.

“What the hell
are you both talking about?”

“Georges
Simenon, the great French author.”

“I know who
Simenon is,” Shields said, sounding offended.

“Sorry,” Blue
said. “I just meant that Simenon pulled the same stunt. He’d stop in the middle
of a meeting in his home to schtup one of the help. He claimed to have slept
with 10,000 women.”

“Simenon’s
wife said it was more like 1,200,” Scarne chimed in.

“You mean to
tell me that Quimper is in there fucking that girl?”

As if in
answer to Randolph’s incredulous question, there was a load crash and a grunt,
followed by the unmistakable squeal of woman’s passionate release.

“She has to be
faking it,” Scarne said, looking at his watch.

“I don’t
believe it,” Shields said.

“We should
consider ourselves fortunate,” Blue said. “Simenon once told one of his
assistants that she didn’t have to leave the room when his mistress interrupted
their work.  He merely unzipped and did the mistress right on the floor in
front of the startled girl. Then he went back to dictation.”

With that, the
door opened and Quimper walked over and sat down. Three sets of eyes went to
his zipper, which was still at half mast. Then, Miss Perkins came out, smoothing
both skirt and hair. Her face was flushed and her eyes were a bit unfocused.

“Will that be
all, Mr. Quimper?” she said.

“Yes, Audrey.
Have a nice trip.”

Blue looked at
Scarne and silently mouthed, “Wasn’t faking.”

“There goes
another novel,” Quimper said with a leer.

Scarne knew
the famous Balzac quote, referencing the great French novelist’s belief that a
writer’s creativity suffered after orgasm. Perhaps that was why the priapic
Quimper needed surrogate writers. But, then, how did that explain the endless
literary genius of Simenon?

“You were
saying something before I left, Randolph,” Quimper continued.

Shields
rallied. He dropped the phony praise.

“I said that,
given the importance of the Killerfest convention, an extra layer of protection
for you is not unreasonable. I’m sure nothing will happen, but Scarne stays.
That’s not negotiable.”

Quimper looked
startled.

“I don’t need
him here,” he said, trying to regain some high ground. “If you want him to help
out at the conference, I suppose that will be all right.”

Shields turned
to Scarne, who shrugged.

“I’m sure his
people can get him to and from the hotel in one piece.”

Shields looked
relieved.

“Good. Then
it’s settled. Jake will augment your security at the conference, Sebastian. An
extra set of eyes and ears, so to speak. We can work out the details later,
right Nigel?”

“Of course,
Mr. Shields.”

Randolph
reached for a pastry and then stopped.

“I thought I
saw some cheese Danish,” he said, disappointed.

Scarne and
Blue merely smiled at each other.

***

On the chopper
ride back to Manhattan, Shields turned to Scarne and said, “Do you think you
will have any trouble with Quimper’s security people?”