The Faberge Egg (12 page)

“What I came to do - find the egg and return it to Kemidov,” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest.

“You know you’ll be giving up a couple of million dollars,” he warned.

“I’d rather give up a couple of million dollars than a couple of innocent lives. Or one, anyway,” she added.

McGuffin stared, trying to figure her out. If she was who she said she was, she might be able to help him find the egg. But if she did, he would have to betray her. He would have to take the egg from her and deliver it to Kruger in exchange for Hillary and her mother, leaving Shawney, or Ivey, out in the cold with Kemidov. It was a cruel choice, but McGuffin was up to it.

“Okay, I’ll throw in with you,” he said. He walked across the room, hand extended, and stopped in front of her.

Her arms remained folded over her chest. “Why the sudden change of heart?” she asked.

“Because I don’t want to see a couple of innocent people get killed either,” he answered.

Her violet eyes grew soft as she slowly untwined her arms and reached for his hand. “Partners,” she said.

“Partners,” McGuffin repeated, taking her cool, soft hand in his. He wondered what Miles Dwindling would make of his pragmatism now.

“Well - now what do we do?” she asked.

“We go on an egg hunt,” McGuffin answered. “But first you’d better get into something more practical. That silk dress makes you look like a tourist.”

She regarded the sky-blue dress sheepishly. “I’d forgotten that San Francisco could be so cold. I’ll just be a minute,” she said, tossing her wallet on the couch, then turning and walking quickly to the bedroom.

When she closed the door, McGuffin pounced on the wallet. He found a few more identification cards, all in the name of Shawney O’Sea, as well as several hundred dollars in cash and traveler’s checks. He also found a folded Pan Am envelope containing a receipt from a New York—to—San Francisco flight and an open return. He returned everything to the wallet and replaced it on the couch, then sat and waited for her return.

She emerged from the bedroom a short while later, looking very preppy in a long tweed skirt, loafers, and turtleneck sweater. She trailed a Burberry raincoat across the carpet, which she allowed McGuffin to help her into.

“That’s more like it,” he said, steering her to the door.

They walked quickly through the gray drizzle as far as Union Street before McGuffin managed to hail a cab. “The
Oakland Queen
on the Embarcadero,” he ordered, as he followed her into the back of the car.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“My office,” he said, as the cab pulled away. “I’ve got a trunk full of your father’s things I’d like you to look through - just in case it might jog something.”

“What sort of things?”

“Files, a few mementos from the office, his magical mystery bag. . . I’d like you to go through the papers, look for a familiar name, an old friend, maybe even a relative. Or a place. Anything that might tell us where he’d stash a piece of hot jewelry.”

“What do you mean, ‘his magical mystery bag’?” she asked, laying a hand on McGuffin’s knee.

“That’s what your father called the leather valise he used to carry his burg - detective tools. Why, does it mean anything to you?”

“It sounds theatrical - like a magician’s prop.”

McGuffin shook his head. “It was just a name he gave it.”

“Yes, but why?” she asked, turning to him. “Did you examine it closely?”

“Of course I examined it closely. What kind of detective do you think I am?”

“You’re sure there was no false bottom or secret compartment or anything like that?” she persisted.

“Now
you
sound theatrical,” McGuffin said. “Believe me, the egg is not in the bag.”

“I believe you,” she said, batting her violet eyes.

“Good.”

“But I’d still like to have a look for myself.”

“Just what I like, a partnership founded on trust,” the detective said, glancing through the window at the fog and rain.

The moment he saw the patrol car parked rakishly in front of the
Queen,
light flashing, one door hanging open, he realized what had happened. Someone other than Vandenhof, who had already been through the place and found nothing, had broken into his office while he was at Shawney’s apartment. “Shit!” he exclaimed, digging into his pocket for a roll of bills. He thrust a ten at the driver and jumped out of the car a moment before it came to a full stop.

“Wait!” Shawney called, as McGuffin dashed up the gangplank and down the corridor.

The puzzled tenants watched from open doorways as their security officer, followed by a beautiful redhead, ran past and up the gangway, only seconds behind the cops. He scaled the stairs in threes, then froze to the deck in front of his office door when a young cop spun on him with a .357 magnum.

“Hold it right there!” he ordered.

“I’m McGuffin, security!” he called, lifting his hands.

A second cop, holding the perpetrator face down on the deck, finished cuffing his hands behind his back, then looked up at McGuffin. “It’s okay, he’s Sullivan’s friend,” he informed his partner.

McGuffin dropped his hands as the cop holstered his cannon. He didn’t have to ask who the perpetrator was; he recognized the loose Gucci loafer lying on the deck.

“McGuffin, tell ‘em who I am!” his landlord ordered.

“We caught him tryin’ to bust in,” the younger cop said, displaying the screwdriver he had taken from Elmo. “You know him?”

“Of course he knows me, I own the boat!” Elmo shouted.

McGuffin shook his head. “Never saw him before in my life.”

“McGuffin!” he wailed.

“The guy who owns this boat claims it has no security,” McGuffin said.

“I’m gonna kill you,” Elmo said.

“Easy, fella, you’re in enough trouble already,” the older cop warned. “You want us to book him?”

“If you think it’ll save him from a life of crime,” McGuffin answered.

“Amos, I’m gonna sue -!”

“Take him in,” McGuffin ordered.

“No!” Elmo cried, as the cop pulled him to his feet. “Amos, please tell them -!”

“Tell them what? That you made a mistake, that security aboard the
Queen
is excellent?”

“Yes, I made a mistake,” Elmo admitted.

“And you would like the security officer to remain aboard for as long as he likes?”

“Don’t push it, Amos.”

“Book him.”

“Okay!” Elmo said, when he felt the nudge. “You can stay on for as long as you like.”

McGuffin peered closely at his landlord and exclaimed, “Good heavens, it’s Elmo!”

The older cop released the cuffs as Shawney O’Sea appeared wide-eyed at the top of the stairs.

“It’s all right,” McGuffin called, signaling her forward. The younger cop stared at her as she slowly walked over, scarcely noticing the tightly folded twenty McGuffin stuck in his hand. “I’ll tell Sullivan you’re on the case,” he promised.

“Thanks,” the young cop said, staring at Shawney.

McGuffin accompanied the cops as far as the top of the stairs, then waved to the tenants clustered below. “It’s all right, you can go back inside. Somebody attempted to break into my office while I was away, but you needn’t worry, he won’t be bothering anyone for a long time.” They applauded as McGuffin turned and grinned at Elmo.

“Cute, very cute,” Elmo said, rubbing his wrists.

“So is breaking and entering,” McGuffin said, pulling the door key from his pocket.

“This is my boat,” Elmo protested, as McGuffin brushed past him.

“But it’s my office,” McGuffin said, as he opened the door. He waited until Shawney had stepped inside, then turned again on Elmo. “And if you ever again try to break in, I’ll have you arrested.”

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” Elmo asked.

“No,” McGuffin said, and slammed the door on Elmo.

“Does this happen very often?” Shawney asked.

“Too often,” McGuffin said, removing his hat and tossing it on the bed. The coat followed. “You can hang yours there,” he said, pointing to a hook on the bulkhead behind her.

She removed her Burberry and laid it on the bed beside McGuffin’s knock-off. “Nice place,” she observed.

“Yeah, quite a change from your father’s place on Market Street,” McGuffin remarked, as he crossed the cabin to his cluttered desk.

“Market Street?” she asked. “I seem to remember him being on Post Street.”

“You’re right, I moved to Market Street after he was killed,” McGuffin lied, as he pulled the drawer open. “Funny how the mind plays tricks. Here it is.”

“What?”

“The key to the engine room. You wait right here,” he said, crossing to the door.

“Can I help?”

“It’s not necessary,” he said, as he stepped out and closed the door on her.

He was, after all, a hero, and a hero should have no trouble getting someone to help him haul Miles’ trunk up to his office. But a few minutes later, after asking in each of the four offices on the main deck, he had no volunteer. May they all be robbed, McGuffin grunted to himself as he pulled the heavy trunk from behind his chicken wire enclosure. It moved easily enough on the steel deck, but when he finally got it to the top of the stairs, he was wet with sweat and breathing heavily.

“My God!” Shawney exclaimed, when McGuffin staggered in ahead of the large old trunk. “You’ll kill yourself.”

“‘s okay,” he said, letting one end of the trunk fall heavily to the deck. He sat on the edge of the bed and took several deep breaths while Shawney examined the ribbed, hump-backed trunk.

“This thing must be a hundred years old,” she marveled.

“Open it,” McGuffin said.

“Can I have the key?”

“It’s not locked.”

“Not locked?” she asked.

“Don’t worry, nothing’s been stolen,” McGuffin assured her, getting up from the bed. He pulled the rusted hasp away from the empty staple and lifted the lid. “It’s all right here where I left it, the files, the souvenirs, the -!” He suddenly stopped pulling things from the trunk and looked up at Shawney with a panicked expression.

“What?”

“The magical mystery bag!” he said, plunging back into the trunk, slinging files right and left, while Shawney watched with a horrified expression, knowing even before he spoke that “It’s gone!”

“No - it can’t be,” she said, in a tone usually reserved for prayer.

“I don’t understand - it was here on Monday,” McGuffin said, staring into the nearly empty trunk. “It’s been here for eighteen years. Why would somebody steal it now?”

“Isn’t that obvious?” Shawney asked. “The egg’s been here all the time, and you never knew it.”

“It wasn’t,” McGuffin said, shaking his head slowly. “I examined the bag. It wasn’t there.”

“It must have been,” she insisted. “Why else would a burglar run off with a worthless old bag and leave everything else?”

“I don’t know!” McGuffin answered, kicking at the files on the floor. He grabbed the back of his neck, paced the several steps to the far bulkhead and turned. “The only person who’s been near this boat in the past three days is Klaus Vandenhof.”

“Who’s he?” she asked.

“The German officer Kemidov told you about.”

She gasped. “It must have been him.”

“It couldn’t have been. If he had found the egg, he wouldn’t have stayed around to wait for me. And he’d certainly have no reason to pretend to still need my services. So if it wasn’t Vandenhof, it must have been Kruger?”

It can’t be, McGuffin said to himself as he reached for the phone. It mustn’t be. If he has the egg, Marilyn and Hillary are probably already dead. A woman answered the phone after several rings.

“This is Amos McGuffin. I’d like to speak to Mr. Kruger,” he spoke carefully into the phone.

Shawney scarcely moved as she watched and waited. After a long minute, McGuffin spoke again.

“No, I don’t have it yet, but I’m getting close,” he assured Otto Kruger. “I’m just calling to see if you might know anything about an old leather bag.”

“Old leather bag?” Kruger repeated. “Vut has this to do vit the egg?”

“Nothing at all,” McGuffin answered. “I seem to have lost it.”

“That is too bad for you.”

“You don’t know anything about it, huh?”

“No, I do not,” he replied impatiently. “And if you are implying that I am a thief -”

“Heaven forbid,” McGuffin interrupted. A murderer, yes, a thief, never, he added to himself. “I just thought you might have seen it, that’s all. But if you haven’t, I’ll get on with my search.”

“You haf three days, Mr. McGuffin,” Kruger warned. Then the phone went dead.

“I know,” McGuffin said, as he slowly replaced the receiver.

“Well?” Shawney asked.

McGuffin shook his head. “It wasn’t him.” He leaned against the edge of the desk and stared absently at the files at his feet. “And if it wasn’t Kruger and it wasn’t Vandenhof, who was it?” he asked himself. He looked up at Shawney and asked, “Kemidov?”

“Kemidov? He’s in New York.”

“How do you know?” McGuffin asked. “He could have gotten on a plane right after you - or even before. Or if he really is KGB, one of his San Francisco agents could have taken it,” he went on, as he reached again for the phone.

“Who are you calling?” she asked, watching as McGuffin dialed information.

“The KGB,” he answered.

“You’re insane!”

“The consul general, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, please.”

“You can’t just pick up the phone and call the KGB!”

“Thanks,” McGuffin said, scratching the number on a pad.

“What do you think this is, Russia?” she asked, as he disconnected and dialed again.

McGuffin motioned her to be quiet as the phone was answered by a woman with a slight Russian accent. “This is Amos McGuffin,” he informed her. “I understand Mr. Kemidov has recently arrived from New York - may I speak to him, please?”

“Mad,” Shawney said, tossing her long, red hair back and forth.

After a pause, the woman replied, “One moment, please,” and he was put on hold.
“Voilà!”
McGuffin said, covering the mouthpiece. A moment later a male voice, more heavily accented, came on the line. “Who is calling, please?”

“Amos McGuffin for Mr. Kemidov.”