Death of a Flack

by Kane, Henry

  TWENTY

  Running around New York with half a tiara on your mind is precisely as bizarre as it sounds. These things happen—you even spot them on occasion in the sedate newspapers with the pithy masthead slogans and no comics and many financial pages—but when they happen to me I get nervous. Spies and counterspies, rubies from the foreheads of mystic Buddhas, mummified occiputs from out of the occult, jewels in the heels of fleeing dictators, curses of doom from the tomb of Tutankhamen, coded messages from Lloyds of London packed in oilskin or sausage-skin or other offal, attaches from state departments with deadly detonators in dirty briefcases, secret agents with private papers and private parts—these things happen, but, simply, damn, when they happen to me, I get nervous.

  I entered into a normal drugstore with normal cheerful displays of rubber syringes and constipation relievers and amusing vibrators, and I compressed myself into a prosaic phone booth and called Aristotle Skahnos, but all the while I felt like a refugee from one of those pretentious ninety-minute thunderbolts they flash on the twenty-one inches of wee teevee and you know how preposterous they can get. Mr. Skahnos’s voice came through benign and disarming and I began to feel better. I invited him to lunch at the Oak Bar of the Plaza. Man, if you cannot lose the jeebies of King Tut’s curse in the substantial precincts of the solid old Oak Bar, then you are due for a visit to your favorite psychiatrist (but do not forget to bring money).

  The Oak Bar was gayly filled with ladies in feathery hats, all of whom seemed to be drinking dry Martinis and eating Eggs Benedict. Skahnos appeared, beard and all, striding lithely, and turned the ladies’ feathery heads. He sat down opposite me, smiled, shook hands with me, and handed me an envelope which I placed at once into my pocket. “Your retaining fee, Mr. Chambers,” he said, “as promised.”

  “You also promised me a story—about half a tiara.”

  “You shall have that right now. But let us order first.”

  I was now weighted down by fifteen hundred pleasing bucks which served as ballast to restrain my fleeting fancies. Amputated hunks of tiara out of old museums in beautiful Florence became as mundane as the Martinis and Eggs Benedict we ordered in the old Oak Bar of the Plaza hard by Central Park South, last remaining street that served up hansom cabs in motorized New York. Ah, the therapy of feathery hats, tinkling silverware, Martinis, eggs, hum of conversation, and an envelope of dinero—especially the last.

  Mr. Skahnos touched a finger to his grey hair, another finger to his pepper-and-salt beard, and then all his fingers to the stem of the cocktail glass. “Cheers,” he said.

  “Drink hearty,” I said and we sucked on gin with a vestige of vermouth. The eggs came and so did his story.

  “During the time of Mussolini,” he said, “a good many of the Italian museums were looted of their treasures. One of such was the Bargello, and Cellini’s tiara for Eleonora was taken. After Mussolini’s death, it passed through many hands—I shall not bore you with all of that—but finally it came into the possession of a countryman of mine, one George Demetrios.”

  “George Demetrios?” I said.

  “You know him?”

  “No, but I’ve heard the name.”

  “From whom?”

  “From a lady.”

  “That may prove interesting,” he said, “but let me continue.”

  “Please do.”

  “Demetrios was a middle-aged man, cultured, well-educated, learned, a statesman attached to the Greek foreign office in Rome. George Demetrios, a bachelor, had a lovely young mistress by name of Anna Marina.”

  The dregs of eggs were removed and coffee arrived. I lit a cigarette and he lit one of his long thin cigars. “Where are we?” he said.

  “George Demetrios and his mistress.”

  “All right,” he said. “Demetrios had come into possession of this tremendously valuable object of art. He began to take steps to become detached from his post of governmental service. Also, he began to take steps to transform the object to hard, cold cash. First step was to saw it in half.”

  “Why?”

  “He was sending his mistress ahead to America. He planned to join her.”

  “But why saw the thing in half?”

  Skahnos puffed smoke and smiled. “There were others, of course, interested in this tiara. If by some chance they learned that he had it and made attempt to wrest it from him, all they could wrest would be half. Thus the other half in America would be his protection. The others would then be placed in a position, perforce, to do business. As it happened, nobody ever learned that he had it—except me.”

  “One other question,” I said.

  “Certainly,” he said.

  “Why didn’t he send the whole damned thing on ahead with his mistress? Then there’d be nothing to wrest from him.”

  “Let us say that Mr. Demetrios was a man of the world. Simply, he didn’t trust her enough. As it turned out, not trusting her enough, he trusted her too much.”

  “Oh, you foreigners and your epigrams. Not trusting her enough, he trusted her too much.”

  “I’ll come to that.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “His over-all plan was quite simple. The thing was worth at least a half-million dollars. As an attaché of the foreign ministry, he was not free to move about in order to liquidate his possession. It takes time to detach yourself from ministerial service. Once free, he could either go to America, or call her back. Free, he could move about the capitals of the world—London, Paris, New York, Stockholm, Zurich, Berlin, Rotterdam, Rio de Janeiro, Buenos Aires—wherever he could make the quickest deal in the shortest time for the most money.”

  “I dig,” I said.

  “Pardon?” he said.

  “I understand,” I said. “By the way, what about the customs and stuff? How do you get a thing like that into the country?”

  “Actually, that is a most minor matter, Mr. Chambers. A reputable person, with a large array of trunks, with a relatively small object properly hidden, runs very little risk—no risk at all. As a matter of fact, Mr. Demetrios was prepared to deal with that contingency if it occurred, but, of course, it did not occur. Anna Marina arrived in this country with her half, without eventuality; and so did I, in point of fact.”

  “Where do you fit in, Mr. Skahnos?”

  “I’m coming to that.”

  “Let me sum it first in Americanese. Demetrios sent the chick ahead with half of the prize while he looked to shake himself loose from his job to give him the freedom to turn the whole bit into a large hunk of loot.”

  “Succinct, if somewhat undecipherable.” Skahnos laughed. “May I come to where I fit in?”

  “Please do, sir.”

  “Anna Marina came to New York by way of Paris. That was approximately six months ago. In Paris, she sought me out, probably because of the fact that I was of Greek descent and had a nodding acquaintance with George Demetrios. And there she retained me.”

  “For what?”

  “This may sound a little brutal to you. Americans, in a sense, even the most sophisticated, are somewhat naïve.”

  “We are, aren’t we? What were you supposed to do—kill the guy?”

  “Precisely, Mr. Chambers.”

  That sat me back on my little old figurative heels. Ask a wise-guy question and you get clobbered like a wise guy should get.

  Peacefully puffing on his panatella he said, “She gave me the story and made me a proposition. I was to convince Demetrios that I could effect a sale, win his confidence, request inspection of his half of the tiara, kill him, and take it. I was to say that I was an old friend of Anna Marina’s, that she had run into me in Paris and confided in me, and that I had come to him at her behest.”

  “Neat enough,” I said. “And what did you figure to get out of such assassination, if I may be so bold as to inquire?”

  “Mr. Chambers, your manner of interrogation is most refreshing.”

  “It’s because I’m naïve, Mr. Skahnos.”


  “I was to get fifty per cent of what we would realize from the full tiara.”

  “A fair enough deal,” I said.

  “Fair enough for her, too,” he said. “As the mistress of Demetrios, she was merely an emissary without an iota of right or claim. As the partner of a proposed assassin, she made a sacrifice of half, but the remaining half gave her the right and claim to approximately two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

  “All right,” I said. “I get it.” I squashed out my cigarette, sat back and looked about me. If the ladies in the feathery hats could have had any idea of our conversation their Eggs Benedict would have scrambled and their Martinis would have turned as bitter as gall. Suddenly the old Oak Bar of the Plaza became as fantastically chimerical as the torture chambers of the ancient inquisitions, and I had to fight my way back to reality. “Now what do you want from me?” I said.

  “I want you to find Anna Marina.”

  “Why can’t you do that yourself?”

  “First, because I’m a stranger in this country, and second, because I’m a month late.”

  “Would you do that again?” I said. “Once over lightly?”

  He smiled. “The lady gave me ample time. Three months, quite sufficient. She was to come on here to America, register at the Waldorf as Blanche Davis, and I was to join her within three months.” The cigar had gone out. He puffed with no effect. I lit a match for him and the aromatic blue smoke returned. “Thank you,” he said.

  “Blanche Davis,” I said.

  “The job took longer than I had anticipated. I arrived in New York one month late. I inquired at the Waldorf. A Blanche Davis had checked out two months ago. There was no forwarding address.”

  “Has it occurred to you,” I said, “that maybe she thought you had done the double on her?”

  “Double-cross, you mean?”

  I nodded.

  “Of course it has occurred to me,” he said.

  I sipped coffee. It was cold. Cold coffee is pukey. I put the cup down. “And now,” I said, “I take it you want me to find her—finding her, of course, being incidental to rustling up that other half of tiara.”

  “That would be your job, Mr. Chambers.”

  “Like for how much?” I said.

  “I have just paid you a five-hundred-dollar retaining fee.”

  “That has retained me. Now what do I get if I put those two halves of tiara together?”

  He was silent, puffing, his dark eyes narrow and thoughtful. At length he said, “I cannot speak for her, I can only speak for myself.”

  “I’m not asking you to speak for anyone else, Mr. Skahnos.”

  “I admire you, Mr. Chambers. You keep growing in my esteem.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “How much?”

  “Ten per cent of my share.”

  “You’ve got a deal, Mr. Skahnos. And your share may turn out to be more than you think.”

  That sat him up straight.

  “I beg your pardon?” he said.

  The waiter was clearing the table.

  “Liqueur?” I inquired.

  “Drambuie,” he said.

  “Drambuie for two,” I said to the waiter.

  “What was that about my share?” he said.

  “I’ve done some spade work on this deal.”

  “Please tell me, Mr. Chambers.”

  “I went to the source.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The lady tried to make a sale,” I said.

  “When?”

  “A couple of months ago. Probably when she had thought you had done the run-out on her. Matter of fact, only today I was offered a job to go to Paris to find you,”

  “By whom?”

  “By a man who has an offer of eight hundred thousand dollars for the full tiara.”

  The waiter brought the liqueurs.

  It gave Skahnos an opportunity to compose himself.

  He composed himself. “You are quite a remarkable man, Mr. Chambers.”

  “Lucky would be a more accurate adjective.”

  “What man?” he said.

  “There are specialists in every field. This man is a specialist, let us say, in the lost, stolen, or mislaid works of such defunct artists as the ilk of your Mr. Cellini. I went to him. Not to Cellini. To the specialist. Luckily for you—and for me—the lady had already gone to him. You’re going to get action faster than you thought, Mr. Skahnos, and for more moolah than you thought.”

  “Moolah?”

  “Money.”

  “Have you met the lady?”

  “She may have been Anna Marina to Demetrios and you, and she may have been Blanche Davis to the manager of the Waldorf, but to me and my specialist she is Sophia Patri. And quite a hunk of stuff is that triple-named lady.”

  “I am there in full accord with you, Mr. Chambers. And now, if you please …”

  “No complications, Mr. Skahnos. The lady waits. I am to bring your half of the tiara, to satisfy her that I’m not pulling a zinger. Satisfied, she goes down to her vault and brings out the other half. Then you come to her apartment and we go into the financial huddle. The specialist arrives and after that it’s just dough-re-mi, piles and piles of it, cash like on the barrel head, enough to go around and around and around.”

  His cigar was dead but Skahnos was very much alive. “Are you certain you can handle this, Mr. Chambers?”

  “You checked on me, Mr. Skahnos. Remember?”

  “Very good,” he said and pushed back from the table.

  “I’ll go back with you,” I said, “and pick up your half. Then you sit tight until I call you. When I do, you come to the lady’s apartment. Both halves of your object of art will be there.”

  “Where?” he said.

  “Sixty-one East 65th Street. Apartment 2 B. You’ll come when I call.”

  “Very good,” he said.

  I paid the check.

  After all, as they say in italics, noblesse oblige.

  TWENTY-ONE

  She was waiting with her hair parted tight and severe and done in a bun in the back. She was waiting in black ballet tights, black flats, a black full skirt, and a black full sweater. She wore no make-up. She looked younger, but her eyes were very old. I came swinging my model’s hat box and she unzipped that zipper so fast that it sang. She brought out the half of tiara and tears crowded her eyes. “I did not think …” she began.

  “Honey,” I said, “is there any chance that this may be a phony?”

  “Why?” she said.

  “I don’t know. Just, in my business you learn to be cautious.”

  She held it, caressed it. “I do not think so. There would be no reason. But certainly we shall know when Mr. Gilmore arrives.”

  I put it back into the zippered case and said, “Let’s go.”

  “You are taking it with you?”

  “You bet,” I said. “I hang on to it until my principal shows up. I told you I’m cautious.”

  “Good. Then I shall not have to take a bag. We shall put my half into the bag you carry.”

  “Swell,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  She slipped into a light coat. “Mr. Gilmore has told me all. You have, I hope, arranged some commission for yourself.”

  “We’ll discuss it when we get back here. Come on, baby, let’s move.”

  “You are nervous, my Peter?”

  “You bet I am.”

  She giggled. “I am too.”

  We took a cab to her bank, she signed herself and me into her vault, the bank attendant used his key for the outer lock, she used her key for the inner lock, and we took her box into one of the little private rooms. We placed her half of the tiara into my zippered case, buzzed for the attendant, replaced the vault box, did the double locking in reverse, and upstairs from a booth in the bank, I made two phone calls. The first was to Skahnos. I informed him that the initial part of the operation had been successfully completed, and I could hear his sigh of relief. I told him that we were on
our way back and that he could join us as quickly as he wished. I hung up, called Gilmore, and repeated. Gilmore was jubilant.

  “I’ve been holding my breath,” he said. “I restrain my enthusiasm, in these matters, until there is completion. I have learned to be cautious.”

  “Me too,” I said.

  “There has been completion?” he said as though not believing.

  “I have both halves of the thing right here in a zipper case. I’m calling from the bank. We’re on our way back to Miss Patri’s apartment. You can start coming right now.”

  “Not right now,” he said. “I have a customer. I’ll be delayed about ten minutes, but I’ll be there. Just hang on.”

  “I’m hanging,” I said and I hung up.

  We took a cab back to the apartment. She fetched a square of black velvet from the bedroom and laid that on a table in the living room. I adjusted both halves of the tiara and laid it as a full crown on the square of black velvet. The damned thing had more glow than an Irishman full of Scotch whiskey.

  “Beautiful, so beautiful …” she said.

  “That, or the dough it’ll bring?” I said.

  “Both,” she said and smiled and came to me and kissed me. “There must be a portion for you,” she said. “If not, I myself will pay.”

  “No need,” I said. “I made a deal with Skahnos.”

  “How much?” she said.

  “Ten per cent of his share.”

  She calculated out loud. “Twenty per cent for Mr. Gilmore. It leaves six hundred and forty.”

  “Thousand,” I added.

  “Half is three hundred and twenty.”

  “Thousand,” I said.

  “Ten per cent is thirty-two thousand.” She smiled, happily. Why should she not smile happily? It was not coming from her end. “Pretty good,” she said, “just for finding Mr. Skahnos.”

  “Even better,” I said, “because Mr. Skahnos found me.”

  “And he came seeking me, did he not?”

  “Seeking Blanche Davis at the Waldorf, who was Anna Marina in Rome. Where do you get all the names, my love?”

  “My true name is Anna Marina.”

  “So what’s with Blanche Davis and Sophia Patri?”

  She came near me, kissed me again, spoke whisperingly. “I do not know how much Mr. Skahnos has told you.”