The Faberge Egg

by Robert Upton

  “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.”

  “What is this in reference to?”

  “Poultry products,” McGuffin answered.

  “Poultry?”

  “Mr. Kemidov will know what I’m talking about,” McGuffin said.

  “May I have your phone number?” the Russian asked.

  McGuffin recited his number. “Does this mean I’ll hear from him?”

  “I cannot say,” the Russian replied, followed by a dial tone.

  “Well?” Shawney said, as McGuffin replaced the receiver. “Is he here?”

  “I’m not sure,” McGuffin replied slowly.

  “What do you mean - what did they say?” she demanded.

  “There may be a Kemidov,” he answered. “But if he found the egg in the bottom of that bag, I’m sure he’s in Russia by now.”

  “And if he didn’t?”

  “If he didn’t, I think we’ll hear from him.”

  “But if he does have the egg, that means we’re off the hook, doesn’t it?” she asked. McGuffin looked at her but said nothing. “I mean there’s no reason for him to kill us if he has the egg, is there?”

  “No, there’s no reason to kill us,” McGuffin answered.

  Her cheerful expression changed to concern. “You don’t seem very happy, Mr. McGuffin.”

  “I’m a pessimist by nature,” he explained. “And the name is Amos.”

  “Amos,” she repeated. “Such an unusual name.”

  “It’s short for Ambrose,” McGuffin said, a rare admission. He wondered why he had told her, then went on nevertheless, “It means ‘belonging to the immortals.’ Strange choice for a private eye, huh?”

  When she smiled and shook her head, her hair fell again over one eye. “I don’t think so.”

  “I was going to be a lawyer,” he said, reaching a hand slowly to the fallen wave, “until I ran into your father.” His fingers brushed her temple as he pushed her fallen hair away. “I loved your father.”

  She raised her hand to his and pressed it lightly against her cheek. “Yet I have the feeling he disappointed you.”

  “You were why he did it. There isn’t much a father won’t do for a daughter. I hope you’ll remember that, Shawney.”

  She nodded and lifted her face to be kissed, like a little girl.

  They spent the entire day and a good part of Saturday night poring over Miles Dwindling’s files, searching for a clue that would lead to the Fabergé egg, but found nothing. After a quick dinner in North Beach - hurried because the jet lag was suddenly upon her - McGuffin dropped Shawney at her apartment and then swung by Goody’s. The place was nearly empty, but Sullivan was there, waiting to escort Goody to his car with the week’s take.

  “Don’t ask,” t
he cop said, before McGuffin could. “That fuckin’ girl doesn’t exist.”

  “Perhaps,” McGuffin allowed, reaching inside his raincoat, “but these are her fingerprints.”

  Sullivan watched as the detective carefully unwound a white napkin to reveal a recently used wineglass. “You found her?”

  “I won’t know for sure until you run these prints through the bureau. Can you do that for me?”

  “It’ll cost ya,” Sullivan said, holding the glass at the edge of the base and turning it slowly in the light.

  “Goody, give him a drink on me,” McGuffin called.

  “I’m closed,” Goody snarled.

  “He’s still pissed at you,” Sullivan said, peering closely at a print.

  “See any good ones?”

  “Several. How come it ain’t smeared?”

  “She fell asleep after a couple of sips.”

  “You sleepin’ with her?”

  “No, but it’s not a bad idea,” McGuffin answered. “She’s beautiful, a New York actress, goes by the name of Shawney O’Sea.”

  “You serious?” Sullivan asked, placing the glass on the bar. McGuffin nodded. “How’d you find her?”

  “She found me. Apparently the Russians are after the egg, too.”

  “This is turnin’ into a fuckin’ international incident,” Sullivan observed, as Goody, despite his threat, approached with Sullivan’s bottle.

  Goody slammed the bottle on the bar and demanded irritably, “Whattaya, buyin’ your drinks someplace else and bringin’ ‘em to my joint?”

  “No!” McGuffin shouted, as Goody swept the wineglass from the bar and plunged it into the soapy water.

  “What the fuck you shoutin’ about?” Goody muttered, as he washed Shawney O’Sea’s fingerprints from her wineglass.

  McGuffin and Sullivan stared dully as the barkeep rinsed and carefully polished the glass with a clean towel, something they had never seen him do before. When he was finally satisfied, he replaced the sparkling glass on the bar and stepped back to admire it. McGuffin turned and walked slowly from the bar.

  “Now what did I do?” Goody asked.

  The phone was ringing when McGuffin opened the office door. Thinking, hoping that it might be Marilyn, he lunged over the scattered files and snatched the receiver from the desk. “McGuffin!”

  “Thank God,” Shawney O’Sea said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Someone’s been here. They tore the place up,” she answered.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes - scared, that’s all. I’ve been calling for an hour. I didn’t want to call the police until I’d spoken to you.”

  “No police,” McGuffin blurted. “Just stay put, I’ll be right over,” he said, then hung up the phone.

  Shawney O’Sea opened the door as far as the chain would allow, uttered McGuffin’s name, then quickly closed and opened it all the way. She surprised him, lunging at him, wrapping her arms tightly around him the moment he cleared the doorway.

  “It’s okay,” McGuffin said, idly stroking her back as he peered over her head at the trashed room. Couches and chairs lay overturned, their bottoms ripped away to expose springs and stuffing, and the floor was littered with the contents of every cabinet and drawer in the apartment. He pried her loose and walked into the living room, gave it a quick glance, and went into the bedroom. More of the same, mattress torn open, drawers ripped open, and the contents strewn about the room. The chair under the chandelier and the toilet tank lid on the bathroom floor told him that someone had searched every cavity in the apartment for the Fabergé egg.

  Even the china had been taken down from kitchen shelves and spread out on the floor for examination. McGuffin stepped delicately through it, stooped to pick up a Wedgwood bowl and cover, then turned to Shawney, huddled fearfully in the doorway. “Nothing seems to be broken,” he remarked.

  “Am I supposed to be grateful?” she asked. “I’m sorry,” she added, when the detective regarded her with a raised eyebrow. “At first I was only frightened, but now I’m becoming angry and frightened.”

  “Next comes despondency,” McGuffin said. “Then you’ll know you’re getting over it. Did any of the neighbors hear or see anything?”

  “If they did, they haven’t volunteered it,” she answered.

  He placed the bowl on the kitchen table, looked around again - he didn’t expect to find a clue as to the identity of the burglars, but it would be embarrassing to overlook a dropped wallet - and walked back into the living room, followed by Shawney. He peered through the bedroom door at Shawney’s empty suitcase and clothes strewn over the torn mattress. “Are any of your things missing?” he asked, turning to her.

  She shook her head, knocking her hair down over one eye. “Not even my jewelry - such as it is.” She crossed her arms over her chest and rubbed her upper arms as if she were cold. “What does it mean, Amos?”

  “It could mean a lot of things,” McGuffin answered, removing his raincoat. “It could mean that Vandenhof followed me here this morning, then busted in later, thinking I had passed the egg to you, or you had brought it here for me. Or it could have been Kruger, for the same reason. Or Kemidov,” he said, placing his coat over her shoulders. When he tugged it closed, she reached through the opening and squeezed both his hands.

  “Is it always so cold here?” she asked.

  “Only in the summer,” McGuffin answered, peering closely at her violet eyes. He was thinking of one last possibility - that Shawney had trashed her own apartment. No one had seen or heard of the Fabergé egg for more than eighteen years, with the possible exception of Shawney O’Sea. If this were the case, if Miles had gotten the egg to her before he was killed, what would she have done with it? Keep it, a struggling actress, or sell it? And if she was now told by a mad Russian either to produce the egg or be killed, what would she do? Admit that she had once had it, but sold it? Or deny that she had ever seen it and claim that the young PI who was working for her father at the time of its disappearance must have stolen it? And then, to give credibility to her story, to make Kemidov believe that others, too, suspected the PI, she trashed her apartment after their first visit, knowing that Vandenhof or Kruger would be thought responsible. Maybe she was only trying to save her own skin - just as he was only trying to save the lives of his daughter and her mother - and setting him up was the surest way to do it.

  Another thought: Maybe Shawney O’Sea isn’t Miles Dwindling’s daughter, but an imposter hired by Vandenhof, Kruger, or Kemidov. Or maybe there was no Kemidov.

  His speculations came suddenly to an end when she pressed her lips against his for the second kiss of the day. His coat fell to the floor as her arms went around his neck and she pressed tightly against him.

  “Stay with me,” she said. “I don’t want to be alone.”

  McGuffin held her away and looked again into those violet eyes. She was afraid of something, he knew. Afraid of being alone, afraid of dying? For some reason, at that moment, she reminded him of Hillary.

  “You aren’t alone,” McGuffin said, tilting his head to kiss her again.

  By the following morning, McGuffin knew that Shawney O’Sea was not innocent. She made love with such a combination of uninhibited passion and intense scholarship that by the end of the night, the worldly detective had the feeling that he had experienced a global sex tour with a partner from every race, nationality, and erotic creed. “Now what are you doing?” he croaked once shortly after the sun had begun its futile attack on the San Francisco fog.

  “A Persian love secret, thousands of years old,” she responded.

  “Must have been a very advanced civilization - and a little degenerate,” he whispered.

  “Wait until we get to the Egyptians.”

  “I have the feeling I’ll be extinct long before then.”

  They were on the Victorians when the phone rang shortly after eight o’clock. Both of them bolted up, looking for the phone, which was on McGuffin’s si
de of the bed. He picked it up and handed it to Shawney. She raised it slowly and spoke hesitantly. “Hello?” Her violet eyes widened as she pressed the phone to her breasts and announced, “It’s him! He wants to talk to you!”

  “Him?” McGuffin repeated, reaching for the phone. “Who is this?”

  “The name, Mr. McGuffin, is Kemidov. And I am sure Miss O’Sea has told you about me,” he replied in slightly accented English.

  “Not nearly enough,” McGuffin said.

  “Then I suggest we meet.”

  “Why?”

  “To discuss the price of eggs - one, in particular.”

  “Where and when?”

  “The Russian consulate in one hour?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Good.” There was a smile in the Russian’s voice. “Take a cab, Mr. McGuffin. Instruct the driver to leave you off directly in front of the main entrance. Remain there until I come and fetch you. Is that clear?”

  “Clear enough,” McGuffin answered.

  “And come alone,” Kemidov added before hanging up.

  “Where are you going?” Shawney cried, as McGuffin sprang naked from the bed.

  “To the Russian consulate,” he answered, striding quickly into the bathroom.

  “No! You mustn’t go there!” she exclaimed.

  Her further protest was muffled by the sound of the shower. She was waiting to go on, however, when McGuffin emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later. She was sitting on her haunches atop the bed with a corner of the sheet draped demurely over her lap. McGuffin smiled. It was an ironically modest touch after the events of the night before.

  “. . . and these people are dangerous!” she was saying. “They’ll kill you! What -! What’s so funny about that?” she blurted, pounding her fist on the mattress.

  “I was thinking of something else,” McGuffin said, sticking a foot through his pants.

  “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said!”