Fall Out

by M. N. Grenside

As Mako grew older and her understanding of Asian art improved, the clues became more complex. One year her father’s prized Chinese abacus had three beads on one of the rods on the upper deck and six on the lower deck, instead of the correct number of two and five.

  Adding the beads together had given her a number. In that particular hunt the number was written in Chinese as a piece of calligraphy hanging on a wall. As Mako gently lifted the work, she could see something hidden in a silk cloth in a long thin recess in the brickwork. She unwrapped it, her face beaming.

  “You know what it is?” her mother asked.

  “It’s a ruyi or an ‘As you wish’” Mako cried out, using the rough translation by which a backscratcher was more commonly known. Small and exquisitely carved from ivory and with a gold handle with inlay of jade, the delicately curved backscratcher once belonged to a princess. It was still one of her most prized possessions from her childhood and lay on her dressing table at Pied à Mer. The hairpin she nearly always wore was another present from the same princess’s collection.

  And so the treasure hunts evolved over the years, ever more cryptic, ever more fun. Then bang. Nu-wa left and days later was dead. Mako had never returned to Nisten, the Christmas tradition over…

  Now she was back and her father had hidden things not for a bright-eyed child on Christmas morning, but to help her or lead her in some way to an answer. Perhaps he knew she would someday be in danger. With all this wealth on display, it could not have been the items themselves, but rather their provenance that he had been so careful to cover up. At first, she wondered if he had simply obliterated all trace of where these precious things had come from let alone how he had managed to acquire them. However, she knew her father well. He had been a cautious and clever man. He had undoubtedly had accomplices; others must have been involved. Evidence of that was his protection.

  She unhooked her arms from around her knees and leaned back into the soft curve of the sofa…

  Her eyes slowly opened. It was after eight o’clock, and she had dozed off three hours ago. She crept back upstairs. Marcus was blissfully asleep, hugging one of the pillows.

  * * *

  The day was bright and sunny, so she decided to hike down into Interlaken to the shop where her mother had taken her so many times in the past. She would ride back on one of the narrow-gauge railway trains that crisscrossed the valley.

  Such was the popularity of hiking that there were several well-signposted footpaths that cut and zigzagged down the mountainside. The gravel-strewn trails crunched underfoot as she breathed in the heady aromas of wildflowers and newly mown grass. She was lost in thought, trying to understand the contents of the house and any clues they might reveal. She needed help and was hoping that the old man from her past would still have his shop in town.

  It was nearly 11 a.m. when she approached the four-storied timbered building that housed the bookstore. She wondered if she should call Nisten from the shop and tell Marcus she would not be back for a couple of hours. She was sure he would still be asleep and decided to leave him be. However, her real worry was whether the shop would have the same owner. She took a deep breath and pushed open the door. The small cowbell hanging above it announced the arrival of a new customer.

  The smell of books and leather brought into sharp focus the images that swirled around in her mind. Little had changed. The shop itself had no ceiling between the first two levels. Floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelves packed with old, leather-bound books clung like ivy to the bowed walls. Against them, stepladders hung silently at attention from brass rails. One alcove housed a diverse collection of china, jade and porcelain. Clusters of creased leather armchairs stood on threadbare Persian rugs and beckoned visitors to sit and thumb through one of the volumes stacked in the shelves. Opposite the entrance on the far wall was a huge open fireplace with a wrought iron grate that was shaped like a rowing boat. Hanging above was a large black frame encasing a crimson cloth on which two items where mounted. The first was a photo, a copy of the one at the entrance to the house and the second was a duplicate of the certificate Mako had thrown at Marcus the day before. She read the small inscription written at the base:

  * * *

  ‘To Xavier, Thank you for all that I took from here as well as all that you gave me. I could not have done it without you. Première Place: Prix National Suisse des Arts et des Lettres. Le 20 mai 1998.” All My Love, Melinda.’

  * * *

  This is where those two items truly belonged. Yet again, something wasn’t quite right… Her thoughts were interrupted when the curtain covering the entrance to the stairs up to the living quarters above was pulled back and in walked an elderly man.

  “Madame?” He was smaller than she remembered, the luxuriant mustache now quite white. “May I help you?”

  “Xavier!” Mako said with a broad smile.

  For a moment the man was puzzled how this woman knew his name, but as she turned from him and looked back at the photo above the fireplace, he remembered.

  “Mélinda, Viens ici que je t’embrasse! Let me hug you!” He came down the stairs at a near stumble.

  Mako wrapped her arms around the old man.

  “So lovely to have you here. Are you two speaking?”

  Xavier was obviously unaware of her father’s death. She dryly broke the news to him.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said.

  She stared back showing no emotion.

  “He was still your father, no matter what” he said quietly holding her gaze. “So tell me about you. You have turned into a woman even more beautiful than your mother. Such beauty must have countless joys.”

  Mako passed an hour telling Xavier what had happened since her mother’s death. She then started to probe him about what he knew of her father and the contents of the house.

  “Those were happy days when you and your mother came to look and learn. But your father, he only wanted to buy things or know their value. I was of no real help to him. After you and your mother… well, we hardly spoke. I really saw very little of him.”

  “Did you ever meet anyone with him,” she asked?

  “Once. An American I believe? Can’t remember his name. He came in here looking for books about Napoleon, designs, furniture and such. He said your father recommended that he stop by.”

  There was a brief pause, then Mako looked at the cuckoo clock on the wall and stood up. “I must be going, Xavier. If you can think of anything about my father or the things he bought, please call me. We are at the house.”

  “We?”

  “Another time. I’ll explain,” she said with a shy smile.

  She kissed him once on each cheek and left the shop that contained so many memories of the happy days of her youth.

  “Miss de Turris?” said a voice as she stepped outside. “Melinda de Turris?” She turned to see a slightly built gentleman remove his spectacles and begin to rub the lenses as if he could not believe what he was seeing.

  “Your father. I was so sorry to hear… I just did not expect to see you.” The look of utter shock and surprise on Mako’s face made him start again. “Please forgive me. My name is Masanobu, Professor Yoshio Masanobu.” He held out his hand.

  “I bought and sold several works of art on behalf of your father. I live in Lugano but have a small house up the valley in Wengen. I recognized you from that photo in the hall I saw a few years ago when I last visited.” And as meticulous as a spider spinning his web, Jonathan lied to her about how he had met her father and what he had done for him.

  “I’m sorry,” Mako said slowly. “I… my father and I have not been close over the past few years. However maybe you can help me. I have so much to find out about his collection. Why not come up to the house… for a late lunch. My boyfriend thinks he can cook and you may be able to fill in some of the blanks.” She gave a little smile. “That would be most kind but perhaps another day. I really must…” He turned to go.

  “Please,” said Mako. “I insist.” She reached out to
touch his forearm quickly doing a small curtsy as if in mock supplication.

  Jonathan inwardly congratulated himself on how easy it had been.

  “How can I resist such a pretty invitation? Of course.”

  Mako knew from the outset that he could not possibly have been telling the truth, but this strange little man knew something, and she needed answers. He looked harmless enough and she was confident she and Marcus could take care of him if needed.

  “So… let’s catch the next train back up,” she smiled. “There is so much I want to ask you.…”

  46

  HABKERN, SWITZERLAND

  Marcus awoke late to an empty bed and a room full of light. “Mako?”

  He pushed back the duvet and pulled on a robe she had laid out at the foot of the bed. He wandered into the bathroom.

  “Back later,” was written with her lipstick on the bathroom mirror.

  Frustrating, as he had so many things still to ask her but there was little he could do about it. He again cursed the loss of their cell phones at sea. Worried about not being able to reach Mako whenever he wanted, he made a mental note to pick up some disposable phones the next time they went to town. At least the substantial amount of Euros, Swiss Francs, and U.S. dollars Mako pulled from one of the wall safes was more than enough to keep them afloat for a while.

  He logged into his email via a small laptop Mako had dug out and found a reply to some research he had done while Mako had been asleep at the Villa d’Este. He needed to talk to Garance alone and now with Mako out of the way, he had his chance. He quickly called the villa and went through his confidential request.

  “…If I find it, I tell you. M’sieur,” concluded Garance. “I will say nothing to Madame.”

  Marcus went back to his email. As he scrolled through his messages, one in particular leapt out at him. It had been sent the day Marcus had hurriedly left Cannes. It was from jumpingjax@ comsusa.net.

  * * *

  Dear Marcus,

  Thank you for your kind words. I was so surprised you weren’t at the funeral. McConnell explained your visa issue. Ridiculous but what can you do? No doubt will get sorted. I hope all is well, good luck at festival.

  * * *

  FYI, after an eternity IRS still not granted probate on Sam’s estate. They have frozen a payment of $300,000 and keep asking what it relates to. It came from the Philippines but they keep hitting a brick wall of silence and are driving me crazy, muttering about bringing in DEA. I’ve no idea what it was for. They found an entry in Sam’s calendar on the day the money hit saying, ‘GET PAYMENT’.

  * * *

  From who? Does this mean anything to you? Let me know. Take care. I am relying on you to make that film. Don’t let it be a bad decision.

  Best Jax

  * * *

  It was of course possible there was a logical explanation. Royalties due to Sam, a fee for a screenplay that never happened, even investments of some sort. However, Marcus didn’t buy it for a second; that would be clutching at very thin straws. Someone had paid Sam out of the Philippines. Why?

  The doorbell sounded and he went downstairs. It was the courier with Kelso and Mako’s versions of the script. He decided to wait for her to return as it would be easier for them to compare the two scripts together.

  Marcus went into the large kitchen, found the coffee beans and flicked the appropriate switch. With a gentle hum, like an electronic fanfare, the chrome espresso machine rose to greet the morning from its hiding place below the work counter.

  As he stood waiting for the steam pressure to build, he turned Jax’s message over and over in his mind. He looked out of the kitchen at the huge wooden door with its rows of studs that led into the drawing room, idly examining it. He stopped, looked again, then walked over and bent down to check his hunch.

  The phone rang, making him jump. He hoped it was Mako, telling him where she was and when she would be back. Before he could find a handset though, the answering machine briskly kicked in.

  “Melinda, this is Robin. My dear, we need to talk. Firstly, I was so relieved to hear from you. I had feared the worst and quite understand why you could not be at the funeral. You are in danger. There have been tragic developments. Giles and Mary… they’ve been murdered. I have been in touch with the police both in London and Cannes. They believe there is a connection, one man. Call me… and please do not allow yourself to be approached by strangers, least of all a small Asian man. I’ll explain.”

  A high-pitched alarm went off. The coffee machine was well past the safety pressure point and was sounding a warning that it needed to be turned off. Marcus ran back to the kitchen to switch it off. A moment later he heard the front door open and in walked Mako with Professor Masanobu in tow.

  47

  HABKERN, SWITZERLAND

  Jonathan estimated he had no more than a few seconds to act. While studiously wiping his feet, he slipped his right hand deep into his coat pocket, his gloved index finger scooping out the contents of the small pot nestling there. He then passed his briefcase to that hand, surreptitiously smearing the paste against the underside of the handle.

  “Marcus,” Mako called out, “I met this gentleman in town. He knows both my father and his art collection. He kindly agreed to come up to the house for lunch, despite your cooking, and may be able to provide us with some answers.”

  As Marcus stepped from the kitchen doorway towards the entrance, Mako arched her eyebrows in mock surprise, conveying to him her disbelief at such a coincidence.

  “Marcus Riley, Yoshio Masanobu,” she said with a formal flourish. Mako’s initial expression of amusement changed to concern when she saw the look of fear on Marcus’ face.

  “How long is it since you were last here?” queried Mako. “I’m not too sure about all this new lighting and electrical stuff my father installed. Alarms, cameras…,” continued Mako but with a look of puzzlement at Marcus’ tense body language.

  “You cannot stop innovation,” he said answering Mako’s question but looking straight at Marcus.

  Marcus’ expression was clear; he recognized the quote. He had last read it at the end of the exploding tequila keg scene.

  “So, you know your Sun-Tzu, Mr. Riley?”

  “No, my Sam Wood,” said Marcus flatly.

  Jonathan passed Mako his briefcase, then turned to Marcus and executed a slow bow.

  There was a thud as Mako flinched, dropping the case on the floor and looking at her hand.

  Marcus’ head snapped round. “Are you OK, what happened?” he asked Mako who was looking down at her hand.

  Suddenly Jonathan swung round and smacked his glove across Mako’s cheek, as if challenging her to a duel. It was so totally unexpected Mako’s eyes snapped open in shock. The brown paste which had transferred from the underside of the case’s handle to her hand was now also smeared across her face, leaving a rancid-smelling brown streak. Mako instinctively lifted her fingertips to her cheek, rubbing them across the smarting skin. Blood now seeped from both fingers and face.

  “You have fifteen minutes, I would guess, before she goes into convulsions, then maybe another hour before she is dead. Where is the Buddha head?” said Jonathan flatly.

  * * *

  Making the poison had been remarkably easy. The six large tins of pipe tobacco Jonathan had purchased from the newspaper shop had spent the previous night soaking in a jug of water. Before going for his run, he simply strained the mixture through the washcloth provided by the inn, then wrung out the remaining liquid in the damp mound into a mess tin. Next he flushed away the mush of soggy tobacco and threw the cloth in the trash can.

  After he had shaved and showered, he slowly heated the mixture in the mess tin over a small gas camping stove, both of which he had purchased in town along with the suit. Reducing the mixture over the heat, he stirred it as if he were preparing a sauce. Finally, he poured the sticky syrup into a small ceramic jar that had once contained skin balm.

  The paste was pure
nicotine, three times more powerful than arsenic, nearly twice as deadly as strychnine, but a hundred times easier to get hold of. A few drops mixed with a cup of coffee would kill a man. Indeed, Jonathan had added a couple of drops to the coffee of the trusting steady cam operator Rory Carmichael at a Starbucks outside Encino. The effect was fatal. The other two men from Bill Baines’ rescue party had been dispatched by a hit and run and a boat explosion; the latter thanks to Bill Baines’ special fume bomb.

  There were two advantages to nicotine poison. First, it was quickly and easily absorbed through the skin (as it was in the much less virulent form in nicotine patches) and secondly, it was just about undetectable, even in a serum toxicology screen. For extra effectiveness Jonathan had shattered a water glass, sprinkling shards into the paste, ensuring the tiny cuts they would create would speed the poison into the bloodstream. He had been careful to wear the thickest of leather gloves to protect his skin from any contact.

  Incredibly for such a lethal poison, Jonathan knew the antidote was just as easy to get hold of. All that was needed was an atropine sulphate solution, which was often sold over the counter in Europe as eye drops. In cases of nicotine poisoning it would need to be injected and taking the common muscle relaxant diazepam would stop the convulsions.

  * * *

  Marcus moved forward, unsure what to do.

  “What the hell are you talking about? Mako, are you OK…?”

  “Don’t make the mistake of others who questioned me and are now dead. Violence is my job.” The vicious blade fanned open in his hand, the point kissing Mako’s neck. Marcus hesitated.

  “By the time you work out what the poison is, let alone get an antidote, it will be over for her. Now give me the Buddha head.”