“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 go
od,” 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?”
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