Killerfest

by Lawrence de Maria

  “That was Nigel Blue. Randolph Shields wants to see you. He’ll be in his office by noon.”

  “Probably wants to buy me lunch at Le Bernadin.”

  “He’s probably going to have you for lunch,” Sealth said. “Do you still want Juliette to make those calls?”

  “Yeah. I usually do my best work after Randy fires me. And tell Juliette that if she hits a dry hole on the woman, to ask around about possible middlemen, the ones who set up big-time hits. It’s a long shot, but it’s the only one I have.”

  “OK. If you survive your meeting with Shields, come to dinner tonight. Juliette has been dying to meet you and she should have something by then, if there’s something to get.”

  ***

  As it turned out, Scarne didn’t get lunch, but the meeting with Randolph Shields was not what he expected.

  “Much as this pains me to say it, Scarne,” Shields said, “I don’t hold you responsible for this fiasco.”

  Quimper alive was an asset to Shields, Scarne reflected. Beheaded, he had become a “fiasco.” The rich were indeed different.

  Randolph was sitting behind his massive ship captain’s desk in his office, for which the word “opulent” had probably been invented. Scarne and Nigel Blue sat in chairs facing him. It was the first time Scarne had been in the inner sanctum. The desk itself was almost bare, save for a Bloomberg monitor tracking financial activities in markets around the world, photos of Emma and her brothers and various paperweights. The shelves and windowsills flanking the corner office, however, were replete with awards, plaques and photos of politicians and celebrities. Among the later were a plethora of beautiful women who, Scarne knew, were rumored to be conquests of the man the tabloids (none of the ones he owned, however) had dubbed “Randy Shields.” Scarne had already seen the similar, but smaller, group of trophy photos that graced Randolph’s bedroom on the Emerald of the Seas yacht. In both cases, the women had ranged in age from the barely legal to the barely mobile.

  “From what I have been able to gather from the Mayor’s people and Dick Condon,” Randolph continued, “you did everything possible to secure his safety. That incompetent security firm dropped the ball. I didn’t expect you to stay awake for 72 hours straight.”

  “I don’t know what more Safeguard crew could have done,” Scarne said. “They got him to the hotel in one piece and, considering the throngs of people at the conference and in the bar afterward, they also did a workmanlike job of protecting him from everyone but himself. Sebastian was determined to get laid. The assassin wasn’t wearing a burkha or a turban. She had on a cocktail dress and fuck-me shoes. One of the Safeguard Security guys even checked her purse to make sure she didn’t have a gun or a knife.”

  “Or a skewer, I presume,” Blue said.

  “When Quimper ordered the food another guard brought it to them,” Scarne continued. “He would have had to be clairvoyant to think she would use the utensils to kill Quimper.”

  “You knew something was up,” Blue interjected.

  “That’s why I’m kicking myself. I’m not letting myself off the hook.”

  “Well, what’s done is done,” Shields said. “Now we have to see if we can salvage the Albatross deal.”

  Scarne and Blue exchanged looks. Quimper was yesterday’s news.

  “Is that likely,” Scarne asked.

  “Probably not, but we’ll see. Anyway, Scarne, thanks for your efforts. You will get your full fee, of course, and make sure you give Nigel all your expenses.”

  “I don’t want my damn fee,” Scarne said. “Quimper died on my watch.”

  Shields leaned forward in his chair and turned the Bloomberg machine toward him.

  “I once accused you of trying to milk my family by creating a crazy story when my brother was killed,” he said, looking at something on the screen. “I was wrong. But there’s no reason to be noble now. You’ve earned your money. I still think Quimper, or rather his estate, may want to ask for a refund from Safeguard.”

  “I don’t think Quimper was killed by terrorists,” Scarne said.

  That brought both men up short. Shields ignored the Bloomberg.

  “What do you mean,” Blue said.

  “It’s too pat,” he replied, and explained his thinking.

  “If it’s not terrorists,” Shields said, “who is it?”

  “Who benefits from the financial repercussions of Schuster House losing Quimper?”

  Shields turned to Blue.

  “Nigel?”

  “Well, there are people on Wall Street who may make a killing if our merger with Albatross falls through, as is likely. Short sellers to be sure. We have controlling interests or major stakes in some companies that are publicly owned. Their stocks could take a hit if it looks like Shields Inc. might want to sell our positions to bolster our financial position in the wake of a collapsing deal.”

  “We won’t have to do that,” Randolph protested.

  “Of course,” Blue said. “But someone may start a rumor to that effect.”

  “It should be pretty easy to identify anyone who has been shorting the stocks,” Scarne said, “particularly with the S.E.C. finally doing its job.”

  “There are a lot of stocks, Jake,” Blue said. “And if you are right about this being a financial conspiracy rather than a terrorist one, then the short positions could have been accumulated over time, in dribs and drabs. Most of the companies we have positions in are in publishing and other slow-growth industries whose stocks have been fairly moribund, so the risk to short-sellers would be mitigated. But I’m having a hard time believing that short-sellers or any other market manipulators are into decapitation as a financial strategy. Even with Washington’s newfound, and I’m sure, temporary zeal, for regulation, there are easier ways to steal money on Wall Street.”

  “What about your potential rivals for Albatross? Huber at the Times says Bengal Publishing would probably pick up the pieces.”

  Shields looked dumbfounded.

  “You think Chandra Khan is behind this!”

  “I don’t think anything. But I got a bad vibe when I met him the other day. Especially when I saw his bodyguard.”

  “That ugly looking fellow always at his side? Boca something?”

  “Boga Gulle,” Blue said. “Chandra brought him over from England. There were rumors of some kind of scandal. But the man is apparently devoted to his boss.”

  “Well, what about him,” Shields asked.

  “I’d like to know why a respectable publisher needs a stone killer as a bodyguard,” Scarne said.

  “How do you know he’s a killer,” Shields asked.

  Scarne merely looked at him.

  Blue finally broke the silence.

  “Jake knows,” he said. “And while I’m not buying the idea that Chandra Khan would do something like this, it’s no crazier a theory than the last one of Jake’s that we dismissed. To our detriment, if you recall, Randolph. I wouldn’t like to bet against his instincts. I always thought there was something off about Khan. His people have already called Albatross with a new offer.”

  “I still don’t believe it!”

  “No offense, boss, but you didn’t believe it about a couple of your rich friends that Jake proved were killers.”

  For a second, Scarne thought Blue had gone too far. But then Shields merely shrugged.

  “What the hell is going on! Am I the only ethical businessman out there?”

  Scarne could tell that Blue was having as hard a time keeping as straight a face as he was.

  “You know Jake, Randolph. He won’t let this rest. Why not let him pursue this. If Chandra is in the clear, no harm, no foul. It’s in our best interests to know what happened.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Shields said. “I don’t see any downside. At the very least maybe he’ll dig up some dirt on Chandra we can use in the future.”

  “I’m not going on a goddamn fishing expedition for you, Randolph,” Scarne said calmly. He wasn’t even angry.
Randolph was just being Randolph. “If Khan is in the clear, that’s all the information you’ll get.”

  Shields accepted the rebuke. It hadn’t cost him anything to try.

  “Of course. Now, how will you find this woman?”

  “It won’t be easy. Hell, it may be impossible. But I may be able to get a lead through some contacts I have in Interpol. If not to her, then maybe to the middleman who arranges her contracts. There has to be one. Someone like her doesn’t put an ad on Craigslist.”

  Shields made up his mind.

  “That will take money. You will probably have to travel. Nigel will keep him on the payroll until you get to the bottom of this. Now, no argument.”

  Shields turned back to his Bloomberg machine. Scarne and Blue left.

  Back in Blue’s office, they worked out the details of Scarne’s assignment.

  “I think I will go see Khan before I do anything,” Scarne said. “Have a little chat. I’ll tell him who I really am and that you guys fired me because of incompetence and because I have this cockamamie idea Quimper wasn’t killed by a terrorist. That way you’ll be in the clear, no matter how it goes down.”

  “Is that wise?”

  “I figure that my chance of finding the hit woman aren’t all that good. So, if Khan is involved, it might not hurt to stir things up a bit. Maybe he’ll do something foolish.”

  “When I was a kid, Jake, I threw a rock at a hornet’s nest. I got stung. You could get killed.”

  “It’s been tried.”

  “Where do you think this woman is?”

  “Probably Europe,” Scarne replied.

  Blue smiled mischievously.

  “I wonder if Randolph realizes that you will probably be visiting Emma on his dime.”

  “You could have mentioned it, Nige.”

  “I just saw Les Miserables. I’m feeling romantic.”

  CHAPTER 22 - JULIETTE

  Scarne took the subway to 79th Street and Broadway, where he knew he could find a liquor store. During his search he passed a small bookstore. In its window was a picture of Sebastian Quimper, framed in black crepe. In it, Quimper was at a computer, his fingers on a keyboard scowling back at the photographer as if he had been interrupted. He was younger in the photo, Scarne noted. Maybe the author had actually been writing something on his own. He stared at the portrait a long time.

  A little early for dinner with Sealth, Scarne headed over to Harrison’s Tavern on Amsterdam Avenue, once a favorite watering hole of his. It wasn’t there anymore. In its place was a maternity shop. Suddenly feeling older, he found another bar a few doors down. It was trendy, loud and filled with college students. That didn’t make him feel any better.

  “What will you have, mister?”

  He looked at the kid behind the bar. Mister?

  “Jack Daniels, rocks, splash of bitters.”

  The TV was tuned to the news. It was all about the Quimper murder.

  “Some shit, huh,” the bartender said as he put down Scarne’s drink. “Damn terrorists.”

  “How long has Harrison’s been closed,” Scarne asked.

  “Harrisons?”

  “Never mind,” Scarne said, morosely.

  He finished his drink and left. It was a warm night and people just coming home from work were shopping in the open air markets or sitting down at tables outside the many upscale cafes and bistros that made the area so attractive. He and Emma had often come to the neighborhood for dinner. He wondered how she took the news of Quimper’s killing.

  “Great bodyguard,” he muttered.

  Scarne finally spotted a liquor store and bought two bottles of a good French bordeaux. Then remembering Sealth’s pride in Washington State’s vineyards, he added a Williamette Valley pinot noir.

  Noah and Juliette Boudin lived on the third floor of a four-story walk-up on West 81st Street off Amsterdam Avenue near the Museum of Natural History. As he turned the corner on their block, Scarne reflected on his first meeting with the ex-Seattle homicide cop. Only the intervention of a couple of F.B.I. agents had prevented the two of them from coming to blows in Scarne’s office. But I showed him, Scarne recalled. Noah had been eying the last two donuts provided by Evelyn Warr during the contentious meeting, so Scarne had taken a bite out of each.

  By the time he was buzzed through the vestibule of his destination his good humor had returned. Upstairs, the woman who opened the door was not what Scarne expected. Noah Sealth was a big, burly dark-skinned man. His Juliette couldn’t have been much over five feet tall. She was trim and pretty, with sharply intelligent black eyes to match her short-cropped hair.

  “Jacque, how nice to finally meet you,” she said in a lilting French accent, leaning up to kiss him on both cheeks. “Noah has told me so much about you.”

  I must remind him about the “dickwad” comment, Scarne decided.

  ***

  Sealth had just opening up the second bottle of Scarne’s wine and began filling all their glasses amid the remains of Juliette’s excellent cassoulet.

  “What is ‘dickwad’,” she asked, pronouncing it “deek-wad.”

  “It has many meanings,” Sealth said. “But basically it refers to someone who eats all the donuts.”

  He remembers, Scarne thought happily.

  Juliette looked confused and then gave him a Gallic shrug.

  “Jacque, Noah tells me that, like him, you have some Indian blood.”

  “The politically correct term is Native-American,” Sealth said.

  “Merde. Native-American, African-American, Anglo-American. What is this love affair you all have with hyphens? Why can’t you simply speak English?”

  The men laughed.

  “I couldn’t agree with you more, Juliette,” Scarne said. “But, yes, I do have a bit of Indian blood. Cheyenne on my mother’s side.”

  “Cheyenne. What a lovely word. Very romantic. Could almost be French. Not like Duwamish, which was the name of the tribe from which Noah has roots. That sounds like a dish detergent.”

  “I’ll have you know that I was named after the original Noah Sealth, Chief Seattle, a great warrior.”

  “Who signed the treaty that gave away the tribe’s territory to the white settlers,” Scarne said. He was having a very good time. “Without a fight.”

  “I take it the Cheyenne were not so compliant,” Juliette said.

  “I think Custer would agree,” Scarne replied.

  “Are you two finished distorting history and mocking my heritage,” Sealth said.

  “For now,” Scarne replied. “But the night is young.”

  “Good. Juliette, tell Jake what you found out.”

  She became all business. The transformation was amazing. Juliette the hostess, the gourmet coup, the teasing French lover, became Juliette the cop.

  “I do not know how helpful this will be, Jacque.” Scarne was beginning to like her pronunciation. “But there is a man in Brussels named Gaetan Mendelsohn. A veteran of the Staatsveiligheid, the Belgian State Security Service, he now owns an exclusive art gallery. Mendelsohn has many patrons and is widely respected in cultural circles. No criminal record. His known weaknesses are other men and good food. Many men. Much food. He only eats at the finest restaurants. He has lived beyond the means that even his pension and income from his successful gallery could reasonably provide. When I was at the Sûreté and later, at Interpol, he was known as a facilitator, someone who could arrange special activities of a clandestine nature, using a small stable of operatives he knew from his former life.”

  “Killers for hire,” Scarne said.

  “For the most part, yes.” Juliette’s mouth turned down. “In certain Government circles, he was considered a useful asset, since he made it known that he only facilitated assignments outside Europe.”

  “So they look the other way as long as the bodies turned up on other continents.”

  “Much the way your C.I.A. operates,” Juliette said, eyes flashing.

  “Point taken. What mak
es Mendelsohn so interesting?”

  “He was the person one went to when you needed a woman assassin. There aren’t that many, despite what Hollywood would have us believe. Do you remember that woman who seduced and killed the Mossad agent in the movie Munich?”

  Scarne nodded.

  “She really existed,” Juliette continued. “Another Belgian by the way. Perhaps there is something in the water in that country. But after the Israelis killed the woman there really was no one else like her. That is until recently, my sources say. Mendelsohn reportedly has access to a female assassin even deadlier than the other one. This time, a German. Supposed to be very beautiful, but a caméléon, able to change her appearance at will. No one knows her name. But she has achieved a legendary status on both sides of the law. That doesn’t mean she had anything to do with the Quimper affair, of course.”

  Juliette held out her glass for more wine and smiled. Scarne knew something else was coming.

  “But the woman has a nickname,” she said. “‘Der blonde tod.’”

  “The blond death,” Scarne said.

  “I wonder if she’s a natural blond,” Sealth said.

  “Only one way to find out,” Scarne said.

  “Ces hommes sont des porcs,” Juliette said, wrinkling her cute little nose.

  CHAPTER 23 - TIGER BAIT

  The next morning Scarne called Bengal Publishing and asked to speak to Chandra Khan. Using his cover as a book reviewer for Shields, he eventually cut through several protective assistants and got through to the publisher.

  “I remember you, Mr. Scarne, from the conference. You were offended when I joked that you might tilt your reviews in favor of Schuster House. It was in poor taste. I hope you have forgiven me.”

  “Water under the bridge, Mr. Khan.”

  “Very good. I’m glad. Now, what can I do for you? My secretary said something about an urgent matter.”

  Scarne knew he had to play his cards very carefully.

  “Well, it may be more sensitive than urgent. Unless I’m right, of course. It has to do with the murder of Sebastian Quimper.”

  There was a pause. Scarne tried not to read anything into it.