“A tragedy. We are all devastated. My staff is just now putting together the arrangements for me to attend the funeral.”
Presumably the mortician was putting Quimper’s body together, Scarne reflected. It had been released that morning by the Medical Examiner.
“I was wondering if I could speak to you in person, Mr. Khan. I’d rather not talk to you over the phone. It’s rather delicate.”
“Well, I’m afraid that I am booked solid all day. And then I am playing in a backgammon tournament at the All India Club tonight. Can’t miss that, you know. But I’ll tell you what. If you can come by my home, say, around seven, I can give you some time. We’ll have a drink. I always have one before I play. It helps me to relax.”
***
It was gloomy, cloudy twilight, with thunder in the distance, when Scarne arrived at Khan’s brownstone. But the neo-Greco building itself was anything but gloomy. It was magnificent. Textured glass and jeweled panels on the on the antique front double doors and the windows on every floor shimmered with interior light. Similar, and almost as resplendent, brownstones dotted the block on both sides and Scarne briefly imagined how the street must have looked in Victorian times when the homes were constructed. He half expected to hear the clip-clop of horse-drawn surreys behind him on the street.
The genteel illusion was shattered when the door opened and Scarne stood face to face with Boga Gulle.
“Good evening, my good man,” Scarne said pleasantly. “Is Professor Higgins at home?”
Khan’s brutish bodyguard gave him a malevolent stare, his nostrils flaring.
“Not a fan of My Fair Lady, I take it. That’s OK. Neither am I. They should have let Audrey Hepburn sing her own songs. Look how successful Les Miserables was as a movie. Anne Hathaway won an Oscar for singing one tune. Anyway, Mr. Khan is expecting me. Jake Scarne.”
“Follow me.”
Gulle led Scarne through the foyer down a long marble-tiled hallway bordered by rosewood mirrors and cabinets, and illuminated electrically by “gaslight” sconces. It was like entering a museum or fine art gallery. Each room they passed looked as if it should have been cordoned off with a red velvet rope. They came to a small elevator. Gulle motioned Scarne inside and then followed. It was close quarters and Gulle’s animal smell was sickening. He pressed the top button and then turned to face Scarne.
“Russell Crowe can’t sing,” he said.
“No argument there,” Scarne said.
The elevator door opened and Gull turned and walked out. Scarne followed him into a conservatory, obviously on the brownstone’s top floor. Chandra Khan was sitting at a small marble-top table by a mosaic fountain, looking intently at a backgammon board, occasionally referring to a small leather-bound volume. The last of the day’s sunlight streamed in through a massive skylight and stained glass windows. As he walked closer Scarne was struck by the strange-looking chandelier above the table. It seemed to be made out of elephant tusks. A huge tiger skin hung on the wall behind a nearby wet bar.
Khan rose at their approach. He gave Scarne a warm smile and a firm handshake.
“What will you have to drink, Mr. Scarne? Believe it or not, Boga makes a mean Manhattan. With sour mash.”
“That would be fine.”
“Boga. Two Manhattans. Straight up, lemon twists. And turn on some lights. Now sit a moment Mr. Scarne. Bear with me. I am almost finished.”
Gulle walked over to the wall and hit a switch and the conservatory brightened. Then he went over to the bar and started making the cocktails. Khan said “double” to himself and picked up a cup and shook out the dice. They came out a one and a three.
“Idiot!” He laughed. “Forgive me, Mr. Scarne. I just cost myself ten thousand dollars. It was a stupid double. The odds were against me. Fortunately, here I’m playing both sides. So, I’ll break even. But if I did this in the tournament I might be eliminated. The money is serious, but the blow to my pride would be even worse. Do you play?”
“I know how to play. But I’m strictly an amateur.”
Not quite true, Scarne thought to himself. He’d learned the game from some coalition troops during his military service and kept his hand in with occasional games in Washington Square. After being badly burned in some early matches, he’d gone to the Strand bookstore in Greenwich Village, where he found a used copy of Backgammon: The Action Game, written by Prince Alexis Obolensky and Ted James. By studying that classic backgammon bible, he was now at least holding his own against the street hustlers who frequented the park.
“Backgammon is a game of skill and chance, Mr. Scarne. In equal parts. Over the long term expert players will always prevail, especially if the stakes are high, since they can intimidate lesser players. The dice will even out eventually. But unlike chess, for example, in a single backgammon game, it is possible for a rank amateur to demolish even the most skilled of players.” He laughed again. “Hell, I just demolished myself, and I am considered world-class.”
Their drinks arrived. As advertised, they were excellent.
“Boga,” Khan said. “We leave in 40 minutes. Shower and change your suit.”
Gulle turned and walked away. Scarne stared at Khan.
“You are shocked, Mr. Scarne. Boga is in most respects a superb adjutant. But he comes from the lower classes in my country. His hygiene leaves something to be desired. When he gets ‘above the curry,’ as they say, my friends at the club complain. I want no distractions tonight. Now, drink up and let’s have a quick game while you tell me what is so delicate that we couldn’t discuss it over the phone.”
Khan quickly and efficiently set up the board, placing the 30 circular white and black checkers, or men, in their respective positions. The board itself was a work of art, and Scarne said so.
“It was handcrafted by Italian artisans from a variety of exotic woods such as white pearl, elm, walnut and briar,” Khan said proudly. “The men are made of olive wood. The key, locks and latches are solid brass plated with 24K gold. The dice and doubling block are made of ivory from the tusk of a white rhino.”
“I couldn’t help but notice the chandelier and the tiger skin. I thought all these animals were endangered.”
“Presumably,” Khan said, nonchalantly, “but it’s not like I killed them. Anyway, I believe the tusks are from an African elephant, not Indian.” Khan seemed to think that made it OK. “As for the dice, this whole set belonged to a Saudi prince, hopefully another endangered species. Must have cost him a small fortune. Mediocre player. I won it from him in a game.” He gave Scarne a sly look. “By the way, do you like to wager.”
“I’m not much of a gambler,” Scarne lied again, smiling inwardly at the memory of a $20,000 golf bet he’d won a few years earlier. “And certainly not at your stakes. But I suppose I can afford a few bucks.”
“Good. What is that saying? Playing for nothing is like kissing your sister? Is $100 out of line?”
Khan said it deprecatingly, but Scarne didn’t take offense. The rich often can’t help themselves.
“That’s fine.”
“But as you are my guest, I will not use the doubling cube, and I would advise you against using it.” The doubling cube, or block, was a square die, larger than the regular playing dice, with the numbers 2, 4, 8, 16, 32 and 64 on its sides. A player who was doing well, or just wanted to take a chance, can ask to double the stakes. If the opponent accepts, the cube is rotated to show the new bet. Theoretically, the original bet could go up astronomically. “But if you don’t mind, I like to play traditional rules. You could lose $300.”
Khan was referring to the fact that there are three ways to win at backgammon. There is a simple win, going to the first person to bear all his men off the board. Then there is a “gammon,” when the loser still has all his men left on the board. The rare “backgammon” occurs when the loser has more than one man stranded in the winner’s home board or on the center rail. Khan was implying that Scarne would likely be crushed.
“Of c
ourse,” Scarne said, trying to sound nervous. With just a little luck he knew he might make Khan eat his words.
“Perhaps you can expense it to Randolph,” Khan said, laughing.
He picked up his cup and rolled a single die. A one. Using his own cup, Scarne threw a six. He would go first, using the six and one of the combined roll.
“What are these cups made of,” Scarne asked. “They are exquisite.”
“Yes. They didn’t come with this set. They are mine. Cobra skin. Like all reptiles, they must be skinned alive to achieve the right texture. Been in my family for generations.”
“Tough on the cobra,” Scarne said. “Are you planning to skin me alive?”
“Of course!”
Scarne playing white, moved one of his men from Khan’s 12-point line to his own bar point and one man from his 8-point to his bar point. It was a classic six-one opening move and blocked three points, or rows. Khan looked at him appraisingly.
“I would have expected those moves from a skilled player,” he said, picking up his cup. “Am I being hustled?” He then rolled a two and a one. “Damn. The worst opening roll. Well, I guess I will have to concentrate.”
Which he proceeded to do. The only thing that kept Scarne in the game was a series of good rolls that included two double sixes, which allowed him to move his men twice per die. Still, at the eight-minute mark, he was in serious trouble. Remembering some contrarian advice from Prince Obolensky, who believed that an unorthodox play at the right moment could turn around a losing position, he picked up the doubling block and turned it so that the 2 was facing up.
“Double, Khan,” he said.
The stakes jumped to $200.
His opponent looked surprised.
“Are you sure, Mr. Scarne?”
“What the hell.”
Gulle had returned. Couldn’t have been much of a shower, Scarne mused. But he did smell better.
“Do you think I could have another drink,” Scarne said. “That was damn good. Will you join me?”
“Of course you may.” Khan signaled to Gulle, who was hovering a few feet away, staring intently at Scarne. “But I will pass. I only have one drink before a tournament. One cocktail relaxes me. But too much alcohol can impair the judgment.”
Scarne knew it would take more than two drinks to impair his own judgment, but he wanted to act a little tipsy so that his host would think he let down his guard. Gulle brought over the second Manhattan and Scarne drained half of it in one gulp. He then rolled another pair of sixes! He was thus able to obliterate most of Khan’s gains.
“This game is easy,” he said, purposely slurring the thish.
Khan’s laugh had a slight edge to it.
“With rolls like that,” he said, “it is.”
“Well, it’s about time I had a little luck,” Scarne said, waving his drink. “That son-of-a-bitch Shields fired me today. Blames me for the Quimper thing.”
Khan was actually surprised. The dice rattled in the cup he was holding.
“But why? You are only a book critic.”
“Nah. That was just my cover story. I’m a private investigator.” Scarne heard Gulle snort. “Shields hired me as backup protection for Quimper.”
Scarne belted back the rest of his drink and held it out to Gulle. Khan nodded and his bodyguard took the glass.
“That’s certainly too bad,” Khan said, shrugging, “but I can see Randolph’s point. No offense, but you and the others hired to safeguard Sebastian failed. Someone’s head had to roll.” He actually laughed as he rattled his dice in the cup. “Poor choice of words. I’m sorry.”
“But why mine,” Scarne said, trying to sound aggrieved. He took his third drink from Gulle, who was smirking. “I warned them about the jerk’s sex habits. He was a horny bastard. Like I could have stopped him from sneaking that blond Kraut babe up to his room.”
Khan was in the midst of throwing the dice when Scarne said it. He missed the board entirely and the cubes tumbled off the table and clattered across the marble tile floor.
CHAPTER 24 - COCKED DIE
“Cocked die,” Scarne said. “Roll again.”
Gull retrieved the cubes from the floor, glaring at Scarne as he handed them to his boss.
“A German woman?” Khan’s voice was strangled. “I understood that Sebastian was murdered by a terrorist. A Middle Eastern woman.”
“That’s what they want everyone to think,” Scarne said. “Easier for the public to swallow. More mysterious, too. Terrorism sells more books.” He gestured with his drink, some of which sloshed out on the table. To Khan’s horror, the liquid narrowly missed the priceless backgammon board. Gulle moved in and quickly wiped up the spill. “But just between me, you and the lamppost, I think she was a pro. Maybe hired by terrorists.” He paused. “Maybe not. But I’ll soon find out.”
“And how will you do that?”
“Got a lead on her.” For effect, Scarne emphasized the falsehood by touching his nose and winking. “She made a little, itty-bitty mistake. I’ll track her down, you’ll see. Hey, why don’t you roll? But try to keep them on the table this time.”
“Double,” Khan said viciously, turning the doubling cube to 4. The minimum bet on the game was now $400. Khan’s roll was a good one, a four and a five, but he was obviously now off his form and made a stupid move. “What was the mistake?”
Scarne put on his best shark smile and shook his head.
“Sorry, pal. Confidential. Got it from one of the security guards I fed some drinks. I’m gonna find her before the cops do and see who paid her. That’s why I came here. I’m gonna be famous. I thought maybe there might be a book deal in it for me. I’d like to stick it to Shields. I can’t write a lick, but you must have someone who can ghost it for me.” He reached for the doubling cube.
“Double,” he said, upping the stakes to $800. “Gotta pay for my flight to Brussels.”
It was a huge risk, but all he needed was one or two good rolls out of the next four turns to win. Three or more good rolls might get all his men off the board with some of Khan’s still trapped. Maybe I am getting a bit drunk, Scarne thought. But it was worth it. At the mention of Brussels, Khan visibly paled. And his game completely went to pieces. He misplayed even good rolls and blindly accepted another double from Scarne, to $1,600. Scarne then proceeded to have not three, but four good rolls in a row, blocking Khan’s men — even bearing some off entirely — and enabling his own men to march unhindered.
“Backgammon, Khan,” he said quietly when his last man was borne off, leaving the publisher with three men still stranded on the center bar! Scarne, who doubted Khan had ever taken such a beating, had won $4,800! He glanced at his watch.
“Good Lord. Look at the time. Got to run, Khan. Have to pack. And you have a tournament to play. Hope you have better luck.”
Khan glared at him. He looks like he wants to kill me right here, Scarne thought. He could sense Gulle approaching his rear. He tensed. There was a long pause. Then someone came into the conservatory.
“Chandi, we’re going to be late for the tournament!”
It was a woman that Scarne thought he recalled from the Killerfest conference. One of Bengal Publishing’s authors. Lisa somebody. Funny last name. Pretty lady, all decked out for a night on the town, dripping with jewelry and showing some impressive cleavage. He felt Gulle back away.
Khan and Scarne stood.
“I’ll be right down, dear. Just finishing up.”
She smiled at Scarne and left. The men followed.
“So,” Scarne said pleasantly, “are you interested in a book deal if my suspicions pan out? I can sell it anywhere, but I know you and Shields are big rivals. Like I said, I’d like to stick it to him for giving me the ax.”
“I’ll think about it,” Khan said through clenched teeth, “if you come up with something. Though I doubt you will.”
Scarne knew there were two ways to read that statement.
“Fair enough. I’ll give Ben
gal Publishing the right of first refusal. But aren’t you forgetting something?”
Cruelly, Scarne picked up the three of Khan’s men who were on the center line and clacked them in his hand.
“Boga,” Khan said, his eyes full of hate,“get my checkbook.”
***
“Chandi. Come back to bed. I’m cold.”
Khan, standing naked at the window, sighed. He was tired. The woman was apparently inexhaustible. And he hated it when she called him that name. He thought it made him sound like a water boy in a British movie set in the Kyber Pass. But he put up a lot from Lisa Lovepuddle, who in addition to being a pretty good lay, was still crucial to Bengal Publishing’s bottom line.
Her real name was Sarah Ebinger and prior to hitting it big with her erotic novels she lived in a split level house in Manalapan, New Jersey, with her accountant husband and two teen-age children. The husband was now an ex and the girls were in private school in Boston. “Lisa Lovepuddle” now resided in Scarsdale splendor and also owned a pied-a-terre in Manhattan not far from Khan’s apartment.
She wasn’t a bad-looking woman and Khan usually enjoyed her company. He had even asked her to join him for what he fully expected would be a splendid and triumphant night at the All India Club. No one could be assured of winning the club’s prestigious Backgammon Tournament, which attracted 128 of the best players in the country, and a handful of international stars. Still, a very strong player like Khan could be expected to last into the round of 16, maybe even the round of 8, and then, who knew? Anything could happen.
But for Khan to be eliminated in the first round, by Lord Rupert Eastlake, a pissant of an Englishman of all people, was insulting. Then, to stay through the whole four-hour tournament, as protocol demanded, was agonizing. For the first time in his life, Chandra Khan got seriously drunk, a circumstance that didn’t help him in the sack with Lisa Lovepuddle.
That damn Scarne! Not only did he hustle me out of almost $5,000 and queer me for the tournament, Khan thought, but he could destroy me if he gets lucky in his search for Quimper’s killer. What had been the woman’s mistake? Did she leave something behind? Thank God the glory-hungry private detective had not gone to the police. But I don’t even know where the son of a bitch lives. If I did I’d send Boga to solve the problem. But if I can’t stop him from going to Europe, there is something else I can do.
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