by Robert Upton
McGuffin threaded his way between the wagons and stopped beside the open door. In the last light of day, the house looked like a pumpkin-colored castle on the Rhine. A pickup and three cars were parked at the side of the house, one of them a dark sedan - perhaps the one that had carried Marilyn and Hillary off. Someone was moving about in the kitchen. There were lights in a second-floor bedroom window and a lone light near the top of the round tower at the far corner of the building. Is that where they are, in the tower? McGuffin, no stranger to the ways of knights, ladies, and evil dukes, wondered. And if so, what would Errol Flynn do about it? Climb up the tower and swing through the window?
Unromantic though it was, McGuffin decided to look for an unlocked door or window. He was about to make a run for the house, when suddenly a tennis ball bounced across the yard in front of him, followed quickly by the German shepherd. McGuffin stepped back quickly, then watched as the dog clamped his jaws on the ball and returned it to the thrower, the same young man he had observed in the vineyard a short while before. McGuffin backed around a grape wagon as the man and his dog approached. If he leaves that mutt outside, I’ve got a problem, McGuffin thought.
But the young man was not going to leave the dog outside, McGuffin realized, when, a moment later, the dog and his master appeared in the doorway. The dog trotted across the barn to its blanket and lay down with a sigh, as its master rolled the door closed, leaving McGuffin and the dog in darkness.
“Oh, shit,” McGuffin breathed softly.
But not softly enough. The growl was soft and throaty, not much louder than the purr of a cat, nor more frightening than the rattle of a diamondback. Foolish though it was - McGuffin could scarcely hit a stationary target in a lighted pistol range, let alone a charging dog in a dark barn - he removed the automatic from his pants pocket and switched the safety off, with a fairly audible sound that sounded to the dog like a dinner bell. McGuffin tossed the gun over the top of the wagon and, with an athleticism he thought long gone, followed it with a single bound, scarcely a second before the snarling dog landed on the vacated spot. While McGuffin scrabbled over the bottom of the wagon, searching desperately for the gun, the dog leaped repeatedly at the wagon, like a frenzied shark trying to board a lifeboat. When the dog managed to get his paws and head over the edge, McGuffin was forced to abandon the search and rush to the barricade. He removed his jacket, wrapped it around his fist, and delivered a hard blow to the dog’s nose that sent him yelping to the canvas. But like a prizefighter, he kept coming back, toenails scratching furiously at the wooden sides of the wagon, until McGuffin managed to knock him off with a now tattered tweed jacket and returned briefly to the hunt for his lost gun. The struggle came to an abrupt end when the door slid back and the dog handler stepped inside.
“Come down out of there!” he shouted over the barking dog.
“Not until you put that panzer on a leash!” McGuffin shouted back.
The handler called, and the dog moved reluctantly to his side, not entirely satisfied that his master truly understood the danger.
“Now climb down!” the young man ordered. “And don’t try anything or I’ll turn the dog on you.”
McGuffin climbed over the top of the wagon and jumped to the ground, wincing at the sensation in his tender knee. The dog growled a soft warning as his master came forward and took the shredded coat from McGuffin’s hand. He went through the pockets, came away with McGuffin’s wallet, and then tossed the jacket back to him.
“Amos McGuffin, private investigator?” he said dubiously, as he examined McGuffin’s license. McGuffin nodded. “Let’s go inside,” he said, stepping aside to let McGuffin go first. “And don’t forget about the dog.”
“He’s unforgettable,” McGuffin said, stepping out of the barn.
He also remembered his gun, still in the wagon, as he walked across the yard, but knew this was not the time to bring it up. The kitchen door opened, and two more men stepped out onto the small porch. One was short, with thinning white hair, the other tall, with flaxen blond hair.
“What is it?” the older one asked.
“Karl, go and get Otto,” the dog handler said.
The younger man stepped into the kitchen and disappeared as McGuffin stepped up onto the porch. The old man regarded him with puzzled, watery blue eyes and asked again, “What is it, Hans?”
“Nothing, Dad,” the young man replied, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you go upstairs and lie down?”
Reluctantly, the old man stepped into the kitchen and walked slowly across the room to the stairs in the corner. When he started upstairs, the young man motioned McGuffin inside. The old man would be the vintner and the younger his son, Hans Hauptmann, Jr., McGuffin reasoned. It also seemed that he and the flaxen-haired one, Karl, were working for Otto Kruger.
It was only when McGuffin walked several steps into the kitchen that he noticed the impassive stout woman at the sink, doing something to a slab of raw meat.
“Stay here,” Hans ordered, then walked into the next room, leaving McGuffin with the stout woman and the dog.
She stared impassively at him while she continued to knead the beef, sending a trickle of blood over the sideboard and into the sink. The dog stood in the middle of the room, dividing his attention between his captive and the meat. When McGuffin smiled and nodded at the woman, she frowned, and the dog growled. McGuffin wiped the smile from his mouth and stood motionless until, a few minutes later, Hans returned.
“Come,” he ordered.
McGuffin and the dog, in that order, followed Hans through the door into a large dining room, then out and down a corridor to a smaller room at the front of the building. A small man stood in front of the casement window at the end of the shaded room, silhouetted by the last light of day. McGuffin knew, even before he switched on the green-shaded desk lamp, who he was. The pasty round face that had always resembled an unbaked pie was now even a bit whiter, setting off his dark pop eyes like a pair of eight balls.
“What have you done with my wife and daughter?” McGuffin demanded.
His eyes narrowed, and his mouth fell open. “How - how dare you!” he gasped. “After vut you haf done to me - to come here, to trespass - to demand to, to -” His head shook, and his hands waved, frustrated, unable to continue.
“What happened to you was your fault, not mine,” McGuffin charged.
He clenched his hands into doughy little fists. “You had no business -!” he said, his voice a furious hiss.
“He was my partner. You killed him, and I put you away and that’s how it had to be. But if you’ve done anything to Marilyn or Hillary, you’re gonna wish you were back in Napa rather than here with me,” McGuffin promised. When he raised a hand and pointed his finger at Kruger, the dog growled warningly from behind him. “And I’ll strangle your fuckin’ dog, too,” he added, fueled by frustration. “Where are they? I want ‘em here right now, or the whole fuckin’ bunch of you are goin’ away for a long time!”
The old man began to shake with anger. “You vuld threaten me?” he demanded, lunging across the desk, resting on his knuckles, looking eerily like a frog in the green light. “Vut do you think you haf - vut power? You are not in your courtroom now, Mr. McGuffin. You are in my courtroom. Do you understand?”
“I understand well enough that I didn’t come here without protection, if that’s what you mean.”
Kruger’s bug eyes went quickly to Hans, who shook his head and replied firmly, “There was no one with him.” Kruger straightened up and smiled at his captive.
“I reported their abduction to the San Francisco Police Department and told them I was coming up here,” McGuffin bluffed. “And if I don’t leave here with my wife and daughter, they’re gonna bust this place wide open.”
“And ven vill this take place?” Kruger asked, still smiling.
“Don’t fuck with me,” McGuffin warned. It sounded hollow even to him - and Hans’ laugh only confirmed it.
“Sit down, M
r. McGuffin,” Kruger ordered.
McGuffin felt a chair hit him in the back of the legs, and he sat. The dog followed, uttering a bored sigh. Even he knows I’m a fake, McGuffin thought.
Kruger adjusted the lamp shade until the light shined directly in McGuffin’s eyes, then he drew a long brown cigarette from a pack atop the desk. He lit the cigarette with a small, silver lighter of the kind rarely seen anymore, the expensive kind with wick, flint, and fuel that gets lost instead of thrown away. Then he walked to the window and leaned one elbow against the casement. To McGuffin, almost blinded by the lamp, he was just a shadow marked by an occasional red glow.
“I heard a little vile ago that my old friend Klaus Vandenhof has suddenly taken an interest in me,” came the voice from the shadow. “And now you. I am flattered by all this attention, Mr. McGuffin, but I must know - vut compact haf you made vit Klaus?”
“He offered to help me find my wife and daughter, that’s all,” McGuffin answered.
“You are lying,” Kruger responded softly. “Klaus vill do nothing for no one - least of all look for lost vives and kids - unless there is something in it for him. So tell me, Mr. McGuffin, vut is your business vit Klaus Vandenhof?” he asked, pushing away from the window.
“We have no business,” McGuffin replied.
Kruger’s face appeared suddenly above the lamp, looking this time like a green fish. “Vuld you like to see some dog tricks?” he asked.
McGuffin shook his head as Hans called from behind him, “Schatze!”
Schatze got up and trotted around in front of McGuffin. When Hans placed an open palm on his chest, Schatze crouched, bared her fangs and snarled softly at her seated quarry. McGuffin sat very still, poised to kick out should the dog attack, unsure what to do after that. How do you fight a German shepherd?
“Be very still,” Kruger instructed softly. “At the slightest move, Schatze vill tear your throat out. And I vuld be perfectly vithin my rights. Because even if you came here looking for your vife and child, in the eyes of the law, you are still a trespasser, Mr. McGuffin. You understand, yes? You may speak, but do not nod,” he added quickly.
“I understand,” McGuffin said, with a locked jaw that would be the envy of Locust Valley.
“Good. Now, ven Hans raises his hand to his throat, Schatze vill do the same to your throat, but vit her teeth. Unless you talk,” he added with a quick smirk.
“I think I’d like to talk,” McGuffin said finally.
“Vunderful,” he said, with a nod to Hans.
Hans did something with his hand, and Schatze slumped to the floor. She pressed her jaw against the rug and looked up at McGuffin with brown cow eyes, the whites showing beneath.
“Vixen,” McGuffin said.
“Vell?” Kruger asked, then waited.
“I’ll tell you everything you want to know, but first I have to see my wife and daughter. I have to know they’re all right.”
“They are fine,” Kruger said, shaking his head impatiently.
“Then let me see them.”
“I cannot.”
“Why not?”
“You don’t think I vuld be so stupid as to bring them here, do you? Now if you expect to ever see them again, you vill stop stalling and answer my question. Vut is your business vit Klaus?”
When McGuffin hesitated, the dog looked at Hans as if expecting to be called back to work. McGuffin took a moment to consider the options, then decided to bare his soul. “He wants me to get the egg.”
“The egg?”
“The Fabergé egg,” McGuffin said. “The one you stole from him.”
Otto Kruger’s big round eyes seemed suddenly about to pop out of his head. “Klaus thinks I haf the egg?”
“But just give me your hostages, and I’ll forget about -” McGuffin began, then stopped. “Don’t you?”
Kruger collapsed slowly into his chair and stared dully at McGuffin for a moment. “All this time -,” he said, then began to laugh, softly at first, then louder and louder, until McGuffin was sure he was reverting to madness. Tears ran down his cheeks as he struggled to speak. “All this time Klaus thought I had the egg - and all this time I thought he had it!” he exclaimed, followed by more laughter and tears. “This is very funny, Mr. McGuffin,” he said, wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand. “And very tragic. If Klaus doesn’t haf it, and I don’t haf it, then who does haf it?”
McGuffin shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“What about you, Mr. McGuffin?”
“Me! If I had it, don’t you think I’d offer to trade it for your hostages?”
Kruger studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I’m sure you vuld.” He got to his feet and turned the light from McGuffin’s eyes. “In vich case there is only one man who could haf it.”
“Who’s that?” McGuffin asked.
“Miles Dwindling,” Kruger answered.
“Miles?”
“Is dead, I know. I killed him,” the madman admitted. “And do you know vy?” McGuffin shook his head. “Because he stole the egg from me.”
“Bullshit,” McGuffin replied. “Miles never stole anything from anybody. He was the most honest man I’ve ever known.”
“Mr. Dwindling stole the Fabergé egg from Klaus,” Kruger replied surely. “I know because I hired him to do it - after Klaus threw me out -”
“Of the house!” McGuffin exclaimed. Suddenly he knew the reason for his strange déjà vu experience while driving to Vandenhof’s house. He had been there eighteen years before, only a short while after going to work for Miles. He remembered the white-haired detective sitting stiffly in the passenger’s seat beside him, the black leather bag clutched in his lap, as McGuffin drove to Marin County in the middle of the night.
“A marital problem” was all Miles would say when his young assistant inquired as to the nature of the case. McGuffin remembered letting his boss out near the top of a hill, then waiting for nearly an hour until he returned, still clutching his magical mystery bag. He didn’t know until he had gone through the bag, after Dwindling’s murder, that it contained safecracking tools, among other things, nor did he know until now that it also contained the Fabergé egg.
“I offered Mr. Dwindling $5,000 to get the egg from Klaus’ safe, and he accepted my offer,” Kruger went on. “But ven I vent to his office to collect it, he told me he had changed his mind and returned the egg to Klaus. I believed him and so I killed him. I should haf known he vas lying!” he said, slamming his little fist on the desk. “Once he got a look at the egg and saw how much it vas vorth, he decided to keep it for himself.”
It didn’t seem possible. McGuffin had administered the estate - Miles had died owning nothing but a few suits and an old automobile. It was all he needed - all he ever wanted from life.
Or was it? he wondered. Maybe Miles finally realized he’d been a chump all his life. His penury had cost him a wife and a daughter, and now he was facing old age and poverty. So when he saw his nest egg, as well as a chance to provide for the daughter he had neglected, he took it. Was that so difficult to understand? Or forgive? What would I do if I found the Fabergé egg? Give it to a Nazi? Or to Miles’ daughter? Or would I keep it for my own daughter - or my own old age? I don’t know, and I don’t care because I don’t have it, and I don’t know where the hell it is anyway.
The sudden realization that his mentor, a man he had in large measure patterned his life after, was a thief, had left McGuffin bereft, uncertain now of everything. His entire life, it seemed, was a terrible accident, a cruel joke perpetrated by an old fraud. McGuffin knew his own faults well enough, but he had never seriously padded a bill, or taken any of the opportunities for a dirty buck so often available in his line of work. He knew he would never be rich and doubted that he would leave anything much to Hillary. But until now, filled with Miles Dwindling’s virtuous homilies, he had been able to live with the choice he had made eighteen years before. He had chosen to be a white knight, to joust with dangerous an
d evil men for little more than a pittance, rather than defend them in a court of law for a grand fee. Now he wondered if Miles Dwindling had made a terrible fool of him.
“I haf made a stupid mistake,” Kruger said.
McGuffin looked up and blinked. Kruger was pacing behind the desk light. “Me, too.”
“Perhaps there is still something ve can do.”
“We?”
“You and me. Bring me the egg and I vill release your vife and daughter.”
“I don’t have it,” McGuffin replied.
“But you must know vhere it is. If Mr. Dwindling didn’t return it to Klaus then he must haf had it ven I killed him.”
McGuffin shook his head. “I went through everything after he died - the office, his apartment, his car - and I found nothing.”
“He had it,” Kruger said, slapping his fist into his palm, with the sound of a breaking twig. “He may haf hidden it very vell, but he had it - I know that now.” He came out from behind the light and stood only a few feet from McGuffin. His pop eyes were alight with anticipation. “A safe!” he exclaimed, thrusting a finger at McGuffin.
“I opened it myself; there was nothing there.”
“Hmm -,” He considered this for a moment, then exclaimed, “His vife!”
“Divorced.”
“Children?”
“There was -,” McGuffin began, then stopped.
“Yes?”
“A girlfriend. But she died broke a couple of years later.”
“Scheisse,” he said, punching his palm again. He walked past McGuffin and began to pace behind him. “You knew him better than anyone. He had the egg ven he died, therefore you must know vhere it is.”
“If I did, I’d give it to you. In exchange for my wife and daughter,” McGuffin added.
“No, no,” he spoke from behind McGuffin. “You know vhere it is, but you don’t realize that you do. Think. Vhere vuld Dwindling hide something valuable?”
