by Robert Upton
“Not with me.”
“Driver’s license?”
She shook her head. “I live in New York,” she said, pointing to her address.
“Then you have nothing to prove you’re Ivey Dwindling?”
“Of course I do. But I had no idea I’d be asked to produce it,” she answered peevishly, as she gathered up her cards. “I’ve called myself Shawney O’Sea for more than ten years, thinking that it would help my career - which it hasn’t, I might add. I just wish I knew what the hell was going on,” she said, stuffing the cards into her wallet. “I haven’t been called Ivey since I was in high school, now suddenly everybody expects me to answer to that name. Wait, I do have something!” she remembered, delving back into the wallet. She handed McGuffin a crumpled, graying card. It was an identification card from the New York High School of Performing Arts, with the name and signature of Ivey Dwindling still faintly legible. “I keep it as a joke,” she said.
“I’m glad you do,” he said, returning the card. “Now tell me who else suddenly expects you to answer to that name.”
“Mr. Kemidov,” she answered.
“Kemidov?”
“You don’t know him?” McGuffin shook his head. “Well, he certainly knows all about you. And me,” she added. “I’m sure he’s with the KGB.”
“KGB?” McGuffin repeated. “Why don’t you start from the beginning? Tell me all about Kemidov and how you happened to come looking for me.”
“Let me tell you everything just the way it happened, beginning with yesterday morning,” she suggested. McGuffin nodded. “I received a call from a woman with a rather heavy Russian accent, although I didn’t know immediately what it was. She said she represented a European film company that was interested in me for an international role and could I come and meet the producer, Mr. Kemidov, as soon as possible. Naturally I flew - to a rehearsal studio in the theater district, where I met the woman with the Russian accent. She sat me down on a folding chair in the middle of a big empty room and then walked out, leaving me alone for several minutes. I know,” she said, waving her hands helplessly, “you think I should have gotten up and left right then. But in this business you never know what to expect.”
McGuffin waited while she paced thoughtfully across the room to the window, beyond which a light rain had resumed falling. She gazed at it with little interest, before turning back to the detective and continuing her story. “Finally the door opened and a man entered the room. He was about sixty-five, but trim, with salt-and-pepper hair cut very short. He introduced himself as Mr. Kemidov and called me Miss Dwindling. I was amazed. I asked him how he knew that name, and he told me he had known me for eighteen years. I didn’t know what he was talking about, but I was suddenly very frightened, so I tried acting tough. I told him I had come about a movie, but if there was no movie, I was leaving. Then when I tried to get up, he pressed me back down in the chair. He was incredibly strong for an old man, and I was suddenly terrified. I begged him to let me leave, but he said, ‘Not until you have heard the story of my movie.’”
She took a few steps toward an embroidered chair, started to sit, then quickly straightened up. “He said his movie was about a Russian officer’s search for a Fabergé egg that had been stolen by a German officer during the war,” she went on, working the wallet in her hands like an exercise ball. “He said it was a treasure that belonged to the Russian people, and the officer had dedicated his life to its return. Several times he nearly had it, but each time the German escaped with it. Almost twenty years ago, he traced the egg to California. He was all set to take it from the German, when suddenly a private investigator robbed him of it before he had the chance. And that’s when I realized it wasn’t a movie,” she said, turning her wide violet eyes on McGuffin. “You do know who that private investigator was, don’t you, Mr. McGuffin?”
“I’m afraid so,” McGuffin, the unwitting accomplice, answered.
“He said my father stole the egg on behalf of the man who later killed him, Otto Kruger. And all during the time Kruger was in prison, Mr. Kemidov assumed he had the egg hidden away someplace. But recently, he found out that Kruger never had the egg, that my father had it when Kruger killed him. In fact, that’s why my father was killed, according to Kemidov. He claimed my father refused to turn the egg over to Kruger as he had agreed. Is this true, Mr. McGuffin?”
McGuffin nodded. “Did Kemidov tell you how he learned your father had the egg and not Kruger?”
“Yes,” she said, sinking to the chair. She leaned forward, arms on thighs, and stared into the empty space between herself and the detective. “He said his agents have been watching Kruger since the day he was released from prison. He knows that you contacted Kruger and tried to sell him the Fabergé egg. He also knows you contacted the German officer who had originally stolen it. He knows you have the egg, Mr. McGuffin, and he thinks you’re about to sell it to the highest bidder. That’s why he sent me. He told me to tell you that if you attempt to deliver the egg to either of them, the lives of both you and your loved ones will be in grave danger. Those were his words as he told me to deliver them,” she said, looking up from the blank space and fixing her violet eyes on McGuffin.
“I see,” McGuffin said, nodding slowly. “In other words I’m to give the egg to you, and you’ll deliver it to him in New York.”
“No,” she answered. “You’re to deliver the egg to Mr. Kemidov yourself. All I’m supposed to do is warn you of the gravity of the situation. After that, he’ll be in touch with you.”
“I don’t understand,” McGuffin said, hanging his hand from the back of his neck and staring at the Oriental carpet. “If Kemidov thinks I have the egg, why didn’t he come directly to me? Why did he go through you?”
“Because he thought at first that you were acting on my behalf,” she answered, getting to her feet. “He assumed my father had managed to get the egg to me and now you were selling it for me. But finally, I managed to convince him that I didn’t have the egg, and there’s the rub.”
“The rub?” McGuffin inquired.
“If I don’t have it,” - she said, pointing first to herself, then McGuffin - “you must.”
“Then why didn’t he cut you loose then and there?”
“Because he blames me for what my father did to him. If he doesn’t get the egg, he’ll kill me,” she said, turning her hands palm up. “And you, too,” she added. “The man is obsessed with the Fabergé egg, Mr. McGuffin. I’m convinced he’ll kill anyone to get it.”
“Did he say he was KGB?” McGuffin asked.
“He didn’t have to. He spoke of his agents as if he had a great network at his beck and call. It might sound hysterical, but I’m convinced that Mr. Kemidov is a member of the KGB,” she stated firmly. “Please, Mr. McGuffin, you must give him the egg.”
“I don’t have it,” McGuffin replied.
“Don’t have it? You mean you sold it?” she asked, eyes wide.
“I mean I’ve never even seen the goddamned thing,” McGuffin shot back.
“You’re lying -!” she gasped.
“Yeah, I’m lying! For the last eighteen years, thanks to your old man, I’ve been getting shot at, knifed and beaten up more than a high school teacher. All I own in life is a seven-year-old clunker and four brown suits - no, make that three, one of them got chewed up by a dog - but in reality, I’m an eccentric millionaire with a Fabergé egg stashed away in a gumshoe box. Believe me, I don’t have it!”
“Why should I believe you when you don’t believe me?” she demanded. “Did I ask you for identification? I told you I’m Ivey Dwindling, and that should be good enough! I was born thirty-one years ago in San Francisco where I lived for ten years before moving to Acapulco with my mother! I went to high school in New York where I lived with my aunt until I began pursuing an acting career under the name Shawney O’Sea, and I can prove all of it if you want to come to New York with me!” she exclaimed, brushing angrily at her fallen hair. “You’re the one who
got me into this mess - you and my father - and now you’re acting as if it’s my fault somebody wants to kill me!” she concluded, as tears began welling in her eyes.
“I had nothing to do with it!” McGuffin protested. “And I’ve already got too many other lives to worry about to take you on as well!”
“I’m not looking for protection, I’m looking for the egg!” she cried. “I thought you might help me, but I was wrong, so let’s forget about it! Just take your silly hat and get out of here!”
McGuffin picked up his damp fedora and looked closely at it. “This is my rain hat,” he explained.
“Whatever it is, please take it and go,” she said, pointing to the door.
McGuffin picked up his raincoat and walked across the rug to the foyer. There, he stopped and turned, idly twisting the hat in his hands. “What do you intend to do now?” he asked.
“What I came to do - find the egg and return it to Kemidov,” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest.
“You know you’ll be giving up a couple of million dollars,” he warned.
“I’d rather give up a couple of million dollars than a couple of innocent lives. Or one, anyway,” she added.
McGuffin stared, trying to figure her out. If she was who she said she was, she might be able to help him find the egg. But if she did, he would have to betray her. He would have to take the egg from her and deliver it to Kruger in exchange for Hillary and her mother, leaving Shawney, or Ivey, out in the cold with Kemidov. It was a cruel choice, but McGuffin was up to it.
“Okay, I’ll throw in with you,” he said. He walked across the room, hand extended, and stopped in front of her.
Her arms remained folded over her chest. “Why the sudden change of heart?” she asked.
“Because I don’t want to see a couple of innocent people get killed either,” he answered.
Her violet eyes grew soft as she slowly untwined her arms and reached for his hand. “Partners,” she said.
“Partners,” McGuffin repeated, taking her cool, soft hand in his. He wondered what Miles Dwindling would make of his pragmatism now.
“Well - now what do we do?” she asked.
“We go on an egg hunt,” McGuffin answered. “But first you’d better get into something more practical. That silk dress makes you look like a tourist.”
She regarded the sky-blue dress sheepishly. “I’d forgotten that San Francisco could be so cold. I’ll just be a minute,” she said, tossing her wallet on the couch, then turning and walking quickly to the bedroom.
When she closed the door, McGuffin pounced on the wallet. He found a few more identification cards, all in the name of Shawney O’Sea, as well as several hundred dollars in cash and traveler’s checks. He also found a folded Pan Am envelope containing a receipt from a New York—to—San Francisco flight and an open return. He returned everything to the wallet and replaced it on the couch, then sat and waited for her return.
She emerged from the bedroom a short while later, looking very preppy in a long tweed skirt, loafers, and turtleneck sweater. She trailed a Burberry raincoat across the carpet, which she allowed McGuffin to help her into.
“That’s more like it,” he said, steering her to the door.
They walked quickly through the gray drizzle as far as Union Street before McGuffin managed to hail a cab. “The Oakland Queen on the Embarcadero,” he ordered, as he followed her into the back of the car.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“My office,” he said, as the cab pulled away. “I’ve got a trunk full of your father’s things I’d like you to look through - just in case it might jog something.”
“What sort of things?”
“Files, a few mementos from the office, his magical mystery bag. . . I’d like you to go through the papers, look for a familiar name, an old friend, maybe even a relative. Or a place. Anything that might tell us where he’d stash a piece of hot jewelry.”
“What do you mean, ‘his magical mystery bag’?” she asked, laying a hand on McGuffin’s knee.
“That’s what your father called the leather valise he used to carry his burg - detective tools. Why, does it mean anything to you?”
“It sounds theatrical - like a magician’s prop.”
McGuffin shook his head. “It was just a name he gave it.”
“Yes, but why?” she asked, turning to him. “Did you examine it closely?”
“Of course I examined it closely. What kind of detective do you think I am?”
“You’re sure there was no false bottom or secret compartment or anything like that?” she persisted.
“Now you sound theatrical,” McGuffin said. “Believe me, the egg is not in the bag.”
“I believe you,” she said, batting her violet eyes.
“Good.”
“But I’d still like to have a look for myself.”
“Just what I like, a partnership founded on trust,” the detective said, glancing through the window at the fog and rain.
The moment he saw the patrol car parked rakishly in front of the Queen, light flashing, one door hanging open, he realized what had happened. Someone other than Vandenhof, who had already been through the place and found nothing, had broken into his office while he was at Shawney’s apartment. “Shit!” he exclaimed, digging into his pocket for a roll of bills. He thrust a ten at the driver and jumped out of the car a moment before it came to a full stop.
“Wait!” Shawney called, as McGuffin dashed up the gangplank and down the corridor.
The puzzled tenants watched from open doorways as their security officer, followed by a beautiful redhead, ran past and up the gangway, only seconds behind the cops. He scaled the stairs in threes, then froze to the deck in front of his office door when a young cop spun on him with a .357 magnum.
“Hold it right there!” he ordered.
“I’m McGuffin, security!” he called, lifting his hands.
A second cop, holding the perpetrator face down on the deck, finished cuffing his hands behind his back, then looked up at McGuffin. “It’s okay, he’s Sullivan’s friend,” he informed his partner.
McGuffin dropped his hands as the cop holstered his cannon. He didn’t have to ask who the perpetrator was; he recognized the loose Gucci loafer lying on the deck.
“McGuffin, tell ‘em who I am!” his landlord ordered.
“We caught him tryin’ to bust in,” the younger cop said, displaying the screwdriver he had taken from Elmo. “You know him?”
“Of course he knows me, I own the boat!” Elmo shouted.
McGuffin shook his head. “Never saw him before in my life.”
“McGuffin!” he wailed.
“The guy who owns this boat claims it has no security,” McGuffin said.
“I’m gonna kill you,” Elmo said.
“Easy, fella, you’re in enough trouble already,” the older cop warned. “You want us to book him?”
“If you think it’ll save him from a life of crime,” McGuffin answered.
“Amos, I’m gonna sue -!”
“Take him in,” McGuffin ordered.
“No!” Elmo cried, as the cop pulled him to his feet. “Amos, please tell them -!”
“Tell them what? That you made a mistake, that security aboard the Queen is excellent?”
“Yes, I made a mistake,” Elmo admitted.
“And you would like the security officer to remain aboard for as long as he likes?”
“Don’t push it, Amos.”
“Book him.”
“Okay!” Elmo said, when he felt the nudge. “You can stay on for as long as you like.”
McGuffin peered closely at his landlord and exclaimed, “Good heavens, it’s Elmo!”
The older cop released the cuffs as Shawney O’Sea appeared wide-eyed at the top of the stairs.
“It’s all right,” McGuffin called, signaling her forward. The younger cop stared at her as she slowly walked over, scarcely noticing the tightly folded twenty McGuffin stuc
k in his hand. “I’ll tell Sullivan you’re on the case,” he promised.
“Thanks,” the young cop said, staring at Shawney.
McGuffin accompanied the cops as far as the top of the stairs, then waved to the tenants clustered below. “It’s all right, you can go back inside. Somebody attempted to break into my office while I was away, but you needn’t worry, he won’t be bothering anyone for a long time.” They applauded as McGuffin turned and grinned at Elmo.
“Cute, very cute,” Elmo said, rubbing his wrists.
“So is breaking and entering,” McGuffin said, pulling the door key from his pocket.
“This is my boat,” Elmo protested, as McGuffin brushed past him.
“But it’s my office,” McGuffin said, as he opened the door. He waited until Shawney had stepped inside, then turned again on Elmo. “And if you ever again try to break in, I’ll have you arrested.”
“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” Elmo asked.
“No,” McGuffin said, and slammed the door on Elmo.
“Does this happen very often?” Shawney asked.
“Too often,” McGuffin said, removing his hat and tossing it on the bed. The coat followed. “You can hang yours there,” he said, pointing to a hook on the bulkhead behind her.
She removed her Burberry and laid it on the bed beside McGuffin’s knock-off. “Nice place,” she observed.
“Yeah, quite a change from your father’s place on Market Street,” McGuffin remarked, as he crossed the cabin to his cluttered desk.
“Market Street?” she asked. “I seem to remember him being on Post Street.”
“You’re right, I moved to Market Street after he was killed,” McGuffin lied, as he pulled the drawer open. “Funny how the mind plays tricks. Here it is.”
“What?”
“The key to the engine room. You wait right here,” he said, crossing to the door.
“Can I help?”
“It’s not necessary,” he said, as he stepped out and closed the door on her.
He was, after all, a hero, and a hero should have no trouble getting someone to help him haul Miles’ trunk up to his office. But a few minutes later, after asking in each of the four offices on the main deck, he had no volunteer. May they all be robbed, McGuffin grunted to himself as he pulled the heavy trunk from behind his chicken wire enclosure. It moved easily enough on the steel deck, but when he finally got it to the top of the stairs, he was wet with sweat and breathing heavily.
