The Faberge Egg

by Robert Upton

  “When will it end?” she asked.

  “When we have the egg,” McGuffin answered.

  “I mean the rain.”

  “Soon. Everything has to end sooner or later - books, movies, life, the world -”

  “My, my,” she said, as she raised her coffee cup.

  McGuffin stroked his chin - he hadn’t shaved in nearly two days - and turned his eyes on her. “I’ve been thinking about secret compartments.”

  “You think it was in the bag?”

  “I hope not,” McGuffin answered, shaking his head wearily. “Because if it was, it’s now in the hands of a stranger, and it’s unlikely that any of us will ever see it again. I was thinking about the possibility of a secret compartment somewhere in your father’s office.”

  “Wouldn’t you have known if there were?” she asked as she replaced her cup on the saucer.

  “There were a lot of things I didn’t know about your father,” he answered. “He was the kind of man who favored secret recesses. But the office was just one small room - not even a closet - and a few pieces of furniture. I took the bookcase with me when I moved to Sansome Street. I’m sure there was nothing there. And I must have searched the desk thoroughly.”

  “You don’t remember?” she asked.

  “I was settling his affairs, not searching for a million-dollar jewel,” he replied peevishly. The missing bag was chafe enough.

  “What happened to the desk?” she went on, heedless to the effect of her implied criticism.

  “I left it there.”

  “No -,” she whispered.

  “It was ugly - your father used to let his cigars burn out on it!” he protested.

  “Do you think it might still be there?”

  “Shawney, it was a worthless pile of scorched oak,” he explained patiently.

  “It can’t hurt to look,” she said, quickly dabbing at her lips with her napkin. “Waiter!”

  “Shit,” McGuffin said, reaching for his wallet.

  McGuffin hadn’t been back to the old building on Post Street in more than sixteen years. Aside from the name on the formerly bare frosted glass of room 308, Thaddeus Thane, Certified Public Accountant, things looked the same.

  “This is dumb,” McGuffin said.

  “Knock,” she ordered.

  McGuffin knocked, and a moment later the door swung open, revealing a short, fat man with rolled sleeves and a long cigar. “Mr. Thane?”

  Thane stared curiously, first at McGuffin, then at Shawney - it was obvious he didn’t get much business off the street - before replying, “Yeah?”

  “My name is Amos McGuffin. I’m a private investigator.”

  “Thane’s not here!” the little man cried and tried to close the door.

  “I’m not a process server!” McGuffin called, planting himself firmly against the door.

  “This was my father’s office, I’m looking for something of sentimental value,” Shawney quickly added.

  “Don’t give me that shit,” he grunted, struggling to close the door. “I been here sixteen years!”

  “Then you must know Miles Dwindling - the guy who was here before you,” McGuffin muttered through a clenched jaw. The little accountant was stronger than he looked.

  “The guy who was shot?”

  The pressure against the door was relieved. “Right. I worked for him at the time.”

  Thaddeus Thane pulled the door back, took two deep breaths and asked, “So what’s it got to do with me?”

  “He may have left something in his office when he died,” McGuffin said, peering over the little man’s bald head. The office looked much the same as it had, except for the mismatched filing cabinets that lined the walls. And the desk, partially concealed by cartons and mounds of papers, seemed to be oak.

  “Whattaya, kidding - I been here sixteen years, I never seen nothin’.”

  “This was very small, a piece of jewelry,” Shawney said.

  “Jewelry?” he asked, eyes alight.

  “Nothing of any value,” McGuffin said quickly. “It was his wedding ring. His daughter is getting married, and she’d like to have it.”

  “Her?” he asked, pointing an ink-stained finger at Shawney. “You’re gettin’ married?” Shawney smiled and nodded vigorously. “You talked to your accountant about this?” he asked.

  “Accountant?”

  “She doesn’t have an accountant - yet,” McGuffin said.

  “No accountant?” he asked. “Because there can be serious tax consequences. Everybody should have an accountant.”

  “He’s right,” McGuffin said. “Especially somebody in Bruce’s tax bracket.”

  “Lotta money?” Thane asked.

  “Scads,” McGuffin answered.

  “Let me give you my card,” he said, then turned and walked to the desk.

  McGuffin and Shawney followed him in. While Thane looked for his card, McGuffin edged over to the corner of the desk and lifted a pile of papers. Under the papers was a row of cigar burns. “This is it,” McGuffin said.

  “What? Hey, those are confidential papers!” Thane shouted, lunging across them.

  “We don’t want to look at your papers,” McGuffin assured him. “We just want to have a look inside this desk.”

  “There is no ring in this desk,” Thane said firmly. “I should know, I been usin’ it for sixteen years.”

  “There may be a secret compartment,” McGuffin said.

  “Secret compartment? I think you been readin’ too many spy books.”

  “My father was fond of such things,” Shawney explained. “And if I’m right, I’ll be happy to pay you for your time.”

  “How much?” Thane asked.

  “Five hundred dollars,” McGuffin said.

  “I thought Bruce was rich,” the accountant reminded him.

  “That’s true,” McGuffin said. “But Bruce wants her to wear his mother’s ring, so he won’t contribute to this.” Thane glanced skeptically from one to the other.

  “I think I can go to a thousand,” Shawney said.

  Thane continued to search their faces. “This is legit. You ain’t from the IRS or somethin’?”

  “Mr. Thane, if we were IRS, we’d come in with a subpoena rather than waste time like this, wouldn’t we?”

  Thane considered for a moment, then nodded. “Okay, but you don’t look at none of my papers. I catch you lookin’ at the papers and the deal’s off.”

  “Thanks,” McGuffin said, going for the drawers.

  He pulled the middle drawer out completely, examined it quickly, and handed it to Shawney. Thane watched closely as the detective and the bride-to-be pulled all seven drawers from the desk and piled them on the floor. Tapping noises issued from beneath the desk until, a few minutes later, the detective emerged.

  “Yes?” the bride-to-be asked.

  “No,” the detective answered.

  Thane waited while they replaced the drawers, then followed them to the door. “Have Bruce give me a call,” he said, handing his card to Shawney.

  “Sure,” Shawney said. She dropped the card in the ashtray as they waited for the elevator.

  When the security officer of the Oakland Queen walked down the main deck with Shawney O’Sea, all of the architects looked up from their glass-walled bins, and one even walked to the doorway to watch her climb the stairs. It was a hopeful sign, McGuffin thought, that men responsible for some of the ugliest buildings in San Francisco could still appreciate classic beauty.

  He opened the door to his office and stepped in ahead of Shawney, clearing a path with his feet as he slogged across the cabin, still cluttered with the files from her father’s trunk.

  “I’ll clean this up while you shower and shave,” she volunteered, watching from the doorway as papers flew.

  “You don’t have to do that,” McGuffin said, as Miles’ basketball trophy clattered across the deck.

  “Really, I’d rather,” she said, hurrying across the cabin after it.

 
; McGuffin shrugged. “Okay, I’ll help you.”

  “It isn’t necessary, take your shower,” she said, carrying the trophy to the trunk.

  McGuffin watched as she carefully placed her father’s trophy in the bottom of the trunk, then knelt down and began gathering files in her arm. After a moment, he knelt opposite her and began picking up files. “I’m sorry I kicked your father’s stuff around like that,” he said.

  “It’s all right,” she replied. “I was hoping my father’s bag might magically appear under all this mess.”

  “Lay off me about that bag, will you?” McGuffin pleaded, settling back on his heels.

  “Sorry.”

  “And give me the bird,” he pointed.

  “I’ll give you the bird,” she replied, as she reached for the tin crow.

  McGuffin took it between his chin and the files, then got to his feet and walked to the trunk. He stood poised to drop everything in the trunk, then froze.

  “What’s the matter?” Shawney asked.

  “What you just said, it reminded me of your father’s last words. I thought he said, ‘He’s out of his bird.’ But maybe it only sounded like that. Maybe he really said, ‘. . . out of the bird,’ or ‘. . . in the bird’!”

  Shawney came off the deck like a cat, grabbed the tin crow, and howled. “It’s sharp!” she said, shaking a cut finger.

  “I’ll get a bandage,” McGuffin offered.

  “Never mind, open it!” she ordered, thrusting the bird at McGuffin.

  McGuffin carried the crow to his desk, Shawney on his heels. She watched, torn finger in her mouth, as he pried at the seam with a letter opener. He managed to force the point in about an inch, but when he began to twist, the opener snapped in two pieces. “Shit!”

  “A screwdriver!” she said.

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Butter knife?”

  “Only plastic.”

  “Bachelors,” she muttered, looking about the office. “What do you have?”

  McGuffin, too, looked about the cabin until he remembered. “A shoehorn!”

  Shawney shot him an exasperated glance, then continued to look about the room for a makeshift tool while McGuffin went to the chart drawer for a metal shoehorn. When he found it and managed to force it into the seam of the bird, her exasperated expression gave way to a dubious one; and when the crow popped suddenly apart, revealing a nest of matted straw, changed once again to a look of breathless anticipation.

  “It must be,” she said softly, watching, heedless of the blood dripping from her finger, while McGuffin carefully pulled the straw away to reveal. . . .

  “The Fabergé egg,” he announced dully.

  They gazed silently at the jeweled egg lying on a bed of straw inside a crib made from half a tin crow from Tijuana, unable as yet to comprehend fully their discovery. It was, even to the detective to whom it represented two lives, an undeniably exquisite jewel, approximately the size of his tightly clenched fist. And although untouched for more than eighteen years, each perfect golden eagle still shimmered, as if about to fly from the opaque white enamel, filigreed by silver and platinum twisting among rubies and sapphires. Even the pedestal, the Russian imperial shield carved from blue-black porphyry and set with gold, diamonds, and pearls, was by itself a jewel fit for a museum.

  McGuffin lifted it reverently from the straw, like a priest raising the monstrance, and held it up for Shawney’s inspection, turning it slowly in the lamplight so that each stone and gold facet radiated with a colored light that merged in an unreal glow. Framed in each of the imperial Russian eagles could be seen the tiny but perfect likeness of each of the Romanoff czars.

  “How incredibly beautiful,” she said.

  “And ingenious,” McGuffin added, searching for the lever that would open the egg. When he found it on the bottom of the pedestal and moved it, the seemingly seamless egg opened like a flower, revealing a globe with two maps of the Russian empire inset in gold, one inscribed 1613, the other 1913.

  “What do you intend to do with it?” Shawney asked, her voice no longer coming from beside him. When McGuffin turned, he saw her standing in the open doorway, her hand in her purse.

  “I intend to trade it for two innocent lives,” McGuffin said, watching as she slowly withdrew her hand from her purse, revealing a white handkerchief. He sighed audibly when she wrapped the handkerchief around her cut finger.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “No, nothing,” he answered quickly. He turned and walked to the desk, placed the egg beside the phone, and lifted the receiver. “I’m going to leave you with a friend of mine, a cop named Sullivan, so you won’t have to worry about Kemidov. Then I’ll phone Kruger and arrange for the exchange.”

  “What about Vandenhof?” she asked.

  “I’ll worry about him later,” he said as he dialed Goody’s number where Sullivan would be at the cocktail hour.

  “I should worry now if I were you,” a familiar voice warned.

  McGuffin snapped around to see Vandenhof’s large frame filling the doorway, the Luger in his hand. He pushed Shawney aside and stepped inside, followed by Toby, a new gun in hand, bigger than the Beretta in McGuffin’s coat pocket. He pulled the door closed as Vandenhof ordered, “Hang up the phone.” McGuffin heard Goody’s voice a moment before hanging up. “Now stand away from the desk,” the fat man ordered, fanning the air with the Luger.

  McGuffin moved to one side as Vandenhof crossed the room, hungrily eyeing the Fabergé egg atop the desk. His hand shook as he reached for it, raised it slowly to within a few inches of his fervid eyes, and licked his fat lips, as if he were getting ready to swallow it. His shallow breathing became audible, resembling a chuckle, until he gasped suddenly, almost orgasmically, “Beauty, you are mine!”

  McGuffin was sickened. “What about our deal?” he asked, knowing it was futile.

  “Our deal -” Vandenhof repeated, followed by a short laugh, “required that you deliver the egg to me, not Otto. You betrayed me, Mr. McGuffin. Not that it matters,” he added, chortling softly, “for I never had any intention of helping you obtain the release of your wife and child once I had the egg. So let’s say we are even,” he proposed, snapping a white silk handkerchief from his breast pocket while clutching the egg in the same hand. He spread the handkerchief out on the desk, placed the egg in the center, folded the corners over it, and dropped it into the side pocket of his jacket.

  McGuffin was looking for an opportunity to jump for the gun and Toby saw it. “Go ahead, beat the bullet,” the gunman urged.

  “Amos, don’t -!” Shawney pleaded.

  “Toby, dear, be patient,” Vandenhof soothed as he waddled back to his place beside the door.

  McGuffin’s chances of beating two guns were about a hundred to one, but his and Shawney’s chances of living if he did nothing were nil, he now knew. “If you think you’re going to kill us and walk away, there’s something you’d better know,” he began, talking fast. “This boat is under constant police surveillance. The cops saw you come aboard, they know who you are. You might kill us before they get here, but you’ll never get off the boat.”

  “I’m afraid the surveillance is not exactly constant, Mr. McGuffin. They come by every half hour, which gives Toby,” he said, glancing at his watch, “about twenty-four minutes to kill you. You won’t require any more time than that, will you, Toby?”

  “It’ll take about a millionth of a second,” Toby replied.

  “It won’t work, there are people in the offices downstairs,” McGuffin tried.

  Vandenhof shook his head. “They’re all gone for the day.”

  “But why kill us? You’ve got the egg, take it and go,” McGuffin urged.

  “I only wish it were that easy,” Vandenhof said with a sad face. “Some men can forget, if not entirely forgive, a betrayal - even if it means the loss of one’s wife and child. Others, the Elie Wiesels of this world, can never forget. Injury, imagined or otherwise, renders s
uch men forever indifferent to self, impervious to comfort, beauty, wealth, or any of the other opiates that an otherwise harsh society might provide a certain privileged few. And you, Mr. McGuffin, although you would have me think otherwise, are an avenger.”

  “I prefer to think of it as justice,” McGuffin said.

  “While I must think of survival,” Vandenhof countered. “If I allow you to live, you will not allow me to live. Please, don’t deny it.”

  “I’m not, I just want to know how you got the egg in the first place before I’m killed for it.”

  “It was given to me in exchange for a trainload of Jews,” Vandenhof answered, shrugging easily.

  “Yeah, I thought it was something like that,” McGuffin said. “And the Jews, were they saved?”

  The fat man chuckled. “One trainload of Jews for a Fabergé egg? Surely you are not serious.”

  “You’re right, Vandenhof, you have to kill me.”

  “You are most understanding, sir.”

  “But not her.”

  “I will take care of her,” Vandenhof said, taking Shawney by the arm. When she cried Amos’ name, the fat man yanked her to the door. “Now I’m afraid Toby must get on with his business before your friends return.” He opened the door and pulled Shawney through the hatchway after him, stopping and turning for a final shot. “I must say, Mr. McGuffin, even though you won’t be needing any more references, that I found your services most satisfactory. Thank you, sir, and goodbye.”

  “Amos!” Shawney cried again as Vandenhof slammed the door.

  McGuffin turned from the door to Toby.

  “I thought this day would never come,” the executioner said.

  “You aren’t that dumb, are you, Toby?”

  “Just keep up with the insults, McGuffin, so I won’t feel bad taking you down piece by piece,” Toby said, shifting the big automatic from hand to hand.

  “He’s setting you up to take the fall. Why else do you think he removed himself from the scene?” McGuffin argued desperately. “If I’m killed, the cops will come straight for you and Vandenhof - they know all about you.”

  “Knowing is one thing, proving is another,” Toby replied, unmoved by McGuffin’s brief.