The Faberge Egg

by Robert Upton

  “Right, the broad killed Vandenhof -”

  “And Vandenhof killed her,” McGuffin added.

  There was a pause from the usually unflappable police officer. “If this catches on, I’m gonna be out of a job. Where are you?” McGuffin gave him the address. “You’re sure you had nothin’ to do with this, huh, Amos?”

  “Not this one,” McGuffin answered.

  “There’s another one?”

  “You’ll also find a body on my boat.”

  There was a second pause. “You know, McGuffin, you’re turnin’ into a regular fuckin’ cadaver supply house. What’s with this one?”

  “I’ll tell you about it later,” McGuffin promised.

  “Whattaya mean later! You can’t go around leavin’ all those corpses lyin’ around!” Sullivan hollered as McGuffin pressed the disconnect bar.

  He fished in his pocket for the number, found it, and dialed. A man answered. McGuffin identified himself and asked to speak to Otto Kruger. A few moments later, Kruger picked up.

  “Do you haf it?” he demanded.

  “Yeah, I’ve got it,” McGuffin answered.

  “Vunderful!” the little German exclaimed. “Ven vill you deliver it?”

  “Not so fast,” McGuffin said. “How do I know that they’re still alive?”

  “How do I know that you haf the egg?”

  “I’m prepared to prove it.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll show you a photograph of it.”

  “That proves nothing. Klaus could haf given you a photograph.”

  “Not very likely,” McGuffin said, glancing down at the dead man. “But just so you’ll be sure, I’ll make it a nice, shiny, new Polaroid, with a copy of today’s Chronicle thrown in. After that, I want to speak to Marilyn and Hillary on the phone. Then, when I’m satisfied that they’re alive, I’ll tell you how the exchange is to take place. Do you understand?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Good,” McGuffin said, looking at his watch. “I’m leaving now. I should be at your place within a couple of hours. Just one more thing -”

  “Yes?”

  “I won’t have the egg with me, just a picture, so don’t send your boys to intercept me or do something foolish like that, okay? Because if you kill me, you’ve killed the goose that lays the golden egg.”

  “You can trust me,” Kruger answered.

  “Yeah,” McGuffin said as he lowered the phone to the cradle.

  He found the Fabergé egg in Shawney’s half-packed bag, still wrapped in Vandenhof’s white silk handkerchief. He slipped it into the left pocket of his tweed jacket, drew the belt of his raincoat tightly around his waist, then walked out into the wet, San Francisco night. He was stepping into a cab at the corner of Union and Leavenworth when the first prowl car rounded the corner with siren wailing and lights flashing. McGuffin ordered the driver to take him first to a newsstand, then to a penny arcade off Market Street. At the first stop, he bought the day’s Chronicle, and at the second, he leaned over the front seat and said, “Keep the meter running, I’ll be back in five minutes.”

  Before he could protest, the man in the wet coat, badly in need of a shave, had disappeared into the seedy crowd surrounding the entry to the arcade. The driver was sure he had been stiffed, but he waited until, a few minutes later, his fare returned, minus the newspaper, and ordered him to Executive Rent-A-Car on Van Ness Avenue.

  “Sure,” the driver said, wondering who would rent a car to a bum like that.

  Under normal circumstances, McGuffin would have driven his own car to the Hauptmann Vineyards, but with the homicide squad swarming all over his boat and a probable APB out on him by now, the circumstances were scarcely usual. So McGuffin drove to St. Helena in an anonymous beige Plymouth, wiper blades gliding rhythmically back and forth against the steady rain. On the seat beside him were three small photos of McGuffin’s hands holding the Fabergé egg next to the day’s Chronicle, scarcely high art but sufficient to the task. In the left pocket of his brown tweed jacket rested the real thing. He patted it reassuringly from time to time as he drove through the blackness. He didn’t think Otto would risk the loss of the egg by sending his goons to intercept him - assuming he had hostages to trade for it - but if the madman had murdered them and had nothing to trade, then he knew anything could happen.

  When a car fell in behind him as he approached Napa, he removed Toby’s automatic from his jacket and placed it beside the photos. When he pushed the Plymouth to eighty and the trailing car disappeared in the rearview mirror, he slowed the car and replaced the gun in his pocket. Everything’s going to be fine, McGuffin told himself, as the lights of Napa came into view. The phone call proves they’re still alive - or were then. And why would Kruger kill them now, when the egg is about to be his? McGuffin asked himself. Because he’s a madman, he answered. Everything’s going to be fine, he again reassured himself.

  McGuffin drove slowly around the town square, past gift shops, restaurants, inns, and hotels until he came to a relatively large hotel announcing a vacancy. He parked in front of the building, then stepped out into the drizzle and hurried inside. The elderly man behind the high wooden desk, alone in the lobby, watched somewhat apprehensively as the man with the stubble of beard hurried toward him, both hands deep in his wet trench coat. Here, clearly, was a man with a purpose, good or bad.

  “I’d like a room,” the man said, removing a hand and stroking his beard, as if to acknowledge an unusual condition.

  When he failed to wince at the steep tourist’s price, the old man decided he must be all right. He took a key down from the board while his guest filled out the registration card.

  “I’d also like a large manila envelope, some tissue paper and a roll of tape. Do you think you could find that?” McGuffin asked, digging into his pocket and coming out with a roll of bills.

  “Of course, Mr. Andrews,” the clerk said, reading upside down from the registration card, a professional skill long acquired. He disappeared into the office behind the desk and emerged a few minutes later with everything Mr. Andrews had requested.

  McGuffin pushed a twenty across the desk, picked up his purchase and went to his room on the third floor. When he returned, scarcely fifteen minutes later, he placed the sealed envelope containing a bulky object atop the desk along with another twenty.

  “I’d like you to check this for me,” McGuffin told the clerk.

  “Of course, Mr. Andrews,” the clerk said, reaching under the desk for a plastic disk with the number 13 printed on it.

  “Could you give me another number?” McGuffin asked. The old man smiled condescendingly and produced number 14. “And if I haven’t come back to pick it up by checkout time tomorrow, I want you to mail it - it’s already addressed.”

  “I’ll do that,” the old man promised, as he palmed his second twenty of the night.

  The clerk waited until his generous guest had walked out of the hotel and into the rain, then looked at the face of the envelope. It was addressed to Goody’s Bar and Grill in San Francisco. He felt the object in the envelope, round and smooth beneath the tissue and tape, and wondered what it might be. It felt like one of those glass balls that snow when you shake them, but why anybody would want to spend forty bucks to send a piece of junk like that to San Francisco was beyond him.

  Past the Old Bale Mill beyond St. Helena, McGuffin slowed the car and peered through the shafts of wet, gray light for the peeling sign that marked the gravel road to the Hauptmann Vineyards. He saw it too late, skidded to a stop, and backed up to the gravel road. A dull light poked out from the library and the kitchen, but the upper floors of the castle were dark. Definitely not a warming sight, McGuffin decided, as he braked in front of the house. When he thrust the photographs into his shirt pocket, his fingers brushed against the plastic claim check. He removed the number 14 chip, stared indecisively at it for a moment, and then stuffed it into the ashtray under a pile of butts.

  A porch light came on as McG
uffin stepped out of the car. He pulled his hat brim down and walked quickly up the puddled path as the front door opened for him, revealing Hans Hauptmann, Jr., and Schatze, the wonder dog.

  “Have a nice trip, Mr. McGuffin?” Hans asked, as the detective climbed the few steps to the porch. The dog was quiet but attentive.

  “Where is he?” McGuffin demanded, brushing past the young man.

  Ahead of him, Karl stepped into the foyer and motioned in the direction of the library with a .45 automatic. “In here,” he ordered.

  “I thought this was supposed to be a peaceful transaction,” McGuffin said as he stepped into the library.

  “It is just a precaution.” Otto Kruger spoke from behind the desk in the shadowed room. The only light came from the green-shaded desk lamp meant for writing, but lately used for interrogation. “You haf brought the egg?”

  “I told you I wasn’t bringing it,” McGuffin answered, as he reached into his shirt pocket for the photographs of the same.

  “Then you won’t mind if Karl searches your car,” he said, motioning to the young man. “Search it thoroughly,” he called, as Karl pocketed his gun and left the room, only to be replaced by Hans and Schatze. “And you won’t mind if Hans searches you,” the pie-faced man added.

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” McGuffin said. Schatze growled menacingly when McGuffin pushed Hans’ hands aside and walked quickly across the room, flushing Kruger out of his chair, a snub-nosed revolver in hand. “Relax,” McGuffin said, tossing the photos on the desk. “I told you I was bringing proof that I have the egg, and I have. Now, I want proof that Marilyn and Hillary are alive and well.”

  “And so you shall, Mr. McGuffin,” Kruger murmured as he peered bug-eyed at the photographs. “Yes, yes - this is it - the Fabergé egg,” he said, the excitement building in his voice. “How I haf wanted it. Now everything vill be like it vas.” His face was aglow with excitement as he turned to McGuffin. “But I still must search you. Raise your hands,” he ordered, thrusting the gun at McGuffin.

  “Shit,” McGuffin muttered, as he lazily lifted his hands.

  Hans patted him down, quickly and inefficiently, but managed to find Toby’s automatic in his jacket pocket.

  “I thought this vas to be a peaceful transaction,” Kruger observed as Hans placed the gun on the desk.

  “Just a precaution,” McGuffin replied. “Now let me talk to my daughter.”

  Kruger shook his head slowly. “That is not possible.”

  “What! I told you there’d be no exchange until I talked to them, and you agreed!” McGuffin charged.

  “I said I understood, I did not agree,” Kruger replied.

  “Don’t play word games with me, Kruger! You do, and you’ll never see the egg, I promise!”

  Kruger shrugged easily. “Then you vill never see your vife and daughter.”

  “You’ve killed them,” McGuffin said weakly.

  “I haf not killed them. I haf moved them to a place close by vit no phone. All you haf to do is gif me the egg, and I vill bring them to you.”

  McGuffin shook his head. “And all you have to do is deliver them to Goody’s bar in San Francisco. When I know they’re there, I’ll give you the egg.”

  “You must forgive me, Mr. McGuffin, but I don’t believe any man vuld valk away so easily from several million dollars.”

  “Then a mutual exchange on neutral ground,” McGuffin suggested.

  “Vut neutral ground?”

  “The town square in Napa.”

  Kruger considered for a moment, then asked, “Vut assurance do I haf that the police vill not be vaiting?”

  “I’ll stay here until your hostages are in place. Then we’ll leave together, and we’ll all meet in the center of the square where the exchange will take place.”

  Kruger fixed his fish eyes on the detective and blinked as he asked, “How vill you get the egg?”

  “I’ll tell you that when the time comes.”

  “It’s in the car!” Kruger exclaimed triumphantly. He picked up Toby’s .45 as he rounded the desk and handed it to Hans. “Vatch him,” he ordered.

  “It’s not in the car,” McGuffin said wearily, as Kruger hurried from the room. “Shit.” He dropped into the leather chair beside the desk and looked up at Hans, awkwardly pointing the gun at him. “Don’t point that thing at me, Hans, it might go off.”

  “Sorry,” the blond youth said, turning the gun away from McGuffin.

  “What’s in this for you, Hans? A couple of thousand dollars? Ten percent of whatever the egg brings?”

  Hans shook his head. “Half.”

  “Half,” McGuffin repeated, nodding appreciatively. “Not bad. But are you sure you can trust a homicidal maniac?”

  “Otto is no homicidal maniac. What he did was for love. But I don’t expect you to understand.”

  “Ah, I see,” McGuffin said, waving his finger back and forth. “You and Karl are -”

  “Lovers? Yes, Karl is my lover.”

  “And the little old man upstairs, your father? How does he feel about all this?”

  “His son is gay, and it’s okay,” Hans answered.

  “I’m not talking about the buggery, Hans. I’m talking about the kidnapping. How does he feel about his kid going to prison for twenty years?”

  “Shut up,” Hans said, turning the gun back to McGuffin.

  “You cooperate with me, and I’ll testify for you when the time comes,” McGuffin proposed. “Just tell me where he’s keeping them, that’s all I want to know.”

  Hans shook his head. “Don’t ask, I can’t tell you.”

  “Hans, I’m talking about the difference between a suspended sentence and ten or fifteen hard years. Just tell me where they are,” McGuffin urged, talking quickly.

  “I can’t, I’m sorry!” Hans blurted. “Please, leave me alone.”

  In a minute, he would talk, McGuffin was sure. But at that moment, Kruger returned, wet and angry as a washed dog.

  “Vut is this?” he demanded, waving a fist in the air as he crossed the room. He slammed the plastic disk on the desk and stood back, hands on hips. “Vell?”

  McGuffin got up, walked to the desk, and pretended to see the claim check for the first time. Until now, he had thought fourteen his lucky number. “Poker chip?”

  “This is no poker chip, Mr. McGuffin. This is a claim receipt, and Karl found it in the ashtray of your car.”

  McGuffin shrugged. “It’s not my car. If you look in the glove compartment, you’ll see the rental papers. This must have been left by the last person who had the car.”

  “I think not. I think this is the receipt for the Fabergé egg, and I think you checked it someplace near the town square. The bus station perhaps, or a hotel. Vich is it, Mr. McGuffin?”

  McGuffin tried to look bored. “You’ll have to ask the guy who rented the car before me.”

  “I haf the right man,” Kruger replied, quietly confident. “I believe you are an honest man, Mr. McGuffin. Ven you tell me you vill exchange the egg for my hostages on the town square, you mean to do just that. Once you see your vife and daughter on the square vit Karl, you vuld go into the hotel on the square vhere you haf checked the egg, and you vuld return vit it, and you vuld hand it over in exchange for them. That vas your plan, vas it not, Mr. McGuffin?” he asked, excitement dancing in his fish eyes.

  “No, that’s not my plan,” McGuffin lied. The dog snorted.

  “There is no need to deny it,” Kruger went on cheerfully. “Your plan is perfectly acceptable to me.”

  McGuffin turned to the beaming, pie-faced man. He was holding the white disk between thumb and forefinger, just inches from McGuffin’s face, a priest about to place the Eucharist on his tongue. Slowly, McGuffin lifted his hand. When he took the disk between his own thumb and fingers, the German’s face went suddenly hard, and he snatched the disk from McGuffin’s grasp.

  “So, I vas right,” he said. “Your vell-laid plans haf come to nothing.” Schatze lay on
the rug, gazing admiringly at the little German as he paced about the room, tapping the disk in his hand. “If only you had trusted me, Mr. McGuffin, you vuld now be on your vay back to San Francisco vit your vife and daughter.”

  “Even if you find the egg, they won’t release it to anyone but me. I’ve taken care of that,” McGuffin warned.

  “So much distrust,” Kruger said, turning a sad face to the detective. “Vy can’t ve just be friends?”

  “You’re right, I’m afraid I’m guilty of letting little things interfere with our relationship,” McGuffin admitted.

  “That’s better.” He flipped the disk across the room, and McGuffin caught it with one hand. “You see how easy it is?” McGuffin said nothing as he dropped the disk into the pocket of his damp coat. “Now ve can make the exchange just as you suggested, on neutral ground. Get our coats, vuld you?” he asked, turning to Hans. Hans nodded and disappeared through the doorway, followed by Schatze. “Karl vill bring your vife and daughter to the square, vile Hans vill drive us to the hotel,” he went on, motioning McGuffin through the doorway ahead of him. “From now on, buddy,” he said, laying a hand on McGuffin’s shoulder and falling in step beside him, “everything vill be strictly kosher.”

  “Jesus!” McGuffin breathed, when he stepped onto the lighted porch and saw his rented car. All four doors were lying open, as well as the hood and trunk lid; the headliner hung in shreds from the ceiling, and the torn seats were lying on the grass, soaking up the falling rain.

  “Don’t vorry, buddy,” Kruger said, taking McGuffin by the elbow and steering him down the stairs, “I’ll pay for the car - once I haf the egg. You can stop, Karl!” he called, as Karl ripped away a piece of dashboard. “You go vit Hans to the car vile I talk to Karl,” he said, giving McGuffin a nudge in the direction of the barn.

  McGuffin glanced back once as he and Hans splashed through puddles to the barn. His buddy was engaged in purposeful conversation concerning the disposition of his ex-wife and daughter. He waited while Hans unlocked the barn door and rolled it back. The grape wagon, McGuffin saw when Hans switched on the light, was still in the same place.