by Wayne Turmel
“In a moment. Allow me to introdushe you…”
“No.” He looked at me, furious, but I finally had his attention. “Who’s B-b-bill Kenny?”
“What did you say?”
“Kenny. Bill Kenny. Havlicek says he wants to talk to you.”
His face blanched. “Now? Oh my God. Is it Alice? The girls?”
“Who is he?” I shouted.
“He’s my father-in-law… did he say what he wanted? Oh, blast, where is…” He turned and scrambled to gather up his coat, briefcase and scarf. “There, okay, let’s go…” He gave a half-hearted wave to the group at the table. I reached over, grabbed the helmet from the girl’s head, and muttered an apology as I put the hat under one arm, my employer under the other, and dragged him towards the door.
As we hit the cold air on Wabash, he combed his fingers through his hair over and over again. “Okay, let’s go find him. Oh, God, shomething’s happened to Alice… or the babies…”
“He says he wants to talk in the morning, first thing.”
“In the morning, he doesn’t want to talk to me right away?” I shook my head, then took his arm and maneuvered him in the direction of the hotel. The walk certainly wouldn’t do him any harm. I quickly checked his bag to make sure he had the Venus and the makeup jar. The snowy streets were nearly deserted, so nobody would see me trudging up Huron street holding a bag, a pith helmet, and the arm of a slightly inebriated European aristocrat. I almost wished someone would, just so I could confirm this was really happening.
“In the morning…” he muttered, “so it’s not about Alice… at least nothing serious. Even he wouldn’t make me wait on that.” He stopped suddenly. “What’s this got to do with Havil…whoever?”
“Havlicek. I don’t know. Says Kenny is his boss.”
The look on the Count’s face was the same I used to have in math class—an unhealthy mix of confusion and panic. I took a few more steps homeward in hopes of luring him back to the hotel. He followed meekly, muttering to himself. “What the bloody hell is he doing here?” and, “sanctimonious bastard,” were about all I could decipher.
Walking drunks home wasn’t a new experience for me, although I’d never had to deal with one as tall as I was. We managed to get back to the Allerton, up the elevator, and down the hall without bouncing off the walls and doors. Once inside, he shrugged me off and staggered to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. After a moment, he caught me watching in the mirror, and slammed the door.
Not knowing what else to do, I did what I always did in the presence of bellicose drunks. I stripped down, got into bed, turned off the light and pulled the blanket up to my nose. Then I turned my face to the wall, ignoring the voice in the bathroom and pretended to be asleep. After an eternity, the door opened, the light clicked off and I heard the Count get into bed.
Chapter 15
Chicago, Illinois
February 24, 1926
We both pretended to sleep most of the night. I must have dozed off towards dawn, though, because when the phone rang I nearly jumped out of my skin. The Count moaned, and I leapt up to answer it.
“Morning, kid. How is he?” Havlicek sounded awfully chipper this morning. The son of a bitch was enjoying this.
“Fine,” I said looking at the moaning, rumpled form on the bed.
“Swell. We’ll be at your door in thirty minutes. Get him up and human.”
De Prorok sat up and rubbed his eyes. I nodded to him and said, “Half an hour. Right.” Then I hung up as quickly as I could.
“Half hour. I heard.” He looked around, as though searching for clues to his next move. “Call downstairs for a pot of coffee, and lots of sugar.” As he swung his feet to the floor, he added, “Thank you.”
I just nodded and pulled a clean shirt and underwear from my suitcase. “You probably want me gone for a while, so I’ll just grab breakfast downstairs, or…”
“No, please. Stay. I… stay. But first, coffee.”
I rang down to room service, which wasn’t nearly as glamorous as I thought it would be, told them to hurry, then took my clothes into the bathroom. I didn’t need a shower nearly as bad as he did, so I splashed cold water on my face, ran a washcloth under my arms, then gestured to the room. “All yours.” He was already brushing past me with his clothes in hand.
Fifteen minutes later, came the rattle of a cart and a brisk rap on the door. “Room service.” I opened the door and let the guy in. He couldn’t have been much older than me, but was all shiny brass and dazzling teeth.
“Anything else you need, name’s Andrew.”
“Thank you, Andrew, that will be all,” bellowed a voice from the bathroom. “Brown, take care of Andrew here and pour me a cup. Three sugars.”
I’d be damned if I was paying for this tip, too, so I grabbed a quarter off the bedside table and gave it to him while ushering him to the door. “Great, thanks… like I said, name’s… And…” The door closed on him with a click.
The man standing in front of me was not the same wreck who’d stumbled into the bath a few minutes earlier. The bleary eyes were now sharply focused and his clothes were perfect. He took a long sip of his steaming coffee, and let out a satisfied, “ahh.” I don’t know how he did it. I hadn’t had a drop last night, and felt like five pounds of horse crap.
He calmly took another gulp, then took the long stem of his pipe, tamped tobacco in it, and turned towards the window where he struck a match and took two long, slow, sucking puffs. He tuned everything out, just inhaled through his nose and exhaled clouds of cherry flavored smoke while staring out at Huron street. I may as well’ve not been there, and wished I wasn’t.
Bang. A single sharp rap on the door rattled the walls. De Prorok took a step back and two to the left, finding a blank patch of wall to lean against. He crossed his arms in a false but convincingly casual pose. Then he pasted on a smile and nodded at me to open the door.
When I pulled the door open, I was face to hat with Joe Havlicek. Behind him stood a solid, balding man in a very expensive glen check suit. They both pushed past me into the room, the detective’s look dared me to try something, and the other man never spared a glance at “the Help”, striding to the center of the room. His blue eyes were locked on the Count.
Bill Kenny was one of those guys who carried himself like a self-made man and wouldn’t let you forget it for a single minute. His forehead was high but he still had plenty of hair carefully slicked back with something that smelled of vanilla and Vitalis. He wore his suits in such a way you’d swear the price tag was attached to the sleeve so you’d know it was new and expensive.
“Bill, what a pleasant surprise,” de Prorok stepped forward, his hand extended in greeting. It wasn’t accepted.
“Byron.” Just one word, flat and expressionless. His voice was deep and sounded like money and class.
“I didn’t know you were in Chicago. I missed you in New York, but I’m delighted you’re here. Coffee?”
“We need to have a chat, you and I.” There was nothing explicitly threatening in the words, just a cold, hard fact stated in the coldest, hardest way. I had heard that a lot from teachers, parents—all kinds of adults—but never heard it said with such calm, core-shaking, absolute authority.
De Prorok gestured to one of the brocade chairs and pulled the other up to the table and lowered himself into it, casually crossing his legs and sitting back. “By all means. Ahh, but where are my manners? William Brown, my father-in-law, William Kenny. Bill, this is my assistant, Willy.”
I stuck my hand out, and he gave it a brief pump. “Pleasure,” he said gruffly, “but if you don’t mind, this is a family matter.”
“No, Brown, stay.” He nodded at Havlicek. “If this one stays, so does he.”
Kenny sighed. “As you like, Byron. I’m trying to save you embarrassment.”
“A bit late for that, isn’t it?”
Kenny shrugged. “Fine.” He waved his hand at the operative, who produced a m
anila folder from under his coat. Kenny snatched it from him without sparing the Pinkerton a look. “You’ve met Joe Havlicek, I presume?” It wasn’t really a question.
Unsure what to do with himself, Havlicek looked around, then plunked himself on the end of my cot, casting sideways glances at me. I leaned against the wall, crossing my arms and forced myself to stay focused on him. His occasional sideways glances my way were oddly satisfying. I liked making him nervous.
“I’ve had him following you since you got back to New York in December.”
Byron nodded. “Does Alice know?”
“As a matter of fact, she does.” I saw the Count wince like someone stepped on his foot, but he remained stoic. “In fact, I’ve suggested she stay in Paris until we had this chance to talk.”
“She never mentioned any of this to me.”
“I don’t imagine she would. I’m her father.”
“And I’m her husband, which you’d think would count for something.” Byron poured himself another cup of coffee. His hands shook so badly he nearly spilled it, so he placed it into the saucer and left it there. He leaned back to lock eyes with the older man. “What’s this about, Bill? I’m not cheating on Alice.”
“I know that. I’m a bit surprised to tell you the truth. This’d be easier if you were.”
“What would?”
Kenny leaned forward, his hands gripping the arms of the chair. “I’m letting you know the gravy train stops here. This is about you being a screw up, and a fake. I’m tired of it, and I’m damned if I’ll let my daughter and grandchildren suffer any more than necessary because of your… your lack of character, let’s call it.”
It was the first time I’d ever seen de Prorok speechless. Confused, his eyes darted from the folder on the table to Havlicek, but the detective sat stone-faced. He looked back to his father-in-law again. “I don’t understand.”
“Which part don’t you understand, screw up or fake?” The icy tone was gone. Real anger oozed out of every pore. My boss sat back, rendered mute. Kenny was just getting warmed up. “Do you have any idea how much money you’ve cost me in the last three months?” De Prorok shook his head. “Of course you don’t. Ten thousand and counting. What do you think of that?”
“Bill, it can’t possibly…”
A well-manicured hand slapped the tabletop. “Don’t tell me what’s possible, God dammit. Thousands, just to pay your debts in Algeria. I should have let you rot there. Then there’s the lawyers in Paris, and my people are still dealing with the American Embassy, the Algerian authorities, the French…”
“The Algerians are dropping the charges. There was nothing to…”
Kenny’s eyes popped at the interruption. His voice was becoming more strident, and the façade of class began to fade away. He was a New Yorker, first and foremost, and you could only cover that up for so long. “They’re droppin’ the charges because I have the best lawyers in Europe, not because they believe a woid… word, whatever, of your bullshit story.”
“It’s not…” He was interrupted by a raised hand. He obeyed, exactly as Kenny expected.
“Let’s start at the beginning. Who are you?” He flipped through the papers in the file, not finding what he was looking for. “Joe, where’s the damned birth certificate… Oh hell, here it is. Never mind.”
Havlicek started to rise, then sat back down again. He said nothing, just held his hat in his hand, twisting it over and over like a steering wheel. Bill Kenny looked from the paper to de Prorok.
“Born Francis Byron Khun, in Mexico. American citizen. Date of birth, October 1896, exact day unknown.”
“I told you that years ago. And it was the seventeenth, for the record.”
The additional information didn’t slow Kenny down. “At the age of eight, your mother and father separate. She takes you to Europe, but leaves your brother and sisters with your father. Only you, not the other kids. Any idea why?”
“I was eight. I didn’t get a vote. And I didn’t ask. I always assumed I was her favorite.”
“Huh. Well, I wondered, what kind of mother leaves her kids behind… Joe, what did you find out?”
The Pinkerton stood at parade rest—feet apart, hands clasped behind his back. For the first time he looked like the cop he once was when he was still a respectable citizen.
“It’s all a bit muddy, sir. We had a heck of a time finding out anything, then sorting rumors from fact… a lot of rumors. For a while, there was a story he was a Hungarian Jew, but that went nowhere.”
De Prorok snorted. “How disappointing, Havlicek. You’d love that, I’m sure. But no, I’m not a Jew. You could have just asked, Bill. Or would you like to inspect my cock personally? I’m sure Alice would tell you. She apparently keeps nothing from her precious Daddy.”
I thought I’d successfully stifled the laugh, but all eyes turned my way for a moment. I offered a quick, “Sorry.”
Byron had regained some of his calm. “So if I’m not a Jew, what am I?”
Kenny leaned back comfortably and asked, “Who’s Oscar Straus?”
“I’m sorry, who?”
Havlicek was happy to volunteer. He rocked back and forth on his heels. “Oscar Straus. Austrian. A pianist and composer, one of those long-hair types. When the subject’s mother arrived in Europe after the divorce, she spent a lot of time in his company with the boy.” He paused for dramatic effect. “The best information we have is he could be the subject’s real father. Khun found out and kicked them both out.”
De Prorok glared at him. “Bastard.”
“You or me?” the detective smiled back, obviously pleased at his little joke. He went on reciting his findings like a fifth grader afraid he’d forget his oral report, “Educated in England, eventually moved to Switzerland where they lived with the maternal grandmother. Formally adopted by her brother and allowed to use the honorary title Count de Prorok. Started using it when he attended university in Geneva.”
Bill Kenny stared daggers at his son in law. “You’ve been getting a lot of mileage out of that phony baloney title ever since, haven’tcha?”
“I told you all along it was honorary. I never lied about that. And Alice certainly seems to enjoy it.”
“Yer not above using it every chance you get, though, are you? That’s how you got to be in charge of that trip last fall.”
Byron’s hands stopped shaking long enough to pick up his coffee cup. “Bill, you of all people know in business you use every advantage you can. I notice you don’t use your Lower East Side voice when you talk business with the Governor, do you?”
“Yes, well let’s talk business, shall we? How much money do you actually have? Because I have a list of people from here to Timbuktu that say you owe them money.”
“A temporary problem, I assure you.”
Havlicek chimed in. “You weren’t planning to sell any stolen jewelry to help solve that problem, were you?”
The Count glared at him. “That’s the second time you’ve accused me of that. What exactly is it I’m supposed to have stolen? I’d love to know.”
“Come on, Byron. Is it so hard to believe? You know everyone thinks you took more from that stupid grave than you claim.”
De Prorok leaned forward, placing the cup on the table and spilling coffee on his pants. “I didn’t, and it’s a bloody insult. Oh blast…”
“Bullshit. You took the bones, the beads, and a bunch of other stuff. They practically had to strip search you before you left Algeria. The Times wrote what a great treasure you found… but you only turned in some useless rocks and trinkets. It’s not much of a stretch to think the real goods are somewhere else. The other answer is that you lied about the treasure in front of the whole world. Not exactly a ringing endorsement of your honesty, is it? So how are you going to pay your bills, besides mooching off me that is?”
“You really want to know, Bill?” The Count stood up, slapping at the coffee stain on his pants, and went to the artifact case. He popped it open and
dug through it wildly, throwing the contents everywhere til he found the false bottom and removed the metal strongbox. “This is the key to our… mine and my family’s… Alice’s future.”
Havlicek and I both leaned in to take a look, and were equally disappointed when he opened it and all we saw was paper. First there were snapshots; one of his mother, one of Alice, one each of the girls, then one of the entire family, taken when he was home after Algeria. The only other article in the box was an official looking letter. He put it on the table in front of Kenny, carefully avoided any spilled coffee, and deliberately smoothed it out.
“Here, see this? It’s a letter from Maurice Reygasse and the Algerian Government. It gives me full administrative rights to the Hoggar and Touggart Territories. All those sites we found? They’re mine. If anyone wants to dig there, they have to pay for the rights. To me. Me, Bill.”
The triumph on his face lasted only a moment. He could see none of us understood what he was saying. “Look, for the next three years, I effectively own every archaeological site in the North Sahara. Beloit College… Pond is dying to go back. That’s two years at least… at seventy-five thousand dollars a year. The Oriental Institute, Michigan State University, the Smithsonian, the National Geographic—and the Royal Geographic…”
“When was the last time you heard from Reygasse?” The ice was back in Kenny’s voice. The way he asked the question scared me more than his yelling.
It obviously threw the Count off as well. His voice cracked. “Three weeks or so. I’m expecting a letter any time now.”
Kenny shook his head. “Afraid not. You’ve made such a mess of things, he’s rescinded his offer.”
“What do you mean… rescinded? He can’t…”
“Part of the price of clearing up the hash you made over there was promising the Algerians you’d never darken their door again. They don’t want you. The American Embassy refuses to grant any expedition rights or support if you’re in any way involved. Those letters are worthless.”
De Prorok paced back and forth, running his fingers through his hair. His voice became shriller. “It’s not true. In fact, I’m getting Beloit’s commitment to two more years when we’re there next week. I spoke to Collie just last week from Milwaukee…”
