“Edythe didn’t say. I don’t think it occurred to her to ask.”
Then father and I stared at each other. “Is Mrs. Westmore wealthy, sir?” I inquired.
He lapsed into his mulling mode: a long period of silence during which he undoubtedly held an internal debate on the ethics, necessity, and possible unwelcome repercussions of answering my question. He’d go through the same process if he was invited to put Colman’s mustard on his broiled calves’ liver.
“Moderately wealthy,” he pronounced finally. “But not to the extent that a single investment of half a million dollars would be considered prudent.”
“A Fabergé egg,” I repeated. “What an odd investment. I have heard them described as the world’s costliest tchotchkes.”
Father straightened in his chair, not at all amused. “Do you have anything on your plate at the moment?” he demanded.
“No, sir. Not since the Franklin kidnapping is resolved.”
“Then I suggest you institute Discreet Inquiries anent this so-called investment adviser Mrs. Westmore is consulting and particularly his recommendation she purchase a Fabergé egg. You must tread carefully here, Archy. The lady has not requested our assistance and McNally and Son has no right or duty to go prying into her personal money matters. But she is a valued client and I would not care to see her defrauded by a common swindler. From what Mother has told us, I fear it is exactly what may happen.”
“I concur,” I told him. “It has a whiff of flimflam.”
“Then look into it,” he said sharply. “But be circumspect. The client must not be aware of your investigation. Is that clear?”
“Yes, father.”
He rose and I knew I was dismissed. I wished him a final “Happy Birthday,” which he accepted with a wan smile. Then I left my parents alone. I suspected they had private memories to exchange. Birthdays are a time for fond remembrances, are they not?
I climbed the stairs to my third-floor mini-suite: sitting room, bedroom, bath. It was small, cramped, and under a leaky roof but I cherished it. It was my sanctuary and the rent was zilch.
I lighted only my third English Oval of the day and poured myself a small marc. This is a brandy made from the residue of wine grapes after they have been pressed. It is possibly the world’s most powerful sludge.
Thus equipped, I sat at my grungy desk, put up my feet, and phoned Consuela Garcia, the young woman with whom I am intimate and, regrettably, sometimes unfaithful. As I explained to my pal Binky Watrous, my infidelity is due to a mild but persistent case of satyriasis caused by seeing Jane Russell in The Outlaw at an impressionable age.
CHAPTER 3
SHE PICKED UP THE phone.
“Martha?” I said.
“I’ll Martha you, goofball,” Connie said. “Have you been behaving yourself?”
“Don’t I always?”
“No,” she said. “Why haven’t you called?”
“I am calling,” I said. “Right this very minute. It is I, Archibald McNally, famed epicure, bon vivant, dilettante, and lout-about-town. How are you, hon?”
“Okay, I guess. Tired. Lady C. has been working my fanny to a nubbin. She’s planning a sit-down dinner for local pols and so far she’s changed the time twice, the menu three times, and the guest list is revised every hour on the hour. She’s been a world-class pain.”
Connie is employed as social secretary to Lady Cynthia Horowitz, possibly the wealthiest doyenne in Palm Beach, proud of six ex-husbands, and possessing the personal warmth and social graces of a pit viper. I happen to admire the Lady and consider her prickliness more amusing than offensive. She does have many local detractors but I suspect their enmity springs from envy. They have never been invited to dine at her table and enjoy the risotto alia champagne e foie gras prepared by her French chef.
“Suffer in silence,” I advised Connie. “Christmas is right around the corner and with it comes your annual bonus.”
“Good thinking on your part,” Connie said.
“Listen, hon,” I said. “How about dinner on Saturday?”
“I may work. If I do, dinner will have to be late and informal. I’ll let you know.”
“Whatever,” I said. “Your wish is my command.”
“Since when?” she scoffed. “Now I’m going to crash. I’m exhausted.”
“Sleep well, luv,” I said.
That was the extent of our conversation. Please note the teasing tone and absence of vows of love and/or passion. I enjoyed our casual relationship and—fearing a closer alliance: the dreaded M-word—hoped it would continue. Sheer cowardice on my part, of course.
Despite her zealous investigation and occasional confirmation of my extracurricular activities, Connie endured. She was suspicious, jealous, and had every right to be. But she endured. What a marvelous woman she was! And what a cur I was.
I resolutely turned my thoughts away from my own behavior to a more immediate problem: the conduct of an “investment adviser” who sought to persuade a financially naive widow to purchase a Fabergé egg. Why that particular bijou, I wondered, and not a bag of diamonds, a Rembrandt, or even the jawbone of a dinosaur?
What exactly did I know about Fabergé eggs? Not a great deal. The treasures were designed and created by the world-famous House of Fabergé, jewelers and goldsmiths, headquartered in St. Petersburg. They were commissioned by the Russian czars Alexander III and his son Nicholas II. Two of the opulent fantasies were made each year from 1885 to 1917 and given by the reigning czar to his wife and mother to celebrate the Russian Easter.
At the moment that was the extent of my knowledge and I realized I’d have to learn more. One final personal note: Several years previously I had seen four Fabergé eggs exhibited at a Manhattan art gallery. I was surprised by their size—or lack thereof. I had envisioned towering wonders of gold and diamonds. What I saw were glittering masterpieces no higher than six inches. It made their artfully detailed craftsmanship all the more impressive.
I keep a journal in which I record accounts of my Discreet Inquiries. I try to make entries every day or so during the course of an investigation. I include everything: facts, rumors, surmises, even scraps of conversation and descriptions of the physical appearance, personality, dress, and habits of the people involved.
Donning my reading specs, I flipped to a fresh page and began scribbling notes on Mrs. Edythe Westmore, her investment adviser, and the Fabergé objets de luxe. I thought of heading the page “The Case of the Rotten Egg” but discarded the notion. A few weeks later I was happy I had.
Labors completed, I had one more marc, a final coffin nail, and listened to a tape of Ella Fitzgerald singing “I Didn’t Know What Time It Was.” She finished and I knew what time it was. So I went to bed.
I have a lifelong habit of oversleeping (I refuse to be a slave to an alarm clock) but on Friday morning I managed to wake in time to breakfast with my parents in the dining room. I was glad I wasn’t still snoozing for Ursi had whipped up a batch of blueberry pancakes she served with little turkey sausages. What a great way to start a new day!
Father had his nose deep in his morning newspaper, so mother and I did all the chatting, mostly about a shopping trip she and Ursi were planning to replenish the McNally larder and Hobo’s supply of Alpo and kibble. I was on my second cup of black coffee when I remembered what I wanted to ask her.
“By the way, moms,” I said, “there’s something I need to know. When Mrs. Westmore was telling your bridge club about her investment adviser, did she happen to mention his name?”
“Oh, Archy, I’m sure she must have. Now let me think...” She pressed the tip of a forefinger against a soft cheek. “Of course!” she cried, brightening. “A very unusual name. Twain. I distinctly remember because it was just like the writer Mark Twain. But his name is Frederick Twain.”
“Thank you, dear,” I said. “You’ve been a big help.”
Breakfast concluded, the family separated. I returned to my aerie to don a sport jacket I had recently purchase
d: a tweed blazer with bone toggles instead of buttons. Natty is the word. Then I dallied at my bedroom window. It overlooks the graveled turnaround fronting our garage.
I waited patiently and finally saw father leave for the office in his black Lexus. A few moments later Ursi and mother departed on their shopping trip in Mrs. McNally’s ancient wood-bodied Ford station wagon. I trotted downstairs and went directly to papa’s study. I sat behind his desk in his high-backed swivel chair feeling like a czarevitch eager to ascend the throne.
Really all I wanted to do was use the old man’s telephone directories stacked in the lower drawer. I pulled out the thickest with listings for the entire West Palm Beach area and searched for Frederick Twain. Nothing. Then I tried the Boca Raton book. Nothing again.
Of course it was possible he had recently moved to our region or had an unlisted number. But both seemed unlikely for a man in his business desirous of being easily available to clients and potential clients. Perhaps his surname was spelled differently: Twayne or Twane. But mother had been definite about the name being the same as that of the author of Huckleberry Finn.
I was trying to puzzle it out when suddenly a light bulb flashed on in the air above my head—just as in the comic strips—and I laughed aloud. My solution of the problem was due to my knowledge of the giddy way my mother’s mind works. I grabbed the telephone directories again and began looking for the name Frederick Clemens.
I found him. He was a resident of West Palm Beach but was not listed in the Yellow Pages in the investment adviser category. Incidentally, the title means diddly-squat. You or I or anyone can anoint ourself an investment adviser, financial consultant, or money manager.
My first thought was to phone him immediately, use a false name, and attempt to set up an appointment. My second thought was better because I remembered the Caller ID that had solved the Franklin kidnapping. If Frederick Clemens’s phone was similarly equipped he’d know at once I was calling from the residence of Prescott McNally. It would hardly honor my father’s injunction to conduct the inquiry with the utmost discretion.
But I knew how to finesse the problem. I phoned Binky Watrous.
“You’re home?” I greeted him. “I thought you might be with Bridget Houlihan.” I was referring to his light-o’-love.
“She’s gone,” he said gloomily.
“Gone? You mean she’s given you the old heave-ho?”
“No, no,” he protested. “She left yesterday for Ireland to spend some time with her family. I miss her already.”
“Of course you do. And so you will welcome an opportunity to alleviate your sorrow by assisting me in a spot of sleuthing.”
“Great!” he said, coming alive. “Will I be paid? Even a modest stipend?”
“Afraid not, old buddy. The boss wouldn’t approve. We’ll have to continue considering it on-the-job training. However, there will be fringe benefits. For instance, I’ll be happy to stand you lunch today at the Pelican Club at noon.”
“Okay,” he said cheerfully. “At least it will get me out of the house. The Duchess keeps nagging me about seeking gainful employment. She doesn’t seem to realize I am, by virtue of my unique talents, destined to be an entrepreneur rather than an employee.”
“Duchess” was the Palm Beach sobriquet bestowed on Binky’s formidable maiden aunt who has supported her ne’er-do-well nephew since the accidental death of his parents when he was just a tad. As for his “unique talents,” the only one I was aware of was his proficiency at birdcalls, hardly a marketable skill. But he did have a Ph.D. in fatuity. He once asked me what I thought it might cost to have his three-year collection of Victoria’s Secret catalogues bound in vellum.
“This assignment you have for me,” Binky said. “Does it involve, ah, danger?”
“Oh, I doubt it. It really requires mental agility rather than physical action.”
“Good-oh! If eventually I’m to become an independent private eye, I think I’m more the Philo Vance type than Mike Hammer, don’t you?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Outwit the baddies,” he burbled on, “instead of shooting them in the brisket. That’s the way to go!”
Binky couldn’t outwit Mortimer Snerd, and I began to wonder if I was making a horrible error in recruiting him. But it was a simple task I wanted him to perform. I couldn’t see how he might possibly foul it up. I learned.
“One more thing,” I said. “This is a very hush-hush operation and I must have your solemn pledge you will reveal nothing of it to anyone—including Bridget when she returns.”
“Wouldn’t think of blabbing, old boy. My lips are sealed.”
I could have made a ribald reply to that but resisted the temptation and merely said, “The Pelican at noon,” and hung up. I scrawled a quick note of Frederick Clemens’s name, address, and phone number, then left the study and went out to the garage. I swung aboard my chariot, pulled onto Ocean Boulevard, and headed north.
I had absolutely no intention of putting in even a pro forma appearance at the McNally Building on Royal Palm Way. My private office there is so small most visitors enter sideways. Instead I headed for Worth Avenue, which rivals Rodeo Drive as a sparkling carnival midway in which the concessions lure well-heeled patrons and browsers with more dreams than dollars.
CHAPTER 4
AMIDST THE PLUSHY STORES offering precious merchandise in even more precious surroundings, Windsor Antiques looked like a dusty sparrow lost in a flock of preening peacocks. The front was a drab grayish beige. The single show window had held the same display as long as I could remember: a hand-carved mahogany tea caddy, probably Victorian, of surpassing ugliness.
The shop was owned and operated solely by Mr. Sydney Smythe, an aged gentleman whose establishment, I often thought, was more thrift shop than a gallery of tempting antiques. The interior was crowded with old things—furniture, lamps, bric-a-brac—but most of them were so ordinary and unattractive it was hard to imagine an interior decorator or collector bothering to visit. I mean, who would be eager to acquire a dilapidated wooden butter churn or ache to put a scarred oak sideboard with a stained marble top in the living room of a shiny Florida condo?
Over the years I had purchased a few small oddities from Windsor Antiques, including a porcelain ashtray made in Paris and imprinted with a full-length portrait of Josephine Baker clad in bananas. Mr. Smythe and I had become easy with each other and occasionally I stopped at his shop for a chat and a look at any campy knickknacks he had added to his stock of junk.
The proprietor was a geriatric dandy, one of the few men I’ve known who carried a handkerchief (soiled) tucked up the cuff of a jacket sleeve. The jacket Mr. Smythe favored was a purple velveteen (shiny elbows) with a nipped-in waist. Add a waistcoat of petit point (threads dangling) depicting a hunting scene. Add fawn slacks (unpressed). Add patent-leather loafers (scratched) on his small feet. Add a billowing silk ascot (hems opened). And add a wire-framed pince-nez (bent) with oversized lens that gave him the look of an emaciated owl.
“Archy!” he said, offering a limp handclasp. “How nice to see you again. Your health?”
“No complaints, sir,” I said. “And yours?”
“I survive, dear boy. And at my age—considering the sins of my youth—that is a triumph. Your father is keeping you busy and out of mischief?”
“He’s certainly keeping me busy—which is one reason I dropped by. Mr. Smythe, I need your help.”
“Delighted to be of assistance if I’m able. What do you require?”
I improvised a cover story on the spot. I’m quite good at spur-of-the-moment lying.
“I’ve been assigned to evaluate an estate. No trouble with the stocks and bonds; their value is readily available. But the personal effects of the deceased are a problem, and one in particular: a Fabergé egg. I hoped you might provide some information on its history and current monetary worth.”
I thought my request startled him. He blinked several times and grabbed for the pince-nez b
efore it slid from his bony nose.
“A Fabergé egg?” he repeated. “Have you seen it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How large?”
“Perhaps five inches high excluding its stand.”
“Jeweled?” he asked.
“Lavishly,” I replied.
“Ah,” he said, “then it’s apparent you’re dealing with a Fabergé Imperial egg—the name given to those created for the czars. You must realize, dear boy, the House of Fabergé created an enormous volume and variety of products, including such things as cigarette cases, figurines, picture frames, and clocks. Certainly one of their most popular items was egg-shaped bijous since eggs symbolized rebirth and resurrection and there was a huge demand for them as gifts during the Russian Easter. Some Fabergé eggs, made of precious or semiprecious stones, are no larger than jelly beans. But it is the Imperial eggs that have caught and held the world’s fascination. This egg you are attempting to evaluate—did you open it?”
“Open it? No, sir, I didn’t touch it.”
“Pity. You see, Archy, every Imperial egg contained a ‘surprise,’ revealed when the egg was opened. It might be a clockwork bird, a model coach or yacht, or even diminutive oil portraits of the czar’s family. Some of the surprises, being smaller than the egg itself, are miniature marvels. The perfection of design and craftsmanship is simply awesome.”
“How many of these masterpieces were made, Mr. Smythe?”
“It is generally accepted a total of fifty-three Imperial eggs were created, including two made in 1917 that were never delivered to Nicholas the Second due to a slight obstacle called the Russian Revolution. Those two eggs have never been identified. It is not even definitely known if they were completed.”
I wanted to keep him talking. For a dealer in grungy antiques he seemed to know a great deal about Fabergé eggs and I wondered how he had come by his expertise. Perhaps in the past he had owned a shop featuring such rare, beautiful, and expensive treasures.
“I suppose,” I said, “all the Fabergé Imperial eggs are in museums or in the hands of private collectors like our late client.”
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