The Kills

by Linda Fairstein

  "Farouk went to clubs during the war?"

  "That's how he got the nickname the Night Crawler."

  Chapman had used the same phrase himself, but he referred to the vermin who crept around the city streets from dark to daybreak, looking for trouble.

  "Every night he was out carousing-belly dancers, jazz bands, caviar and champagne. Next to Mussolini and Goebbels, who got private tours of the pyramids, his favorite people were showgirls."

  "So Queenie was really ordered there for the purpose of seducing Farouk?"

  "She took the assignment as kind of a dare. She didn't believe he'd go for her."

  "Looking at those pictures, it would be hard to imagine why not."

  "'Cause he liked them blonde, Ms. Cooper, and he liked them no older than sixteen. She was the same age as the king, and a bit more mocha than he usually fell for."

  "What happened?"

  "Queenie Ransome danced. She came out onstage and moved that magnificent body like no one else could."

  I thought of her photograph in the Scheherazade costume and imagined her dancing in it for Farouk.

  "After the performance, one of his bodyguards came backstage and invited her to join the king's party. King Farouk stood up to greet Queenie, and when she curtsied to him, he took a necklace out of his pocket and draped it around her neck. 'This is your passport to my palace,' he said. 'The guards will bring you to me later tonight.'"

  Logan stopped to laugh. "Queenie told me she unhooked it and took a look at it. Sapphires all around it the size of quail eggs. She dropped it into his soup bowl and told him, 'I think you have me confused with the next act, Your Highness. She's the whore. I'm just a dancer.'"

  "She walked away?"

  "Right out the door and back to the Red Cross headquarters, where she was staying. Night after night Farouk came to the club to ply her with gifts but she refused to see him. When he finally showed up empty-handed, and came backstage to apologize, it was the first time Queenie agreed to speak with him." Logan paused. "She played hard-to-get for a few more weeks. Demanded a real courtship."

  "And then?"

  "The royal affair. Nights in the palace, cruises up the Nile, mingling with all the high society in Cairo and Alexandria, which were quite sophisticated places at the time. There was a big American colony in Egypt. Queenie said Farouk used to invite dozens of Americans in to see Hollywood's latest propaganda-movies like Casablanca, musical scores from brand-new Broadway shows like Oklahoma! "

  "Was she on duty or in love?" I asked.

  "It started as an assignment. Hell, she was picking up whatever intelligence she could from within the bedroom. She was there when President Roosevelt and Winston Churchill stopped to meet Farouk on their way back from the Yalta Conference. Farouk's wife even moved out of the palace-"

  "Because of his affair with Queenie?"

  "Not entirely. Because she had failed in her efforts to produce an heir to the throne. Three daughters, but not the son that Farouk needed to guarantee succession for the Egyptian monarchy. It just meant that Queenie had his full attention at the time, and his complete confidence. And yes, she fell in love with him."

  "Did she tell you why?"

  Logan thought for a minute. "He wasn't the pathetic old exile the world got to know later on, when he had worked himself up into a three-hundred-fifty-pound glutton. Queenie showed me the photo of him that was on the cover of Time magazine when he was crowned, sort of the great white hope of the Middle East. Prince Charming in the land of the pharaohs. He was smart, spoke seven languages, was a high-liver, and he loved women."

  "I guess the sapphires didn't hurt, either."

  "Queenie had a good laugh about that one," Logan said. "The necklace he tried to give her the first night? A total fake. He carried costume jewelry with him every night that he went out on the town to give away to the showgirls and hookers. He had millions, but he was a real cheapskate with the ladies. I think it fascinated him that Queenie didn't care about his possessions-the jewels, the cars, all the other things."

  "What do you mean, 'things'?"

  "The king was a collector. Of things, loads of things. Weird things, expensive things. He just had to own whatever he could get his hands on."

  "What exactly did he collect?"

  "The way Queenie talked, to me it sounded like everything. You know about the pornography, right?"

  "No, no. I don't."

  "Hasn't anyone told you about those pictures in Queenie's bedroom?" Logan asked.

  "The ones by James Van Derzee?"

  "Not them. Those are great photos. Really classy. The Schomburg has his whole collection of those-very artistic, very elegant."

  I didn't want to tell Logan that the killer had stopped to pose his victim the same way the great photographer had memorialized her. Maybe he already knew that.

  "What pornography do you mean?"

  "King Farouk had the world's most extensive pornography collection. Erotic art, objects and devices of every kind, timepieces with fornicating couples gyrating on the watch face as the hands moved around. Pornographic neckties, playing cards, calendars, corkscrews. Then he got the bright idea to make Queenie pose for photographs."

  "And she did?"

  "She did at first. She never minded displaying that body of hers. It was only after the king wanted her to perform sexual acts with other men, so that they could be photographed for his collection, that she objected. She refused to do that. It was the beginning of the end of their relationship."

  "The pornography-what became of all of it?"

  "Queenie took whatever pictures she could with her when she left Egypt in 1946. When Sotheby's auctioned the rest of Farouk's collections after he was deposed, she contacted them to see whether she could buy some of the photographs, so they wouldn't become public. But at the last minute Sotheby's withdrew the pornography from the auction, along with some other royal loot. She never knew what happened to the stuff. Didn't much matter, though. Her spirit was already broken."

  "Because?"

  "Fabian, her son."

  "Had he died?"

  "Yeah. He had contracted polio. Infantile paralysis. Nineteen fifty-five, a few months before the vaccine was approved for use in the States. Shortly before the auction."

  I did the math in my head. "Fabian was-"

  "King Farouk's son. The prince of Egypt, heir to the throne."

  We were both silent.

  "That blond child with fair skin looked exactly like his old man," Logan said. "I'll show you the pictures."

  "She must have been devastated."

  "Still couldn't talk about it without breaking up, Ms. Cooper. I mean, she knew long before she became pregnant that she wasn't much more than one in a long line of royal concubines. There were belly dancers and British diplomats' wives in the same club as Queenie. Two of the king's favorite mistresses were Jewish-it was a different Egypt in those days-but none of them was likely to become the queen."

  "Did he know she was pregnant when she left him?"

  He nodded his head. "She was too proud to tell him. But after she gave birth to their son here in the States, she sent him some photographs, knowing how badly he wanted a male heir, and seeing how closely the child resembled the young Farouk. She did the F thing, too."

  "What?"

  "Farouk's father, King Fuad, had once consulted a seer, who told him that all his good fortune derived from the letter F. Fuad then demanded that everyone in the royal family be named based on that prophecy-Farouk himself, and his sisters Fawzia, Faiza, Faika. Like that. He had even made his wife change her name. Queenie thought she'd get his attention that way. 'Here's your prince, Fabian, just look at him.'"

  "Did Farouk respond to her?"

  "She never heard from him again. He divorced his wife and married a sixteen-year-old girl, who finally gave birth to an heir-the next Fuad."

  "Did he ever contact Fabian? Support him?"

  "Queenie didn't want money from him. She just wanted him
to acknowledge the boy, to know that she had done what the royal princess failed to do until that time."

  "But how did she live? Did she continue to dance?"

  "Not for very long," Logan said, stopping to open his mouth wide and stroke his goatee. He seemed to be thinking about whether to go on. Then he leaned back and reached into the pocket of his jeans.

  "Queenie gave this to me in June, for my birthday," he said, handing me a pocket watch.

  It was in a solid-gold case, and on the back were the initials F.R. "Farouk Rex," Logan said. "Given to him by his pal, the Duke of Windsor."

  "And Farouk, he gave things like this to Queenie?"

  "Not exactly," Spike Logan said, smiling. "My girl got a few kicks in before she left town to come back to Harlem. She stole this from the king."

  22

  McQueen Ransome stole a gold watch from the King of Egypt. What else of value might she have taken in a fit of pique, out of favor and heading for home?

  "Did she tell you," I asked Spike Logan, "whether she took any of Farouk's other 'things' when she left?"

  "Hey, it all started as a prank. There was a well-known story at the time about Farouk pardoning a famous pickpocket from one of Alexandria's penitentiaries. In return, the king wanted lessons from the guy. So the thief agreed, and taught His Majesty how to steal by sewing tiny bells into each of his own pockets, like little alarms, before filling them with objects. By the end of his lessons, Farouk had mastered the art of light-fingered lifting. You never heard the story about Churchill's watch?"

  "No."

  "Churchill was visiting the troops and stopped to have dinner with Farouk, who lifted his watch from the prime minister's waistcoat during cocktails, without the great statesman having a clue. Only after the meal, when Churchill asked the time, did the king pull out the old guy's watch from his pocket and tell him."

  I laughed at the image.

  "Farouk thought it would be fun to teach Queenie, too. She got a platinum cigarette case off Noël Coward one night, and the money clip that Jack Benny carried in the inner pocket of his dinner jacket when he came to perform for the troops."

  "But she carried it farther than that, I take it."

  Logan got serious. "She could see what was coming, Ms. Cooper. The king was losing interest in her, she knew she couldn't make a living dancing while she was pregnant, and she didn't know what kind of hard times she was facing back in the States, going home to Harlem after the war."

  "What did she admit to you that she took with her?"

  Logan's fingers tapped on the desktop. "I don't remember, exactly." He seemed to recognize that he was displaying Queenie in a negative way.

  "I'm sure you can give me a general idea." I needed to get those interview audiotapes before he altered or destroyed them. "We're beyond the statute of limitations for theft, Mr. Logan," I said, smiling at him. "It's quite fascinating."

  "I'm not the only one who knows," he said, as if he were justifying his reasons for telling me. "Some jewelry. I mean, Farouk actually gave her stuff during the time they were together. But I guess, in the end, she got her hands on some uncut gems he had stashed away. Sold 'em off or pawned them from time to time over the years. Farouk also collected rare stamps and valuable coins, odd things that she really didn't know the value of," Spike said.

  Then he looked at me, as if to gauge my reaction before going on. I didn't display any.

  "Queenie was able to survive for about ten years on one of the treasures she scored."

  My raised eyebrows gave away my interest. Spike went on. "You know what a Fabergé egg is, Ms. Cooper?"

  The brilliantly jeweled objects had been made by Carl Fabergé for the Russian czars, and the ones that survived the revolution had been collected and traded by the richest men in the world. "Sure I do. Farouk had those, too? Queenie took a Fabergé egg? My admiration for her taste keeps growing."

  Spike Logan didn't care whether I approved of Queenie's methods or not. "Some antiques dealer in London bought it from her. I looked him up on the Internet but couldn't find any recent trace of him. She joked that Farouk was better than the goose that laid the golden egg-he mislaid it and she took it. That single egg kept her and Fabian going for the next ten years, till the boy died. Queenie realized she got stiffed when she sold some of these objects 'cause she didn't have any proof of ownership. The dealers knew she had stolen goods, otherwise she would have made enough money to live in style the rest of a very long life."

  "Didn't Farouk miss any of these things? Didn't he send people out to the States to try to find her and get them back?"

  "You speak any French?" Spike asked.

  I nodded my head.

  " Touche pas!Know what that means?"

  "Don't touch," I answered.

  He leaned forward and lowered his voice for dramatic effect. "When the king wanted to play with his toys, he'd go into the rooms in his palace where everything was stored, taking Queenie with him. I'm talking dozens of enormous rooms. They'd sit on silk cushions, laid out on the floor, for hours and hours. He'd let her try on tiaras and necklaces, run gold pieces through her fingers, and place Fabergé goblets in her hands. But when it came to the pieces he prized dearly, the things that were most rare, most valuable, he'd scream at her, 'Touche pas! Touche pas!' She wasn't even allowed to hold them. Fabergé goblets, yes, but the jeweled eggs-no."

  "So it was easy for her to tell what the best treasures were, I guess."

  "That's what she thought. Queenie told me that when she was packing her bags to leave the palace, she made one last sweep of the joint. She figured Farouk had so many collections, so many toys, that if she was careful, he wouldn't begin to know what was missing. She headed right for the things that she had never been allowed to touch. Instead of taking all his precious eggs, she just took one. Same for the gemstones and the other valuables. When he opened his closets and vaults, he'd still see dozens of sparkling objects-he'd never stop to count. The most obscene thing is that he probably never knew any of the things she took was even missing."

  "She had no trouble smuggling these things out of Egypt?"

  "Farouk had turned his sights to a younger girl, the war was over, and everyone around the king was delighted to get Queenie out of the palace. She put her finest prizes right in her handbag, took her chances with what she'd concealed in the luggage, and got on the next plane to Portugal, then home."

  "What became of all the other valuables?" I asked.

  "She spent some of the money she raised by selling them. But after Fabian's death, and because Farouk had never responded to the boy's photographs, she went into a profound depression. Spent five years institutionalized in a private sanitarium-mental hospital in Connecticut. That chewed up most of what she was able to hock."

  "And the rest?"

  "She didn't have legitimate title to these things, so she found herself selling to some pretty shady characters. There was no way to prove-what do you call it?"

  "Provenance," I said.

  "Yeah. She had some rare stamps that don't go for much on the open market. And some foreign coins that might have been worth something as part of a larger collection, but she never got more than face value. And then she just ran out of juice, Ms. Cooper."

  Why, I wondered, did Spike Logan ask us about what had become of McQueen Ransome's possessions? Why had he let himself into the empty apartment, and had he been looking for anything in particular when the police arrived?

  "Do you think, Spike, that she still had any of Farouk's valuables that she kept in the apartment? Objects she had mentioned to you? Or possibly something that she didn't even know had current worth?"

  He stretched his legs again and crossed his arms. "I think she would have told me. Queenie trusted me, Ms. Cooper. I think this watch was about all she had left to give."

  She may have trusted him, but could we?

  "Did you ever see a fur coat?" I asked.

  He shook his head. "In her crib? Nope. But I never had r
eason to look in her closets, and we never went outside together in the winter. We could look through the old photographs and I'm sure they would tell the story. It wouldn't surprise me at all. Queenie would have liked a nice fur coat in her prime."

  Mike Chapman came back into the room with lunch for Spike Logan. "Would you excuse us for a few minutes?" I said, walking out with Mike before going upstairs to my office.

  I filled Mike in on what Logan had told me. "The uniformed guys give you any sense of what Logan was doing in the apartment when they arrived?" I asked, opening the lid and sipping the hot coffee Mike had brought me.

  "Sniffing around pretty good. You believe he didn't know Queenie was dead when he got there?"

  "All I have to go on is what he says. We'll see if phone records tell a different story."

  "You gonna honor your word?" Mike asked. "Let him go home?"

  "All we got is a trespass. No judge is going to hold him on that. Might as well get the goodwill by showing we trust him."

  "You got enough Vineyard contacts to get the local police to keep an eye on him."

  "I'm not as worried about Logan as I am about getting my hands on the tapes that he's got stored in the bank before he does anything to them. Queenie may have said things that would have no significance to him, but would give us some direction. I gotta get started on that. Would you be sure to get all his contact information before you let him go? And the key to the apartment."

  "You wanna hold on to that gold watch from the Duke of Windsor, too?"

  "Absolutely," I said.

  Sarah Brenner offered to work on the interstate subpoena, since she would be handling the grand jury investigation of the Ransome homicide. I went to my desk to phone the Oak Bluffs Police Department, to give them a heads-up on Spike Logan.

  As I hung up the phone, I noticed Laura standing at the doorway between her desk and the hall. A man was speaking to her, and she was keeping him out of my way until she determined whether I wanted to see him, guiding him to the conference room.