“Sit there,” Vandenhof ordered, pointing to the lion chair at one end of the table.
Feeling a push from Toby, McGuffin pulled the chair back and sat. He had his first look at Toby when he moved out from behind him and stood beside the naked Greek. He could have posed for the statue about ten years before. Now, however, it wasn’t a discus Toby was holding in his hand, but a World War II Luger, probably Captain Vandenhof’s old service weapon. Vandenhof, however, had no need for it. He had McGuffin’s Smith & Wesson 9mm automatic resting securely in his left hand, his wallet and papers in the right.
McGuffin studied the young man while Vandenhof went through his things. He was small and compact with a soft face and owlish brown eyes. He looked to be about thirty-five, but he was probably older. He had the kind of boyish features that would hold at that age for a long time. Vandenhof, too, who had to be at least in his mid-sixties, looked much younger than that in spite of the great slabs of fat that hung from his frame. He seemed to have been troweled together from smooth pink clay, then baked in an oven until he glowed.
“Why do you carry this?” the fat man demanded, flashing the yellowed newspaper clipping at him like a winning card.
“Your friend left it in my ex-wife’s apartment,” McGuffin answered.
“I don’t understand - why should he do this?” Vandenhof asked.
“Because he’s nuts,” McGuffin replied. “And the first thing he did when he got out of the nut house was come looking for me. But he didn’t find me, so he took my ex-wife and daughter instead and left that clipping just so I’d know who had done it.”
A smile came over Vandenhof’s face as he studied the clipping. “How very much like Otto - always fond of metaphor. Did you know he was in the signal corps during the war?” he asked, looking up at the detective. “Until I plucked him out and made him my adjutant.”
“No, I didn’t know that,” McGuffin answered. “And I don’t particularly care. All I want to know is where he’s keeping my daughter!” McGuffin said, rising angrily from the chair.
“Sit!” Vandenhof ordered.
McGuffin saw the gun coming and ducked behind a raised arm, catching the brunt of the blow on his left shoulder, before clamping a hand tightly on the gunman’s wrist and yanking hard. Toby hit the table face first with a sickening grunt that sent the gun sliding down the table like a well-struck hockey puck, until the fat man made the save.
“That will be enough!” the old soldier commanded.
Slowly, McGuffin lowered his hand, poised for a rabbit punch, to the table, as Toby, breathing hoarsely through a bloody nose, flopped about on the table, helpless as a fish.
“Help him up,” Vandenhof ordered.
Delicately, McGuffin lifted him by the collar. Two unfocused eyes danced above a red stream.
“Are you all right, Toby?” the fat man inquired.
“Awl kiwl him!” Toby blurted, spewing a fine red spray in the air.
“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” Vandenhof said. “You’ll go upstairs and clean up that nose, then you’ll take your medicine and go to bed.”
“You’re going to talk about Otto,” Toby said, dabbing at his nose with a lapel of his blood-stained robe.
“It’s just business, Toby, just business,” the fat man said in a soothing voice. “Now go to your room and lie down. I’ll be up just as soon as I’ve finished with Mr. McGuffin.”
“If you don’t finish him, I will,” Toby promised. Then he stuck his bloody nose in the air, pulled his robe tightly around his narrow hips and made a dignified, if dramatic, exit.
“An excitable boy,” Vandenhof said, after Toby had gone.
“Excitable?” McGuffin repeated. “That kid’s about as stable as the San Andreas Fault.”
“And hopelessly jealous, I’m afraid. The mention of Otto, or any of my old friends, for that matter, always sets him off.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“So,” he said, placing the Luger on the table beside McGuffin’s automatic, “you claim Otto has abducted your wife and child?”
“It’s no claim,” McGuffin replied. “He’s got them.”
“And this newspaper clipping is all you have? No ransom note, no phone call?”
“That’s the only communication I’ve had,” McGuffin answered. “That’s why I came here. I thought you might know where he is.”
“And how did you find me?” Vandenhof asked.
“I found your name in the newspaper account of the trial. I phoned information and found you were still living in Marin County, but they wouldn’t tell me where.”
“So you claimed a medical emergency, then followed the ambulance to my house?”
“That’s right.”
He stared at McGuffin and nodded slowly. “I assure you, Mr. McGuffin, I have no idea where your wife and child are being held.” Then, satisfied that the detective believed him, the old man walked the length of the table and placed McGuffin’s things on the table in front of him. McGuffin picked the gun up thanklessly and slid it into his jacket pocket as Vandenhof walked back across the room, this time to a cherry-red cabinet, the kind Marlene Dietrich should be draped over. “Would you like a drink?” he asked.
“No thanks.”
Vandenhof opened the doors, revealing rows of gleaming crystal and dark bottles of foreign spirits. “A little schnapps clears the head,” he said, selecting a bottle and a small snifter. He poured a little into the snifter, then replaced the bottle and turned to McGuffin. “You’re sure?” he asked, raising the glass.
McGuffin shook his head. “All I want is Otto.”
Vandenhof finished the drink in a single gulp, then smacked his thick lips. “That is something we both want,” he said, reaching again for the bottle.
“You?” McGuffin asked.
“Very much,” he answered, carefully measuring out another drink.
“Why?”
“Because he has stolen something of mine.”
“What?”
Vandenhof replaced the bottle in the cabinet, then walked slowly to the table. He stopped at the chair to McGuffin’s right and stared questioningly at the detective. “Have you ever heard of Peter Carl Fabergé?” he asked.
“Is he a friend of Kruger’s?”
The fat man’s chortle sounded like an idling marine engine. “Hardly that, Mr. McGuffin. Hardly that. Peter Carl Fabergé was the greatest goldsmith and jeweler the world has ever known. His most famous creations are the imperial Russian Easter eggs.”
“Oh, yeah,” McGuffin remembered. “Those hollow eggs with the picture of the czar’s family inside?”
The fat man laughed again. “Most amusing. Most amusing indeed. Fabergé made almost sixty eggs, and I daresay not even the earliest were so primitive as that. The first one was given by Alexander III to the czarina in 1884. It was made of gold and enameled opaque white. And when the czarina opened the shell, she discovered a golden yolk. And when she opened the yolk she discovered a tiny perfect chicken made of varying shades of gold. And inside the chicken she discovered a perfect model of the imperial crown. And inside this, inside this, sir, hung a perfect ruby egg,” he said, holding his clenched fingertips aloft.
“Which came first?” McGuffin asked.
“Have your little joke,” the fat man said. “Admittedly the eggs are a symbol of decadence to some. I, however, prefer to view them in their broadest symbolical sense. Since the dawn of civilization, the egg has been looked upon as the symbol of the origin of all things. Did you know that the ancient Persians painted and ate eggs at the spring equinox, hundreds of years before the birth of Christ?”
“I didn’t know that,” McGuffin admitted.
“And the Greeks worshiped the egg of Orpheus. And the Hindus worshiped the Golden Egg of Brahma. And the -”
“And the leg bone’s connected to the hip bone,” McGuffin interrupted. “Get to the point.”
“The point is, Mr. McGuffin, that the egg is the most perfect of earthly forms, and Peter Carl Fabergé has made it heavenly. And if you could only see one of them, you would not be so impatient to get on with your mundane business. Why, do you know,” the fat man said, eyes dancing with excitement, “that one of them actually contains a tiny elevator?”
“No, I didn’t know that either,” McGuffin admitted.
“Yes! And when the top is opened, a statue of Peter the Great astride a golden horse mounted on a sapphire pedestal rises from the egg. Each egg is unique, and one is more beautiful than the next. Some are set with diamonds and pearls and rubies and sapphires, and laced with silver and platinum,” he went on with almost orgasmic enthusiasm.
“But the most beautiful egg, Mr. McGuffin, the most ingenious and exquisite of them all, is the one given by Nicholas II to the Czarina Alexandra Feodorovna to celebrate the tercentenary of Romanoff rule in 1913,” he said, his narrowed eyes gleaming like tiny jeweled eggs as he pressed his face close to the detective’s.
“The one Kruger stole from you?” McGuffin asked, leaning away.
“The same,” Vandenhof said, straightening up. “The workmanship is beyond imagining and the jewels were the finest to be had at the time. On the outside are miniatures of all the Romanoff czars, framed by Russian eagles in chased gold on white enamel. The pedestal is the Russian imperial shield in porphyry, set with precious stones and gold. And inside the egg is a globe with two maps of the Russian empire inset in gold, one of the year 1613, the other of the year 1913.”
“How much is this thing worth?” McGuffin interrupted.
Vandenhof shrugged. “Broken down, perhaps a million dollars or so. But that doesn’t interest me.”
“You mean it’s hot,” McGuffin said. “You stole it and you can’t get rid of it.”
“I have no wish to get rid of it, Mr. McGuffin,” the fat man replied firmly. “I only wish to reacquire it. And, as to my right of ownership - the egg disappeared from the palace following the overthrow of the czar, then showed up in Paris some twenty-five years later. In view of these gaps in the chain of title, I should say that in this case, possession is ten-tenths of the law.”
“How did you get possession?” McGuffin asked.
“With all due respect, sir, that is none of your business. As you yourself said, your only business is finding your daughter. And to that end, I am willing to make you a most generous offer. I am willing to lead you to Otto Kruger, but in return you must do something for me.”
“You want me to bring you the egg.”
“A fair exchange, I should say.”
“Fair enough,” McGuffin allowed. “But what makes you so sure I’ll keep my part of the bargain once you’ve led me to Otto, and I have my daughter? I might just forget about the egg, or worse yet, decide to keep it for myself.”
“That’s precisely the reason I’ve never hired anyone in the past to go after the egg for me. Who could one possibly trust to return an object of such value? But my intuition tells me that you, Mr. McGuffin, are an honest man. I have to believe that providence directed you here to me tonight.”
“I’m flattered,” McGuffin said.
“I also believe that your daughter means more to you than all the money in the world. But, of course, once your daughter is out of harm’s way, money may again assume its usual importance to you. Therefore, if you betray me, Mr. McGuffin, I will be forced to send Toby to kill your daughter. I’m sure you understand.”
“Oh, sure, no hard feelings,” McGuffin replied. “What I can’t understand is why you don’t just send Toby after the egg.”
The fat man smiled ruefully and shook his head. “Otto stole my egg only to cause me pain. He knows it’s the thing I love more than anything else in the world, and being without it is the most fiendish torture he can inflict upon me. He would force Toby to kill him before he would see me have it.”
“It sounds as if your divorce was as bad as mine,” McGuffin said.
“Find my egg, Mr. McGuffin. Find it and I’ll pay you a handsome bonus.”
“How much?”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
“Then thousand!” McGuffin wailed. “For an egg that’s worth at least a million broken up?”
“But I don’t intend to break it up,” Vandenhof replied. “I’m offering you $10,000 for the return of a keepsake whose only value is one of sentiment.”
“And what makes you think Otto feels the same way about it?” McGuffin asked, pushing his chair back and getting to his feet. “What makes you think he hasn’t already broken the egg and sold off the stones?”
“I know he hasn’t because I know Otto,” Vandenhof replied easily. “As long as he has the egg in its original state, he has the power to hurt me. But once it no longer exists, he no longer has that power. No, Mr. McGuffin. Otto wouldn’t dare destroy the egg.”
“You make it sound as if this egg is cursed,” McGuffin said.
“Not cursed, Mr. McGuffin, blessed,” the fat man replied. “And once you lay eyes on it, you, too, will come under its magical spell. What do you say? Do we have a deal?”
McGuffin hung his hand on the back of his neck and stared at the floor. “Yeah, we got a deal,” he said, looking up from the floor.
“Congratulations!” Vandenhof exclaimed, then bolted his schnapps down in one gulp.
“But I have to have an advance,” McGuffin added.
“How much?” the fat man asked guardedly.
“Half now, half when I deliver the egg.”
“Ten percent now, the rest when you deliver the egg,” Vandenhof countered.
“Cash?”
“If you prefer.”
“I prefer.”
“Very good,” Vandenhof said. He placed his empty glass on the table and walked to the fireplace at the end of the room, the silk robe billowing behind. He rolled the heraldic shield easily to one side, revealing a wall safe that he opened quickly, then reached inside for a handful of bills. He counted off ten bills, returned the rest to the safe, and closed the door, but not before McGuffin had had a glimpse of the contents of the safe. Behind the stacks of banded currency was a solid wall of gold ingots. The refugee from war-torn Germany had done very well for himself in the New World - or the Old.
“Now I understand why you keep a gun in the house,” McGuffin said, as Vandenhof rolled the shield back in place.
“We keep a great many more than one in the house,” Vandenhof replied as he approached the detective, his fee in hand. “As well as an extremely sophisticated alarm system.”
“The antiques business must have been very good to you.”