Killerfest (14 page)

CHAPTER 24 - COCKED DIE

“Cocked die,”
Scarne said. “Roll again.”

Gull retrieved
the cubes from the floor, glaring at Scarne as he handed them to his boss.

“A German woman?”
Khan’s voice was strangled. “I understood that Sebastian was murdered by a
terrorist. A Middle Eastern woman.”

“That’s what
they want everyone to think,” Scarne said. “Easier for the public to swallow.
More mysterious, too. Terrorism sells more books.” He gestured with his drink,
some of which sloshed out on the table. To Khan’s horror, the liquid narrowly
missed the priceless backgammon board. Gulle moved in and quickly wiped up the
spill. “But just between me, you and the lamppost, I think she was a pro. Maybe
hired by terrorists.” He paused. “Maybe not. But I’ll soon find out.”

“And how will
you do that?”

“Got a lead on
her.” For effect, Scarne emphasized the falsehood by touching his nose and
winking. “She made a little, itty-bitty mistake. I’ll track her down, you’ll
see. Hey, why don’t you roll? But try to keep them on the table this time.”

“Double,” Khan
said viciously, turning the doubling cube to 4. The minimum bet on the game was
now $400. Khan’s roll was a good one, a four and a five, but he was obviously
now off his form and made a stupid move. “What was the mistake?”

Scarne put on
his best shark smile and shook his head.

“Sorry, pal.
Confidential. Got it from one of the security guards I fed some drinks. I’m
gonna find her before the cops do and see who paid her. That’s why I came here.
I’m gonna be famous. I thought maybe there might be a book deal in it for me.
I’d like to stick it to Shields. I can’t write a lick, but you must have
someone who can ghost it for me.” He reached for the doubling cube.

“Double,” he
said, upping the stakes to $800. “Gotta pay for my flight to Brussels.”

It was a huge
risk, but all he needed was one or two good rolls out of the next four turns to
win. Three or more good rolls might get all his men off the board with some of
Khan’s still trapped. Maybe I am getting a bit drunk, Scarne thought. But it
was worth it. At the mention of Brussels, Khan visibly paled. And his game
completely went to pieces. He misplayed even good rolls and blindly accepted
another double from Scarne, to $1,600. Scarne then proceeded to have not three,
but four good rolls in a row, blocking Khan’s men — even bearing some off
entirely — and enabling his own men to march unhindered.

“Backgammon,
Khan,” he said quietly when his last man was borne off, leaving the publisher
with three men still stranded on the center bar! Scarne, who doubted Khan had
ever taken such a beating, had won $4,800! He glanced at his watch.

“Good Lord.
Look at the time. Got to run, Khan. Have to pack. And you have a tournament to
play. Hope you have better luck.”

Khan glared at
him. He looks like he wants to kill me right here, Scarne thought. He could
sense Gulle approaching his rear. He tensed. There was a long pause. Then
someone came into the conservatory.

“Chandi, we’re
going to be late for the tournament!”

It was a woman
that Scarne thought he recalled from the Killerfest conference. One of Bengal
Publishing’s authors. Lisa somebody. Funny last name. Pretty lady, all decked
out for a night on the town, dripping with jewelry and showing some impressive
cleavage. He felt Gulle back away.

Khan and
Scarne stood.

“I’ll be right
down, dear. Just finishing up.”

She smiled at
Scarne and left. The men followed.

“So,” Scarne
said pleasantly, “are you interested in a book deal if my suspicions pan out? I
can sell it anywhere, but I know you and Shields are big rivals. Like I said,
I’d like to stick it to him for giving me the ax.”

“I’ll think
about it,” Khan said through clenched teeth, “if you come up with something.
Though I doubt you will.”

Scarne knew
there were two ways to read that statement.

“Fair enough.
I’ll give Bengal Publishing the right of first refusal. But aren’t you
forgetting something?”

Cruelly,
Scarne picked up the three of Khan’s men who were on the center line and
clacked them in his hand.  

“Boga,” Khan
said, his eyes full of hate,“get my checkbook.”

***

“Chandi. Come
back to bed. I’m cold.”

Khan, standing
naked at the window, sighed. He was tired. The woman was apparently
inexhaustible. And he hated it when she called him that name. He thought it
made him sound like a water boy in a British movie set in the Kyber Pass. But
he put up a lot from Lisa Lovepuddle, who in addition to being a pretty good
lay, was still crucial to Bengal Publishing’s bottom line.

Her real name
was Sarah Ebinger and prior to hitting it big with her erotic novels she lived
in a split level house in Manalapan, New Jersey, with her accountant husband
and two teen-age children. The husband was now an ex and the girls were in
private school in Boston. “Lisa Lovepuddle” now resided in Scarsdale splendor and
also owned a pied-a-terre in Manhattan not far from Khan’s apartment.

She wasn’t a
bad-looking woman and Khan usually enjoyed her company. He had even asked her
to join him for what he fully expected would be a splendid and triumphant night
at the All India Club. No one could be assured of winning the club’s
prestigious Backgammon Tournament, which attracted 128 of the best players in
the country, and a handful of international stars. Still, a very strong player
like Khan could be expected to last into the round of 16, maybe even the round
of 8, and then, who knew? Anything could happen.

But for Khan
to be eliminated in the first round, by Lord Rupert Eastlake, a pissant of an
Englishman of all people, was insulting. Then, to stay through the whole
four-hour tournament, as protocol demanded, was agonizing. For the first time
in his life, Chandra Khan got seriously drunk, a circumstance that didn’t help
him in the sack with Lisa Lovepuddle.

That damn Scarne!
Not only did he hustle me out of almost $5,000 and queer me for the tournament,
Khan thought, but he could destroy me if he gets lucky in his search for
Quimper’s killer. What had been the woman’s mistake? Did she leave something
behind? Thank God the glory-hungry private detective had not gone to the
police. But I don’t even know where the son of a bitch lives. If I did I’d send
Boga to solve the problem. But if I can’t stop him from going to Europe, there
is something else I can do.

“Chandi!”

He turned from
the window and walked resignedly back to the bed, where Lisa was sprawled
naked. If she was so goddamn cold, he thought, why doesn’t she pull the covers
up? 

“My, my,” she
said, “look at you. Talk about a wet noodle.” She reached out a hand and began
fondling him. “What’s with you? It was only a fucking game of backgammon. How
do you think I felt, having to sit around all night after you got your clock
cleaned by that old English fart. He had more hair coming out of his nose and
ears than on his head.”

That was a
fair description of the ancient Eastlake, but it did nothing for Khan’s libido.
After five minutes of Lisa’s handiwork, he was still flaccid.

“Jesus,” she
said. “Not even half mast. Well, let’s try Plan B.” She sat up and bent her
head to him. “Now concentrate, Chandi. Put your mind to it. Or I’ll bite it
off.”

***

When Scarne
got back to his apartment, he called Gaetan Mendelsohn’s art gallery, only to
be told that Mendelsohn was on a business trip. 

“He is in
London buying some Simon Fairless seascapes,” one of the gallery assistants
told him in excellent English. “They are very popular just now. Do you know
Fairless? His work is replete with glistening abstractions.”

“That’s
wonderful,” Scarne said. He didn’t have a clue who Fairless was. “If it’s
glistening, I’m listening. Just what I need for the den in my Newport mansion.
One of my hedge funds just made a killing shorting alfalfa futures in
Australia.When will Gaetan be back? I am flying over from the States and would
like to see them immediately.”

“He is
returning Saturday morning. We have an exhibition in the evening. But I’m sure
he would like to meet you before the show. Where can we reach you?”

Scarne gave
him his cell phone number.

“I’ll be in
Paris,” Scarne said.

“Looking for
art?”

“Yes. A nude.”

CHAPTER 25 - PARIS INTERLUDE

Next morning,
he called Evelyn and Noah, had them put the phone on speaker, and brought them
up to speed. He told them to keep an eye out for anyone looking suspicious.

“Everyone in
this town looks suspicious to me,” Sealth said.

Scarne
described Gulle.

“You should
have said inhuman,” Evelyn said. “Be careful.”

“I’d better
get cracking on that partnership agreement,” Noah added.

“I need
another favor from Juliette,” Scarne said.

“What is it?”

Scarne told him.

“Sit tight.
I’ll get right back to you.”

Ten minutes
later Sealth called him back with some phone numbers in Paris.

“She will make
the preliminary contacts.”

***

It was still a
good time to leave Manhattan. If Chandra Khan was indeed behind the Arhaut and
Quimper murders, the easiest solution for his problem would be to add a nosy
private investigator to the body count. On such short notice, Gulle would
probably get the job. Scarne had a healthy respect for Gulle. One of them would
probably be killed. But even if Gulle was captured after any attempt on Scarne’s
life, he wouldn’t talk or betray his boss under any circumstances. He had the
look of a man who would enjoy waterboarding or having his testicles hooked up
to a generator. And no matter what happened, Khan could argue that Gulle had
gone berserk and acted on his own. He would say that there was bad blood
between the two men. He should have sensed something. Gulle was always a loose
cannon. He had to bail him out of trouble before. A real tragedy.

Scarne knew he
had to stay alive and let Khan stew. Hopefully he would do something rash and
provide some hard proof Scarne could use. He called Emma Shields in Paris and
then booked the 7 P.M. Air France flight from JFK to Charles De Gaulle. He
packed and spent the rest of the day at the gym and then at the secret N.Y.P.D.
pistol range in the basement of an old Borders bookstore on 21st Street and
Sixth Avenue in the Flatiron District of Manhattan, a perk given him by Dick
Condon.

***

Scarne’s
flight arrived in Paris at just after 10 A.M. on Thursday. Emma was tied up all
day, but said she would leave the key to her flat with the building manager.
But Scarne didn’t go there immediately. Instead, he went to a small airport
bistro, ordered a coffee, and waited.

Ten minutes
later a swarthy young man walked by him. He was wearing jeans and a oversize,
three-quarter-length pea coat. Paris, which is roughly on the same latitude as
Toronto, can be cool in June, and was this day, although Scarne suspected that
there was another reason for the bulky coat. The man returned.

“Monsieur
Scarne?”

Scarne waved
him to a seat. The man didn’t offer his name, and Scarne didn’t ask.

“Coffee?”

“Qui. Merci.
Parlez vous francais?”

“Enough so I
don’t order an elephant a la mode by mistake in a restaurant,” Scarne said.
“But I’d rather speak English.”

“No problem.
My boss said your French is barbaric.”

Scarne thought
that was a bit harsh, considering that he had managed to get his euphemistic
points across a few hours earlier when he had called the number Juliette Boudin
had given him. Juliette had many contacts on both sides of the law in France.
As is often the case, it was someone on the criminal side of the line that was
proving most useful.

A waiter
appeared and Scarne ordered two more coffees. He waited until they came and
then said, “What have you got for me?”

The man
reached inside his coat and took out a package, bound with twine.

“I almost shit
my pants on the Metro. I had put this on the seat next to me and two cops
wanted to know if it was mine. I thought they were going to ask me to open it.
There was a bombing last week in the Arab quarter and the flics are very
nervous. I don’t blame them. I hate all this terrorist business. I miss the
days when you could look at an unattended bag on a train or bus and think to
yourself ‘I'm going to take that’.”

Scarne
laughed. He took the package and put it in his small Dakota suitcase. He knew
it wouldn’t be checked on the train he planned to take to Brussels. Travel
between countries in the European Union was as easy as going from New York to
New Jersey.

“One more
thing,” the man said.

“Yes.”

“My boss said
to tell you that he considers that he has repaid his debt to Inspector Boudin.
He wishes her well, but he does not expect to hear from her again.”

“I’ll pass
along the message.”

“Au revoir.”

“Au revoir.”

***

Scarne was
still sleeping when Emma got home. He vaguely heard the shower and then felt a
warm and slightly damp body slide into the bed next to him. He could feel her
breasts against his back. She kissed his neck and slid her hand down his body
and cupped him. After a few minutes he rolled over and they kissed. She raised
a leg and he entered her.

“I’ll have to
tell Mendelsohn’s assistant that I found my nude,” Scarne said.

“What the hell
are you talking about,” Emma said. “Oh, never mind.” She moaned. “Tell me
later.”

***

Scarne was in
the shower when Emma stuck her head in the bathroom door the following morning.

“Jake,
Elizabeth Morlach is on the way up. She’s coming up for coffee. Make sure
you’re decent.”

After drying
off, he threw on a pair of slacks and a shirt and went out to the dining room,
where a slim woman in a track suit was putting croissants on three plates on a
table already set with coffee cups, milk, sugar, butter and jam. He could hear
Emma doing something noisy in the kitchen.

“So, you are
the infamous Jake Scarne,” she said, walking over to him with her hand
extended. “Emma has told me all about you. And, of course, I’ve heard all the
wild tales through the grapevine. Although from the look of you, I’d say they
aren’t so wild. You appear tough as nails.”

Her hands were
soft, and her smile warm. Elizabeth Morlach was even more attractive in person
than the photos Scarne had seen in the media. Her blue eyes were set wide apart
under pale blond eyelashes that matched her shoulder-length hair. But
underneath that fairy-princess appearance, Scarne knew, was a steel mind and
burning ambition.

“I’m not so
tough,” Scarne replied. “I eat quiche.”

“I’m afraid
you will have to settle for croissants and cinnamon scones.”

“Emma cooks
for me occasionally. I’m used to roughing it.”

“I heard
that,” Emma said as she came out of the kitchen with a pot of coffee.

It was against
the law in Paris to make a bad croissant and, surprisingly, Emma’s coffee was
good. The three of them chatted amiably while they ate. Finally, Elizabeth
Morlach said, “Emma tells me you are in Europe hunting for the people you think
really killed Sebastian.”

The surprise
must have shown on Scarne’s face because Emma laughed.

“Don’t worry,
Jake. Nothing will appear in one of the Morlach Fleet Street tabloids. Liz and
I have an agreement. Everything we discuss is confidential, unless we both
agree it’s not.”

“I was under
the impression that Morlach and Shields families are bitter rivals. Your
newspapers and other outlets compete against each other.”

“Our fathers
dislike each other.”

“I’m not sure
that’s a word I would use,” Elizabeth Morlach said. “Despise is better.”

“Someday Liz
and I may also be at each other’s throats,” Emma continued, “but until then, we
have a lot in common.”

Scarne looked
at the two women, both of whom had probably been cosseted but shunted aside by
their male-dominated families. Emma, he knew, had a tough time after her
husband died and only came out of her shell because she wanted to ensure that
her own daughter had a place at the table. As it turned out, Emma was savvier
than her brothers and, to his credit, Randolph soon recognized that. The
Morlach clan was probably a tougher nut to crack, but recent stories in the
financial press seemed to indicate that Elizabeth had clawed her way past two
brothers and was now the heir apparent to the media empire run by her father,
Rupert. Scarne would have bet the Hope Diamond that each woman used some of the
“confidential” information they traded to solidify their respective positions.

“Speaking of
throats,” Elizabeth said, “was there anything about the Quimper murder that
didn’t appear in the press. I’ve heard rumors.”

The detail
about the crown roast has been suppressed, partly out of concern for Quimper’s
family and partly because the Bascombe didn’t want to take the dish off its
menu. Scarne told them the full story. Both women stopped eating.

“Don’t you
want that scone, Emma?”

She passed it
to Scarne.

“You really
think that Chandra is behind it,” Elizabeth asked. “It’s hard to believe. I’ve
met him a number of times. He plays hardball, but he’s so sexy and charming.”

“I don’t think
anything,” Scarne said. “I’m just following a hunch and a rather tenuous lead
in Brussels.”

“Forgive me
for asking. But why did you stop here in Paris instead of going straight to
Belgium? I mean, Emma is delightful, but aren’t you afraid that Khan, if he is
guilty, will take steps to cover his tracks.”

“I’m hoping
he, or someone, does just that. I just want to give them time to think about
it.”

As the
implication of that statement sunk in, Elizabeth Morlach stared intently at
Scarne.

“Isn’t that
rather cold, Jake. Immoral, maybe even illegal. Someone might get hurt, even
killed. ”

“We’re not
talking about Nelson Mandela or Mother Teresa, Elizabeth. And you will forgive
me if I don’t take a lecture on morality and the legal system from a Morlach
too seriously.”

She looked as
if she had been slapped. The Morlach family’s legal troubles in England, which
included indictments of many of their top editors and the disgrace of several
cabinet members, was still an open wound. They stared at each other. Then, she
smiled.

“I guess I
deserved that. Emma said you can be a hard case.”

“He’s just
angry, Liz,” Emma said. “He lost a client. It’s happened before, and there was
hell to pay. Isn’t that right, Jake? Even though it wasn’t your fault.”

“Sebastian
Quimper was a literary fraud and a lecher,” Scarne said. “Every time I dealt
with him I needed a drink or a shower, sometimes both. But that didn’t mean
someone had the right to do a John the Baptist on him. Not to make a point
about religion. Not to eliminate the competition. Not to scuttle a goddamn
merger. Not for any reason. He didn’t deserve it. Not on my watch, or anyone’s
watch.” The tone in Scarne’s voice quieted the women for a moment. He reached
over and poured them all some more coffee. “In any event, the man I have to see
in Brussels is away on business until Saturday. He’s in London, picking up
paintings by someone called Simon Fairless. Not much I can do about that.”

“Oh, I like
Simon’s work,” Emma said. “And they are very reasonable.”

“What will you
do when you find these people,” Elizabeth said. “Arrest them? On what grounds?
Do you even have any jurisdiction in Europe?”

Emma laughed.

“Jurisdiction?
He’s not a cop, Liz. He’ll get them to tell them what he wants to know.”

“That’s all?”

“Then he’ll
try to goad them into doing something stupid, so he can kill them.”