I saw a full-page color photo exactly like the one Natalie Westmore had shown me, exactly like the one she had filched from her mother’s desk, exactly like the one given to Edythe by Frederick Clemens, who claimed it was the Fabergé Imperial egg in Paris awaiting her purchase.
The brief inscription on the facing page stated the jeweled ovoid pictured was called the Coronation Egg and was a masterpiece of the Forbes Magazine Collection.
Game, set, and match!
I
READ THE COPY
hastily and learned the Coronation Egg had been given to Alexandra by Czar Nicholas II in 1897. But that became of peripheral interest when I closely examined the color photo of the egg itself. I discovered the page on which it was printed had been oh so carefully cut from the book, probably with a single-edge razor blade, and then just as carefully reinserted into the book and reattached with a narrow strip of transparent Scotch tape.
It was as obvious to me as I trust it is to you what had happened. The page bearing the image of the Coronation Egg had been neatly sliced from the book and a color copy made at a photo shop. The original had been taped back into the book. The exact reproduction had been given to Mrs. Edythe Westmore as “proof’ the egg she was being gulled into buying actually existed. It was an elegant con, breathtaking in its simplicity, as effective and convincing as a goldbrick (an ingot of lead covered with gold leaf).
I phoned Sgt. Al Rogoff immediately to tell him what I had found but was informed he was busy and couldn’t come to the phone. I left a message asking him to call me back when he had a free moment. Then I took off cap and jacket and donned suitable duds for the family cocktail hour and dinner. My father is offended by my more daring sartorial selections. But what do you expect from a man who wears garters?
I refrained from phoning Rogoff again that evening, not wanting to be thought a nudge—or as they say in New York, a noodge. I worked steadily on my journal and eventually Al called a little after nine o’clock. He sounded weary.
“What a day,” he said. “I haven’t stopped for twelve hours. I’m ready for the sack.”
“Can you stop by before you go home?” I asked. “I want to hear the latest and I have something to show you.”
“Can’t it wait?” he pleaded. “I’m wiped out.”
“I hate to use the old chestnut ‘Time is of the essence,’” I said, “but time is of the essence. Al, the swindle has to be stopped before Wednesday or Mrs. Westmore is out half a mil and Clemens and Katz disappear back in the woodwork.”
“All right,” he said, sighing heavily, “I’ll stop by for a few minutes. Do I have to bring my own beer?”
“I don’t think it’ll be necessary,” I told him. “There’s a six-pack of Coors Light in the fridge.”
“A good start,” he said. “See you soon.”
By the time his pickup skidded to a stop on our graveled turnaround I was in the kitchen with beer and glasses ready. I had also brought down the art book borrowed from Penelope Blakely-Jones.
Rogoff clumped in, removed his gun belt, and collapsed onto a chair at the enameled kitchen table. He looked drained.
“Hungry?” I asked him.
“Nah. I had a couple of chili burgers about an hour ago. Maybe that’s why I’m so thirsty.”
We poured glasses of cold beer and he went to work on his at once.
“Anything new on Clemens and Katz?” I asked him.
He nodded. “A lot. They’re not full-time partners but they’ve teamed up on several capers in the past. Clemens is always the front man, a smoothy who deals directly with the marks. Katz provides muscle if it’s needed and acts as collector. Now listen to this one; it’s a doozy. Last year, before they came to Florida, they’re in L.A. and they buy a dinky two-by-nothing store selling cameras, radios, TVs, and stuff like that. I didn’t get the name of the place. Call it XYZ Electronics. The store is just a front for Clemens and Katz, so all their out-of-pocket is the down payment. The reason they want this joint is because it’s been okayed by credit card companies and can accept all kinds of plastic.”
He paused to open a second beer and loosen the waistband of his trousers. Al is getting quite a paunch; every time I see him I vow to start a diet—soon.
“All right,” he continued, “so now our villains own a store which can accept credit cards. You know a lot of guys in L.A.—and elsewhere of course—go to bordellos or patronize call girls. And many of the Johns use plastic to pay because they don’t want to carry cash. The madams and the call girls—even streetwalkers—will take a credit card rather than lose a sale. The crunch comes when the stud’s credit card bill arrives. He doesn’t want it to show he paid X dollars to the Whoopie Club or to some unidentified woman, in case his wife or boss sees the bill and asks questions.”
“I’m beginning to get it,” I said.
“Sure,” Rogoff said. “Clemens and Katz went to all the madams and call girls and said look, do all your credit card billing through XYZ Electronics. And if you haven’t got a credit card machine we’ll get you one. We’ll take ten percent off the top and return to you ninety percent of the cash received from the credit card companies. We’ll keep records you can inspect anytime you want to be sure we’re playing straight. And you can raise your rates to cover the surcharge. The Johns won’t object because their bills will show they made a purchase at XYZ Electronics.”
“And it worked?”
“Like a charm. They must have signed up every bawd in L.A. These two guys hit it big. You could write a book about them.”
“I intend to,” I said. “What ended their bonanza?”
“The IRS. They did an audit, checked the credit card receipts of XYZ Electronics, and levied a big tax plus interest and penalties. So Clemens and Katz, who were using phony names for the scam, skedaddled and came to Florida.”
“Beautiful,” I said. “But I’ve got a story that almost matches it. Listen to this....”
And I gave him a condensed account of what Mrs. Blakely-Jones had told me of the past history of Sydney Smythe, war hero and blackmailer. When I finished, Sgt. Rogoff shook his head in wonderment. “As you like to say, Archy, one never knows, do one?”
“You know what I’m thinking, Al?”
“Sure,” he said. “I’m thinking the same thing. If Smythe was a blackmailer in England he might have tried the same stunt over here by putting the screws on Clemens and Katz. More money in return for his silence.”
“Right. Which would give them another reason for putting him down. He just didn’t realize how vicious they are.”
“Well, I don’t like to hear the murder victim was a wrongo but it doesn’t change my job.”
“Here’s something else you should know,” I said. I told him about borrowing the art book from Penny. I showed him how the page with the color photo of the Coronation Egg had been carefully excised. I explained I thought it had been copied and the reproduction given to Edythe Westmore to convince her the egg she was being urged to purchase actually existed and was a glorious objet d’art.
“I think you’re right on,” Al said. “It’s just the way Clemens and Katz would work. Those pirates know every crooked trick there is. And if they can’t use an old one they come up with a new one.”
“Well, I’m going to take the book to Mrs. Westmore tomorrow and show her the egg she plans to buy is really part of the Forbes Magazine Collection. That’ll be the end of Clemens’s scam.”
“No,” Sgt. Rogoff said sharply. “Don’t do that. Don’t blow the whistle. Not yet.”
“Why not?” I said indignantly.
“Look, buster, you and I have been working two different cases, haven’t we? You’re trying to prevent a swindle and I’m trying to clear a homicide. Am I right?”
I nodded.
“The swindle isn’t my business because no crime has been committed yet. If Mrs. Westmore had paid Clemens the half-million, then we could rack him up on fraud charges. But not at this moment. So it really isn’t my worry. But it doesn’t mean I can’t help you. I have helped, haven’t I?”
“You have indeed, Al. A great deal.”
“Ever wonder why I was acting like a true-blue chum and putting in long hours to make your Discreet Inquiry easier?”
I looked at him narrowly. “The thought had occurred to me you knew something you weren’t telling me. When I was at your place—the first time I told you about Clemens and Katz—you switched gears on me suddenly. One minute you weren’t particularly interested and the next minute you seemed totally involved and eager to cooperate. I couldn’t figure why you changed so abruptly.”
He laughed. “I should have known you’d notice. I flipped when you said Felix Katz is missing the forefinger of his right hand.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Remember I told you we took prints off the handle of the bayonet shoved into Sydney Smythe. It was determined they were made by someone wearing pigskin gloves. The odd thing was we got good prints of the thumb and three fingers. But no print of the index finger. There was a gap where that finger should have left a print when the bayonet handle was gripped.”
I stared at him. “Katz,” I said.
“Still not proved,” Rogoff said. “But it’s the best lead we’ve got. Sure, I’ve been helping you on the attempted swindle because I’m trying to learn more about Katz, hoping to find something, anything that’ll help pin him.”
“I follow all that, Al, and it makes sense. But I still don’t understand why I can’t take this book to Mrs. Westmore and prove to her Clemens is a phony.”
“Because once you do that she’ll contact Clemens, tell him what she’s learned, and he’ll vamoose. Along with Katz. Archy, I think Fred is the weak sister of the Clemens-Katz combo. I’m guessing if push comes to shove he’ll rat to save his skin. It’s my only chance of nailing Katz for the killing. But to persuade Clemens to squeal I need to have him around. If he takes off I’m finished.”
I was silent. I could appreciate his problem but I had my own. If I didn’t halt the Fabergé egg con within the next two days Mrs. Westmore would be fleeced—and I could imagine my father’s reaction. I explained this to Rogoff and he agreed neither of us had much time.
“Just give me another day,” he urged. “I still have a few cards up my sleeve and maybe they’ll prove to be aces. Meanwhile I’d like to take this book along for a day or so. Okay?”
I wasn’t happy about it but I owed him. “Will the book help put Katz away?”
“It may,” he said.
“Then take it,” I said. “But if you don’t return it to me you get fifty lashes with a wet noodle.”
A sad attempt at humor, I admit, but Al knew what I meant. After he left, taking my evidence with him, I cleaned the kitchen and then trudged up to my quarters.
I found myself in a forlorn mood with no intention of working on my journal and no desire to listen to jazz, inhale a brandy, or puff a coffin nail. I tried to determine the cause of my desolation and finally decided it sprang from my repeating to Rogoff the life story of Sydney Smythe as related by Mrs. Blakely-Jones.
Since discovering the corpse of the antique dealer I had thought of him only as a murder victim, a thing rather than a dead human being. But Penny had brought him to life, making me share all the triumphs and tragedies of a man who actually existed, who had virtues and vices, exhibited uncommon valor and moral frailty.
I went to bed that night wondering if my own life would prove to be as strange and unpredictable as his.
Sleep was an antidote for my dejection and I awoke Tuesday morning with energy restored, resolve strengthened, and the firm belief I could, if called upon, discover who really took a hatchet to Mr. and Mrs. Andrew J. Borden. But then I went down to breakfast and couldn’t decide whether I wanted honey or orange marmalade on my toasted muffin.
I had a few odds and ends of Christmas shopping to finish and didn’t get to my office until eleven o’clock. I found two messages stating Sgt. Al Rogoff had phoned and wanted me to call him ASAP.
“Where you been?” he demanded. “I tried you at both your home and office.”
“Christmas shopping,” I explained. “I’m giving you a salami as big as the Ritz.”
“I can use it,” he said. “Listen, I’m going over to Clemens’s place. Want to be in on the action?”
I was surprised. “Have you decided to arrest him, Al?”
“Not unless I have to. But I’ve got a search warrant. It should be fun.”
“I want to be there,” I said firmly.
“Meet me outside his condo in half an hour. Don’t go inside before I get there. Understood?”
“Yes,
sir,”
I said, hung up, grabbed my hat (a pearl-gray trilby), and ran. I was first to arrive outside Clemens’s building. A few moments later two police cars pulled up. Al was in the first with a driver. Two uniformed officers were in the other car. The sergeant came over to me. He was carrying the big art book I had borrowed from Penny.
“You talk to him on the intercom,” he instructed. “Make it sound important. When you get in we’ll be right behind you.”
“Now I know why you invited me,” I said. “I’m the bait.”
“You’ve got it. It’s easier than breaking down the door. Let’s go.”
The five of us crowded into the smallish outer lobby and I dialed the intercom. I was answered with a caroled, “Clemens Investments. Good morning.” There was no mistaking the voice.
“Fred,” I said, trying to sound distraught, “this is Archy McNally and I must see you at once. It’s important.”
“Of course,” he said calmly. “Come right up.”
He buzzed us in; we all jammed into one elevator and rose in silence to his floor. One of the cops smelled of garlic and I wondered if it was Rogoff.
The sergeant motioned me to stand in front of Clemens’s door. He and the other officers hid to one side. I pressed the buzzer and the door was opened by a smiling Frederick Clemens. He was wearing his usual vested suit, this one a double-breasted sharkskin with a lapel drape to the lower button. Sharkskin was the perfect fabric for a predator like him.
“Come on in, Archy,” he said genially, and stood aside.
I entered and the four cops pushed in behind me. If Clemens was startled he controlled his shock coolly. His sang outfroided mine. He didn’t even say, “What is the meaning of this?” But he did stop smiling.