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.
A
MIDST 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 before 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.”
The comment seemed to displease him. He made a grimace almost of distaste. I could not understand his reaction; it was an innocent remark.
“Debatable,” he said finally. “The whereabouts of perhaps eight Imperial eggs are unknown. They may have been destroyed or stolen and hidden to this day. Those were violent, lawless times in St. Petersburg when the Bolsheviks took over. Much of the gold and silver jewelry belonging to royalty was seized and melted down. Oil paintings were vandalized, palaces ransacked, priceless antiques carted off to the hovels of the rabble, and libraries of rare books burned to heat those hovels. So it’s understandable how several Imperial eggs disappeared. Peter Carl Fabergé was lucky to escape alive. Nicholas and Alexandra were not as fortunate.”
The old man seemed genuinely moved by this recital of history. He removed his pince-nez, took the handkerchief from his cuff, and wiped the glasses slowly. The Russian Revolution was as ancient to me as the Punic Wars but Mr. Smythe acted as if the execution of the Romanovs happened yesterday.
“Fascinating stuff,” I said, to let him know I appreciated his efforts. “Could you give me a rough idea of what you think the Fabergé egg in our late client’s estate might be worth? Just a ballpark figure.”
He shook his head. “I cannot do that, dear boy. It depends on the provenance and authenticity of the egg as well as its design, the surprise within, and its physical condition. I suggest you have an appraisal made by someone more expert than I. If you wish I can recommend several reputable and knowledgeable people.”
Something he had said alerted me. “Its authenticity?” I repeated. “Are you implying it might be a fake? A forgery?”
“The possibility does exist,” he said, nodding. “There have been a few attempts to sell a fraudulent Fabergé Imperial egg. All have failed. No one has been able to reproduce the exquisite workmanship of Carl Fabergé’s artisans. And you know, most of them were quite young—in their early twenties.”
“Amazing,” I said, tried to think of more questions to ask and couldn’t. “Mr. Smythe, I want to thank you for giving me so much of your time.”
“Do I seem busy?” he said with a faint smile. “I enjoy talking about antiques and their history.”
“Well, you’ve been a big help, sir. If my father approves of having the egg appraised I may return to ask for your recommendations. Or, I warn you, I may come in just to learn more about the House of Fabergé and their marvelous eggs.”
“Anytime,” he said genially, and we shook hands.
I exited into the steely December sunlight, slid into my barouche, and sat a few moments reviewing what I had just heard. Interesting. Top-notch grist, one might even say. The salient fact, I decided, was the attempts to sell counterfeit Imperial eggs. If it had been tried before, it was quite possibly being tried again—with Mrs. Edythe Westmore the intended victim of the forgery. She didn’t seem to me worldly-wise enough to insist on an expert’s appraisal before purchase.
I headed for West Palm Beach wondering how I might finagle a tȇte-à-tȇte with Mrs. Westmore or, better yet, a kaffeeklatsch with the entire Westmore family. I like to know the people I’m defending. Sometimes they reveal strengths or weaknesses, or even just predilections that make my job easier. Besides, I’m a sociable bloke. I can endure solitude but I much prefer companionship, chatter, and perhaps a wee bit of malicious gossip.
I pulled into the parking area of the Pelican Club, happy to see it almost deserted. It meant the luncheon crowd had not yet arrived, and Binky and I would be able to snag a table in the dining room.
I was one of the founders of the Pelican, a private club, and it remains my favorite south Florida rendezvous. It provides food, drink, a dartboard, and on most nights enough wassail to satisfy the most demanding roisterer, female or male.
Management is in the capable hands of the Pettibones, a family of color. Father Simon is bartender and majordomo, mother Jasmine serves as den mother, son Leroy is our chef, and daughter Priscilla does her own take on how a waitress should behave. They are a merry crew and had rescued the Pelican from the shoals of Chapter 7. (That’s total bankruptcy, not the seventh section of this tome.)
The rear dining area was vacant and I grabbed the relatively secluded corner table Connie Garcia and I customarily select. Priscilla was nowhere to be seen but I was hardly seated before Binky Watrous came bustling in. He always arrives promptly for a free meal. Not that he’s a moocher; he’s just continually tapped out.
“You saved my life,” he told me, flopping into a chair. “The Duchess wanted me to escort her to a flute recital. But I told her I had an important business meeting with you. She wanted to know when I start drawing a salary. When, Archy?”
“Binky,” I said, “I thought after a period of on-the-job training you intended to go into business as a private investigator, the Philip Marlowe of Palm Beach.”