Стюарт Вудс - Contraband

“Miss Maxine?”

“Yes, Birdie?”

“Would you like your breakfast up here or downstairs?”

“Downstairs, please. I’ll be down in half an hour.” She showered and dressed, then went downstairs, where Birdie had set the table in the little breakfast room.

“I forgot to tell you,” Birdie said, “they’re delivering Miss Maxine’s car today. You want me to put it in the garage?”

“That old Mercedes?”

“Yes’m. They been working on it for months.”

“Then have them leave it in the driveway, where I can see it.”

“Yes’m.”

“Will they need a check?”

“No, ma’am, your aunt took care of that before she left us.”

“How long had she had that car, Birdie? I remember it vaguely from when I was a little girl.”

“She bought it new in... let’s see... 1953, I think it was. She never had another car since then.”

Max was finishing her breakfast when Birdie came back in. “They’re here with the car,” she said.

Max finished her coffee and went outside. The car was parked in the driveway, lit by the sun. She was flabbergasted. It was the most beautiful automobile she’d ever seen. A man was wiping it down with a chamois cloth. “Good morning,” he said.

Max stroked a fender. “What is it?” she asked.

“It’s a 1953 Mercedes 300S convertible,” he said. “Fully restored. It’s all original, except for a stereo system behind this little panel.” He flipped up a part of the walnut dash to reveal the unit. “There are six speakers concealed around the interior.” He switched on the system, and classical music flooded the yard. He switched it off.

“I’ll have to insure it. Do you have any idea what it’s worth on today’s market?”

“Last month, one in this sort of condition went for $326,000,” he replied.

Max gasped. “I can’t afford the insurance,” she said.

Birdie chimed in. “Your aunt had it insured since new,” she said. “The fella’s name is in her address book.”

“Thank you, Birdie.”

“Would you like to drive it?” the man asked.

“Oh, no. If I’m seen in it I’ll never live it down. Just show me how the controls work.”

“It’s all pretty straightforward,” he said. “Listen, if you want to sell the car, I’ll find you a buyer and take a ten percent commission.”

“I’ll think about it,” Max said.

The man showed her how all the controls worked, including the top, then he handed her the keys and drove away in his truck.

“Oh, my goodness,” Max said softly to herself, stroking the leather seats.

Tommy pulled the car around. “Where to, your grace?”

“Stop that. Let’s go see that hangar at the airport.”

They drove out there and Jocko, the lineman, let them through the gate. Once inside, Max waved him over.

“What’s this about a wrecked airplane being delivered out here?”

“Let’s go see,” Jocko said, then hopped on his tractor and led them to the hangar, which, once again, was locked. He peeked through a crack. “I don’t get it,” he said.

“You don’t get what?” Max asked.

“It was here yesterday, now it’s gone.”

“The wrecked airplane?”

“You got it. I came on at six this morning, and nobody’s been around this hangar since then.”

“If somebody has a gate pass, can they get in here at any hour?”

“Twenty-four-seven,” Jocko replied.

“Does the FBO have a list of hangar owners?”

“I guess, but Cal Waters is who you wanna see.”

“Why Cal?”

“He’s the president of the hangar owners association.”

“And where would I find him?”

“Now? I believe he’s in his hangar — right around there.” Jocko pointed.

Tommy drove around the corner into the next row; only one door was open, and a white-haired man was inside, wiping down a turboprop.

They got out of the car. “Hello, Cal,” Max said. Cal was a semiretired builder, well known in Key West.

“Hey, Max,” Cal said. “What’s up?”

“You know the folks who have the hangar in the next row? South Florida Import & Export?”

“Sorta,” he said.

“Who are they?”

“Beats me. I’ve never clapped eyes on them.”

“Aren’t you the head of the hangar owners bunch?”

“Yeah, and I know them all, except for that one. The previous owner died, and they bought it from his estate.”

“Then we could talk to the estate’s attorney?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“He died about three months ago, about a month after his client did.”

“Marvin Goode?”

“That’s him. Was. By the way, I hear your aunt Maxine gave up the ghost. I’m sorry for your loss, except it isn’t exactly your loss, is it?”

“Not exactly,” Max said.

“You want to sell the Mercedes? Not that I could afford it.”

Max suspected that Cal could afford it, if he wanted it badly enough.

“I was thinking about it, but now all I can do is think about driving it.”

“Is it back from the renovation?”

“This morning.”

“What do you reckon it’s worth now?”

“The guy who did the work says one like it sold last month at auction for $326,000.”

“I can’t afford it.”

“Right. You said you’ve never seen the hangar people?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you get a look at a wrecked airplane there?”

“Nope. Jocko said there was one, but they must have taken it away last night.”

“Cal, from what you’ve heard, do you think it could ever fly again?”

“Sure, if you were stupid enough to spend about double what a new one might cost. I think they may still be making them.”

“Want to make a guess why somebody would want the wreck?”

“Maybe they have an aluminum collection at home. More likely, they’re hiding it from folks like you. I heard about the circumstances of its most recent landing.”

“And why would they hide the plane from the law?”

“C’mon, Max, you know more about all this than I do. What’s your guess?”

“None of mine make any sense,” Max said. “What about yours?”

“Something valuable,” Cal said drily.

“That’s wonderfully helpful, Cal. If you ever see that hangar door open, will you give me a call?”

“Sure will.”

“See ya, Cal.” Max turned to leave.

“Now what?” Tommy asked.

“I’m stumped,” Max said. “What do you do when you’re stumped, Tommy?”

“I just keep on truckin’,” Tommy said.

“You’re about as much help as Cal,” Max replied.

Stone was at his desk when Joan buzzed him. “A Roberta Calder for you on one.”

“Good morning, Robbie.”

“And to you. Are you free for lunch?”

“Sure.”

“La Goulue at twelve-thirty.”

“See you there.” They both hung up, then Joan buzzed again. “Dino on two.”

“Hey.”

“Hey, yourself,” Dino said. “What happened?”

“After you left?”

“Yeah.”

“Dessert.”

Dino chuckled.

“Not that kind of dessert, the kind with ice cream on it.”

“Any way you like it, pal.”

“What do you want, Dino?”

“Are you seeing her again?”

“At lunch. She invited me.”

“Then she must have enjoyed ‘dessert.’”

“Is there any substantive reason for this call?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, get to it, will you? I’ve got work to do.”

“A likely story — you never work.”

“You want to come up here, sit in my office, and watch me work?”

“Too boring.”

“Okay, Dino, I’m outta here.”

“Wait a minute. This is about your other most recent girlfriend.”