Бретт Холлидей - Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 9, September 1982

Lansing rolled across the harbor floorboards and the Magnum exploded a second round. A powerful .357 slug bit into the wooden surface where the major had been a second before. Lansing held the S&W in a two-handed Weaver’s grip and fired his father’s gun from a prone position. Minton’s body weaved as a .38 round struck his chest. Lansing squeezed off two more shots and his father’s murderer crashed to the pier — dead.

Aware the shots would alert Harrimon Carter, Lansing moved on, the S&W held ready. He didn’t know if Carter was still on board the scow, or if the man was armed, but the boat was the logical place to look for him. As he approached the edge of the dock, the major saw two figures struggling on the deck of the garbage scow.

Due to the dense fog, he didn’t recognize Carter’s opponent until he drew closer. David Lansing threw a punch at the Detroit crook, who ducked under it and rammed a fist into the other man’s stomach. Carter’s appearance belied his toughness. He’d learned more than one trick about dirty fighting while he’d been in prison. Grabbing David’s forelock, he slammed a hard upper-cut to the taller man’s face.

David staggered backward as Carter launched another punch. The fist bounced off David’s shoulder and he countered with a blow under the thug’s ribs. Carter folded at the middle and David whipped a knee into his face. The ex-con stumbled back into the rail. David hit him again. The blow knocked Carter over the rail. With a scream, the man fell overboard. A great splash announced his arrival at the water below.

David Lansing walked unsteadily from the boat to join his brother. “You get the rest of them?” he asked breathlessly.

“As soon as we fish Carter out of the drink we’ll have them all,” the major replied. “I thought I told you to call the police?”

“I did,” David grinned. “But you didn’t say what I should do afterward. And I think I did pretty well for an insurance salesman.”

“Not bad at all,” Lansing agreed. “Now we’ll just have to hold these guys until the cops arrive and explain the situation to them.”

“ You’ll have some explaining to do,” the younger man sighed. “Especially about that gun.”

“I’ll worry about that when the time comes,” Lansing said. “What matters now is the fact we caught the men who murdered our father.”

“Yeah,” David agreed. “You know, for the first time in my life I feel like a real Lansing,” he smiled. “I finally caught a killer.”

It was a crazy notion — and yet, was it possible The Black Bird had finally come to roost?

It had been a slow day, and Nicholas Lake was at the bookshelves, trying to decide on something to read. He was reaching for The Simple Art of Murder when the door to the outer office opened and Florence stuck her head in.

“There’s a man here I think you’ll want to see, Nicky.”

“Then send him in,” Lake replied. “And don’t call me Nicky.”

He sat down lazily behind the big desk as Florence ushered in the visitor. She said, “This is Mr. Kemidov. Mr. Kemidov, Mr. Lake.” Kemidov was a short, dapper young man in his mid-twenties. His hand, when Lake shook it briefly, was soft and moist. Shiny dark hair curled around his ears. There was an air about him that Lake didn’t care for.

“I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Lake. You come highly recommended. But...”

Lake laughed shortly. “But I don’t look like a private detective? Don’t worry; everyone says that. The world visualizes private detectives as either sleazy little men in trenchcoats or Humphrey Bogart. I’m neither one.”

Lake was a tall man with dark blond hair and a thin moustache. He had a fondness for Panama hats and white suits, and he didn’t mind in the least the fact that he looked like an anachronism.

Kemidov continued, “I would like to engage your services, Mr. Lake. I am a stranger to your city, and there is a delicate matter that must be attended to.”

“A delicate matter involving what?”

“Stolen property.”

Lake smiled slightly but said nothing.

“Perhaps I should give you the background?”

“By all means.”

“My full name is Victor Morris Kemidov. I am of Russian ancestry. My great-grandfather was General Boris Alexivitch Kemidov. He was forced to leave Russia in 1921 because of a misunderstanding with Lenin. He relocated in Istanbul, which was then known as Constantinople, of course.”

“Of course.”

“During his distinguished military career, my great-grandfather accumulated a great deal of wealth. After his move to Constantinople, he began to use that wealth to satisfy a lifelong passion of his. He gradually acquired one of the finest collections of antique jewelry in all of Europe.”

“And now it’s been stolen.”

“Yes. But that’s jumping ahead quite a bit.”

“Sorry.”

“My great-grandfather foiled the attempts of many thieves to steal his treasure. He left Constantinople in 1932 and came to this country. Keeping his collection a secret, he settled in California and married an American woman. He did not tell even her what was in the large trunk that he kept in the attic of their house. They had one son, and just before he died, the General passed on the secret to him. Since that time, the secret of the Kemidov treasure has passed down from father to son, and the Kemidov women have known nothing of it.”

“Sort of chauvinistic, don’t you think?”

“Mr. Lake, we Russians respect tradition. And the so-called Women’s Liberation is something my great-grandfather never heard of. He would have spat upon it if he had.”

“No offense meant. Where’s the trunk now?”

“I do not know for sure. That is why I wish to hire you. I have my suspicions, but I think someone else could handle this better than I.”

“Who do you think stole it?”

“I said that the Kemidov women have never known the secret. That is no longer true. My sister found out, and I strongly believe that she engineered the robbery.”

Lake carefully kept his face expressionless and said, “How about some details?”

“Of course. Our father died one week ago. Before he passed away, he told me about the Kemidov treasure. I have always kept a daily journal, and foolishly, I wrote down the story he told me, the story I just told to you. I had always wondered what was in the trunk in the basement of our house, but it was kept locked and my father told me that I would find out someday.”

After a pause, Kemidov went on, “My sister, who is three years younger than myself, is a graduate student at the university here. She flew back to our home for the funeral. The next day, I found her in my bedroom looking through my journal. She made a lame excuse about wanting to read about our father’s last days, but I know she was after the secret of the trunk. She left that same evening and came back here. Two nights ago, someone entered my house and stole the trunk.”

“And you think it was her?”

“I believe she was behind it, yes.”

“I take it you and your sister don’t get along too well?”

“There has never been much love between us. We hold entirely different philosophies.”

“I suppose you looked in the trunk after your father died?”

“Naturally. I knew what to expect, and yet I was still stunned. There were many jewelled rings and necklaces and carved figurines and miniatures. I was going to have an art expert appraise it all, but it was stolen before I could do it. Still, I would guess its value to be in the millions.”

“And it’s been sitting around in dusty attics and basements for over fifty years,” Lake mused.