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

“Exactly. When it is recovered, I will definitely put it to better use.”

Lake let that pass and asked, “Where were you when the trunk was stolen?”

“I was out, attending a party given by friends.”

“You left the valuables there unguarded?”

“My servant was there, an old man named Mikhail. He was my father’s servant, too. The thieves hit him on the head. He died the next morning.”

Lake’s air of nonchalance vanished. He sat up straighter and said, “You told the police, I hope.”

“Of course. I simply left out any mention of the trunk. The police assumed that Mikhail surprised the intruders before they stole anything, and that after they struck him down, they fled in fear.”

“You must be pretty certain that your sister has the trunk.”

“I am positive. It would be just like her to steal it.”

“And you want me to recover it for you?”

“Yes. I don’t know how you would go about something like that, so I leave it entirely in your hands. I am prepared to pay whatever you wish for your services.”

Lake picked up the office phone and told Florence, “Draw up a contract for Mr. Kemidov. The usual fee.” When he had hung up, he said, “That’s a hundred dollar retainer and twenty-five dollars a day, plus expenses.”

Kemidov frowned. “So little? I thought it would be much more.” He looked around at the ornately furnished office.

“I have a legacy from my father, too, Mr. Kemidov. He was Robert Edwin Lake, and he left me quite a bit of money. I can afford to do whatever I want and not worry about showing a profit.”

Kemidov swallowed and said, “You mean you do this work for... for fun?”

Lake grinned. “You might say that. I see it as a continuing education.”

Kemidov shook his head, wrote out a check, signed the contract, and gave Lake some more details about his sister. He told Lake the name of the hotel where he was staying and then left the office with another limp handshake.

Florence popped back in after he was gone and said, “What do you think, Nicky? Is he for real?”

Lake was standing at the window, looking out at the sunshine. “He told me a story that’s either a romantic fantasy come to life or the biggest bunch of garbage to come along in a great while. It was just interesting enough that I want to find out which.”

Lake was lucky and found a parking place across the street from the university administration building. He piloted the Mercedes into it. As he got out, he glanced around at the campus where he had spent four years a decade and a half earlier. The diploma they had given him was stuck in a desk somewhere at home.

His suit and hat got a few curious looks from passing students as he walked toward the building, but he was used to that. He went through the massive front doors, past a row of columns that gave the building a Roman look, and down a long, high-ceilinged hall. His footsteps echoed hollowly. A sign with an arrow on it told him that the Registrar’s office was through a door on his left. Before he went in, he rechecked the notebook where he had written down all the information given to him by Victor Kemidov.

Something tickled the back of his brain, something about his client’s name.

For a long moment, he tried to grasp it but failed. With a mental shrug, he replaced the notebook in his pocket and went into the office.

A pretty co-ed was working behind the counter. She greeted him with a wide smile and said, “Could I help you, sir?”

“Is Anna Kemidov around?” he drawled. “I was supposed to meet her here.”

“No, sir, I’m sorry. Anna’s not working this afternoon. She’ll be here in the morning, though.”

“I could have sworn she said she worked in the Registrar’s office in the afternoons.”

“No, sir, her shift is 8:30 to 1.” The girl glanced at a clock on the wall. “In fact, I think she’s in a Political Science seminar right now.”

“Oh, yes, that’s over in...”

“Webster Hall,” the girl furnished.

“Of course, Webster Hall. I remember now. I had it backwards. Well, I’ll just run over there and try to catch her when she gets out. Thank you very much.”

“No trouble, sir.”

He stopped the first student he saw outside and asked where Webster Hall was. Following the directions, he found it to be a two story, red brick building that had been built in the Thirties by Roosevelt’s New Deal. Directly across the street was a fast food restaurant, so Lake went over and settled down by a window with a milkshake.

He had been there for perhaps a quarter of an hour when a steady stream of students began coming out of Webster Hall. He watched closely and spotted a short girl with long black hair. She walked down the street with two boys, and Lake paid for his milkshake and fell in behind them, some fifty yards back. Kemidov’s description of his sister had been very good.

Anna Kemidov and her two companions walked across the campus briskly. She talked and laughed all the way. Lake hung back, admiring the tight fit of her jeans.

The trio’s destination was a garage apartment two blocks from the campus. Lake let them get a good lead, because he knew he would be conspicuous on the quiet, tree-lined street. When he saw for sure where they were going, he peeled off and went back to his car. Removing his hat and coat, he drove past the apartment once, not too fast, not too slow. He noticed with interest a large tree next to the garage.

After the one drive-by, Lake went home to his father’s mansion on the edge of town. He knew he would never be able to think of it as his own, but he didn’t care anymore. He did the job he had chosen to do, and that was all that concerned him.

That, and the blue Ford that trailed him all the way home from the university.

When the darkness had settled down completely, Lake drove back toward the campus. He left his Panama hat at home, and his white suit had been replaced by a black pullover and slacks. He parked several blocks from the garage apartment and walked quietly toward it in the night.

Lights shone through the windows of the apartment. Lake slid through the shadows and into the open garage beneath it. An old car bulked in the darkness. Lake took a tiny penlight from his pocket and moved the little beam around carefully. Footsteps moved across the room above him, and he heard the girl’s voice.

Junk was piled to the top of the rear wall. It was a welter of boxes, rags, old bicycle tires, and all the other things that accumulate in garages. He poked through it briefly, then the light picked up a door in a shadowed corner. He guessed that it probably let into a storeroom. The knob turned under his gentle touch.

The area inside was a storeroom, all right. There were more boxes, some of them covered with a canvas to one side.

The light struck highlights on the brass that was worked in elaborate patterns on the lid of General Kemidov’s trunk.

And when he opened it gingerly, the light illuminated the floating dust motes that were the trunk’s sole occupants.

Lake let the lid down softly and clicked the light off. More voices came from upstairs. He moved quickly but quietly outside and leaned for a moment against the big tree. A man came to the window of the apartment and looked outside, but Lake was deep in shadow. After a moment, the man moved away from the window.

Lake drew a pair of thin gloves onto his hands and reached up to grasp a limb. He climbed up to the level of the windows, being careful to keep himself on the other side of the tree trunk, He heard a clattering noise inside that he recognized as a mimeograph machine.

He found comfortable hand-and-footholds and eased his head to the side where he could see into the apartment. He saw a man operating the mimeo machine and another man drinking from a can of beer. They were the two who had been with Anna Kemidov in the afternoon. The one at the machine called out, “Hey, Anna, we need more paper.”