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

She came into view carrying an armload of mimeo sheets. She put them on a table by the machine and said, “I hope these posters do more good than the last ones did. People just laughed at them.”

“They won’t be laughing when the revolution comes.”

The one with the beer belched and said, “What revolution? This isn’t the Sixties anymore, man. These punks today don’t want to revolt. They want to study accounting and get drunk and feel nostalgic about the Fifties, when they were all of four years old. Some revolutionaries!”

“You’re a fine one to be talking, Allen,” Anna replied hotly. “At least we’re trying. Someone has to oppose people like my brother.”

The one at the machine laughed. “How is the little Czar these days, still as decadent as ever?”

Anna frowned. “I don’t think he even cared that our father died. All he was concerned about was the money he would come into. Well, his joy was short-lived, I would imagine.”

Allen the beer drinker asked, “Did he call you a Bolshevik this time?”

“He called me many things, none of them pleasant. Is that enough paper, Tom?”

“Should be,” Tom grunted, working the mimeo.

Lake’s hands were getting tired, and he let himself down out of the tree. He had not particularly liked Victor Kemidov, but it looked like the young Russian had been telling the truth. The trunk existed, that was for sure. And Anna and her friends certainly looked like they could use all the extra funds they could lay their hands on.

He slipped back to the car and headed for home. He watched the rearview mirror all the way, and when he pulled into the long drive that led to the mansion, he sped up to the house, jumped out of the car, and sprinted back across the well-manicured lawn. He fell onto his stomach behind the hedge that bordered the estate and found a small opening through which he peered intently. It was only a few seconds before a nondescript blue Ford drove by. Lake noted down the license number in his mind, figuring that he would check it out when he had the chance.

When the Ford was out of sight, Lake stood up and brushed himself off. He went into the house, telling Simpson the butler that he would not require his services anymore this night. Picking up the telephone in the library, he dialed the number of the hotel where Victor Kemidov was staying.

Kemidov came on the line and identified himself. Lake said, “Mr. Kemidov, this is Nicholas Lake. I’ve looked into the matter we discussed this afternoon, and it looks very much like your conclusions were correct.”

“You’ve located the General’s trunk?”

“The trunk, yes; its contents, no.”

“She has them. There is no doubt of that. Where is the trunk?”

Lake told him about the storeroom in the garage and the empty trunk. He left out the conversation he had overheard.

Kemidov’s tone was happy as he said, “Now you will go confront her, correct? Demand the return of my great-grandfather’s treasures?”

“That’s one way. I could offer to buy them back from her.”

“No! She and her so-called comrades must not profit from their lawlessness. Demand the treasure back! Right is on our side.”

Lake sighed. “I play whatever tune you call, Mr. Kemidov. I’ll call you tomorrow and tell you how it comes out.”

“Excellent. Good night, Mr. Lake.”

“Good night, Mr. Kemidov.”

As Lake cradled the phone, the unknown something that had bothered him earlier stirred again, and again it slipped away. For some unfathomable reason, he found himself staring at the bookshelves that surrounded him. They stretched from floor to ceiling, and the majority of the titles they contained were mystery novels.

He shifted mental gears and wondered why someone had been following him. There was no apparent reason for it, but then the best reasons were seldom apparent.

He puzzled over it for a time and then went to bed. The whole business kept him awake for quite a while, tossing and turning in the antique four-poster for which his father had paid sixteen thousand dollars.

When Lake came into his office the next morning, Florence was sitting at her desk reading the morning paper, a frown on her pretty face. As Lake hung up his hat, she said, “There’s something in here you should read, Nicky.”

He took the paper from her and said, “No one else in the world calls me Nicky, Florence. I’d appreciate it if you would make it unanimous. Where is it?”

“Down at the bottom of page four.”

He saw the headline POLICE RAID NEAR CAMPUS and felt a flutter in his stomach. The story went on, “Acting on information from an unidentified source, police raided an apartment near the university last night and arrested the three occupants on the charge of possessing stolen property. Arrested were Allen Cunningham, 25, Thomas Rowe, 25, and Anna Kemidov, 23. All three are students at the university. Police seized an antique trunk which was stolen three days ago from Ms. Kemidov’s brother, Victor Kemidov.”

There was more, but that was enough for Lake. He put the paper down slowly and turned toward the door of the inner office. Florence said, “The D.A.’s office called. They’ll want you to testify at the trial when it comes up. And a messenger delivered this just before you came in.”

She handed him an envelope with his name typed on it. He opened it silently and pulled out a folded piece of paper. A yellow slip fell to the desk as he opened it. He read the writing on the paper, then suddenly crumpled it and said softly, “Damn! He must have called the cops as soon as I hung up.” He dropped the wadded ball of paper on the desk and stalked into his office, slamming the door behind him.

Florence picked up the yellow slip and saw that it was a check for five thousand dollars, signed by Victor Kemidov. The paper, when she smoothed it out, was a note that read:

Dear Mr. Lake, I have decided that it would be wrong to let my sister and her companions escape the consequences of their violent actions. Therefore, I have notified the authorities of the proof of their crime. I trust that this meets with your approval and that you will cooperate with the police in their investigation. I am enclosing a check which I hope will cover your services on my behalf. Yours truly, Victor Kemidov.

Inside, Lake paced back and forth furiously. He had been used. He knew it now, and he hated it. The payoff was just added insult. He let his anger boil for a moment more, then picked up the phone, dialed a number, and said, “Mr. Kemidov, Suite 4, please.”

The voice of the hotel operator came back, “I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Kemidov checked out an hour ago.”

Let down, cheated of a target for his wrath, Lake said, “Thank you,” and hung up. After a moment’s thought, he decided that there was one more thing he could do.

He went out and grabbed his hat, saying to Florence, “Those kids will need a good lawyer. Call Ned Flanagan and have him meet me at the jail.”

She said, “Right, Nicky.” But by that time, he was gone.

Anna Kemidov, Allen Cunningham, and Thomas Rowe sat on one side of the table, Lake and white-haired Ned Flanagan on the other. Lake began by saying, “My name is Nicholas Lake; I’m a private investigator. Your brother hired me, Miss Kemidov, to recover some property of his that he thought you had stolen.”

Anna glared and said, “We didn’t steal anything! I didn’t even know the trunk was missing.”

Lake went on, “That’s not the point. You’ll still need a good lawyer, not only to face the theft charges, but there will probably be a murder charge, or at least manslaughter, because of Mikhail’s death. Mr. Flanagan here is one of the best attorneys in the country, and I’m going to hire him on your behalf.”