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

The three young people were still trying to digest Lake’s statement about murder charges. They looked aghast and terrified at the thought. Allen Cunningham stammered, “B-but we didn’t have anything to do with it, man.” Anger came onto his face. “Hey, it was you turned us in to the cops, wasn’t it?”

Lake clasped his hands together on the table. “No. I found the trunk in the storeroom last night, and I reported it to my employer, Victor Kemidov. He expressed no interest in contacting the police at the time; all he wanted to do was recover his goods. He changed his mind, though. It’s possible that he planned to turn you in all along, as soon as he knew for sure that you had the trunk. I got a check from him this morning that smelled of payoff and a guilty conscience. Now if you’ll just tell the whole story to Mr. Flanagan, I’m sure he’ll be able to prepare a good defense.”

Anna looked puzzled. “Why are you doing this, Mr. Lake?”

“Because I have the inescapable feeling that your brother used me,” he replied in a level voice. “I don’t like the feeling.”

“So now you try to make up for it with your money?”

“I don’t blame you for being bitter, but I’m just trying to help.”

Anna stared down at the table for a long minute, then raised her eyes to meet Lake’s. “If you really want to help, there is something I must tell you. Alone.”

“Anything you can tell me, you can tell Mr. Flanagan.”

“No. You helped get us into this trouble. Now you can get us out.”

Lake’s features grew taut, but he said evenly, “All right, if you feel that way, I’ll do whatever I can.” He nodded to Flanagan.

When the lawyer had left the room and the two boys had been taken back to their cells, Anna Kemidov looked intently at Lake and said, “My brother and I have never been close, but still I hate to say this about him...”

Ten minutes later, Lake came out of the room and found Flanagan in the hall. He asked, “Has bail been set?”

“Yes. They said they couldn’t raise it.”

“Take care of it. Then take them to my house and keep them there. I’ll be relying on you to keep them out of trouble while I’m gone, Ned.”

“You going somewhere?”

“Yes, I’m going to take a little trip.” He went over to a public phone, dropped coins into it, and called the office. “Florence? Listen. Kemidov’s address is on that check, isn’t it? Good. Call Alex and tell him to get the jet ready. Then call Chief Wilkins here and tell him I’m going to need to talk to the chief of police there. See if he knows him and can put me in touch. And I need to talk to Harvey at DMV. Got all that?” He paused for a moment. “Good. But don’t call me Nicky. You’re not Nora Charles, for God’s sake.”

As he said that, a strange expression came onto his face. He had finally caught a glimpse of the elusive thing that had been bothering him. He thought he knew where he had heard the name Kemidov before. As he hung up the phone, he shook his head and muttered to himself, “No, it couldn’t be. Too far out. No chance.”

But somehow, he wasn’t convinced.

In the next nine hours, Lake talked to his friend Harvey Cooper at the State Department of Motor Vehicles, paid a visit to Chief of Police Joseph Wilkins, flew across several states in his private jet while he reread sections of one of his favorite books, talked to another chief of police and several vice squad officers, and drove a rented car down a dark street lined with huge trees and old mansions.

Lake brought the car to a stop in a particularly dark stretch of road, next to a high brick wall. He had killed his lights and motor a block earlier, and the car made little noise as it coasted to a halt. He eased the door open, slid out, and eased it shut. He was wearing the same black outfit he had worn the night before, and it made him almost invisible as he glided through the darkness beside the wall.

A gate with iron grillwork marked the entrance to the estate behind the wall. It was padlocked, but Lake had to try only three of the keys he had on the ring in his pocket before it snapped open. He swung the gate back carefully, trying to minimize the squealing of rusted hinges.

Once he was inside, he left the gravel drive and padded silently across the lawn. The grass was long and unkempt, and Lake figured that in the daylight, the whole place would look rundown.

It was too dark to make out much detail about the house. He could tell that it was huge and rambling and had two or three stories. A light was burning in an upstairs window, but the bottom appeared dark and deserted.

The penlight proved useful again in locating a door. Like most old houses, this one had an entrance directly into the cellar. The lock on it was old and brittle, and Lake opened it easily. The light showed him a flight of wooden steps which he descended carefully. Unseen cobwebs brushed against his face.

When he reached the concrete floor, he moved the beam of light around rapidly. He saw an old furnace, some gas cans, a pile of cardboard boxes, and a lot of dust and cobwebs. It looked like a normal cellar.

Somewhere in it was a fortune.

There were only a few places to look, and Lake started with the boxes. The first four he opened were empty. When he lifted the lid of the fifth, the light was bounced and refracted back in myriad patterns by the jewels within. Lake whistled softly between his teeth.

He reached into the box and came up with a handful of necklaces and bracelets that were dripping with precious stones. He sifted them through his fingers and let them trickle back down into the box. He played the light around over the dazzling display.

Suddenly, when the light reached a far corner, it picked up a different reflection. Something underneath a jewelled tiara was giving off a dull black gleam. Lake’s breath caught in his throat as he reached for the object.

He could feel his heart beating fast and strong in his chest. His fingers touched the cool, slick enamel and closed around it. He lifted it up.

Nicholas Lake held in his hands a small black statuette, carved in the image of a falcon.

He let his breath out slowly, wondering if the crazy ideas running rampant through his mind could possibly be true. They had to be; he held the proof in his sweating palms.

There was a click, and light showered down on him. He nearly dropped the bird as he spun around in surprise. Victor Kemidov stood at the top of another flight of stairs leading up into the house. “Mr. Lake, this is going to cause no end of trouble,” he said. “Why didn’t you just deposit my check and forget about the whole thing?”

Lake’s racing pulse slowed down a bit as he drew a deep breath. “Because I don’t like being played for a sap,” he replied. “I don’t like being used to help frame three kids for a murder they didn’t commit. I don’t like real murderers getting away with their crimes.”

“My, there certainly are a lot of things you don’t like.” Kemidov gestured with the pistol he held. “Put the falcon down, and please be careful with it. Just how much do you actually know, anyway?”

“Enough. Your sister told me she had seen notations in your diary of payments to someone with the initials A.L. She assumed that A.L. was a gambler or a loan shark. Evidently, you’re quite a wastrel in her eyes, Kemidov.”

“She always was a commoner at heart. GO on with your story.”

“Earlier today I talked with the chief of police here and several members of the vice squad. They told me about a man named Alvin Litton, a small-time gangster who has been seen with you several times.”

“And he is a man who has much better judgment at picking horses than do I. But I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to interrupt. How does the rest of it go?”