Джеффри Дивер - Nothing Good Happens After Midnight - A Suspense Magazine Anthology

“I wasn’t an investor. I could prove that I owned the bird. I didn’t want my money. I wanted the decoy to complete the set. An intact set of Crowell decoys would be worth millions, but the bird was desirable to me as a collector.”

“Any chance you could get the house unsealed?”

“Yes, under ordinary circumstances, but the house burned down before my lawyers could file a claim. Cause of the fire is still unknown. Then Orloff died in prison of a heart attack, which surprised many people who didn’t think he had a heart.”

“The decoy?”

“It supposedly went up in flames.”

“You sound like you have doubts.”

Ruskin whispered to the man in the white suit, who went to a wall cabinet and slid open a glass door. He reached inside and came out with a large plastic cube. He carried it back to Ruskin who set the container on the desk, flipped the lid back, took something out and held it above his head like an offering to the gods.

The carved bird in his hands was around half the size of a real one. Its copper-colored head was turned back in a graceful curve with the long, sharp beak pointed at the tail. The gray and white feathers painted on the wooden wings looked so real they could have riffled in the breeze.

“The preening merganser has everything Crowell was famous for,” Ruskin said, lowering his arms. “Attention to detail, accuracy, and beauty.”

“You’re confusing me, Mr. Ruskin. You said the merganser is missing, presumably burned.”

“It is .”

He turned the bird over and brought it to the window, close enough for me to see the black oval sticker on the bottom. Printed on the sticker in silver letters were the words: “Copy of A. E. Crowell Preening Merganser. Product of China.”

“A Chinese rip-off?” I said.

“Yes. A well-done fake, but still a fake.”

“What does it have to do with the missing bird?”

“ Every thing, Mr. Socarides. Only someone with access to the Crowell carving could have made a reproduction that is so accurate in every respect to the original.”

“Not sure I understand.”

“Ms. Callahan?” Ruskin said.

Bridget explained.

“The reproduction was advertised for sale in a collectors’ publication. It was purchased for a hundred and fifty dollars. My firm’s investigators traced the bird to a manufacturer in Hunan province, China, which specializes in making wooden reproductions of all kinds. The original piece is scanned digitally and the data fed into computer-guided laser carving machines. Skilled craftsmen do the final detailing.”

“That would mean the Chinese had access to the original?”

“Indirectly,” she said. “A company in upstate New York does the scanning and transmits the data to China.”

Ruskin rejoined the discussion. “And I believe the American and Chinese companies used the real decoy to manufacture the fake.”

“Do you know who contracted for the work?”

“No. Someone dropped the carving off, waited while it was scanned and picked it up. Payment was in cash.”

“Could they have copied it from a photo?”

“Yes. But not as accurately as this,” Ruskin answered. “Crowell knew bird anatomy from years as a professional hunter, and his birds were accurate in every detail. Moreover, he imbued his models with life. This is good for a fake, but without the hand of the master it is just a prettied up piece of wood.”

“Have you been able to run a trace on the magazine ad?”

He put the carving back into the case, closed the cover, and handed the container to his valet, who carried it from the room. Ruskin lowered his athletic body into the swivel chair, leaned his elbows on the desktop and tented his fingers.

“The ad was placed by something called Elmer’s Workshop. No email address. Orders went through PayPal. The ad listed a post office box in the town of Harwich, Massachusetts where, coincidentally, Crowell lived and worked.”

“Any idea who rents the P.O. Box?”

“No. It’s since been closed.”

“Any chance the reproduction was made before the fire?”

“The records at the New York and Chinese operations show that the reproduction was made after the fire, indicating that the original survived the blaze.”

“What would you like me to do, Mr. Ruskin?”

“I believe finding the source of the fake will lead you to my property. You may have some contacts locally. Having city detectives poking around would attract unwanted attention. You understand the need to be discreet, of course.”

The job seemed like an uncomplicated one, except for the Orloff angle. The charming old bandit had left suicides, divorces, and bankruptcies in the wake of his stealing spree. And his greedy fingers were still reaching from the grave. Ruskin was unsavory, but he wouldn’t be the first client of dubious character that I’d worked for. Any doubts I might have entertained went up in smoke when Bridget handed me a check made out in an amount triple what I would have charged.

I rubbed the check lightly between my thumb and forefinger. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good,” Ruskin said. “Let me know as soon as you hear something.”

He rose from his chair and, without another word, headed for the door.

Hiring interview was over.

Seconds after Ruskin left the room, the old gray man showed up and pushed the wall button. As the unicorn tapestry slid across the window, he handed me a cardboard box.

“Mr. Ruskin thought this might assist you in your work,” he said. “He wants it returned when you are through. It is not to be taken from its protective container.”

He led us back the way we came. We stepped onto the porch and the door clicked shut behind us.

“Was that for real?” I asked, taking a breath of fresh air. “That stuff with the allergies?”

“Mr. Ruskin could be a hypochondriac, I suppose, but he’s gone through a lot of unnecessary trouble and expense modifying this house if he’s simply imagining his allergies. All his food is prepared in accordance with his allergy issues. The butler is a bit of a gossip. He told me Ruskin is allergic to everything you can think of.”

“Does he ever leave the house?”

“Not very often, the butler says; only for urgent matters, and when he does he wears a hazmat suit. He usually goes out only at night.”

I set the cardboard box down on the porch and peeled off the sealing tape. Then I lifted out the transparent plastic container that held the reproduction decoy Ruskin had shown me. The lid was secured with a padlock.

I jiggled the lock. “Ruskin is very protective of his property.”

“Mr. Ruskin is deathly afraid of contaminated things or people coming into the main house. When it comes back this box will go through a clean room where it will be wiped down and sterilized. Anyone coming into the living quarters from the outside has to wear a throw-away suit.”

“Like the valet?”

“Yes. His name is Dudley. That’s all I know.”

I put the bird container into the cardboard box and Bridget gave me a ride back to the marina.

There wasn’t much small talk. I was thinking about Ruskin’s strange request. She was probably mind-counting her retainer. She dropped me off in the parking lot. When I got out of the car, she handed me a brown, eight-by-ten envelope.

“This report was prepared by our staff investigators. I’ll call you at some point to see how things are going. Mr. Ruskin’s phone number is inside. He has asked that you contact him directly as the investigation moves along. I’ll be in touch.”

She put the car into gear and left me standing at about the same spot she stopped my trek to Trader Ed’s. This time I made it all the way to a bar stool. My personal alcohol meter was on empty, but I decided to stay sober. Sipping on a club soda with cranberry juice and lime, I went through the papers inside the envelope Bridget had given me.