McGuffin awoke early the next morning to a damp, cold fog, put on his robe and slippers, and padded down to the engine cum storeroom of the Oakland Queen. Once more, he went carefully through the contents of Miles Dwindling’s old trunk, hoping to find a previously insignificant but now meaningful clue as to the whereabouts of the Fabergé egg. He turned Miles’ magical mystery bag upside down, strewing his burglary tools, disguise kit, and false credentials across the deck with everything else, then went carefully through each file, hoping to find a key or claim check or something that would lead him to the egg. It was almost noon when he returned to the wheelhouse, with nothing to show for his effort except the faded, framed photograph of the little girl with Shirley Temple curls. He propped the picture on his desk and began phoning his contacts, some legitimate, some not so legitimate, in the hope that one of them could lead him to Miles Dwindling’s daughter.

“Her name, if she hasn’t married and changed it, is Ivey Dwindling, and she’s probably in her early thirties,” McGuffin informed his man at the Chronicle who occasionally earned one or two U.S. Grants for the performance of such services. He gave him the names of both her parents, as well as the last known address of her mother, then phoned the same information to his moles at the county clerk’s office, the Federal Building, the telephone company, PG&E, and the San Francisco Police Department.

“Miles Dwindling,” Sullivan the cop repeated. “Wasn’t he the private you used to work for who got fuckin’ hammered about ten years ago?”

“More like twenty,” McGuffin corrected.

“Time flies. What the fuck you want with his daughter?”

“Just find her, and you’ve made five hundred,” McGuffin said.

“Big fuckin’ deal,” Sullivan said, then hung up the phone.

Soon after placing the last call, there was a loud knock on the wheelhouse door. “Who is it?”

“Elmo,” his landlord called. “Let me in.”

“Not now, Elmo, I’m busy.”

“So am I, so open up right now.”

“No.”

“If you don’t open the door, you’re gonna be in a lot of trouble,” the architect warned.

“I’m already in a lot of trouble,” McGuffin replied. “So if you don’t mind, let’s do this some other time.”

“I can get a court order, you know.”

“But you won’t because that would mean hiring a lawyer, and we both know you’re too tight for that.”

“Okay, Amos, you asked for it. I tried to do this in a nice way, like two civilized people, but I see that won’t work with you.”

“Elmo, there is nothing civilized about throwing a man out of his home and office - especially when he’s in the condition I’m in,” McGuffin informed him testily.

“On the sauce again, eh?” Elmo sniffed.

“No, I’m not on the sauce. And if you don’t get the hell away from my door right now, you’re going to have to add assault and battery to your evict action.”

“I’m going, but I’ll be back. And when I get back you’d better be gone,” Elmo warned.

McGuffin listened as the sound of Elmo’s leather heels on the deck faded and disappeared. Then he got to his feet, went into the bathroom, and quickly showered and shaved. He slipped one leg into his brown tweed pants, remembered that the matching jacket was now dog food, and stepped back out. He threw the pants in the corner with the shredded jacket and selected another suit, also brown tweed. It was never a conscious decision, but somehow all of his suits and sport coats were brown. Dressed in his new suit and looking much the same as usual, McGuffin started for the door, then stopped and returned to the desk. He removed Ivey Dwindling’s photograph from the frame and dropped it into the right-hand pocket of his coat, where he usually kept his gun. He supposed he would have to buy another one.

Ivey Dwindling’s last known address was a large frame house in the Avenues, not far from the Pacific Ocean. McGuffin glided to a stop directly across the street and peered at the building through the fog blowing in from the sea. What was once a one-family house was now a run-down building divided into several small apartments. McGuffin knew when he got out of the car that he was getting wet for nothing, but it was the only lead he had, and it had to be checked.

The front door stood partly open, revealing a worn linoleum corridor flanked on both sides by four flimsy, wooden doors. There was a row of mailboxes under the curved stairs leading to the second floor, only a few with names, and McGuffin knew even before he pushed the buttons that none of the buzzers worked. He pushed them all, waited for a minute, then walked down the corridor to the first door and knocked. A moment later a white-haired black man, wearing reading glasses, opened the door as far as the chain would allow.

“Yes?”

“My name is Amos McGuffin,” the detective said, showing the old man his choirboy smile. “I’m looking for some old friends who used to live here about eighteen years ago - a woman and her young daughter, named Dwindling.”

The old man smiled back. “I doubt if there’s anybody lived here as much as half that.”

“Where can I find the building manager?”

The old man laughed. “Ain’t seen one of them in all the time I been here. All I know is I’m supposed to send a check every month to something called Preferred Properties on Market Street. So if this is preferred, you know you don’t want to see no unpreferred.”

“You’re right, thanks,” McGuffin said, backing away. There was no sense going further. Ivey Dwindling was part of the unrecorded history of this building.

He walked out the front door, skipped down the front stairs into the fog and hurried across the slick, wet street to his car. He was about to get in when he noticed a group of children, unmindful of the dampness, grouped in front of the small grocery store at the corner. It was just the sort of place where Ivey would have stopped for ice cream, McGuffin decided, as he started for the store.

The kids ignored him as he pushed past them and opened the worn wooden door. A bell over the door jingled lightly when he stepped inside the tiny grocery store. There was no doubt the place had been here when Ivey was a little girl, perhaps even when Queen Victoria was a little girl. The wooden floor was worn to hills and gullies, and cartons and cans were stacked haphazardly wherever they could be fitted. McGuffin walked to the back of the small room as the curtains parted, and a stooped old lady appeared. The woman stared silently as McGuffin introduced himself and produced the picture from his coat pocket.

“Shirley Temple,” she said, nodding and smiling.

“You remember her?”

“Sure, I remember. She live up the street with her mama,” the old woman said, in what sounded to McGuffin like a Russian accent.

“Her name is Ivey Dwindling.”

“I call her Shirley Temple. Sweet girl, no trouble.”

“Do you know what happened to her?”

“What?” the woman asked fearfully.

“No, no,” McGuffin said, shaking his head. “I mean do you have any idea where she and her mother might have moved?”

The old woman thought about it for a moment, then shook her head slowly. “I don’t tink so. Her fadder was killed, I tink she get lots of money.”

“Why do you say that?” McGuffin asked quickly.

She shrugged. “One day she have nuttin’, the next she have a big car, den dey move.” It was obvious, the American dream. “Why do you want her?”

“To give her some more money,” McGuffin answered.

“Dat’s nice,” the old lady said. “I wish I could help.”

“You might have,” McGuffin said. Then he thanked her and left.

The coastal fog changed imperceptibly to rain as McGuffin wove eastward through Golden Gate Park to downtown San Francisco. He returned his car to Gino’s service station on the Embarcadero, then hailed a cab to Goody’s bar. The first of the after-work crowd had already begun trickling in by the time McGuffin arrived. Goody looked up from the beer he was drawing and called to McGuffin as he hurried to the phone at the end of the bar, “You find Hillary okay?”

“Not yet,” McGuffin answered, snatching the phone from the hook. He dropped a quarter in the slot and dialed his answering service. Mrs. Begelman picked up on the fifth ring.

“Amos McGuffin - any messages?”

“You know, Mr. McGuffin, it’s going on two months now I haven’t received your check?”

“I’m sorry, I’ll take care of it right away,” McGuffin promised. “Did anybody call?”

“Anymore I’ve got a new policy,” Mrs. Begelman went on. “First warning, I hold your calls until I get my check; second warning, I stop taking your calls; third warning, you’re gone.”

“Mrs. Begelman, you’ll get your money just like you always do. Now will you please give me my messages?”

“Don’t shout, I’m looking.” He heard papers being rustled as Mrs. Begelman continued to mutter about delinquent accounts. “Here it is - Lieutenant Sullivan will meet you at Goody’s after work. That sounds terribly important.”

“Just the messages,” McGuffin said.

There were five more, from the Chronicle, the county clerk’s office, the Federal Building, the telephone company, and the PG&E, all of them presently unavailing, but not without some future hope. His federal contact couldn’t even find a Social Security number for an Ivey Dwindling, indicating that she had probably applied for her card under her married name, which would make the task that much more difficult. McGuffin thanked her, hung up the phone and walked slowly to the bar. Goody was waiting with a Paddy’s and soda.

McGuffin stared thoughtfully at it for a moment, then shook his head. “No, thanks.”

“You’re on a case!” Goody exclaimed brightly.

“I suppose you could say that.”

“Big money?”

“No money.”

“No money!”

“I’m doing it for love.”

Goody was puzzled. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

“I’ll tell you about it later.” Goody was trustworthy, but opinionated. If he knew that Hillary had been kidnapped, he might go to the FBI despite McGuffin’s objections. “How about a plain club soda?”

The barkeep splashed McGuffin’s drink in the sink, then filled the glass with club soda. He pushed it across the bar, and watched McGuffin as he drank. “This labor of love, it ain’t got nothin’ to do with Hillary, has it? I mean she ain’t a missin’ person, is she?”

“Of course not,” McGuffin answered.

“Then where is she if you ain’t found her? She’s been gone for two days, you know.”

McGuffin took another drink while he thought of an answer. “Marilyn took her on a trip.”

“Where?”

“Up north,” McGuffin answered, indicating the direction with his chin.

“Up north . . . Where up north?”

“Yosemite.”

“That’s east.”

“I was never good at geography.”

“You ain’t a very good liar either,” Goody informed him. “If this is none of my business, tell me. But don’t bullshit me, okay?”

“I’m sorry,” McGuffin said. “I’ll tell you everything just as soon as I can, but not right now.”

“Why later? Why not now?”

“You asked me to tell you if this is none of your business, didn’t you?”

“I’m not askin’ about the case. I’m only askin’ why you can’t tell me about it now. There’s a difference,” Goody explained.

“I can’t tell you about it now because it’s none of your business,” McGuffin replied sharply.

“I think I like you better when you’re drinkin’,” Goody said, then turned and waddled off.

McGuffin regretted his sharp tone, but knew an apology would only open the door to more questions. Until now, Goody had always been McGuffin’s sounding board, a faithful listener whose astute questions had often gotten a derailed investigation back on track. It would be hard for him to accept, even later, McGuffin realized, that his help could be fatal.

McGuffin was spared further guilt-filled ruminations by Sullivan’s entrance. He was hardly out of his raincoat before McGuffin was at his side.

“What have you got for me?” McGuffin asked.

“Wet as a motherfucker out there,” the big cop said, snapping his coat once before hanging it on the wall, spraying water on McGuffin.

“Did you find anything?” McGuffin persisted, following Sullivan to the bar.

“Can I get a fuckin’ drink first? Jesus fuckin’ Christ –”

“Goody, give him a drink!” McGuffin called. “On my tab!”

Goody looked up, scowled faintly, then reached for Sullivan’s bottle.

“Now tell me about Ivey Dwindling,” McGuffin urged.

“Can’t tell you anything about Ivey Dwindling except that she’s the sole survivor of Mary Dwindling.”

“Her mother’s dead?”

“You got a quick mind, Amos. She died in Acapulco nine years ago, of natural causes, according to the death certificate, leaving a daughter, Ivey, resident U.S.”

“Where in the U.S.?”

Sullivan shrugged. “Don’t know. I should have a copy of the death certificate in a few days, but it won’t tell you that. And it’ll be in Mexican,” the cop warned.

“I’ll manage,” McGuffin replied. “What kind of place was she living in? Did she have money?”

“Now how the fuck would I know that? Goody, where’s my drink?” he hollered. “I didn’t come in here to sober up.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll be drunk in plenty of time,” Goody promised as he approached with Sullivan’s drink.

“And give Judge Brennan a drink on me,” Sullivan said, with a wave to the man huddled over the end of the bar.

“The judge is passed out,” Goody said, slamming Sullivan’s drink on the bar.

“Then put one in front of him so he’ll see it when he wakes up - he’ll think it’s fuckin’ Christmas.”

“No more for the judge,” Goody said. “And if you’re askin’ about McGuffin’s new job or his daughter, forget it, he ain’t talkin’.”

“We’re not talkin’ about his daughter, we’re talkin’ about his ex-partner’s daughter,” Sullivan said, reaching for his drink.

“Miles Dwindling’s daughter? What’s he want with her? I’d ask him myself except it’s none of my business.”

“I’m looking for something, and she might know where it is,” McGuffin answered wearily.

“What?” Goody asked.

“An egg.”

“You see what I mean?” the barkeep asked, thrusting a thumb in McGuffin’s direction. Then he turned and walked away, muttering, “Ask a civil question and whattaya get?”

“Hey, Amos, why you abusin’ the old man?” Sullivan asked.

“I’m not abusing him. I’m really looking for an egg.”

“An egg,” Sullivan repeated.

McGuffin sighed. “Have you ever heard of the Fabergé eggs?”

“You mean that salty shit you put on crackers?”

McGuffin shook his head.

“Don’t know how people can eat that shit,” Sullivan said, lifting his glass.

“The egg I’m looking for is worth a few million dollars,” McGuffin informed him.

Sullivan halted the glass inches from his lips. “No shit?” McGuffin nodded. “You mean it’s some kind of fuckin’ jewelry or somethin’?”

“Exactly.”

“Hmm,” Sullivan said, considering so grand a sum. Not even a New York narc could knock down that kind of scratch. “So what’s this got to do with your ex-partner and his daughter?”

McGuffin pushed his fingers through his hair and looked at the cop. “It’s a complicated story,” he warned.

“Goody, another drink!” Sullivan called. “On, McGuffin!”

McGuffin lifted his glass of soda, changed his mind and replaced it on the bar. “Shortly after I went to work for Miles, he was hired by a guy named Otto Kruger to steal the egg from his ex-boyfriend, Klaus Vandenhof, which he did. But Miles apparently decided to keep it for himself, so he told Otto he had returned it to its rightful owner, and that’s when Otto killed him.”

“And Dwindling had the egg in his possession at that time?” the cop questioned.

“He must have, but I haven’t been able to find it.”

“So how come you only got around to lookin’ for it now?”

“That’s the complicated part. For eighteen years, Otto Kruger wastes away in the Napa Hospital, thinking Vandenhof still has the egg. He’s also a little annoyed at me for putting him away, so the first thing he does when he gets out is abduct my daughter and her mother.”

Sullivan stared uncomprehendingly at the detective for a moment before inquiring dully, “Whattaya mean, ‘abducted’?”

“Just that,” McGuffin answered. “He came to Marilyn’s apartment last Sunday night, and he took them away. He left this,” McGuffin said, passing the yellowed newspaper clipping to the cop. Sullivan read while McGuffin continued. “So I went to Vandenhof and asked him to help me find Kruger, which he agreed to do, if I would get his egg back from Otto.”

“But Otto doesn’t have it,” Sullivan said, looking up.

“Right.”

“He thinks Vandenhof’s got it.”

“Exactly. And when Otto realized that Miles still had the egg when he killed him, he had a sudden change of plan. He offered to trade me Marilyn and Hillary for the egg.”

“I see,” Sullivan said, testing the bristles on his chin. “And you think Miles must have somehow got the egg to his wife before he was killed.”

“Ex-wife,” McGuffin corrected. “There was no love lost between the two of them. If Miles gave her the egg, it was meant to be in trust for his daughter.”

Finished reading, Sullivan handed the clipping back to McGuffin. “You’re right. It’s a fuckin’ complicated story. You want my advice?”

“Does it matter?”

“Let me call in the feds.”

“Shit,” McGuffin said. “We’re talking about two human beings, not a stolen car.”

“All right, they can fuck up, but so can you, Amos. You don’t know where Ivey Dwindling is, or if she ever even had that fuckin’ egg. And even if she did, what makes you think she hasn’t sold it by now?”

“I realize what I’m -”

“How much time you got?”

“Until Monday.”

“Monday? Not even a fuckin’ week! You got any idea where Kruger’s keepin’ ‘em?” McGuffin shook his head. “Where’d you see him?”

“At the Hauptmann Vineyard in St. Helena - but they’re not there.”

“How do you know, did you search the place?”

“No. But I know they’re not there,” McGuffin insisted.

“How do you know?” the cop persisted.

“I know because Kruger told me they weren’t there.”

Sullivan stared incredulously at the detective. “What, are you fuckin’ nuts, McGuffin?”

“I know, I know -!” McGuffin interjected before the cop could further question his sanity or judgment. “I thought about it, and I’m sure he’s telling the truth for two reasons. First, he’d have to be crazy to take his hostages to his own house, and -”

“And he’s not crazy?” the cop interrupted.

“Not that way. And second, if they were there, he would have shown them to me because it would only have strengthened his hand.”

“Yeah?” Sullivan asked, unconvinced. “There’s also a third possibility, you know.”

“I know,” McGuffin replied soberly. “And I want you to remember, in case you have to testify at my trial, that I said to you here in this bar tonight, that if Otto Kruger were to murder my ex-wife and daughter, I could find it in my heart to forgive him.”

Sullivan shook his head sadly. “Let me call in the feds, Amos.”

“No,” McGuffin said. “At least not yet.”

“When? How long you expect a fuckin’ nut case to remain patient?”

“Vengeance is the only thing that keeps him going. First it was me, now it’s Vandenhof. As long as Kruger thinks I have the slightest chance of finding the egg, he’ll be patient,” McGuffin assured the cop. “But if he gets even an inkling that the FBI is in on this, Marilyn and Hillary are finished. He’ll never spare them to save himself. The only thing he wants from life now is to avenge himself on his old boyfriend.”

“Such is the power of love,” the big cop intoned. “So whattaya want from me now?”

“Patience,” McGuffin said. “And keep looking for Ivey Dwindling.”

“If she’s alive, I’ll find her,” Sullivan promised, as Goody placed a third drink in front of him.

“If who’s alive?” Goody asked.

McGuffin looked at Sullivan and shook his head, the signal for silence. Then unthinkingly, he reached for the last of his club soda and knocked it back without thinking. He grimaced at the unexpected taste, then turned and hurried out of the bar.

He declined the proffered cab and walked instead to Tadich’s restaurant in the financial district, an old establishment with good food and surly waiters, popular with the locals, and scrupulously avoided by tourists. He saw several familiar faces, divorced men dining alone, but merely nodded as he was led to a table at the back of the room, anxious to be alone and able to think. He ordered without much thought the pork loin special with baked potato and vegetable of the day.

“What do you want to drink?” the waiter demanded.

McGuffin sighed. “Calistoga water.”

The waiter jotted this down and hurried away, leaving McGuffin to contemplate the bottle of Pinot Noir on the next table. How well it would go with the roast pork. But no, I must have my wits about me. Still, a bit of wine can often set the mind dancing to the music of deep thought, he argued. And in his present condition, it would only serve to relax and ensure him a good night’s sleep so that he might awaken fresh in the morning, eager to solve the task at hand. Or one bottle could lead to another, followed by a hangover and a wasted day. Fairly and objectively, McGuffin presented both sides of the argument to himself, then made his decision. When the waiter next appeared, he called, “May I see the wine list?”

A short while later, with one glass of Pinot Noir under his belt, the ideas began to come. He thought of hiring a private investigator who specialized in missing persons, then wondered if it was somehow improper for one PI to hire another. Except for the damage to his ego, there seemed no reason not to do it. It was an idea he would keep in reserve. He could also place a personal ad in several newspapers across the country, offering a reward for information leading to Ivey Dwindling. After the second glass of wine, the ideas came fast and furious, and all of them, he came to realize as the meal and bottle came to an end, were nearly worthless. McGuffin wrestled valiantly against the urge for further drink, slammed his opponent to the mat, paid his bill and took a cab back to the Oakland Queen.

Perhaps, had he not drunk the wine, he reasoned later, he would have been alerted by the rush of cool air that greeted him when he opened the wheelhouse door. Knowing that he would never leave a window open during the rainy season in San Francisco, he would have realized that someone else had, and that someone was possibly still in the room. He would have then backed out and slammed the door, and gotten the hell out of there as quickly as he could, in that his gun was lying in the bottom of a grape wagon in St. Helena. But under the state of dullness, induced by the wine, McGuffin went a step too far into his dark office, felt something like a soft explosion to the back of his head, and fell, still faintly conscious, to his hands and knees. The first thing he saw, when the desk lamp was switched on, was Klaus Vandenhof squeezed into his chair, pointing a Luger at him, probably the same one he had used to shoot partisans during the war.

McGuffin touched his hand to the numbness at the back of his head, came away with a little blood, then looked up at the fat man and inquired, “Does this mean I’m fired?”

“Terminated,” the fat man corrected. “Toby, get him up.”

Two arms went around McGuffin’s back, and he was pulled to his feet. He sagged against the chart cabinet as Toby closed the door, and then reappeared in front of him. His gun was a small Beretta, sufficient to kill, but fortunately not heavy enough to fracture McGuffin’s skull - at least not in Toby’s hands.

“Get your hands up,” the little man ordered. McGuffin raised his hands and looked around the room while Toby carefully unbuttoned and turned his jacket back. The place had been torn apart. “Where’s your gun?” Toby asked.

“In a grape cart,” McGuffin answered.

Slow as an aging quarterback, Toby cocked his gun arm, preparing a second blow to McGuffin’s head, a split second before the detective’s forearms fell heavily on the little man’s clavicles, disengaging him from his gun, and driving him to the deck. McGuffin dived in the direction of the clattering gun, then froze at the sounds of an explosion and the whine of a slug off the deck, just inches from his extended right hand.

“Go no farther, Mr. McGuffin,” Klaus Vandenhof warned.

“You remind me of an old girlfriend,” McGuffin grunted, as Toby groaned.

“Are you all right, Toby?” Vandenhof asked.

“I think he broke my shoulder,” Toby moaned. “I’m gonna kill him, Klaus. No matter what you say, this time I’m gonna kill him.”

“Later, Toby,” Vandenhof said soothingly. “Right now I want you to get up and get your gun.” Toby climbed to his feet, grunting and working his injured shoulders. “And don’t lose it again,” Vandenhof said sternly, as Toby stooped to recover the Beretta. “Now you, Mr. McGuffin, will get to your feet,” he instructed, motioning with the Luger.

McGuffin climbed to his feet, raised his hands lazily, and looked around. “If you’ll tell me what you’re looking for, maybe I can help you.”

“You know very well what we are looking for, Mr. McGuffin. And if you wish to spare yourself a great deal of pain, you will tell us where it is,” Vandenhof replied with a faint note of irritation.

“You’re a tough client,” McGuffin said. “And I’m a good detective. But be reasonable, I’ve only been on the case for two days.”

“More than enough time to abrogate our agreement, it would seem,” Vandenhof remarked pointedly.

“Abrogate?” McGuffin repeated, remembering with a sinking feeling the last time he had used the word.

“Please, spare me your innocent protestations,” Vandenhof said, waving the Luger, as if to shoot McGuffin’s words out of the air. “My informant in the Kruger camp told me everything that transpired at the winery yesterday evening.”

“Then he must have also told you I was about to become dog food if I didn’t at least pretend to agree to a deal with Otto.”

“I overestimated you, Mr. McGuffin. I thought you were a man who put family ahead of money, but I see I was mistaken. You are out to make the best deal you can for yourself, without regard for the safety of your wife and daughter. This makes me very sad, of course. But you also betrayed me, and this makes me very angry,” he said, eyes pinched and glittering in the blue glow from the desk lamp.

“I didn’t betray anybody,” McGuffin insisted. “Not my family and not you. And if you think I’d make a deal with a homicidal maniac, you’re as crazy as he is. Don’t you think I know that Kruger will kill my wife and daughter as well as me, even if I were to give him the egg? Remember, he didn’t abduct them to get the egg - he thought you had it - he only took them to get me. Then when he saw a chance to get the egg as well as have his revenge, he decided to have both. But my deal is still with you and Toby because you’re my best chance to get Marilyn and Hillary out alive. All you want is the egg, and all I want is them.”

“He’s lying through his teeth,” Toby said, appearing in front of McGuffin, Beretta back in hand.

“I’m afraid Toby is right,” Vandenhof said sadly. “You’re a greedy man. You want the Fabergé egg and your family, but you can’t have both. Give me the egg, Mr. McGuffin, or I will allow Toby his fondest wish.”

Toby aimed the cocked gun between McGuffin’s eyes and laughed softly. McGuffin had no doubt. He was every bit as dangerous as Crazy Otto. For the second time in scarcely more than a day, he would have to bargain for his life with a homicidal maniac.

“You’ve already searched the place, you know the egg’s not here.”

“Then where is it?” Vandenhof demanded. “Your partner had it when he was killed. You must have it!”

“I don’t,” McGuffin said.

“Let me kill him,” Toby said, dangerously gripping and regripping the gun.

“But I know where it is.”

“You do?” Vandenhof asked breathlessly.

“Where?” Toby asked.

“In Mexico.”

“Mexico?”

“He’s lying again,” Toby warned.

“Where in Mexico?” Vandenhof asked, laying a hand on Toby’s gun arm and easing him to one side.

“Uh-uh,” McGuffin said. “If I tell you that, I’ve lost my bargaining chip.”

“If you don’t, you’ve lost your life,” Toby said.

“Killing me won’t get you the egg,” McGuffin explained to Vandenhof.

“But it will reduce the number of hunters by one,” Vandenhof explained to McGuffin. “And I’m sure you realize, there’s little reason for Toby to hesitate, Mr. McGuffin. Not only does he dislike you intensely, he also knows that Otto would logically be the one charged with your murder. So tell me, Mr. McGuffin, right now, where in Mexico is the egg?”

“I don’t yet know exactly where it is, but I’ll find out very soon,” McGuffin said. “I just learned that Mrs. Dwindling is living somewhere in Mexico. She has the egg.”

“How do you know this?” Vandenhof asked.

“I know because I gave it to her, eighteen years ago. I found the egg among Miles’ things after he was killed, but I had no idea what it was. I just put it in a box with everything else and drove over to Mary’s house - she was living out in the Avenues with her daughter, Ivey, who was then about five years old - and I gave it all to them. Mary had no idea what the egg was either, but Ivey thought it was pretty, so they decided to keep it.”

“Pretty,” Vandenhof repeated. “Describe it for me.”

“Well - that was a long time ago . . .”

“A Fabergé egg is unforgettable.”

“Let’s see . . . ,” McGuffin mused, trying to remember Vandenhof’s description of the egg, while hoping that he had forgotten mentioning it. Toby had fortunately been out of the room at the time. “As I remember, it was mostly white, with some gold eagles,” McGuffin began slowly. “And inside the eagles were little portraits. And it was sitting on a pedestal that had some gold and jewels on it, right?”

“And inside?” he asked, his expression noncommittal.

“Inside,” McGuffin began, remembering the globes with two maps of the Russian Empire inset in gold, then suddenly shifting - “We didn’t know you could open it.”

Vandenhof smiled. “Nor would anyone unfamiliar with the genius of Fabergé.” The smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. “Why did you not tell me this before?”

“It didn’t dawn on me until later that the two eggs were the same,” McGuffin answered.

“And when it did, you started looking for Mrs. Dwindling?” Vandenhof asked. McGuffin nodded. “Why not the daughter?”

“The daughter?”

“It seems to me that she would be the one most likely to discover the value of the egg, not an old woman.”

McGuffin shook his head slowly while he tried to think of an answer. “I’ve given that a lot of thought,” he began, then stopped.

“And?”

“Forget about her,” McGuffin urged. “She disappeared years ago.”

“With the egg perhaps.”

“Not a chance,” McGuffin said, shaking his head. “If she had taken the egg, she would have sold it. And if she had, the whole world would know about it.” Vandenhof listened intently. As McGuffin had hoped, the fat man wanted desperately to believe that his precious egg was tucked away safely in the musty jewel box of an unsuspecting old lady. “I’m sure the old lady has the egg, and if you’ll just give me a little time, I can get it for you,” McGuffin promised.

“He’s just playing for time. Let me kill him,” Toby urged.

“I have waited for eighteen years, Toby. What harm is there in waiting a little longer? Especially if you accompany Mr. McGuffin to Mexico - just to ensure that my interest in the egg enjoys precedence over Otto’s,” Vandenhof said with a smile and a nod to McGuffin.

Toby brightened. “Yeah, I think I might enjoy that.”

“Forget it,” McGuffin said. “We wouldn’t get as far as Tijuana before one of us killed the other.”

“You are in no position to dictate to me!” Vandenhof replied sharply.

“I’ll dictate to you and you’ll like it,” McGuffin responded. “Because I’m the only one who can lead you to the egg, and you know it, even if your little friend doesn’t. So if you want to kill the goose that can find the golden egg, go ahead. Otherwise, get your ass out of my chair and get the hell out of here because I’ve got work to do.”

The fat swelled and closed around Vandenhof’s surprised eyes, while a chuckle began building in his bowels, puffing him up like a pigeon. The laughter that finally rolled from his lips seemed powered by a jolt of electricity that racked his body with spasms and filled his eyes with tears as he struggled for speech. “Your audacity . . . ! I can scarcely . . .! Priceless . . . !”

“And I thought Germans had no sense of humor,” McGuffin interrupted.

“Oh, I am amused, sir, most amused, I assure you!” Vandenhof spluttered as he wiped his eyes with the back of his gun hand.

“Let me kill him,” Toby said flatly.

“His needle is stuck,” McGuffin said, jerking a thumb at the gunman. “So what’s it gonna be? If I’m working for you, I work alone. You call it.”

“Very well, Mr. McGuffin, we’ll do it your way,” Vandenhof said, lifting his jacket and sliding the Luger into a shoulder holster.

“Don’t do it. He’s conning you,” Toby said.

“Perhaps,” the fat man grunted, as he pushed himself out of the chair. “So just to be safe, we’ll be watching him very closely. Fair enough, Mr. McGuffin?”

“Fair enough,” McGuffin said, stepping aside for the large man as he lurched heavily in the direction of the door. “I’ll contact you when I have the egg.”

“See that you do, sir,” he said, with a backward glance. “And you will find me most willing to aid in the return of your wife and daughter. Betray me, however, and you will never see them alive. Is that clear?” he asked, reaching for the door.

“Perfectly,” McGuffin answered.

“Good. Come, Toby,” he said, opening the door.

Toby’s eyes danced indecisively between McGuffin and Vandenhof. When Vandenhof repeated his name, Toby shook the Beretta in McGuffin’s face and vowed, “The next time.”

McGuffin smiled and followed Toby to the door. “There’s one other thing,” McGuffin said, as Vandenhof stepped through the hatchway.

“Yes?”

“That gun,” he said, pointing to the Beretta in Toby’s hand. “I’d like to borrow it.”

“You what?” Toby said.

“It’ll just be until I get the egg,” McGuffin assured him. “I, uh - misplaced mine - and I might have need for one.”

“How about just a bullet?” Toby asked.

“Toby . . . ,” Vandenhof said warningly.

“I don’t care, this time he’s gone too far,” Toby complained.

“It will only be for a short while, Toby. And you do have plenty of others,” Vandenhof soothed as he took the gun from Toby’s hand.

“But that’s my favorite,” Toby wailed, as he watched the detective take it.

McGuffin stuck the gun in his belt and blew Toby a kiss. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

“You see that? He’s making a fool of you,” Toby said, as he followed the fat man down the gangway.

Grinning, McGuffin closed the door on Toby’s continuing complaints. Buying a handgun in California is dangerously easy, but borrowing Toby’s was infinitely more fun.