McGuffin was awakened from his best sleep in many nights by the ringing of the phone. Unimpeded by a hangover, he managed to snatch the receiver from the cradle before the second ring and answer in a clear voice, “McGuffin.”

“Is this the Mr. Amos McGuffin who was once employed by Miles Dwindling?” a woman inquired hesitantly.

“It is,” McGuffin answered. “Who is this?”

“Shawney O’Sea.”

“And what have you got to do with Miles Dwindling?” McGuffin asked, adjusting himself on one elbow.

“He was my father,” she replied.

He bolted to a sitting position, excited but cautious. “Let’s have that name again.”

She repeated it, then added, “But it used to be Ivey Dwindling.”

“Eureka!” McGuffin whispered. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“You have?” she asked, in a puzzled voice. “I thought I was looking for you.”

“You were looking?! Never mind, where are you?”

“I’m staying in a friend’s apartment,” she answered, and gave him an address on Leavenworth Street.

“Don’t move, I’ll be there within half an hour,” McGuffin said, springing from the bed.

With three minutes to spare, McGuffin alighted from a cab on Leavenworth Street near the Filbert Street steps on Russian Hill, one of the steepest grades in the city. The house was an ugly stucco fortress, rising straight up from the edge of the sidewalk, a green wall with a few small windows and an arched gateway at one side. McGuffin pushed the iron gate open and started up the stone stairs to the first of four landings stepped against the hill. There appeared to be four apartments in the building, with an entry off each of the landings. McGuffin stopped at the first, the address she had given, and rang the bell. A moment later, the door opened, and McGuffin stood staring at the woman who claimed to be Miles Dwindling’s daughter.

“Mr. McGuffin?” she asked.

“That’s right,” he answered, studying her closely, looking for some resemblance to Miles Dwindling. She had the same lean frame and seemed the right age, about thirty, but beyond that, she could be anybody’s daughter, McGuffin decided.

“Please come in,” she said, in a husky voice.

McGuffin stepped inside, and she closed the door after him. Her hair was long and deeply red, glossy as a sorrel thoroughbred, but a bit tousled, falling over one eye. She brushed it back with a well-manicured hand and led him into the living room. McGuffin stopped in the middle of the room, removed his damp hat and looked around. The place looked as if it had been furnished by a dowager aunt, with fringe on the lamp shades and doilies on everything else.

“You’ll have to forgive the mess, I just arrived from the airport an hour ago,” she said, slapping at the wrinkles in her blue silk dress. It had been chosen to set off her blue, almost violet eyes, as well as her long, smooth body.

“You look fine,” McGuffin remarked. “Whose place is this?”

“It belongs to an actor friend from New York. I believe it was left to him by an aunt. Can I take your hat and coat?”

“I’ll just throw it here if that’s all right with you,” he said, dropping his hat on a red velvet couch.

“Fine,” she said. “I’d offer you coffee, but I don’t know my way around the kitchen.”

“That’s all right,” McGuffin said. When he dropped his coat on the couch, Toby’s gun made a clunk against the leg. He remained standing, waiting for her to take a seat, but she was content to lean against the piano, hair falling over one eye as if she was about to sing a torch song. “Miles Dwindling’s daughter,” he said.

“Yes,” she answered, brushing her hair back again.

“Do you mind if I see some identification?”

“What?”

“It’s standard procedure in such matters,” McGuffin said with an easy shrug. “But if you’d rather not . . .”

“No, it’s quite all right,” she said, pushing off the piano. She walked across the thick Oriental carpet and through an open door to a large bedroom. There was a suitcase on the bed and a leather Coach bag beside it. She returned with a red leather wallet, opened it and began laying cards on the piano as if she were dealing blackjack.

McGuffin approached and looked over her shoulder. The several cards were in the name of Shawney O’Sea, including one from the Screen Actors Guild. “You’re an actress?”

She shrugged. “The jury is still out.”

“Do you have anything in the name of Ivey Dwindling?”

“Not with me.”

“Driver’s license?”

She shook her head. “I live in New York,” she said, pointing to her address.

“Then you have nothing to prove you’re Ivey Dwindling?”

“Of course I do. But I had no idea I’d be asked to produce it,” she answered peevishly, as she gathered up her cards. “I’ve called myself Shawney O’Sea for more than ten years, thinking that it would help my career - which it hasn’t, I might add. I just wish I knew what the hell was going on,” she said, stuffing the cards into her wallet. “I haven’t been called Ivey since I was in high school, now suddenly everybody expects me to answer to that name. Wait, I do have something!” she remembered, delving back into the wallet. She handed McGuffin a crumpled, graying card. It was an identification card from the New York High School of Performing Arts, with the name and signature of Ivey Dwindling still faintly legible. “I keep it as a joke,” she said.

“I’m glad you do,” he said, returning the card. “Now tell me who else suddenly expects you to answer to that name.”

“Mr. Kemidov,” she answered.

“Kemidov?”

“You don’t know him?” McGuffin shook his head. “Well, he certainly knows all about you. And me,” she added. “I’m sure he’s with the KGB.”

“KGB?” McGuffin repeated. “Why don’t you start from the beginning? Tell me all about Kemidov and how you happened to come looking for me.”

“Let me tell you everything just the way it happened, beginning with yesterday morning,” she suggested. McGuffin nodded. “I received a call from a woman with a rather heavy Russian accent, although I didn’t know immediately what it was. She said she represented a European film company that was interested in me for an international role and could I come and meet the producer, Mr. Kemidov, as soon as possible. Naturally I flew - to a rehearsal studio in the theater district, where I met the woman with the Russian accent. She sat me down on a folding chair in the middle of a big empty room and then walked out, leaving me alone for several minutes. I know,” she said, waving her hands helplessly, “you think I should have gotten up and left right then. But in this business you never know what to expect.”

McGuffin waited while she paced thoughtfully across the room to the window, beyond which a light rain had resumed falling. She gazed at it with little interest, before turning back to the detective and continuing her story. “Finally the door opened and a man entered the room. He was about sixty-five, but trim, with salt-and-pepper hair cut very short. He introduced himself as Mr. Kemidov and called me Miss Dwindling. I was amazed. I asked him how he knew that name, and he told me he had known me for eighteen years. I didn’t know what he was talking about, but I was suddenly very frightened, so I tried acting tough. I told him I had come about a movie, but if there was no movie, I was leaving. Then when I tried to get up, he pressed me back down in the chair. He was incredibly strong for an old man, and I was suddenly terrified. I begged him to let me leave, but he said, ‘Not until you have heard the story of my movie.’”

She took a few steps toward an embroidered chair, started to sit, then quickly straightened up. “He said his movie was about a Russian officer’s search for a Fabergé egg that had been stolen by a German officer during the war,” she went on, working the wallet in her hands like an exercise ball. “He said it was a treasure that belonged to the Russian people, and the officer had dedicated his life to its return. Several times he nearly had it, but each time the German escaped with it. Almost twenty years ago, he traced the egg to California. He was all set to take it from the German, when suddenly a private investigator robbed him of it before he had the chance. And that’s when I realized it wasn’t a movie,” she said, turning her wide violet eyes on McGuffin. “You do know who that private investigator was, don’t you, Mr. McGuffin?”

“I’m afraid so,” McGuffin, the unwitting accomplice, answered.

“He said my father stole the egg on behalf of the man who later killed him, Otto Kruger. And all during the time Kruger was in prison, Mr. Kemidov assumed he had the egg hidden away someplace. But recently, he found out that Kruger never had the egg, that my father had it when Kruger killed him. In fact, that’s why my father was killed, according to Kemidov. He claimed my father refused to turn the egg over to Kruger as he had agreed. Is this true, Mr. McGuffin?”

McGuffin nodded. “Did Kemidov tell you how he learned your father had the egg and not Kruger?”

“Yes,” she said, sinking to the chair. She leaned forward, arms on thighs, and stared into the empty space between herself and the detective. “He said his agents have been watching Kruger since the day he was released from prison. He knows that you contacted Kruger and tried to sell him the Fabergé egg. He also knows you contacted the German officer who had originally stolen it. He knows you have the egg, Mr. McGuffin, and he thinks you’re about to sell it to the highest bidder. That’s why he sent me. He told me to tell you that if you attempt to deliver the egg to either of them, the lives of both you and your loved ones will be in grave danger. Those were his words as he told me to deliver them,” she said, looking up from the blank space and fixing her violet eyes on McGuffin.

“I see,” McGuffin said, nodding slowly. “In other words I’m to give the egg to you, and you’ll deliver it to him in New York.”

“No,” she answered. “You’re to deliver the egg to Mr. Kemidov yourself. All I’m supposed to do is warn you of the gravity of the situation. After that, he’ll be in touch with you.”

“I don’t understand,” McGuffin said, hanging his hand from the back of his neck and staring at the Oriental carpet. “If Kemidov thinks I have the egg, why didn’t he come directly to me? Why did he go through you?”

“Because he thought at first that you were acting on my behalf,” she answered, getting to her feet. “He assumed my father had managed to get the egg to me and now you were selling it for me. But finally, I managed to convince him that I didn’t have the egg, and there’s the rub.”

“The rub?” McGuffin inquired.

“If I don’t have it,” - she said, pointing first to herself, then McGuffin - “you must.”

“Then why didn’t he cut you loose then and there?”

“Because he blames me for what my father did to him. If he doesn’t get the egg, he’ll kill me,” she said, turning her hands palm up. “And you, too,” she added. “The man is obsessed with the Fabergé egg, Mr. McGuffin. I’m convinced he’ll kill anyone to get it.”

“Did he say he was KGB?” McGuffin asked.

“He didn’t have to. He spoke of his agents as if he had a great network at his beck and call. It might sound hysterical, but I’m convinced that Mr. Kemidov is a member of the KGB,” she stated firmly. “Please, Mr. McGuffin, you must give him the egg.”

“I don’t have it,” McGuffin replied.

“Don’t have it? You mean you sold it?” she asked, eyes wide.

“I mean I’ve never even seen the goddamned thing,” McGuffin shot back.

“You’re lying -!” she gasped.

“Yeah, I’m lying! For the last eighteen years, thanks to your old man, I’ve been getting shot at, knifed and beaten up more than a high school teacher. All I own in life is a seven-year-old clunker and four brown suits - no, make that three, one of them got chewed up by a dog - but in reality, I’m an eccentric millionaire with a Fabergé egg stashed away in a gumshoe box. Believe me, I don’t have it!”

“Why should I believe you when you don’t believe me?” she demanded. “Did I ask you for identification? I told you I’m Ivey Dwindling, and that should be good enough! I was born thirty-one years ago in San Francisco where I lived for ten years before moving to Acapulco with my mother! I went to high school in New York where I lived with my aunt until I began pursuing an acting career under the name Shawney O’Sea, and I can prove all of it if you want to come to New York with me!” she exclaimed, brushing angrily at her fallen hair. “You’re the one who got me into this mess - you and my father - and now you’re acting as if it’s my fault somebody wants to kill me!” she concluded, as tears began welling in her eyes.

“I had nothing to do with it!” McGuffin protested. “And I’ve already got too many other lives to worry about to take you on as well!”

“I’m not looking for protection, I’m looking for the egg!” she cried. “I thought you might help me, but I was wrong, so let’s forget about it! Just take your silly hat and get out of here!”

McGuffin picked up his damp fedora and looked closely at it. “This is my rain hat,” he explained.

“Whatever it is, please take it and go,” she said, pointing to the door.

McGuffin picked up his raincoat and walked across the rug to the foyer. There, he stopped and turned, idly twisting the hat in his hands. “What do you intend to do now?” he asked.

“What I came to do - find the egg and return it to Kemidov,” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest.

“You know you’ll be giving up a couple of million dollars,” he warned.

“I’d rather give up a couple of million dollars than a couple of innocent lives. Or one, anyway,” she added.

McGuffin stared, trying to figure her out. If she was who she said she was, she might be able to help him find the egg. But if she did, he would have to betray her. He would have to take the egg from her and deliver it to Kruger in exchange for Hillary and her mother, leaving Shawney, or Ivey, out in the cold with Kemidov. It was a cruel choice, but McGuffin was up to it.

“Okay, I’ll throw in with you,” he said. He walked across the room, hand extended, and stopped in front of her.

Her arms remained folded over her chest. “Why the sudden change of heart?” she asked.

“Because I don’t want to see a couple of innocent people get killed either,” he answered.

Her violet eyes grew soft as she slowly untwined her arms and reached for his hand. “Partners,” she said.

“Partners,” McGuffin repeated, taking her cool, soft hand in his. He wondered what Miles Dwindling would make of his pragmatism now.

“Well - now what do we do?” she asked.

“We go on an egg hunt,” McGuffin answered. “But first you’d better get into something more practical. That silk dress makes you look like a tourist.”

She regarded the sky-blue dress sheepishly. “I’d forgotten that San Francisco could be so cold. I’ll just be a minute,” she said, tossing her wallet on the couch, then turning and walking quickly to the bedroom.

When she closed the door, McGuffin pounced on the wallet. He found a few more identification cards, all in the name of Shawney O’Sea, as well as several hundred dollars in cash and traveler’s checks. He also found a folded Pan Am envelope containing a receipt from a New York—to—San Francisco flight and an open return. He returned everything to the wallet and replaced it on the couch, then sat and waited for her return.

She emerged from the bedroom a short while later, looking very preppy in a long tweed skirt, loafers, and turtleneck sweater. She trailed a Burberry raincoat across the carpet, which she allowed McGuffin to help her into.

“That’s more like it,” he said, steering her to the door.

They walked quickly through the gray drizzle as far as Union Street before McGuffin managed to hail a cab. “The Oakland Queen on the Embarcadero,” he ordered, as he followed her into the back of the car.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“My office,” he said, as the cab pulled away. “I’ve got a trunk full of your father’s things I’d like you to look through - just in case it might jog something.”

“What sort of things?”

“Files, a few mementos from the office, his magical mystery bag. . . I’d like you to go through the papers, look for a familiar name, an old friend, maybe even a relative. Or a place. Anything that might tell us where he’d stash a piece of hot jewelry.”

“What do you mean, ‘his magical mystery bag’?” she asked, laying a hand on McGuffin’s knee.

“That’s what your father called the leather valise he used to carry his burg - detective tools. Why, does it mean anything to you?”

“It sounds theatrical - like a magician’s prop.”

McGuffin shook his head. “It was just a name he gave it.”

“Yes, but why?” she asked, turning to him. “Did you examine it closely?”

“Of course I examined it closely. What kind of detective do you think I am?”

“You’re sure there was no false bottom or secret compartment or anything like that?” she persisted.

“Now you sound theatrical,” McGuffin said. “Believe me, the egg is not in the bag.”

“I believe you,” she said, batting her violet eyes.

“Good.”

“But I’d still like to have a look for myself.”

“Just what I like, a partnership founded on trust,” the detective said, glancing through the window at the fog and rain.

The moment he saw the patrol car parked rakishly in front of the Queen, light flashing, one door hanging open, he realized what had happened. Someone other than Vandenhof, who had already been through the place and found nothing, had broken into his office while he was at Shawney’s apartment. “Shit!” he exclaimed, digging into his pocket for a roll of bills. He thrust a ten at the driver and jumped out of the car a moment before it came to a full stop.

“Wait!” Shawney called, as McGuffin dashed up the gangplank and down the corridor.

The puzzled tenants watched from open doorways as their security officer, followed by a beautiful redhead, ran past and up the gangway, only seconds behind the cops. He scaled the stairs in threes, then froze to the deck in front of his office door when a young cop spun on him with a .357 magnum.

“Hold it right there!” he ordered.

“I’m McGuffin, security!” he called, lifting his hands.

A second cop, holding the perpetrator face down on the deck, finished cuffing his hands behind his back, then looked up at McGuffin. “It’s okay, he’s Sullivan’s friend,” he informed his partner.

McGuffin dropped his hands as the cop holstered his cannon. He didn’t have to ask who the perpetrator was; he recognized the loose Gucci loafer lying on the deck.

“McGuffin, tell ‘em who I am!” his landlord ordered.

“We caught him tryin’ to bust in,” the younger cop said, displaying the screwdriver he had taken from Elmo. “You know him?”

“Of course he knows me, I own the boat!” Elmo shouted.

McGuffin shook his head. “Never saw him before in my life.”

“McGuffin!” he wailed.

“The guy who owns this boat claims it has no security,” McGuffin said.

“I’m gonna kill you,” Elmo said.

“Easy, fella, you’re in enough trouble already,” the older cop warned. “You want us to book him?”

“If you think it’ll save him from a life of crime,” McGuffin answered.

“Amos, I’m gonna sue -!”

“Take him in,” McGuffin ordered.

“No!” Elmo cried, as the cop pulled him to his feet. “Amos, please tell them -!”

“Tell them what? That you made a mistake, that security aboard the Queen is excellent?”

“Yes, I made a mistake,” Elmo admitted.

“And you would like the security officer to remain aboard for as long as he likes?”

“Don’t push it, Amos.”

“Book him.”

“Okay!” Elmo said, when he felt the nudge. “You can stay on for as long as you like.”

McGuffin peered closely at his landlord and exclaimed, “Good heavens, it’s Elmo!”

The older cop released the cuffs as Shawney O’Sea appeared wide-eyed at the top of the stairs.

“It’s all right,” McGuffin called, signaling her forward. The younger cop stared at her as she slowly walked over, scarcely noticing the tightly folded twenty McGuffin stuck in his hand. “I’ll tell Sullivan you’re on the case,” he promised.

“Thanks,” the young cop said, staring at Shawney.

McGuffin accompanied the cops as far as the top of the stairs, then waved to the tenants clustered below. “It’s all right, you can go back inside. Somebody attempted to break into my office while I was away, but you needn’t worry, he won’t be bothering anyone for a long time.” They applauded as McGuffin turned and grinned at Elmo.

“Cute, very cute,” Elmo said, rubbing his wrists.

“So is breaking and entering,” McGuffin said, pulling the door key from his pocket.

“This is my boat,” Elmo protested, as McGuffin brushed past him.

“But it’s my office,” McGuffin said, as he opened the door. He waited until Shawney had stepped inside, then turned again on Elmo. “And if you ever again try to break in, I’ll have you arrested.”

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” Elmo asked.

“No,” McGuffin said, and slammed the door on Elmo.

“Does this happen very often?” Shawney asked.

“Too often,” McGuffin said, removing his hat and tossing it on the bed. The coat followed. “You can hang yours there,” he said, pointing to a hook on the bulkhead behind her.

She removed her Burberry and laid it on the bed beside McGuffin’s knock-off. “Nice place,” she observed.

“Yeah, quite a change from your father’s place on Market Street,” McGuffin remarked, as he crossed the cabin to his cluttered desk.

“Market Street?” she asked. “I seem to remember him being on Post Street.”

“You’re right, I moved to Market Street after he was killed,” McGuffin lied, as he pulled the drawer open. “Funny how the mind plays tricks. Here it is.”

“What?”

“The key to the engine room. You wait right here,” he said, crossing to the door.

“Can I help?”

“It’s not necessary,” he said, as he stepped out and closed the door on her.

He was, after all, a hero, and a hero should have no trouble getting someone to help him haul Miles’ trunk up to his office. But a few minutes later, after asking in each of the four offices on the main deck, he had no volunteer. May they all be robbed, McGuffin grunted to himself as he pulled the heavy trunk from behind his chicken wire enclosure. It moved easily enough on the steel deck, but when he finally got it to the top of the stairs, he was wet with sweat and breathing heavily.

“My God!” Shawney exclaimed, when McGuffin staggered in ahead of the large old trunk. “You’ll kill yourself.”

“‘s okay,” he said, letting one end of the trunk fall heavily to the deck. He sat on the edge of the bed and took several deep breaths while Shawney examined the ribbed, hump-backed trunk.

“This thing must be a hundred years old,” she marveled.

“Open it,” McGuffin said.

“Can I have the key?”

“It’s not locked.”

“Not locked?” she asked.

“Don’t worry, nothing’s been stolen,” McGuffin assured her, getting up from the bed. He pulled the rusted hasp away from the empty staple and lifted the lid. “It’s all right here where I left it, the files, the souvenirs, the -!” He suddenly stopped pulling things from the trunk and looked up at Shawney with a panicked expression.

“What?”

“The magical mystery bag!” he said, plunging back into the trunk, slinging files right and left, while Shawney watched with a horrified expression, knowing even before he spoke that “It’s gone!”

“No - it can’t be,” she said, in a tone usually reserved for prayer.

“I don’t understand - it was here on Monday,” McGuffin said, staring into the nearly empty trunk. “It’s been here for eighteen years. Why would somebody steal it now?”

“Isn’t that obvious?” Shawney asked. “The egg’s been here all the time, and you never knew it.”

“It wasn’t,” McGuffin said, shaking his head slowly. “I examined the bag. It wasn’t there.”

“It must have been,” she insisted. “Why else would a burglar run off with a worthless old bag and leave everything else?”

“I don’t know!” McGuffin answered, kicking at the files on the floor. He grabbed the back of his neck, paced the several steps to the far bulkhead and turned. “The only person who’s been near this boat in the past three days is Klaus Vandenhof.”

“Who’s he?” she asked.

“The German officer Kemidov told you about.”

She gasped. “It must have been him.”

“It couldn’t have been. If he had found the egg, he wouldn’t have stayed around to wait for me. And he’d certainly have no reason to pretend to still need my services. So if it wasn’t Vandenhof, it must have been Kruger?”

It can’t be, McGuffin said to himself as he reached for the phone. It mustn’t be. If he has the egg, Marilyn and Hillary are probably already dead. A woman answered the phone after several rings.

“This is Amos McGuffin. I’d like to speak to Mr. Kruger,” he spoke carefully into the phone.

Shawney scarcely moved as she watched and waited. After a long minute, McGuffin spoke again.

“No, I don’t have it yet, but I’m getting close,” he assured Otto Kruger. “I’m just calling to see if you might know anything about an old leather bag.”

“Old leather bag?” Kruger repeated. “Vut has this to do vit the egg?”

“Nothing at all,” McGuffin answered. “I seem to have lost it.”

“That is too bad for you.”

“You don’t know anything about it, huh?”

“No, I do not,” he replied impatiently. “And if you are implying that I am a thief -”

“Heaven forbid,” McGuffin interrupted. A murderer, yes, a thief, never, he added to himself. “I just thought you might have seen it, that’s all. But if you haven’t, I’ll get on with my search.”

“You haf three days, Mr. McGuffin,” Kruger warned. Then the phone went dead.

“I know,” McGuffin said, as he slowly replaced the receiver.

“Well?” Shawney asked.

McGuffin shook his head. “It wasn’t him.” He leaned against the edge of the desk and stared absently at the files at his feet. “And if it wasn’t Kruger and it wasn’t Vandenhof, who was it?” he asked himself. He looked up at Shawney and asked, “Kemidov?”

“Kemidov? He’s in New York.”

“How do you know?” McGuffin asked. “He could have gotten on a plane right after you - or even before. Or if he really is KGB, one of his San Francisco agents could have taken it,” he went on, as he reached again for the phone.

“Who are you calling?” she asked, watching as McGuffin dialed information.

“The KGB,” he answered.

“You’re insane!”

“The consul general, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, please.”

“You can’t just pick up the phone and call the KGB!”

“Thanks,” McGuffin said, scratching the number on a pad.

“What do you think this is, Russia?” she asked, as he disconnected and dialed again.

McGuffin motioned her to be quiet as the phone was answered by a woman with a slight Russian accent. “This is Amos McGuffin,” he informed her. “I understand Mr. Kemidov has recently arrived from New York - may I speak to him, please?”

“Mad,” Shawney said, tossing her long, red hair back and forth.

After a pause, the woman replied, “One moment, please,” and he was put on hold. “Voilà!” McGuffin said, covering the mouthpiece. A moment later a male voice, more heavily accented, came on the line. “Who is calling, please?”

“Amos McGuffin for Mr. Kemidov.”

“What is this in reference to?”

“Poultry products,” McGuffin answered.

“Poultry?”

“Mr. Kemidov will know what I’m talking about,” McGuffin said.

“May I have your phone number?” the Russian asked.

McGuffin recited his number. “Does this mean I’ll hear from him?”

“I cannot say,” the Russian replied, followed by a dial tone.

“Well?” Shawney said, as McGuffin replaced the receiver. “Is he here?”

“I’m not sure,” McGuffin replied slowly.

“What do you mean - what did they say?” she demanded.

“There may be a Kemidov,” he answered. “But if he found the egg in the bottom of that bag, I’m sure he’s in Russia by now.”

“And if he didn’t?”

“If he didn’t, I think we’ll hear from him.”

“But if he does have the egg, that means we’re off the hook, doesn’t it?” she asked. McGuffin looked at her but said nothing. “I mean there’s no reason for him to kill us if he has the egg, is there?”

“No, there’s no reason to kill us,” McGuffin answered.

Her cheerful expression changed to concern. “You don’t seem very happy, Mr. McGuffin.”

“I’m a pessimist by nature,” he explained. “And the name is Amos.”

“Amos,” she repeated. “Such an unusual name.”

“It’s short for Ambrose,” McGuffin said, a rare admission. He wondered why he had told her, then went on nevertheless, “It means ‘belonging to the immortals.’ Strange choice for a private eye, huh?”

When she smiled and shook her head, her hair fell again over one eye. “I don’t think so.”

“I was going to be a lawyer,” he said, reaching a hand slowly to the fallen wave, “until I ran into your father.” His fingers brushed her temple as he pushed her fallen hair away. “I loved your father.”

She raised her hand to his and pressed it lightly against her cheek. “Yet I have the feeling he disappointed you.”

“You were why he did it. There isn’t much a father won’t do for a daughter. I hope you’ll remember that, Shawney.”

She nodded and lifted her face to be kissed, like a little girl.

They spent the entire day and a good part of Saturday night poring over Miles Dwindling’s files, searching for a clue that would lead to the Fabergé egg, but found nothing. After a quick dinner in North Beach - hurried because the jet lag was suddenly upon her - McGuffin dropped Shawney at her apartment and then swung by Goody’s. The place was nearly empty, but Sullivan was there, waiting to escort Goody to his car with the week’s take.

“Don’t ask,” the cop said, before McGuffin could. “That fuckin’ girl doesn’t exist.”

“Perhaps,” McGuffin allowed, reaching inside his raincoat, “but these are her fingerprints.”

Sullivan watched as the detective carefully unwound a white napkin to reveal a recently used wineglass. “You found her?”

“I won’t know for sure until you run these prints through the bureau. Can you do that for me?”

“It’ll cost ya,” Sullivan said, holding the glass at the edge of the base and turning it slowly in the light.

“Goody, give him a drink on me,” McGuffin called.

“I’m closed,” Goody snarled.

“He’s still pissed at you,” Sullivan said, peering closely at a print.

“See any good ones?”

“Several. How come it ain’t smeared?”

“She fell asleep after a couple of sips.”

“You sleepin’ with her?”

“No, but it’s not a bad idea,” McGuffin answered. “She’s beautiful, a New York actress, goes by the name of Shawney O’Sea.”

“You serious?” Sullivan asked, placing the glass on the bar. McGuffin nodded. “How’d you find her?”

“She found me. Apparently the Russians are after the egg, too.”

“This is turnin’ into a fuckin’ international incident,” Sullivan observed, as Goody, despite his threat, approached with Sullivan’s bottle.

Goody slammed the bottle on the bar and demanded irritably, “Whattaya, buyin’ your drinks someplace else and bringin’ ‘em to my joint?”

“No!” McGuffin shouted, as Goody swept the wineglass from the bar and plunged it into the soapy water.

“What the fuck you shoutin’ about?” Goody muttered, as he washed Shawney O’Sea’s fingerprints from her wineglass.

McGuffin and Sullivan stared dully as the barkeep rinsed and carefully polished the glass with a clean towel, something they had never seen him do before. When he was finally satisfied, he replaced the sparkling glass on the bar and stepped back to admire it. McGuffin turned and walked slowly from the bar.

“Now what did I do?” Goody asked.

The phone was ringing when McGuffin opened the office door. Thinking, hoping that it might be Marilyn, he lunged over the scattered files and snatched the receiver from the desk. “McGuffin!”

“Thank God,” Shawney O’Sea said.

“What’s wrong?”

“Someone’s been here. They tore the place up,” she answered.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes - scared, that’s all. I’ve been calling for an hour. I didn’t want to call the police until I’d spoken to you.”

“No police,” McGuffin blurted. “Just stay put, I’ll be right over,” he said, then hung up the phone.

Shawney O’Sea opened the door as far as the chain would allow, uttered McGuffin’s name, then quickly closed and opened it all the way. She surprised him, lunging at him, wrapping her arms tightly around him the moment he cleared the doorway.

“It’s okay,” McGuffin said, idly stroking her back as he peered over her head at the trashed room. Couches and chairs lay overturned, their bottoms ripped away to expose springs and stuffing, and the floor was littered with the contents of every cabinet and drawer in the apartment. He pried her loose and walked into the living room, gave it a quick glance, and went into the bedroom. More of the same, mattress torn open, drawers ripped open, and the contents strewn about the room. The chair under the chandelier and the toilet tank lid on the bathroom floor told him that someone had searched every cavity in the apartment for the Fabergé egg.

Even the china had been taken down from kitchen shelves and spread out on the floor for examination. McGuffin stepped delicately through it, stooped to pick up a Wedgwood bowl and cover, then turned to Shawney, huddled fearfully in the doorway. “Nothing seems to be broken,” he remarked.

“Am I supposed to be grateful?” she asked. “I’m sorry,” she added, when the detective regarded her with a raised eyebrow. “At first I was only frightened, but now I’m becoming angry and frightened.”

“Next comes despondency,” McGuffin said. “Then you’ll know you’re getting over it. Did any of the neighbors hear or see anything?”

“If they did, they haven’t volunteered it,” she answered.

He placed the bowl on the kitchen table, looked around again - he didn’t expect to find a clue as to the identity of the burglars, but it would be embarrassing to overlook a dropped wallet - and walked back into the living room, followed by Shawney. He peered through the bedroom door at Shawney’s empty suitcase and clothes strewn over the torn mattress. “Are any of your things missing?” he asked, turning to her.

She shook her head, knocking her hair down over one eye. “Not even my jewelry - such as it is.” She crossed her arms over her chest and rubbed her upper arms as if she were cold. “What does it mean, Amos?”

“It could mean a lot of things,” McGuffin answered, removing his raincoat. “It could mean that Vandenhof followed me here this morning, then busted in later, thinking I had passed the egg to you, or you had brought it here for me. Or it could have been Kruger, for the same reason. Or Kemidov,” he said, placing his coat over her shoulders. When he tugged it closed, she reached through the opening and squeezed both his hands.

“Is it always so cold here?” she asked.

“Only in the summer,” McGuffin answered, peering closely at her violet eyes. He was thinking of one last possibility - that Shawney had trashed her own apartment. No one had seen or heard of the Fabergé egg for more than eighteen years, with the possible exception of Shawney O’Sea. If this were the case, if Miles had gotten the egg to her before he was killed, what would she have done with it? Keep it, a struggling actress, or sell it? And if she was now told by a mad Russian either to produce the egg or be killed, what would she do? Admit that she had once had it, but sold it? Or deny that she had ever seen it and claim that the young PI who was working for her father at the time of its disappearance must have stolen it? And then, to give credibility to her story, to make Kemidov believe that others, too, suspected the PI, she trashed her apartment after their first visit, knowing that Vandenhof or Kruger would be thought responsible. Maybe she was only trying to save her own skin - just as he was only trying to save the lives of his daughter and her mother - and setting him up was the surest way to do it.

Another thought: Maybe Shawney O’Sea isn’t Miles Dwindling’s daughter, but an imposter hired by Vandenhof, Kruger, or Kemidov. Or maybe there was no Kemidov.

His speculations came suddenly to an end when she pressed her lips against his for the second kiss of the day. His coat fell to the floor as her arms went around his neck and she pressed tightly against him.

“Stay with me,” she said. “I don’t want to be alone.”

McGuffin held her away and looked again into those violet eyes. She was afraid of something, he knew. Afraid of being alone, afraid of dying? For some reason, at that moment, she reminded him of Hillary.

“You aren’t alone,” McGuffin said, tilting his head to kiss her again.