He smiled faintly. “At the Esplanade we saw that Van Rijk was following you.”
“So you decided to nab him along with the woman. But did you have to give him such a bloody big lead?”
“We did not wish him to realize that he, too, was being followed,” Tiong said. “Now, Mr. Connell. The Burong Chabak.”
I’d told him that I had a pretty good idea where La Croix had stashed it — a drop point we’d used in my black market days, where he’d leave cash for me when I brought in a shipment of contraband. I led Tiong to the rear of the hangar, between its back wall and two big, corroded tanks that had once been used for the storage of airplane fuel. Set into the ground there was a wooden box housing regulator valves for the airstrip’s water supply.
The Burong Chabak was inside the box, all right, wrapped in chamois and canvas and tied with string.
I had my first clear look at the figurine later that night, in Tiong’s office. It was very old and beautifully carved in intricate detail, depicting a nightbird — a burong chabak — in full flight, wings spread, head extended as if into the wind. The bird itself was of white jade, the purest, most valuable of all jade; the squarish pedestal upon which it rested was of the dark green variety.
“Is it not beautiful?” Tiong asked.
I didn’t agree with him. It looked and felt cold to me — as cold as Tanya Kasten’s face in the moonlit shed.
“It is said to be worth a minimum of four hundred thousand Straits dollars. A hundred and fifty thousand dollars, American. Tanya Kasten’s buyer in Luzon, whoever he is, may even have been willing to pay more. To some men, such a rarity is worth any price.”
“I suppose so.”
“The money, too, would tempt many men. Particularly one with a past such as yours. Yet you chose to come to the polis,to help us recover the figurine, instead of attempting to keep it for yourself. Why, Mr. Connell?”
“Does it really matter?”
“I would like to know.”
“All right, then. The main reason is Larry Falco.”
“Your former partner?”
“My dead former partner,” I said. “A nice guy, with a lot of ideas about making an honest living from an air cargo company, who died because I had other ideas — like transporting a load of contraband silk to a treacherous jungle airstrip at midnight. He tried to talk me out of it, but I wouldn’t listen. I could land a plane anywhere, I told him, under any conditions. Well, I was wrong and it cost him his life instead of mine.”
Tiong nodded slowly and said, “I see.”
Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. I did not really care one way or the other.
Vanishing Act
(with Michael Kurland)
The three of us — Ardis, Cedric Clute and I — were sitting at a quiet corner table, halfway between the Magic Cellar’s bar and stage, when the contingent of uniformed policemen made their entrance. There were about thirty of them, all dressed in neatly pressed uniforms and gleaming accessories, and they came down the near aisle two abreast like a platoon of marching soldiers. Most of the tables that front the stage were already occupied, so the cops took over the stack of carpet — covered trunks which comprise a kind of bleacher section directly behind the tables.
I cocked an eyebrow. “Most saloon owners would object to such an influx of fuzz,” I said to Cedric. He owns the Cellar, San Francisco’s only nightclub devoted to the sadly vanishing art of magic.
“Policemen have a right to be entertained,” he said, smiling.
“Their lot, I understand, is not a happy one.”
Ardis said speculatively, “They look very young.”
“That’s because they’re most of the graduation class of the Police Academy,” Cedric told her. “Their graduation ceremony was this afternoon, and I invited them down as a group. Actually, it was Captain Dickensheet’s idea.” He indicated a tall, angular, graying man, also in uniform, who was about to appropriate a table for himself and two other elder officers. “I’ve known him casually for a couple of years, and he thought his men would enjoy the show.”
“With Christopher Steele and The Amazing Boltan on the same bill,” Ardis said, “they can’t help but enjoy it.”
I started to add an agreement to that — and there was Steele himself standing over the table, having appeared with that finely developed knack he has of seeming to come from nowhere.
Christopher Steele is the Cellar’s main attraction and one of the greatest of the modern illusionists. I don’t say that because I happen to be his manager and publicist. He’s also something of a secretive type, given to quirks like an inordinate fascination for puzzles and challenges, the more bizarre the better. Working for and with him the past five years has been anything but dull.
Steele usually dresses in black, both on stage and off, and I think he does it because he knows it gives him, with his thick black hair and dark skin and eyes, a vaguely sinister air. He looked sinister now as he said, “The most amazing thing about Phil Boltan, you know, is that he’s still alive. He does a fine job on stage, but he has the personal habits and morals of a Yahoo.”
Ardis’ eyes shone as they always did when Steele was around; she’s his assistant and confidante and lives in a wing of his house across the Bay, although if there is anything of a more intimate nature to their relationship neither of them has ever hinted at it to me. She said, “You sound as though Boltan is not one of your favorite people, Christopher.”
“He isn’t — not in the least.”
Cedric frowned, “If you’d told me you felt that way, I wouldn’t have booked you both for the same night.”
“It doesn’t matter. As I said, he is a fine performer.”
“Just what is it that you find so objectionable about Boltan?” I asked as Steele sat down.
“He’s a ruthless egomaniac,” Steele said. “Those in the psychological professions would call him a sociopath. If you stand in his way, he’ll walk over you without hesitation.”
“A fairly common trait among performers.”
“Not in Boltan’s case. Back in the 40s, for example, he worked with a man named Granger—”
“The Four-Men-in-a-Trunk Illusion,” Ardis said immediately.
“Right. The Granger Four-Men-in-a-Trunk Illusion premiered at the Palladium before George the Fifth. That was before Boltan’s time, of course. At any rate, Granger was getting old, but he had a beautiful young wife named Cecily and an infant son; he also had Phil Boltan as an assistant.
“So one morning Granger awoke to find that Boltan had run off with Cecily and several trunks of his effects. He was left with the infant son and a load of bitterness he wasn’t able to handle. As a result, he put his head in a plastic bag one evening and suffocated himself. Tragic — very tragic.”
“What happened to the son?” Cedric asked.
“I don’t know. Granger had no close relatives, so I imagine the boy went to a foster home”
Ardis asked, “Did Boltan marry Cecily?”
“No. Of course not He’s never married any of his conquests.”
“Nice guy,” I said.
Steele nodded and leaned back in his chair. “Enough about Phil Boltan,” he said “Matthew, did you have any problem setting up for my show?”
“No,” I told him “All your properties are ready in the wings.”
“Sound equipment?”
“In place.”
“Ultraviolet bulbs?”
“Check,” I said. The u.v. bulbs were to illuminate the special paint on the gauze and balloons and other “spook” effects for Steele’s midnight séance show. “It’s a good thing I did a pre-check; one of the Carter posters fluoresced blue around the border, and I had to take it down. Otherwise it would have been a conspicuous distraction.”