Maxim Gunn and Sheba's Necklace

SHEBA’S NECKLACE

By

Nicholas Boving

A Maxim Gunn Adventure

Copyright © 2012 Nicholas Boving

EBook ISBN 978-1-896448-12-1

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So Geographers in Afric’s-Maps

With Savage-Pictures fill their Gaps:

And o’er unhabitable Downs

Place Elephants for want of Towns.

Jonathan Swift

Do not look for the great Cave of the Winds on any map for you will not find it. However that does not mean it does not exist: it simply means that it is hidden from the eyes of all but those who have reason to know.

(Harry McCreedy – hunter)

CHAPTER ONE

Good of you to come on such short notice, Gunn.

A sudden buffet of wind shook the high mullioned windows and roared in the deep fireplace, sending a shower of sparks streaming upwards. Maxim Gunn smiled politely at the grey haired man in the wing backed chair.

The call indicated some urgency, Sir Richard.

Well, yes, I suppose there is. But if I’d known it was going to be a night like this it could have waited. Too much hurry these days, that’s half the trouble with the world. Not enough time for civilized behaviour. It’s all rush now: deadlines, and a mania for work that’s forgotten there’s more to life than meeting targets. I blame the Americans for that, of course.

Gunn masked his amusement behind another non-committal smile. There was a lot of truth in what Richard Trelawney said, but on the other hand, his admiration for Americans and their achievements was second to none.

I like wild nights, he replied. There’s something about them that quickens the blood.

Good God, the man’s a romantic. The gruff observation came from the room’s only other occupant; a grizzled, wiry man of about sixty, with deeply tanned skin and short cropped grey hair.

But not a fool, Mr. McCreedy.

The hunter’s eyes twinkled. Never said you were. Wouldn’t be here if you were, and from what I hear you’d be dead anyway.

Sir Richard Trelawney coughed delicately. Did the Cabinet Secretary tell you anything, Gunn?

No. He merely suggested I listened to what you had to say.

And so far you’ve heard nothing.

Gunn looked around the room, taking in its warmth and comfort. It was a rich man’s room, full of leather, dark panelling and well-used bound books; a room that shouted privilege and continuity. I’m in no hurry, Sir Richard.

McCreedy laughed. Got you there, Dick.

Trelawney smiled urbanely. "Touché." He rose and refilled their glasses from the whisky decanter before continuing.

Ever been in the N.F.D.? he asked. Of course it’s called the North Eastern Province these days.

Gunn shook his head. The North Frontier District of Kenya? No, it’s a part of the world I’ve missed so far.

Trelawney grunted. Then you’ve not missed much. Though Harry here, he indicated the hunter, might not agree with me. He’s knocked about Lake Turkana and the Marsabit for the last forty years. Probably knows it better than any man alive.

He paused reflectively as another gust of wind hit the Elizabethan Manor house, accompanied by a shot rattle of driven rain. A log settled in the fireplace, and out in the hall a grandfather clock chimed the half hour. Comforting sounds, Gunn thought, especially in those snug surroundings. The baronet cleared his throat.

Remember Cecil Rhodes dream?

Africa, British from Cape to Cairo, Gunn replied. An impossible dream, Sir Richard. Africa isn’t like that, never was and never will be - not British, I mean - but not one entity, one people. At least, not for many, many years.

Why d’you say that? McCreedy asked.

Gunn shrugged. He’d been through the same reasons once before, at a different time and place. Too many differences. Too many jealousies, hatreds, languages, religions, and tribes who can’t, or won’t, get on with each other. I suppose one of the old colonial powers might have just achieved it - at least, on the surface - but only by economic or military force. But it wouldn’t have lasted. There’s no cement to bind the bricks; nothing to keep the differences from rearing up again. A few years, a decade or two, and it would have flown apart.

McCreedy nodded and put a match to his pipe. I agree. And more’s the pity. And to your observations add politics, greed, megalomania, and the London School of Economics.

But supposing that cement could be found, Trelawney said.

A pipe dream, Sir Richard. Only natural development will provide that. God knows, look at the mess the West is in, and it inherited civilization and democracy from Greece and Rome the better part of two thousand years ago. If the West can’t do it in that time, what chance does Africa have after little more than a hundred years?

Trelawney sipped his whisky. Bear with me, Gunn. Indulge a fantasy if you like. What would it take to bind all those different peoples?

Someone stronger than anyone on earth right now. A Messiah. Someone who could offer a philosophy, a belief, a symbol even, that would cut across all tribal and national boundaries. Something like that might do it. Africa has had great empires. The Zulus under Chaka, Songhai in the west, and Zimbabwe. But even they were fairly localized when you consider Africa’s size. It’s nearly twenty-nine million square kilometres. That’s bigger than the old U.S.S.R. Three times the size of the United States. And more people than I care to count.

And that would achieve unity?

My knowledge of Africa and its peoples isn’t great, Gunn replied. But if I read history right, the people love to be led. They have a tremendous capacity for following someone strong who will show them the way, no matter what the incentive or reasoning.

But Africa is not one race. The range is from northern Arab through to south western Bushman, with every gradation in between. Trelawney smiled. I think I’m playing devil’s advocate, Gunn.

Fair enough. But I don’t think ethnic or tribal differences would matter, even religion. It’d still be a case of what drew them together. If they all believed in it, differences would be largely put aside.

So you think it’s possible? McCreedy said.

Possible, Gunn agreed. Not probable.

Trelawney steepled his fingers under his chin, eyes fixed on Gunn. What if I told you it was much more than possible?

Gunn felt the familiar ants of excitement crawling through his stomach. It had been with just that kind of quiet question so many of his previous missions had started.

What are you saying, Sir Richard?

What does that part of the world conjure in your mind? McCreedy put in before Trelawney could answer.

Gunn spread his hands, rather at a loss at the apparently irrelevant question.

Lord. I don’t know: Wilderness, desert, mountains, impossible lakes, the last refuge of the elephants. He laughed. Maybe King Solomon’s Mines and the Queen of Sheba. As I said, I’ve never been there.

Why Sheba? Trelawney’s question was sharp.

Gunn looked at him, eyes narrowed. Why not? Rider Haggard springs to mind, I think; and his She Who Must Be Obeyed. Just a train of thought, nothing more.

But very interesting, the baronet replied as he got up and went to his desk. Moments later he handed Gunn a glossy 8 by 10 photograph.

Does that mean anything to you, Mr. Gunn? he asked.

Gunn took one look at the photo, gave a low growl, and passed it back.

Is this your idea of a bad joke, Sir Richard?

Trelawney shook his head, and whispered. My God! So it is true. He turned to McCreedy. I knew we had the right man, Harry.

Gunn’s face was cold and hard as granite. I think you’d better tell me what all this is about, gentlemen. No more games, no more twenty questions.

Richard Trelawney swung round. Gone was the elderly, polite and urbane country gentleman, to be replaced by a face and bearing as cold and hard as Gunn’s. Six hundred years of inherited command, position, wealth and influence bored into his guest’s hawk-like angry face.

No, Mr. Gunn. It is not a joke, bad or otherwise. That thing in that photograph, as you very well know, is real. And above all its power is real.

How should I know that? Gunn snapped.

One grey, bushy eyebrow arched. For most of my life I have worked for my country, admittedly unsung, and behind the scenes, and in that not inconsiderable time, I have been made aware of many things not generally known. One of them, Mr. Gunn, was the affair of Madame Wanda Liszt and the Schloss Swartzrabe. I take it you do remember that?

Vividly. Gunn’s reply was tinged with the same angry sarcasm.

What happened to the Great Necklace after that; The Great Snake of Prester John?

Presumably you will know it disappeared.

But not destroyed.

I said, disappeared, Sir Richard. The ruins of the Schloss were combed: nothing was found.

As they were combed for Madame Liszt? She was not found either, if my information is right. That is, not until later when I believe you had the somewhat dubious pleasure of discovering she had, shall we say, risen from the dead. Trelawney smiled, thinly. Oh yes, I know of that too. But was it in the Schloss at the end?

Harry McCreedy cut in. For God’s sake, Dick. We want the man’s help, not his antagonism. All you’re doing with you high-handed manner is putting his back up. And dammit, you’re showing off.

Richard Trelawney gave his friend a startled look. Was I doing that? He shook his head. Forgive an old man, Gunn. Harry’s right.

Maxim Gunn relaxed and smiled. You shocked me, Sir Richard. That photo brought back too many unpleasant memories. Is that what you meant by the cement?

It is.

Then I don’t think we need worry. It’s gone to the devil, and it wasn’t in the Schloss, you know. It finished up in the lake. Wanda Liszt has gone too, Torquil Tornquist and I saw to that.

The baronet sat back, chin on chest and looked at Gunn through lowered eyelids. Wrong, Mr. Gunn. The devil did not claim his own at the Great Tomb of Gilgamesh; and he did not claim the Great Snake. The woman is alive, and she has the Snake, again.

For the space of a dozen heart beats the room lost its warm friendliness, and Gunn felt a chill prickle his neck hairs. Then he shook the feeling off and asked, very quietly.

How do you know this?

Trelawney cleared his throat. She, and it, have been seen.

By whom?

By me, Mr. Gunn, McCreedy replied. In Nairobi last week.

Gunn got up, suddenly impatient with the whole Establishment atmosphere. The panelled room suddenly reeked of the kind of conspiracy that only old money and oh so polite dirty dealings can engender. He was under no illusion that the beautifully tailored baronet could be as hard and ruthless as a striking cobra should the occasion warrant it. The simple unpretentious badness of a criminal he could understand. He was even able to accept the mind bending terrors he’d encountered when confronted by other-worldly horrors. They at least had no agenda other than survival and were driven by an uncontrollable bloodlust. But the cold blooded gentlemanly amoral attitude was more than he could stomach at that moment.

Tell me a little of her, McCreedy said.

Gunn’s face remained a mask. She inherited her character and ambitions from her father.

McCreedy chuckled. Somehow one never images her type as having parents.

Wanda idealized her father and created a memory to match. To her Otto Liszt was an heroic figure: he wasn’t. He was a ruthless psychopath with all the finer feelings of a velociraptor. He shrugged slightly. That is her rationale for her hatred of me; not the fact that I’ve managed to put a spoke in her wheel a couple of times. Wanda is able, daring, rapacious, ambitious and unprincipled, and those are just her good qualities.

McCreedy watched Gunn through a noxious cloud of pipe smoke. You certainly have strong feelings for the lady.

Meaning? Gunn’s voice was low, barely heard against the sounds of the gale.

McCreedy blew smoke before answering. I once knew a lady of extraordinary beauty, and hated her with passion. And then one day I found out she had died, and a piece of my heart went with her.

Wind roared down the chimney, flattening the flames, sending a galaxy of sparks tumbling upwards and a sweet-smelling cloud of pine smoke into the room. Trelawney growled.

Damned fire never did draw well in a Westerly. He glanced sideways at Gunn. Touch a nerve, did I?

I think I may need to get back to you, Sir Richard, he said.

Trelawney raised an eyebrow. He was obviously shocked by Gunn’s attitude, and the old hunter whistled softly.

Don’t you want your revenge, Mr. Gunn?

Gunn’s reply was harsh. For what?

Wanda Liszt survived your, er, attentions.

Gunn drawled disinterestedly. As I said, she has before.

But she came back, Trelawney pointed out.

Gunn shrugged, a tinge of irritation in the simple gesture.

She has a habit of doing that. And in any case, you know what is said of the man who seeks vengeance.

Harry McCreedy chuckled. That he should dig two graves.

Precisely, Gunn said. And I have no intention of being buried just yet.

Sir Richard Trelawney got up. He did not offer his hand as Gunn put on his coat.

You will be in touch, Mr. Gunn.

Gunn’s reply was icy. Is that a request, or an order? If the latter, I should remind you that I no longer work for Her Majesty’s Government.

Trelawney opened his mouth to reply, but McCreedy motioned him to remain silent. Instead he gripped Gunn’s elbow.

Come on, I’ll see you out.

Gunn gave the baronet one last cold stare, spun on his heel and followed the old hunter.

Moments later in the flag-stoned hall, McCreedy rasped. What the hell was that all about, Gunn?

Gunn pulled on his driving gloves before answering then gave McCreedy a pat on the shoulder.

The man is an arrogant son of a bitch. He presumed too much. Mr. McCreedy, I came here tonight to listen and perhaps help. Take that information back to Trelawney.

He opened the iron-studded oak door and a blast of wind-driven rain spattered the ancient stones.

Not a night for man or beast. He smiled at the man at his side. Makes the thought of heat and dryness of the N.F.D. seem positively attractive. He shivered and glanced up at the cloud-blackened sky. I wonder if Wanda sleeps hanging upside down.

Gunn went out and the old hunter gently closed the door. For moment or two he remained standing in the hall, then, with a satisfied smile limped back towards the study.

Well? Trelawney stood at the mantelpiece, a glass of whisky in his hand.

McCreedy crossed to a table with decanters standing on it and poured himself a drink.

You were bloody rude to him.

Trelawney shrugged. Maybe. But will he do it?

Oh aye, he’ll do it, but no thanks to you. He took a thin cheroot from an inside pocket, lit it and blew a cloud of smoke. Richard, this is Maxim Gunn you’re dealing with, not some Foreign Office minion. To you he may be just a name, records in a file, but I’ve met men almost like him, very few mark you, and though you can lead them to water, don’t ever try to force them to drink.

Trelawney waved a hand impatiently. He’s a man, like any other.

The hell he is, McCreedy growled. And if you’ve an atom of sense, Dick, you’ll call on him first thing tomorrow morning and damned well grovel your apologies. Maxim Gunn’s as proud a Lucifer. You may lead him if you’re very good; but you’ve no hope of driving.

Trelawney squinted at him over the rim of his glass. You think?

Aye, I think. He called you an arrogant son of a bitch, and he’s right. Now ring that bloody bell and let’s have dinner. I’m starved.

As McCreedy spoke, Gunn swung the Maserati Quattroporte GT S onto the main road and pressed his foot firmly on the accelerator. The V8 4.7 litre motor gave a muted growl as the speedometer wound easily up to ninety miles an hour in a shade over five seconds and hovered as he eased back.

Gunn’s pulse quickened slightly. The woman had made it. Wanda had cheated the Pale Rider, again! How the hell had she done it? And for an unaccountable reason he grinned boyishly. What d’you know? he whispered, Lulu’s back in town.

CHAPTER TWO

Gunn put down the coffee cup and raised an eyebrow in mute query as James Sweetstory silently entered.

Sir Richard Trelawney wishes a few moments of your time, Sir. Are you at home?

Gunn smiled, and for a moment toyed with the idea of telling Trelawney to go to the devil, but good manners, not to mention curiosity got the better of him.

A bit early, he said. But I suppose he is out and about at his masters’ bidding.

Indeed Sir. I will show Sir Richard to the sitting room.

Gunn threw his napkin down and got up. Better make it my study, James, and some more coffee I think.

Sweetstory vanished as silently as he had arrived. Gunn went to the window overlooking Clarges Street. There was no official black saloon which told him that early as it was, Trelawney had needed time to think and had probably walked across St James’s and Green Park.

The baronet had his back to the door and was examining a bookcase when Gunn entered. He spoke without turning.

They say you can tell a lot about a man by the books he keeps.

They say that about the company he keeps as well.

Trelawney turned. Then you’re a bit of an enigma Gunn. Your library says one thing and the company you tend to associate with tells a different story.

Gunn pointed to an armchair. You know the saying, Sir Richard: you can’t do a damned thing about your family, but you get to choose your friends.

Trelawney sat, carefully crossing one elegantly tailored leg over the other. His handmade shoes had the gleam of loving care which was probably not his own.

I hope my bad manners of last night will not bar me from that august company. One bushy eyebrow rose slightly and the blue eyes gimleted into Gunn’s. I knew your grandfather, by the way: on your mother’s side. James Rassendyll was an extraordinary man. He smiled slightly and the blue eyes warmed from arctic to merely cold. You have a lot of him in you.

Sweetstory wafted in, placed the silver tray with the Georgian coffee pot and blue and gold china cups on the low rosewood table and left without a word.

Sir Richard’s eyes followed him. Another remarkable man, from what I hear.

Gunn poured the coffee and passed a cup to Trelawney. And I doubt you know ten percent of his true worth.

Trelawney took a lump of sugar and stirred his cup. Words ranging from indispensable to omniscient have been bandied.

Gunn kept his peace. James Sweetstory was nobody’s business but his own, and Gunn’s.

I doubt you came here to exchange pleasantries, Sir Richard.

Trelawney put his cup neatly on its saucer. McCreedy said you called me an arrogant son of a bitch.

Gunn shrugged minutely. Last night you were: I’m waiting to see what character you have assumed this morning.

That of the abject groveller. I was arrogant and assumed too much.

Gunn got up and going to the fireplace leaned against the mantel looking into the flames. He was silent for a long time, but the baronet didn’t interrupt. Then Gunn turned.

Yes, you were. There was a time you could have ordered me, but that time is gone. I am a free man no longer subject to the whim of your masters.

Trelawney knew his man. Wanda Liszt is alive and has the Great Snake.

Gunn gave a short humourless laugh. And you assume I won’t be able to let it go.

Do I assume too much, again?

A shaft of sunlight broke through the wintry grey cloud cover. To Gunn it was a signal, an omen, and he believed in omens.

No you do not, Sir Richard. He gave a wry smile. But you knew that anyway.

I hoped Gunn, I hoped.

Gunn bent down and jabbed the fire with an antique bayonet that did service as a poker.

I’d give a good deal to know how she got out of the tomb. It smacks of help that is a little – otherworldly. The cliff was reduced to rubble. Tornquist and I saw it. A cockroach couldn’t have survived.

She has perhaps a charmed life.

Gunn grunted. Do you have anything besides the fact that McCreedy saw her in Nairobi and that she has the necklace?

McCreedy tells me you must not look for her in the NFD yet. The time is not right. You must seek her in surroundings she is accustomed to. Search for Wanda Liszt in luxurious surroundings, and then follow her. Do not above all kill her until she has the Snake in her hands, until she is seated on whatever throne she has devised. The people she seeks to control must see her die, Gunn. They must know she is mortal. That way her power will die with her and she will not become a symbol along with that damned necklace.

Trelawney ran a hand through his grey hair. She must be stopped, Gunn. You understand this. She must not be allowed to escape again. This time you must finish her. He sighed. McCreedy again tells me that you may pick up her trail in Venice: don’t ask me how he knows, but then he has a way with following invisible spoors.

Gunn gave the baronet what was almost a pitying look, the kind given to someone who just does not understand. I’ll do my best. But then I’ve done that a number of times, and look what happened. Wanda Liszt is different. She does not obey the rules, even when the subject is death.

Trelawney got up. I thank you Gunn. The ones you call my masters were not sure you’d be – amenable.

Gunn shrugged. They must be abysmally ignorant. Nothing would keep me away if Wanda Liszt is involved.

The baronet nodded. McCreedy was of the same opinion. The usual caveats apply, you understand?

Gunn laughed, and that time there was genuine amusement in his tone. Wanda and I have a rendezvous with death, Sir Richard. So far the third member has been unable to attend.

He showed Trelawney to the door where Sweetstory stood holding his guest’s hat and tightly furled umbrella. Trelawney glanced up at the sky, put on his hat and went down the front steps. At the bottom he turned. Good luck Gunn, and keep me informed if you get the chance.

Gunn watched the erect figure stride towards Piccadilly, umbrella across his shoulder. He smiled. England expects, he thought, and turned to Sweetstory.

James, I think I shall lunch near the British Museum, and I’m having dinner with Lady Cynthia.

Very good Sir. I shall pack your bags and then, with your permission take the rest of the day for myself.

Emil, you’re too damned suspicious. What makes you think I can’t just drop in for the pleasure of your company?

Emil Thanisch: tall, gangly and bespectacled leaned back in his swivel chair at a ludicrously dangerous angle and plunked his feet on the desk.

Because you never come here just for the pleasure of my company. No one ever comes here for the pleasure of my company. This is the British Museum, not a ruddy circus. He frowned. No, I take that back, it is a ruddy circus. Thanisch pointed to a chair which threatened to collapse under the weight of leather-bound books and velum documents bound with silk tapes. Push that lot off and sit.

Gunn touched the teetering pile anxiously. Probably priceless relics or something?

Thanisch snorted. Or something. Half the bloody stuff they dig up and store would be better used as fire lighters. Have you any idea how much stuff is buried in museum vaults?

Gunn hadn’t and didn’t want to know. What he wanted to know was had his friend heard anything recent about Sheba’s Necklace. Thanisch dropped his feet off the desk and swore.

You told me it was gone – for good.

Gunn shrugged. I also told assorted people Wanda Liszt was gone – for good. It seems I was wrong on both counts.

Thanisch got up, went to a steel filing cabinet and took out a bottle and two glasses. He poured substantial belts of a very good single malt whisky, gave one to Gunn and sat down again.

Who, what, where, when and why?

You should have been a reporter, Gunn said dryly, and sipped the whisky.

Thanisch frowned. Answer the question, or piss off.

Gunn held the glass up to the pale light that filtered through a dirty window. Last night I almost had dinner with a certain baronet of distinguished lineage, and the last of the great white hunters, well, he’s now an animal protector. I was told that Wanda had recently been seen in Nairobi, and that she had the Snake.

Just like that. And you believed them?

Gunn nodded. I keep six honest serving-men, they taught me all I knew; their names are What and Why and When and How and Where and Who.

I just said that.

But Kipling said it better, and he added who. Gunn cocked his head. Not bad advice for an archaeologist.

Or a spook.

The what is the snake, the why is because Wanda’s obsessed with ruling Africa, the when is anyone’s guess, the how is by presenting herself yet again as the Great White Queen.

Thanisch gave another snort. Fat lot of good it did her last time.

Gunn ignored the interruption. The where is currently in Venice, and the who is of course the little girl who had a little curl.

Emil Thanisch looked blank. Gunn explained. When she was good she was very, very good, and when she was bad everybody loved her.

Nobody loves Wanda Liszt except Wanda Liszt.

Gunn tut-tutted. You don’t find her beautiful; not the tiniest bit desirable?

He got a growl of disgust. You couldn’t pay me enough.

Gunn mused. I don’t know. The last time I saw her with that bauble around her neck, she was positively breath-taking.

Thanisch frowned horribly. "Why are you telling me anything?