Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 44, No. 4, April 1980

“I asked Dr. Feldman that question,” Lucy said. “While we were haggling about your fee. He said this Dr. Scott had already talked with officials out there and they weren’t willing to guard the shipment.”

“Did he say why?”

Lucy shook her head. “No.”

“Maybe they’re miffed about withdrawal of diplomatic recognition,” Shayne said, “and then, again, maybe there’s more to it than that.”

“I’ve done some figuring,” Lucy told Shayne. “Do you have any idea how much 500 pounds of gold is worth?”

“A heap, I’d say. How much?”

“Well, there are twelve troy dunces to a pound when you’re weighing gold.”

“I never realized that.”

“So now you know,” Lucy said pertly. “When you multiply by the 500 pounds, and say gold is now $400 an ounce, a troy ounce, you’re talking about $2,400,000.”

Shayne whistled softly. “We’re sitting into a high stake game, aren’t we?”

“You and this Dr. Scott are,” Lucy pointed out. “I’ll just be sitting here working my fingers to the bone while you skylark in the Far East.”

“Come along then,” Shayne invited.

“I can’t and you darned well know it,” Lucy said. “Somebody has to watch the store.”

Shayne leaned over, raised her face and gently kissed Lucy Hamilton.

“What was that for?” she asked.

“Just a passing fancy,” Shayne teased. “Now I’d better move along and let you get some work done. Is it all right if I pick you up about six thirty?”

“Make it seven. I need to wash my hair.”

“Will we need reservations?” Shayne asked.

“I made them this morning just in case you should ask me to dinner,” Lucy said. “Don’t forget to pack a toothbrush.”

When he reached his apartment, Shayne discovered his Cuban cleaning woman had been there before him. The bed was made up and everything was in apple pie order.

Shayne took down a blue flight bag from a closet shelf and, whistling to himself, packed extra shirts, pajamas, a sweater, and toilet articles (not forgetting a toothbrush).

For the cruise from Taiwan to San Francisco he would have to buy additional wardrobe in Taiwan before embarking, but Shayne looked forward to bargain prices on that island.

Tim Rourke called about the middle of the afternoon. “Hey, Mike,” he said, “I really had to dig to find out about this Seberg Foundation, so you owe me one now.”

Shayne chuckled. “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours, so what do you have?”

“It was founded in 1950 by Joseph Seberg, a Swiss citizen. It’s rumored he made his fortune by smuggling gold out of Nazi Germany info Switzerland. Also works of art. That last is documented. Recently he’s paid a visit to both mainland China and Taiwan.”

“This gets interesting,” Shayne said when Tim paused. “Do we know the purpose of those two visits?”

“No,” Tim told him. “But Joe gets more interesting. He’s one of these multimillionaire sleepers. Nobody really knows a hell of a lot about the man himself.”

“Where is his foundation registered?” Shayne asked.

“It isn’t,” Tim said. “My main source says it’s a front, but he hasn’t any real proof.”

“A front for what?” Shayne asked.

“Your guess is as good as anyone’s, Mike. The thing is, whatever Joe backs turns him a very neat profit. Sweet charity for charity’s sake is something the Seberg Foundation knows nothing about.”

“Thanks, Tim. Anytime you need a good backscratch you know where to find me.”

“That’s for sure,” Tim said. “I’ll be around, don’t worry.” Then he dropped the bantering tone. “Be careful out there, Mike.”

“You can depend on that,” Shayne told the reporter. “I know better, but maybe you’ll tell me who your main source is?”

“You know better,” Tim said and broke the phone connection.

Shayne went to his bar and poured himself a brandy on the rocks. He sipped it thoughtfully, staring out the window of his apartment.

As a member of the International Association of Private Investigators, or AIAI, Shayne given time could have cabled a Swiss, Antoine Teller, and asked about Seberg. From time to time Shayne supplied information for other association members in all parts of the western world. But he had never had occasion to contact Teller, nor had the Swiss ever needed his services.

Shayne decided whatever scam Joseph Seberg was up to this time was none of his business. He’d been retained to see the Golden Buddha and the rest of the exhibit from Taiwan to Miami.

He did pull a reference book covering China and the Far East from his shelf to learn that the highest peak on the large island off the coast of China was Hsinkao Shan, towering 13,113 feet, and correctly assumed the Hsinkao Shan Buddha came from some ancient temple on the slopes of that mountain.

Chilung was Tapei’s port, so the Golden Buddha would be shipped out from there.