A private investigator has news a client may not like.
|“What do you mean this isn’t the egg?”
Of course, I was upset. I spent the better part of the last year searching for it. The client, the man wearing a fresh daisy in his lapel, gave me a photo of what he wanted and why: An heirloom egg, made of gold, brought to the U.S. by his Prussian great-grandparents, stolen during last Christmas’ charity ball, and wanted to give it to his daughter on her wedding day.
He picked up the object and held it in his hand. “The Egg should weigh more than this. It was made of solid gold.” He tossed it to me. I caught it before it hit my iced coffee.
I shook my hand. “We did a little research, Mr. Von Riffelbacher. According to documents we read at the German embassy, the ‘Pascal Egg of Frederick William IV’ was never made of solid gold. It was a golden box in the shape of an egg.” I took a sip of my drink, the pause calculated to make him stew.
I continued, “I’m guessing you knew this. You wanted us to retrieve it and tell you who stole it so you could bring personal justice to him.”
“Is that such a bad thing?” the casino owner scowled. He sat up straighter in the leather chair. I became nervous, knew he could be readying himself to leave and have his men ‘take care of me’.
“So, where did you find it?”
I inhaled deeply, knowing that my next words could cause my death. I looked at the tough at the door, the one who had been fidgeting our conversion. I closed my eyes and a spoke. “Before I say, I want your assurance the agency will be paid.”
I pointed towards the door.