I did the math in my head. "Fabian was-"
"King Farouk's son. The prince of Egypt, heir to the throne."
We were both silent.
"That blond child with fair skin looked exactly like his old man," Logan said. "I'll show you the pictures."
"She must have been devastated."
"Still couldn't talk about it without breaking up, Ms. Cooper. I mean, she knew long before she became pregnant that she wasn't much more than one in a long line of royal concubines. There were belly dancers and British diplomats' wives in the same club as Queenie. Two of the king's favorite mistresses were Jewish-it was a different Egypt in those days-but none of them was likely to become the queen."
"Did he know she was pregnant when she left him?"
He nodded his head. "She was too proud to tell him. But after she gave birth to their son here in the States, she sent him some photographs, knowing how badly he wanted a male heir, and seeing how closely the child resembled the young Farouk. She did the F thing, too."
"What?"
"Farouk's father, King Fuad, had once consulted a seer, who told him that all his good fortune derived from the letter F. Fuad then demanded that everyone in the royal family be named based on that prophecy-Farouk himself, and his sisters Fawzia, Faiza, Faika. Like that. He had even made his wife change her name. Queenie thought she'd get his attention that way. 'Here's your prince, Fabian, just look at him.'"
"Did Farouk respond to her?"
"She never heard from him again. He divorced his wife and married a sixteen-year-old girl, who finally gave birth to an heir-the next Fuad."
"Did he ever contact Fabian? Support him?"
"Queenie didn't want money from him. She just wanted him to acknowledge the boy, to know that she had done what the royal princess failed to do until that time."
"But how did she live? Did she continue to dance?"
"Not for very long," Logan said, stopping to open his mouth wide and stroke his goatee. He seemed to be thinking about whether to go on. Then he leaned back and reached into the pocket of his jeans.
"Queenie gave this to me in June, for my birthday," he said, handing me a pocket watch.
It was in a solid-gold case, and on the back were the initials F.R. "Farouk Rex," Logan said. "Given to him by his pal, the Duke of Windsor."
"And Farouk, he gave things like this to Queenie?"
"Not exactly," Spike Logan said, smiling. "My girl got a few kicks in before she left town to come back to Harlem. She stole this from the king."
22
McQueen Ransome stole a gold watch from the King of Egypt. What else of value might she have taken in a fit of pique, out of favor and heading for home?
"Did she tell you," I asked Spike Logan, "whether she took any of Farouk's other 'things' when she left?"
"Hey, it all started as a prank. There was a well-known story at the time about Farouk pardoning a famous pickpocket from one of Alexandria's penitentiaries. In return, the king wanted lessons from the guy. So the thief agreed, and taught His Majesty how to steal by sewing tiny bells into each of his own pockets, like little alarms, before filling them with objects. By the end of his lessons, Farouk had mastered the art of light-fingered lifting. You never heard the story about Churchill's watch?"
"No."
"Churchill was visiting the troops and stopped to have dinner with Farouk, who lifted his watch from the prime minister's waistcoat during cocktails, without the great statesman having a clue. Only after the meal, when Churchill asked the time, did the king pull out the old guy's watch from his pocket and tell him."
I laughed at the image.
"Farouk thought it would be fun to teach Queenie, too. She got a platinum cigarette case off Noël Coward one night, and the money clip that Jack Benny carried in the inner pocket of his dinner jacket when he came to perform for the troops."
"But she carried it farther than that, I take it."
Logan got serious. "She could see what was coming, Ms. Cooper. The king was losing interest in her, she knew she couldn't make a living dancing while she was pregnant, and she didn't know what kind of hard times she was facing back in the States, going home to Harlem after the war."
"What did she admit to you that she took with her?"
Logan's fingers tapped on the desktop. "I don't remember, exactly." He seemed to recognize that he was displaying Queenie in a negative way.
"I'm sure you can give me a general idea." I needed to get those interview audiotapes before he altered or destroyed them. "We're beyond the statute of limitations for theft, Mr. Logan," I said, smiling at him. "It's quite fascinating."
"I'm not the only one who knows," he said, as if he were justifying his reasons for telling me. "Some jewelry. I mean, Farouk actually gave her stuff during the time they were together. But I guess, in the end, she got her hands on some uncut gems he had stashed away. Sold 'em off or pawned them from time to time over the years. Farouk also collected rare stamps and valuable coins, odd things that she really didn't know the value of," Spike said.
Then he looked at me, as if to gauge my reaction before going on. I didn't display any.
"Queenie was able to survive for about ten years on one of the treasures she scored."
My raised eyebrows gave away my interest. Spike went on. "You know what a Fabergé egg is, Ms. Cooper?"
The brilliantly jeweled objects had been made by Carl Fabergé for the Russian czars, and the ones that survived the revolution had been collected and traded by the richest men in the world. "Sure I do. Farouk had those, too? Queenie took a Fabergé egg? My admiration for her taste keeps growing."
Spike Logan didn't care whether I approved of Queenie's methods or not. "Some antiques dealer in London bought it from her. I looked him up on the Internet but couldn't find any recent trace of him. She joked that Farouk was better than the goose that laid the golden egg-he mislaid it and she took it. That single egg kept her and Fabian going for the next ten years, till the boy died. Queenie realized she got stiffed when she sold some of these objects 'cause she didn't have any proof of ownership. The dealers knew she had stolen goods, otherwise she would have made enough money to live in style the rest of a very long life."
"Didn't Farouk miss any of these things? Didn't he send people out to the States to try to find her and get them back?"
"You speak any French?" Spike asked.
I nodded my head.
" Touche pas!Know what that means?"
"Don't touch," I answered.
He leaned forward and lowered his voice for dramatic effect. "When the king wanted to play with his toys, he'd go into the rooms in his palace where everything was stored, taking Queenie with him. I'm talking dozens of enormous rooms. They'd sit on silk cushions, laid out on the floor, for hours and hours. He'd let her try on tiaras and necklaces, run gold pieces through her fingers, and place Fabergé goblets in her hands. But when it came to the pieces he prized dearly, the things that were most rare, most valuable, he'd scream at her, 'Touche pas! Touche pas!' She wasn't even allowed to hold them. Fabergé goblets, yes, but the jeweled eggs-no."
"So it was easy for her to tell what the best treasures were, I guess."
"That's what she thought. Queenie told me that when she was packing her bags to leave the palace, she made one last sweep of the joint. She figured Farouk had so many collections, so many toys, that if she was careful, he wouldn't begin to know what was missing. She headed right for the things that she had never been allowed to touch. Instead of taking all his precious eggs, she just took one. Same for the gemstones and the other valuables. When he opened his closets and vaults, he'd still see dozens of sparkling objects-he'd never stop to count. The most obscene thing is that he probably never knew any of the things she took was even missing."