Murder at the Library of Congress

by Margaret Truman

  “What do you base it on?”

  “Papers in his apartment. He did a fairly exhaustive study of the artist.”

  “Interesting,” Lucianne said. “I spoke with a contact I have in the Miami PD this afternoon.”

  “Lucianne knows a few people, Mac,” Annabel said, a smile in her voice.

  “Doesn’t surprise me,” said Mac. “What did your Miami source have to say?”

  “This conversation stays out here on this lovely terrace,” Lucianne said. “I’d hate to have something I’ve uncovered end up on somebody else’s newscast.”

  “No guarantees,” Mac said. “If you want to make sure no one hears it from us,

  don’t tell us. That’s a rule I learned years ago when I was still trusting prosecutors.”

  Lucianne laughed. “Fair enough. My guy in Miami tells me that the person behind the art heist is named Warren Munsch, a small-time loser with a minor league rap sheet. Mr. Munsch, it seems, took the painting to Los Angeles, then headed for Mexico City. They know that because he booked flights using his own name. No master terrorist he.”

  “Where did he go from there?” Annabel asked.

  “They lost track of him. The original information came through a Mexican source, some private detective there who operates as an informer for stateside police departments. According to this source, Munsch went to Mexico City with the intention of getting on a plane to Cuba. He’s got a lot to run from. A security guard was killed during that theft.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Mac said. “Munsch steals a painting by a second-rate artist, kills a guard in the process, and takes the painting to California. I assume he stole it on someone else’s instructions.”

  “I doubt if he has his own art collection,” Lucianne said, lighting up again. The small ashtray was filling rapidly.

  “No, I’m sure he doesn’t,” said Mac. “How much was the painting worth?”

  “Not much,” Lucianne answered. “The guy who runs the museum said it was used more to set a background scene, not displayed as a work of art.”

  Mac looked at his wife. “You made a comment when we were preparing dinner, Annie, that maybe there was something else stolen along with the painting, something more valuable.”

  “Like what?” Lucianne asked. Then, she answered herself. “Like something hidden in the painting. Or behind the painting? Like a map?”

  “Las Casas’s so-called map?” Mac added.

  “Can you hide something like a map behind a painting?” Lucianne asked.

  “Sure,” Annabel said. “I mean, I don’t know the techniques used, but stories come out now and then about art conservationists discovering a valuable painting behind a less valuable one.”

  “And you say Michele Paul had been researching this artist, Reyes?” Lucianne said.

  “Yes.”

  “More brandy?” Mac asked. When he returned from the small bar in the living room, Annabel was in the process of asking her own questions.

  “You told me that you were sent on this assignment to the Library of Congress based upon some rumor that big money was being offered for the Las Casas materials through the rare books underground.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Have you learned any more about that? When? Where? By whom?”

  The journalist sipped her brandy.

  “We’ve been open with you,” Annabel said.

  “I know, and I appreciate it. Ever hear of a part-time, rich collector of rare books and manuscripts named David Driscoll, the investment guru?”

  “Sure,” Annabel said. “He’s one of the world’s foremost collectors of Hispanic documents and artifacts. I’ve met him. In fact, I once tried to buy a Mayan mask from him that he’d put up for sale. I don’t think he really wanted to sell it because he asked ten times what it was worth.”

  “He lives in L.A., doesn’t he?” Mac said.

  “That’s right,” Lucianne said.

  “David Driscoll is also one of the Library of Congress’s leading benefactors,” Annabel said. “Why did you ask about him?”

  “My boss back in Miami told me it’s Driscoll who’s spreading money around in search of Las Casas. Driscoll gets on to some obscure sources—and sometimes dubious stuff. Early on in his collecting career, he bought some of that dubious material but in recent years, maybe the last ten or so, his acquisitions and donations check out, or at least turn out to be worth quite a lot. It’s peculiar, a guy who traffics in the shade but who comes up with previously unknown or lesser work that turns out to be very valuable. I called his house in L.A. Whoever answered said he’s out of town.”

  “He’s in town—this one,” Annabel said.

  “I didn’t know that,” Lucianne said. “I’d like to interview him.”

  “He was in for a morning meeting with Dr. Broadhurst. At least that’s the scuttlebutt. I think he went back to California. Shall I put on another pot of coffee?”

  “Not for me, thanks,” Lucianne said, standing. “I’d better get back to the hotel. This has been great. You’re a good cook, Mac.”

  “Thanks. I muddle through.”

  Annabel walked Lucianne to the elevator.

  “Do me a favor?” Lucianne said after pushing the Down button.

  “If I can.”

  “Keep being my eyes and ears inside the library. See what this David Driscoll and Broadhurst met about. Let me see the material Michele Paul had on Reyes. Tell me if—”

  “Thanks for coming to dinner,” Annabel said. “We enjoyed having you.”

  The elevator arrived and the doors slid open.

  Lucianne said good night, stepped inside, and the doors closed.

  Mac was cleaning the kitchen.

  “She wants me to be her on-site spy at LC,” Annabel said.

  “You said no, of course.”

  “I said we enjoyed having her for dinner. What did you think of the globe-trotting Ms. Huston?”

  “I liked her, like her style.”

  “She’s certainly attractive.”

  “That, too.”

  “How’s your knee?”

  “Lousy. I’m calling Giles in the morning, make another appointment to discuss options.”

  “Good,” Annabel said, knowing the only viable option was surgery.

  “Mac.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Were you flirting with her tonight?”

  “Of course not. I don’t flirt with other women.”

  “You laughed louder and longer than her stories warranted. I mean, it’s okay as long as it’s just flirting.”

  “I’m an old man with bad knees. My flirting days are over.”

  She turned him from the sink and wrapped her arms around him, gave him a lingering kiss. “I always wonder whether you’re flirting when a woman as attractive as Lucianne Huston is around. Not insecurity. It’s a compliment—to a handsome husband.”

  “Glad you feel that way. About being handsome, not about me flirting.”

  “I’ll finish up. You take Rufus out and get back here quick.”

  “Am I being seduced?”

  “Uh huh. You know I’ve always had a thing for old men with bad knees.”

  25

  Annabel came to the conclusion after the dinner with Lucianne Huston: She’d spent enough time thinking about Michele Paul’s murder. It wasn’t her business despite what Lucianne had claimed, that they were kindred spirits in search of an answer. Not true, Annabel told Mac while cleaning up the kitchen: “I can see two months slipping by with me not even close to having the research I need for the piece.”

  “Good for you,” he’d said. “Ms. Huston is paid to dig into murder, you’re not.”

  “Exactly.”

  And so the following morning, Annabel went directly to her work space on the upper gallery and settled in for a day devoted to researching Bartolomé de Las Casas. She’d emptied her briefcase on the small desk and was about to compare material from two books published shortly after Co
lumbus’s second voyage to the New World when John Vogler called on the number Annabel had been assigned.

  “Yes, Dr. Vogler?”

  “I’m sorry to intrude on your work, Mrs. Reed-Smith,” said the chief of Manuscripts, “but I urgently need to speak with you.”

  “Later, perhaps?” said Annabel. “I’ve fallen terribly far behind in my research and—”

  “It will only take a few minutes. Please? It’s very important to me.”

  “Now?”

  “If it would be convenient for you.”

  “All right. Your office?”

  “No, somewhere outside the library. There’s a small bagel shop a block away on Pennsylvania Avenue. It’s called Chesapeake Bagel, in a string of restaurants.”

  “I know where you mean.” Annabel had noticed it when she had lunch with Dolores Marwede.

  “I’ll go there now,” Vogler said.

  Annabel considered taking another stab at postponing but decided she’d rather get it over with, whatever it was.

  Vogler had wedged his considerable frame into a chair at a small table at the rear of the bakery. He bumped it as he stood, causing coffee from a full cup to spill over its sides. He was obviously agitated as he invited Annabel to sit: “Coffee? Tea? Would you like something to eat?”

  “Thank you, no. I really have to get back. What is it you need to speak to me about?”

  “Michele Paul’s murder.”

  Remembering her resolve, she said, “I’m trying not to spend any more time thinking or talking about the murder, Dr. Vogler. It’s getting in the way of my work.”

  “Oh, I can understand that,” said Vogler, “and I agree. But this is terribly important to me. The police—they interrogated me for hours yesterday. It was brutal.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, but they have a job to do.”

  He ignored what she’d said. “They’re making so much of the confrontation I had with Michele and the business with Candy, my wife.”

  Annabel wasn’t surprised.

  “It’s even worse than that,” he said, leaning across the table and fixing her with pale blue, watery eyes. “Someone has told them—the police, I mean—that I was seen in Hispanic at the time the murder occurred.”

  Annabel’s eyebrows went up. “Were you?”

  “Of course not. You remember, I’m sure, when I told you I hadn’t been there that night, went nowhere near it.”

  “I remember you telling me that,” Annabel confirmed, not adding that having told her didn’t mean anything. “Who told the police you were there?”

  “I don’t know. They wouldn’t reveal the name to me, which I consider a breach of my Constitutional rights.”

  “Dr. Vogler,” Annabel said, “I would love to help you but there’s nothing I can do. Why are you telling me this?”

  “You were there that night. You discovered the body. Was it you who—?”

  “Was it me who told the police you were at the scene? It wasn’t.”

  “Do you know who it might have been?”

  Annabel shook her head.

  “Would you try and find out for me?”

  “I—no, I’m afraid that isn’t my responsibility. Look, Dr. Vogler—”

  “John.”

  “John, I’m certain that if what you told the police was completely truthful—and I’m sure it was—you have nothing to worry about. Now, excuse me. I really have to go.”

  He stood, again threatening to tip over the table. “Of course,” he said, offering his hand. “You’ve been very gracious taking time from your busy schedule.”

  “Think nothing of it.”

  “Mrs. Reed-Smith.”

  “Annabel.”

  “Yes, Annabel. If you do hear who might have told the police this lie about me, you will let me know?”

  Annabel left without answering.

  Her concentration impaired by Vogler’s call and their meeting, Annabel walked back to LC with conviction, determined to shut the rest of the world out from her upper-gallery space for the rest of the day. She almost made it. As she passed Consuela’s open office door, Lucianne Huston, who was on the phone, stretched the cord to reach the door and motioned for Annabel to join her. Annabel waved back and was about to continue on her way when Lucianne’s words to whoever was on the other end of the call caused her to stay.

  “… can we get a statement from somebody in Mexico? Yes, someone who knows the details of how he was killed. There’s got to be somebody who doesn’t spout the official Mexican line, damn it. I may want to go there…. Of course I’ll let you know…. Right. I’ll check in later. Uh huh. Okay. All right, Bob.”

  “Hi,” Annabel said when Lucianne hung up.

  “Great dinner last night. Your husband’s quite a guy.”

  “No debate.”

  “They found the man who pulled off the art theft and security guard killing in Miami. Masterminded it, you might say.”

  “Where did they find him?” Annabel asked.

  “Just outside the Mexico City airport. When Mexican police tried to arrest him, he ran. They shot him.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “Very.”

  “How did you find out?” Annabel asked.

  “My boss in Miami. The Miami cops were notified by the Mexicans.”

  She motioned for Annabel to join her in the office. Annabel stepped inside and Lucianne shut the door.

  “You’ve taken over Consuela’s office?” Annabel said.

  “Anything to get away from my keepers in Public Affairs. Consuela offered. At least somebody around here makes sense.”

  “You’re too hard on Joanne and her people, Lucianne. They’re doing their job.”

  “And keeping me from doing mine. Want to know where that hundred thousand to Michele Paul came from?”

  “I’d like to say no but go ahead.”

  “David Driscoll. Turns out he’d been sending checks to our Michele Paul for years.”

  “It’s not a surprise, is it? I mean, your sources said it was Driscoll spreading money around in search of the Las Casas materials.”

  “But to Michele Paul? Paul worked for this library. If he was feeding Driscoll information about Las Casas, he violated his agreement with the Library of Congress—didn’t he?”

  “I don’t know what agreement Paul might have had with LC.”

  “I do. He was an employee, paid by LC. His research belonged to LC, just like engineers inventing something on GE’s time. What they come up with belongs to the company.”

  “You’re assuming Paul was selling his research findings to Driscoll.”

  “What else did he have to sell?”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Driscoll lives in L.A.”

  “And?”

  “And this two-bit thief Munsch steals a painting with Columbus as its theme and heads to L.A. with it. Munsch was no art collector. He had to have stolen the painting at someone else’s behest.”

  “That’s what Mac said. David Driscoll?”

  “Got any better ideas?”

  “Do you know what I decided last night after you left our apartment, Lucianne?”

  “That you wouldn’t invite me back?”

  “That I didn’t want to spend another minute thinking about the murder.”

  “That’ll teach you to invite a journalist for dinner.”

  Annabel nodded and smiled. “I think I’ll stick to that decision, at least for the rest of the day.”

  “Okay, but remember what you promised, that you’d let me know if you pick up anything I can use about the murders.”

  “Murders, plural? Oh, John Bitteman. I didn’t promise anything. But if some startling revelation jumps up and bites me, I’ll pass it along, if I can.”

  “Can’t ask for more. Best to Mac. See ya.”

  Returning to her work area, Annabel decided that she’d have to tell someone at the library about her conversation with Lucianne, and made up her mind to call Cale Broadhurst later in the day.


  26

  It was said that you could set your watch by Abraham Widlitz. The seventy-two-year-old art restorer and conservator rigidly adhered to a schedule ingrained in him ever since emigrating to Hollywood from New York City in the late 1940s.

  Like so many young men and women seeking fame and fortune in L.A., Widlitz carried with him a change of clothing and a talent, in his case a considerable skill at drawing. He landed work at Columbia Pictures, where he served an apprenticeship in the set design department for small pay, supplemented by the excitement of being close to the glamour of the burgeoning film industry and its famous players.

  His technical skills were appreciated at the studio; he stayed there forty years, until someone in the increasingly youthful hierarchy decided he was too old to understand and contribute to modern films and sent him out to pasture with a decent pension and four decades of memories. His wife of thirty-six years, Sylvia, whom he’d met when she was a secretary in the set department, died four months after his forced retirement, leaving Widlitz to fend for himself, which he did quite nicely.