Relic (Pendergast, Book 1)

by Preston, Douglas

  Pendergast smiled. “We haven’t been able to identify its source, Doctor. But I’m not sure it’s a fake. In the root canal of the claw we found some matter, which is now being sequenced for DNA. The results are still ambiguous, and our tests are continuing.”

  Frock raised his eyebrows. “Interesting.”

  “Now this,” said Pendergast, reaching into the bag and withdrawing a much larger object, “is a reconstruction of the instrument that raked the same child.” He handed it to Frock.

  Margo looked at the cast with disgust. At one end, the latex was mottled and uneven, but at the other, details were clear and well-defined. It ended in three hooked claws: a large central claw, and two shorter talons on either side.

  “Good heavens!” said Frock. “This looks saurian.”

  “Saurian?” asked Pendergast dubiously.

  “Dino-saurian,” said Frock. “Typical ornithischian forelimb, I should say, with one difference. Look here. The central digital process is thickened enormously, while the talons themselves are undersized.”

  Pendergast raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. “Well, sir,” he said slowly, “we’d been leaning toward the big cats, or some other mammalian carnivore.”

  “But surely you know, Mr. Pendergast, that all mammalian predators have five digits.”

  “Of course, Doctor,” said Pendergast. “If you would indulge me for a moment, I’d like to describe a scenario to you.”

  “Certainly,” said Frock.

  “There is a theory that the murderer is using this—” he hefted the forelimb—“as a weapon to rake his victims. We feel that what I’m holding might be the impression of an artifact of some kind, something made by a primitive tribe out of, say, a jaguar or lion forelimb. The DNA appears to be degraded. It may be an old artifact, collected by the Museum a long time ago, then stolen.”

  Frock’s head lowered until his chin was on his chest. The silence stretched out, broken only by the shuffling of the policemen by the barricade. Then Frock spoke.

  “The guard who was killed? Did his wounds show evidence of a broken or missing claw?”

  “Good question,” Pendergast said. “See for yourself.” He slid his hand into the plastic bag and removed a heavy plaque of latex, a long rectangle with three jagged ridges down its middle.

  “This is a cast of one of the guard’s abdominal wounds,” Pendergast explained. Margo shuddered. It was a vile-looking thing.

  Frock peered at the deep ridges intently. “The penetration must have been remarkable. But the wound shows no indication of a broken claw. Therefore, you are suggesting that two such artifacts are in use by the murderer.”

  Pendergast looked a little uncomfortable, but nodded.

  Frock’s head sank once more. The silence went on for minutes. “Another thing,” he suddenly said, quite loudly. “Do you see how the claw marks draw together slightly? How they are farther apart at the top than at the bottom?”

  “Yes?” said Pendergast.

  “Like a hand clenching into a fist. That would indicate flexibility in the instrument.”

  “Granted,” said Pendergast. “Human flesh, however, is rather soft and easily distorted. We cannot read too much into these casts.” He paused. “Dr. Frock, is any artifact capable of doing this missing from the collection?”

  “There is no such artifact in the collection,” said Frock with a faint smile. “You see, this comes from no living animal I’ve studied. Do you see how this claw has a conical shape, a deep fully enclosed root? See how it tapers to an almost perfect tripyramidal cross section near the top? This appears in only two classes of animal: dinosaur and bird. That is one of the reasons some evolutionary biologists think birds evolved from dinosaurs. I would say it is from a bird, except that it is far too large. Thus, dinosaurian.”

  He placed the latex claw in his lap and looked up again. “Certainly, a clever person familiar with dinosaur morphology could have shaped a claw like this, and used it as a tool for murder. I assume you have tested the original fragment to see if it indeed is composed of a genuine biological material, such as keratin, rather than being cast or carved from some inorganic material?”

  “Yes, Doctor. It is real.”

  “And you are sure that the DNA was real, and not simply blood or flesh from the victim?”

  “Yes,” Pendergast replied. “As I said, it came from the root canal, not under the cuticle.”

  “And what, pray tell, was the DNA from?”

  “The final report isn’t in yet.”

  Frock held up his hand. “Understood. But tell me, why aren’t you making use of our own DNA laboratory, here in the Museum? We have facilities equal to that of anybody in the state.”

  “Equal to anybody in the country, Doctor. But you must understand that our procedures forbid it. Could we be sure of the results if the tests were conducted at the crime scene? With perhaps the murderer himself operating the equipment?” Pendergast smiled. “I hope you’ll forgive my persistence, Doctor, but would you be willing to consider the possibility that this weapon is constructed from relics belonging to the Anthropology collection, and to think about what artifact or artifacts this cast most closely resembles?”

  “If you’d like,” Frock replied.

  “Thank you. We can discuss it again in a day or so. Meanwhile, would it be possible to obtain a printed inventory of the Anthropology collection?”

  Frock smiled. “Six million items? You can use the computer catalog, however. Would you like a terminal set up?”

  “Perhaps later,” said Pendergast, replacing the latex plaque in the plastic bag. “It’s kind of you to offer. Our command post is currently in the unused gallery behind reprographics.”

  Footsteps sounded behind them. Margo turned to see the tall form of Dr. Ian Cuthbert, Deputy Director of the Museum, followed by the two officers from the elevator.

  “Look here, how long is this going to take?” Cuthbert was complaining. He stopped at the barricade. “Oh, Frock, so they’ve got you, too. What a damned nuisance this is.”

  Frock nodded imperceptibly.

  “Dr. Frock,” said Pendergast, “I’m sorry. This is the gentleman I’d been waiting for when we first spoke. You’re welcome to remain, if you’d care to.” Frock nodded again.

  “Now, Dr. Cuthbert,” said Pendergast briskly, turning to the Scotsman. “I asked you to come down because I’d like some information about this area behind me.” He indicated a large doorway.

  “The Secure Area? What about it? Surely somebody else could—” Cuthbert began.

  “Ah, but my questions are for you,” Pendergast interrupted, politely but firmly. “Shall we step inside?”

  “If it won’t take much time,” Cuthbert said. “I’ve got an exhibition to mount.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Frock, his tone faintly sardonic. “An exhibition.” He motioned Margo to wheel him forward.

  “Dr. Frock?” Pendergast said politely.

  “Yes?”

  “I wonder if I might have that cast back.”

  * * *

  The copper-sheathed door to the Museum’s Secure Area had been removed and a new steel one installed in its place. Across the hall was a small door labelled PACHYDERMAE. Margo wondered how the staff had been able to fit huge elephant bones through it.

  Turning away, she wheeled Frock into the narrow walkway beyond the open door to the Secure Area. The Museum kept its most valuable artifacts in small vaults on either side: sapphires and diamonds; ivory and rhinoceros horns heaped on racks like cordwood; bones and skins of extinct animals; Zuñi war gods. Two men in dark suits stood at the far end, talking in low tones. They straightened up when Pendergast entered.

  Pendergast stopped at one open vault door, much like the others, sporting a large black combination knob, brass lever, and ornate decorative scrollwork. Inside, a bulb threw a harsh light across the metal walls. The vault was empty except for several crates, all of which were quite large except one. The smaller crate’s lid
was removed, while one of the larger crates was badly damaged, with excelsior-like stuffing protruding.

  Pendergast waited until everybody was inside the vault. “Allow me to provide some background,” Pendergast said. “The murder of the guard took place not far from this spot. It appears that afterward, the murderer came down the hallway just outside. The murderer attempted to break down the door that leads to the Secure Area. He may have tried before. The attempts were unsuccessful.

  “At first we weren’t sure what the killer was after. As you know, there is a lot of valuable material in here.” Pendergast motioned to one of the policemen, who came over and handed him a piece of paper. “So we asked around, and found that nothing has come in or out of the Secure Area for six months. Except these crates. They were moved into this vault last week. On your orders, Dr. Cuthbert.”

  “Mr. Pendergast, allow me to explain—” said Cuthbert.

  “One moment, if you please,” said Pendergast. “When we inspected the crates, we found something very interesting.” He pointed to the damaged crate. “Notice the slats. The two-by-sixes here are deeply scored by claw marks. Our forensic people tell me the marks on the victims were probably made by the same object or instrument.”

  Pendergast stopped and looked intently at Cuthbert.

  “I had no idea—” said Cuthbert. “Nothing had been taken. I merely thought that…” His voice trailed away.

  “I wonder, Doctor, if you could enlighten us as to the history of these crates?”

  “That’s easily explained,” said Cuthbert. “There’s no mystery about it. The crates are from an old expedition.”

  “I gathered that,” Pendergast said. “Which expedition?”

  “The Whittlesey expedition,” Cuthbert replied.

  Pendergast waited.

  Finally Cuthbert sighed. “It was a South American expedition that took place over five years ago. It was … not entirely successful.”

  “It was a disaster,” Frock said derisively. Oblivious to Cuthbert’s angry glance, he continued. “It caused a scandal in the Museum at the time. The expedition broke up early, due to personality conflicts. Some of the expedition members were killed by hostile tribesmen; the rest were killed in a plane crash on the way back to New York. There were the inevitable rumors of a curse, that kind of thing.”

  “That’s an exaggeration,” Cuthbert snapped. “There was no scandal of any sort.”

  Pendergast looked at them. “And the crates?” he said mildly.

  “They were shipped back separately,” Cuthbert said. “But this is all beside the point. There was a very unusual object in one of these crates, a figurine created by an extinct South American tribe. It’s to be an important element in the Superstition exhibition.”

  Pendergast nodded. “Go on.”

  “Last week, when we went to retrieve the figurine, I found that one of the crates had been broken into.” He pointed. “So I ordered all of the crates moved temporarily to the Secure Area.”

  “What was taken?”

  “Well, now, that was a little odd,” said Cuthbert. “None of the artifacts were missing from the crate. The figurine itself is worth a fortune. It’s unique, the only one of its kind in the world. The Kothoga tribe that made it vanished years ago.”

  “You mean nothing was missing?” Pendergast asked.

  “Well, nothing important. The only thing that seemed to be missing were the seed pods, or whatever they were. Maxwell, the scientist who packed them, died in the plane crash near Venezuela.”

  “Seed pods?” asked Pendergast.

  “I honestly don’t know what they were. None of the documentation survived except for the anthropological material. We had Whittlesey’s journal, you see, but that was all. There was a little reconstructive work done when the crates first came back, but since then…” he stopped.

  “You’d better tell me about this expedition,” said Pendergast.

  “There’s not much to tell. They had originally assembled to search for traces of the Kothoga tribe, and to do a survey and general collection in a very remote area of the rain forest. I think the preliminary work estimated that ninety-five percent of the plant species in the area were unknown to science. Whittlesey, an anthropologist, was the leader. I believe there was also a paleontologist, a mammalogist, a physical anthropologist, perhaps an entomologist, a few assistants. Whittlesey and an assistant named Crocker disappeared and were probably killed by tribesmen. The rest died in the plane crash. The only thing we had any documentation on was the figurine, from Whittlesey’s journal. The rest of the stuff is just a mystery, no locality data, nothing.”

  “Why did the material sit in these crates for so long? Why wasn’t it unpacked and cataloged and put in the collections?”

  Cuthbert stirred uncomfortably. “Well,” he said defensively, “ask Frock. He’s the chairman of the department.”

  “Our collections are enormous,” said Frock. “We have dinosaur bones still crated up from the 1930s that have never been touched. It costs a tremendous amount of money and time to curate these things.” He sighed. “But in this particular case, it’s not a question of mere oversight. As I recall, the Anthropology Department was forbidden to curate these crates upon their return.” He looked pointedly at Cuthbert.

  “That was years ago!” Cuthbert replied acidly.

  “How do you know there are no rare artifacts in the unopened boxes?” Pendergast asked.

  “Whittlesey’s journal implied that the figurine in the small crate was the only item of importance.”

  “May I see this journal?”

  Cuthbert shook his head. “It’s gone missing.”

  “Were the crates moved on your own authority?”

  “I suggested it to Dr. Wright after I learned the crates had been tampered with,” Cuthbert said. “We kept the material together in its original crates until it could be curated. That’s one of the Museum’s rules.”

  “So the crates were moved late last week,” Pendergast murmured, almost to himself. “Just prior to the killing of the two boys. What could the killer have been after?” Then he looked back at Cuthbert. “What did you say had been taken from the crates? Seed pods, was it?”

  Cuthbert shrugged. “As I said, I’m not sure what they were. They looked like seed pods to me, but I’m no botanist.”

  “Can you describe them?”

  “It’s been years, I don’t really remember. Big, round, heavy. Rugose on the outside. Light brown color. I’ve only seen the inside of the crate twice, you understand; once when it first came back, and then last week, looking for Mbwun. That’s the figurine.”

  “Where is the figurine now?” Pendergast asked.

  “It’s being curated for the show. It should be on display already, we’re sealing the exhibition today.”

  “Did you remove anything else from the box?”

  “No. The figurine is the unique piece of the lot.”

  “I would like to arrange to see it,” said Pendergast.

  Cuthbert shifted irritably on his feet. “You can see it when the show opens. Frankly, I don’t know what you’re up to. Why waste time on a broken crate when there’s a serial killer loose in the Museum and you chaps can’t even find him?”

  Frock cleared his throat. “Margo, bring me closer, if you will,” he asked.

  Margo wheeled him over to the crates. With a grunt he bent forward to scrutinize the broken boards.

  Everyone watched.

  “Thank you,” he said, straightening up. He eyed the group, one at a time.

  “Please note that these boards are scored on the inside as well as the outside,” he said finally. “Mr. Pendergast, are we not making an assumption here?” he finally said.

  “I never make assumptions,” replied Pendergast, with a smile.

  “But you are,” Frock persisted. “All of you are making an assumption—that some one, or some thing, broke into the crate.”

  There was a sudden silence in the vault. Margo cou
ld smell the dust in the air, and the faint odor of excelsior.

  And then Cuthbert began to laugh raucously, the sound swelling harshly through the chamber.

  * * *

  As they approached Frock’s office once again, the curator was unusually animated.

  “Did you see that cast?” he said to Margo. “Avian attributes, dinosaurian morphology. This could be the very thing!” He could scarcely contain himself.

  “But, Professor Frock, Mr. Pendergast believes it was constructed as a weapon of some sort,” Margo said quickly. As she said it, she realized that she wanted to believe it, too.

  “Stuff!” Frock snorted. “Didn’t you get the sense, looking at that cast, of something tantalizingly familiar, yet utterly foreign? We’re looking at an evolutionary aberration, the vindication of my theory.” Inside the office, Frock immediately produced a notebook from his jacket pocket and started scribbling.

  “But, Professor, how could such a creature—?” Margo stopped as she felt Frock’s hand close over hers. His grip was extraordinarily strong.

  “My dear girl,” he said, “there are more things in heaven and earth, as Hamlet pointed out. It isn’t always for us to speculate. Sometimes we must simply observe.” His voice was low, but he trembled with excitement. “We can’t miss this opportunity, do you hear? Damn this steel prison of mine! You must be my eyes and ears, Margo. You must go everywhere, search up and down, be an extension of my fingers. We must not let this chance pass us by. Are you willing, Margo?”

  He gripped her hand tighter.

  19

  The old freight elevator in Section 28 of the Museum always smelled like something had died in it, Smithback thought. He tried breathing through his mouth.

  The elevator was huge, the size of a Manhattan studio, and the operator had decorated it with a table, chair, and pictures cut from the Museum’s nature magazine. The pictures focused on a single subject. There were giraffes rubbing necks, insects mating, a baboon displaying its rump, native women with pendulous breasts.

  “You like my little art gallery?” the elevator man asked, with a leer. He was about sixty years old and wore an orange toupee.