“I know it by heart.”
“ ‘… the Director will serve at the pleasure of the Board of Governors. The Director may be removed for “dereliction of duty, obvious incapacity to perform his functions as Director, public censure, criminal activity, or moral turpitude.” ’ ”
“Yes, good old moral turpitude. What are you saying?”
“I’m saying you need Warwick on your side.”
“Maybe it is time to resign.”
“And let Malachy Morin have it?”
“He might be more amenable to this scheme of yours.”
He leaned back with that look on his face. “Hmmm … Hadn’t thought about that. Maybe you’re right.” Then, “Look, don’t fight this thing. It’s inevitable. It makes great sense.”
“It would be a museum of the dead, the locally dead, anyway.” I spoke morosely.
“But it’s already that, Norman. You have that vast Skull Collection. You have thousands of pieces of human remains from all over the globe.”
“So how would we proceed? What do we say to Warwick?”
“We agree to a meeting. We discuss setting up a mortuary wing based on his proposal. We talk up the visionary thing.”
“The cemeteries might object.”
“Nah, they’re already overcrowded. Standing room only.”
“I will consider it.” I spoke without enthusiasm, still wondering why I could find only thorns on the flowering branch Felix held out to me.
11
I find myself in a dither over an incident that in fact I handled very well. I was clattering down the stairs that lead from floor to floor around the central atrium on my way to get coffee as Doreen’s condition makes it difficult for her, even using the elevator. As I neared the ground floor, I noticed three men in shirts and ties, one with an expensive-looking camera-like device, one with a clipboard, and one with a tape measure.
I paused, trying to remember if any kind of restoration or refurbishment had begun. There’s always something going on like that in a museum. But I could think of nothing. I felt a jolt of adrenaline as my territorial instincts took over. Still, I affected a calm exterior as I approached the three men, who were going about their work in a professional manner.
“Excuse me,” I said to the one with the clipboard as he appeared to be in charge, “could you tell me what you’re doing here?”
He pointed to the man who had set the camera on a tripod and was scanning up and down and around. “That’s the boss.”
I went over and stood by him until he glanced up. He was a pleasant-looking, clean-shaven sort of man who exuded competence. “Can I help you?” he said, noticing me waiting.
“You can. You can tell me what’s going on here.” I extended my hand. “I’m Norman de Ratour. I’m the director of the museum.”
He freed his right hand and shook mine. “Marv Gorman. They mentioned you might show up.”
“Indeed. So what is going on?”
“Sure. We’re from Facilities Planning. We’re doing a preliminary survey. It’s the first step in any renovations. The architects need to know with some precision what’s in place before they go changing it around.”
“I see. And with whose authority are you conducting this preliminary survey?”
He turned to the man with the clipboard. “Pete, you got the req there?”
“Right here.”
Marv took the paper from Pete and handed to me. He pointed to the signature. “Jack Marchand. He’s in charge of Facilities Planning.”
I read it over. I noticed with an extra pulse of blood pressure the name Professor Laluna Jackson under the heading “Requested By.”
I had the presence of mind to ask in an offhand way, “Do you mind if I make a copy of this?”
Marv shrugged.
“I’ll be right back,” I said. I went into the financial office, which is nearby, and had a copy made.
I returned and handed back the original. I said, “Well, gentlemen, I don’t regret to inform you that this is not university property. Mr. Marchand’s signature has no effect here.”
“I was told …”
“You were misinformed. I have a court order to that effect while the question of proprietorship is being litigated. So I will respectfully ask you to leave.” I smiled. “Of course, you are all welcome to return as visitors.”
They conferred momentarily. Then they all shook my hand and left.
But I was in a royal snit about the incident as I tried to sort through the coming year’s curatorial budgets. Why does everyone always want more? More staff. More stuff. More space. More gadgets. More discretionary spending. Why do people think that the idea of an expanding universe applies to us? Not to mention the philistine notion that more is better.
All of which is piffling next to the documentary proof that L. Jackson has designs — in both senses of the word — on the Museum of Man. It’s monstrous. Or do I detect the meaty hands of Malachy Morin, playing one of his games? He’s not above that. Probing. Testing. Disrupting. Not that he doesn’t have to be careful. Izzy informs me he’s on the short list to replace George Twill as president of Wainscott, as incredible as that sounds.
Well, two can play this game. I’ll have copies made of this req form to go along with an account of the incident to show the Board of Governors. And I’ll give a copy to Felix and let him sleuth out the particulars.
On top of all this, I have marital woes. Diantha is scarcely speaking to me. It seems Max Shofar is angry with Merissa for telling Di about what their plans may or may not have been regarding Heinie. So Merissa is on the outs with Di and Di is miffed at me.
Nor has Diantha been amenable to any explanations I have proffered. She doesn’t grasp that I have been charged with a serious crime and that I am out on bail, which means I can be sent back to jail on the flimsiest pretext. Moreover, if I cannot clear my name, everything I have worked for will be for naught. Instead, she talks about “my friend” Merissa and how I betrayed her trust. How a woman can go from devastating disparagement of someone one minute to being her soul mate the next is something I will never understand.
Of course having an ape living in the house has not helped. And when I told her, in a moment of unwise candor, about the broken vase, she hit the ceiling. But what can I do in all honor? If she knew Alphus as Alphus, if she had a chance to sit down and sign with him over a cup of coffee, she would realize that he is a sapient, feeling, trustworthy being who would not knowingly hurt a soul.
But distance makes anything like reconciliation very difficult. And during times of stress, the disparity in our ages starts to show. Even when she’s here she lives in another cultural zone. When I glance at the covers of People magazine and other such publications left hanging around, I swear I do not have a clue as to who any of those celebrities are. Nor have I the least interest in their mismarriages or dining disorders.
I am also bored witless by the television crime dramas Di likes to watch. You would think that a real-life detective, as I consider myself, would enjoy such things. Not in the least. All I see are actors doing a lot of meaningful staring at one another as they talk half cryptically in the latest police jargon. How any reasonably intelligent person — and Di is far more than reasonably intelligent — can watch that stuff for more than a minute or two staggers my credulity. How, these days, can one not be a snob?
But I digress. Which is what I’m prone to when I’m in a quandary. I have in hand a letter that came in a sealed envelope to the mailroom with nothing more than my name on it. Inside, neatly typed (with printers, everything these days is neatly typed), I found the following letter. I will let it speak for itself.
Mr. Ratour:
I am writing to you in regards to the murder of H. v. Grumh. I’m afraid I must do so anonymously as what I have to say may have liability.
I know that you know that Professor Colin Saunders had a long and bad relationship with v. Grumh. Their antagonism began with Pr. Saunders being appointed to t
he Groome Chair. Recent events have made their relationship worse. Of course I am talking about the Dresden stater. Pr. Saunders had wanted to acquire the coin for Wainscott University’s Frock Museum. He is a wealthy man. He started the campaign “To Bring the Dresden to Wainscott.” He is said to be very angry upon learning that H. v. Grumh had beaten him to it.
You may already know that Pr. Saunders lives very close to the scene of the crime. Number 417 Museum Place is only a couple of minutes’ walk from the spot where the body of v. Grumh was found. Also, the pr. walks his dog around the parking lot of the museum around the time that the murder took place.
I would send all this information to the police, but I think it should come from you.
Sincerely,
X
Some background about the stater might be useful at this point. Experts have called it the most rare and valuable coin still on the open market. Unlike many ancient coins, it appears newly minted, so much so that, until modern times and advances in dating and metallurgic analysis, it was rumored to be a forgery. Referred to in the numismatic literature as a Thasos Satyr and Nymph stater, it depicts the former, bearded and long-haired and in an exaggerated ithyphallic state, about to ravish the latter whom, gesticulating, he holds on his lap. It dates from Thasos, Thrace, circa 490 BC.
The coin has a provenance worthy of a Hollywood film. Napoleon himself is said to have owned it. Then someone in Himmler’s entourage. That person apparently obtained it from one Maurice Debas, a Parisian coin dealer, later shot as a collaborator. He had obtained it, no doubt very cheaply, from a refugee fleeing Hitler.
About a year ago, rumors started in the numismatic world that the Dresden, as it is generally called, would be coming up for auction in London. Max Shofar, through his connections, learned who was negotiating with Sotheby’s. He convinced von Grümh to fly to London with him and go directly to the source. That turned out to be a London dealer by the name of Sidney Grabbe. Grabbe had it on consignment from a Kuwaiti sheik impoverished by a lavish lifestyle who was in desperate need of ready cash. They paid the necessary amount and walked off with the prize.
I went out to Doreen’s little office and made several copies of the letter. My heuristic proclivities roused, I wanted to go over the style for clues as to who might have written it. Of course, its belabored style might have resulted from an effort on the part of the writer to conceal his identity. The bit about the Frock wanting the coin is true enough but not generally known. That institution has a truly superb collection of ancient money. I say money because they have some superb examples of ninth-century Chinese paper currency as well as a veritable hoard of old coins left by August Frock himself.
The question I asked myself was, Who would want to implicate Col Saunders? Max Shofar? But why? De Buitliér? I retrieved some of the memoranda the curator had sent me. There were affinities, but nothing definite. He and Saunders might be rivals if the worst happens, that is, should the board decide to force me out, leaving Wainscott to take us over. I wondered if it might not be Saunders himself? Some people, through a streak of perverse vanity, would not object to being considered capable of murder.
But I couldn’t really concentrate. I was pondering when and under what circumstances to send the letter to Lieutenant Tracy. Or, rather, in what manner to present it to him. For instance, with the benefit of my opinions after I had perused it more thoroughly? With a curt FYI on a Post-it? With nothing but itself?
The more I pondered the question, the more my anger grew. We had worked closely together. We had esteemed each other in an unspoken friendship. I had helped him solve a number of unfortunate deaths here at the museum. To put it in Di’s parlance, he owed me.
At the risk of being charged with withholding evidence, I decided to hang on to the missive until I had interviewed Saunders. What was it evidence of? That there had been a wrangle for a rare coin? That the man didn’t like the murder victim? That he might have been walking his dog in the area when the murder occurred? Besides, the anonymity of its author vitiated an already weak circumstantiality.
I decided that, when I did forward it, I would send it to the office of the district attorney. Indeed, I determined that, should anything turn up regarding Stella Fox and the suspicious suicide, I would send that along to the DA as well. More than that, I would release any incriminating taped evidence to the local television stations at the same time. Two can play at this game.
Hank has yet to get back to me with anything regarding my sighting of Ms. Fox in the Neanderthal exhibition. I’m beginning to wonder if I simply imagined it in an advanced state of wishful thinking.
I put in a call to Col Saunders. His secretary told me he was in the Far East, but would be home by Saturday. I told her I was calling in reference to the von Grümh murder and that he should call me at the office at his earliest convenience.
I find it bracing to be around a man like Harvey Deharo. He very publicly walked me to our table in the Creole Lounge, a Caribbean restaurant with colorful decor and pungent odors popular with the movers and shakers of Seaboard, such as they are.
Diantha likes to come here, especially in winter, when the decor and the menu remind her of sandy beaches, swaying palm trees, and warm sunshine. I enjoy it, though when they have live music, very often young black men playing on what look like steel barrels, I find it intrusive.
I seldom drink at lunch, but could not resist joining Harvey in ordering a piña colada upon our being seated. While we perused the offerings and waited for the drinks to arrive, he leaned across the table, his memorable eyes holding mine for an instant. He has the knack of being relaxed and intense at the same time. Perhaps it’s the softness of his accent.
“You’re probably wondering, Norman, why I’ve asked you to lunch. I mean other than the pleasure of your company.” He smiled, and I was struck by a note of uncertainty.
“It occurred to me,” I said, looking up from the temptations of the menu, which included a seafood gumbo I had ordered before.
He leaned back as the drinks arrived and as we ordered. He asked about the stone-baked pork and settled for something “less damaging,” as he put it. I settled for the gumbo with a green salad. We sipped our drinks.
“Anyway,” he resumed, still awkward for some reason, “I have a regular agenda.” He smiled and relaxed. “Okay, first, I wanted to talk about some projects at the lab. You’ve asked me in the past for informal updates instead of the biannual reports that can be a nuisance for me to write and for you to read.”
So we chatted about the lab for a while. Harvey has begun several green initiatives in an effort to reorient the focus of the work there. We are both of the opinion that research on genes, especially for applied genetics, is not as popular as it used to be, and for good reasons.
He mentioned a project to genetically modify a strain of bacteria to make it more efficient in the breakdown of cellulose. The object would be to create and capture methane gas that could be used directly in the production of energy. “It’s cleaner than oxidizing, that is, burning the cellulose, and would allow us to fuel power plants from garbage, grass, leaves, waste lumber.”
“Instead of it going into landfills,” I offered. I was basking in a sense of well-being that Harvey has the knack of bestowing on the people he likes.
“Exactly. Where methane results anyway and has a far worse greenhouse effect than CO2.”
He spoke of efforts to produce a lawn cover “with minimal genetic tinkering”—something that didn’t need mowing, fertilizing, or watering.
“A new kind of grass?” I volunteered.
“No, no. No one should be messing genetically with grass. The family Gramineae is too important to humankind. Think, Norman, of what would happen if we inadvertently unleashed a broad-spectrum pathogen that affected wheat, barley, oats, corn, rice, millet, sugarcane. A lot of people would starve.”
“That might save the environment,” I couldn’t keep myself from saying.
He laughed his ri
ch laugh and wagged a finger at me. Then, serious again, he lowered his voice. “I also need to tell you in strictest confidentiality that we may be close to a breakthrough in an effective anti-aging therapy.”
“In what form?”
“A pharmaceutical.”
I felt a chill of wonder and surprise, not all of it pleasant. Death, for all its disadvantages, has been a reliable constant in human life. The richest and the poorest must both come to dust.
“What’s the process?”
“That’s the crux of the matter. We change basic cellular behavior.”
I didn’t have the wherewithal right then to explore my first reactions, including the possibilities of terminating the research as too radical and disruptive if successful. He told me, as though reading my mind, that he wanted me on a committee to consider the whole matter from an ethical point of view.
I nodded, but must have looked dubious as he waxed persuasive. “It’s far too early to think about technology transfer and all that. But, Norman, if it’s half as effective as I think it will be, the museum’s financial worries will be over.”
“Who’s doing the research?”
“Doctor Carmina Gnocchi is heading the team. Along with me. She’s in molecular biology at Wainscott. A real pistol. And not half-cocked, either.”
“Yes. I believe I’ve met her.”
“You still seem … doubtful.”
What could I say? That there are already so many ageless old people, corporeal ghosts peering out from reconstructed faces like souls trapped in life. But other than a sharp yet formless unease about the whole issue, I really had no opinion. I said, “I’ll have to think about it.”
When the food arrived, we took a break to eat and to talk about our families. I didn’t mention that I had a chimpanzee living at home and that Diantha and Elsie were out at the cottage. That we were, for all intents and purposes, separated.
I did mention that I would like his help in preparing for an Oversight Committee meeting that would bring up the whole Neanderthal business. I said, “Professor Laluna Jackson, you know, of the Victim Studies Department, will be on hand. And she already takes a dim view of the museum and its director.”
The Counterfeit Murder in the Museum of Man Page 14
