I thanked him and placed a couple of twenties on top of the few dollars I had left as a tip.
“That won’t be necessary,” he said, but accepted them graciously when I insisted. “And do come back and see us.”
I drove home and picked up Alphus. He was in a rare good humor, showing me the e-mail he had gotten from his agent. Then raising his hand to slap mine.
Feidhlimidh de Buitliér came in to my office and sat down, glancing at Alphus and generally acting like a cornered rat. The insolence had gone out of his eyes. He didn’t exactly grovel, but his body language was that of someone very nervous.
I softened him up for my interrogation as I had before with some generalities about changes in the Greco-Roman Collection. Did it really fit into the scheme of the museum with its heavy emphasis on native arts and traditions? I asked. Especially since the coins had proven fake.
He didn’t say much until I mentioned the plans the Wainscott administration had for the museum once I had been removed.
“What do you mean?”
“Your name appears prominently in the documentation,” I said, fixing him with a stare of real anger.
“How’s that?”
I showed him the e-mail in which his name was mentioned as my successor.
“I had nothing to do with that,” he lied.
I let silence descend. I leaned back, “Tell me, Mr. de Buitliér, what was your business with Alain LeBlanc in Shetland Falls?”
“Who?”
“The Swiss gentleman who made expert copies of the coins von Grümh gave to the museum.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I produced a printout of the phone records with his calls to the number circled in red and handed it to him.
He glanced at it. “This doesn’t prove anything.”
“It proves that someone from your office called the number of a forger who had set up business in a small town in western Massachusetts.”
He shook his head.
I pressed on. “The chief of police in Shetland Falls is willing to testify that you were out there making inquiries about Mr. LeBlanc. It also turns out that the fire that destroyed the building where LeBlanc made his forgeries is considered of suspicious origin by the state fire marshal’s office.”
He said nothing.
“You’ve been very busy, Doctor Buitliér. You’re the one who told the police, anonymously, of course, that I was with von Grümh in the Pink Shamrock on the night he was murdered.”
“You can’t prove that.”
“I checked with the bartender. The big Irish gentleman. He says you’re in there quite a bit.”
“That doesn’t prove anything.”
“You also sent the anonymous letter implicating Col Saunders in the murder.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Confuse things. Saunders doesn’t think much of you. Never has.”
All the while to one side, Alphus was regarding him intently and with his right hand making signals for the video camera on the shelf.
Again I said nothing for a while. Then, without preamble, I launched into the set of defining questions. “Tell me, Doctor Buitliér, did you kill Heinrich von Grümh?”
He looked at me almost with alarm. “Why do you ask me that?”
“Just yes or no.”
“No. Why should I?”
“Did you want to murder Heinrich von Grümh?”
“No.”
“Do you know who murdered Heinrich von Grümh?”
“No.”
“Do you know where the murder weapon is?”
“No. Why should I?”
“Because you were here the night of the murder. I think you know a lot more about this than you are telling me. I think you are hiding something.”
He said nothing, but a touch of the old defiance had crept back into his eyes.
Not long afterward, I thanked and dismissed him. I locked the door so that Alphus and I could review the results undisturbed. They proved very interesting. According to Alphus, de Buitliér’s response to the first question was ambivalent. Was he like me in that he didn’t know if he did or didn’t murder the man?
De Buitliér told the truth about not wanting to murder von Grümh. Out of principle? Because his murder would not be to his advantage? Because, complementary to that, he was more valuable to de Buitliér alive than dead?
When Alphus said de Buitliér lied about knowing who killed von Grümh, my blood ran cold. Because it still could have been I. But then, if it was, why wouldn’t he simply have called the police and told them?
It gave me a distinct throb of excitement to know that he lied when he said he didn’t know where the murder weapon was. But what if my prints were on the weapon? What if …
I didn’t hesitate. I put in a call to Lieutenant Tracy and left word that I needed to see him as soon as possible. I didn’t want to waste much time, because de Buitliér had the keen intuition of the cunning. He knew something was afoot.
While I was waiting for the lieutenant to get back to me, Diantha called with some results from her search of de Buitliér’s background.
“You were right. I’m e-mailing you his information.” We chatted. She asked me if the interest in Alphus’s memoirs was the real deal. I told her absolutely. I had checked into Esther Homard and found that she was not someone to waste anyone’s time, especially her own.
It turned out that Feidhlimidh de Buitliér had an intriguing résumé. For starters he was born Philip Bottles in Riverbend, Missouri. While attending a small local college, he spent a semester abroad at University College Cork in Ireland.
However, it appears he didn’t get his name changed until after he graduated. He worked for more than a year in a pet-grooming business in Milwaukee before becoming an “associate” at a large home-improvement chain in upstate New York.
During this time, he enrolled in a doctoral program run by an online university not known for its rigorous standards. His doctorate was in “Classical Studies.” The title of his dissertation, if any, was not listed.
How he ended up in Seaboard is not recorded. Under the late Dr. Comer, he began in a curatorial training program. From there, he simply insinuated himself into the woodwork of the place, starting as an interim curator for the Greco-Roman Collections.
The lieutenant appeared in my doorway wearing a light tan jacket and open collar. “I was in the neighborhood,” he said without preliminaries. “What’s up?”
“Some developments, I believe.” I stood and shook his hand. “We may have a break.”
He looked at me quizzically as we both sat down, the tension in the room suddenly electric. “You’ve been busy.”
“I have. And I think we will have to move quickly.”
“I’m listening.”
I launched into a brief account of what I had been doing, starting with the day we went out to inform Merissa Bonne of her husband’s murder and the number I found on the pad near the phone.
“You should have told us about that,” he said, half smiling, half rebuking.
“I forgot about it myself until a couple of days ago. Anyway, Diantha traced it to an antiques restorer in the Berkshires by the name of Alain LeBlanc. Not only was he gone when we got there, but the building where he’d had his shop had burned to the ground in what the fire marshal out there regards as a suspicious fire.”
The lieutenant listened with a frown as I detailed the rest of the story. Chief Ballard’s description of de Buitliér as someone else who had been out poking around. How I found and questioned a local named Wally Marsden who confirmed that LeBlanc made replicas of coins and that he had made two sets for von Grümh.
“So you think de Buitliér …?”
“There’s more.” But I made it brief. The fact that the curator frequents the Pink Shamrock, indicating that he could have been in the neighborhood at the time. The fact that there was a back door to the museum that didn’t record swipes. And, finally, the
results of the Alphus test I put de Buitliér through.
It surprised me to find the lieutenant skeptical. “So what do you suggest we do?” he asked.
“At the very least we should search his office.”
“What do you think you’ll find there?”
“My gun.”
“You’ll need a warrant to do that.”
“Why? It’s museum property.”
“Because you need a warrant these days to look in your own refrigerator.”
“Then let’s get one.”
“On what grounds? No judge is going to grant one on the basis of what a chimpanzee thinks.”
For a moment I was stymied. Then I said, fishing in the folder I had on the case, “These are the phone records for the Greco-Roman Collection. They indicate that someone in that office of one employee called LeBlanc several times in March and April.”
The lieutenant glanced at it for a moment. He took out and snapped open a cell phone. I produced the documentation as he required it, exact name and location of office, Chief Ballard’s name and phone number, and other details.
“Tell Lemure to get it here as quickly as possible,” he said into the phone. He snapped it shut. “Let’s go down and talk to Mr. de Buitliér.”
24
I pushed open the door to de Buitliér’s office without knocking and walked in, the lieutenant just behind me. I hadn’t quite expected to find the curator so obviously covering his tracks, but there were two cardboard packing cases on his desk and files and drawers opened up.
“Are you leaving us?” I asked him. We had caught him off guard and he looked vulnerable without the carapace of his tweed jacket, which hung on the back of a chair.
“As a matter of fact, here is my letter of resignation.” The man made a visible effort to muster some dignity, but I could tell he was nervous if not scared.
I took the envelope he proffered and pocketed it. I picked up the phone on his desk and dialed Security. “Mort,” I said, “don’t let de Buitliér or his intern leave the building with any boxes or items until I’ve inspected them.”
De Buitliér looked aggrieved. “I am not taking anything that isn’t personal property.”
“Of course,” I said. “This is Lieutenant Tracy of the Seaboard Police Department. He would like to ask you some questions.”
“About what?”
“About the night of Heinrich von Grümh’s murder,” the lieutenant said. He kept his voice equable, almost friendly. “We can do it here, or we can go down to headquarters.”
It may have been the sound of a distant siren that made the curator say, “I think I would like to call a lawyer.”
The lieutenant inclined his head. “As you wish.”
De Buitliér hemmed and hawed. “What exactly do you want to know?”
I could tell the lieutenant was stalling for time. He said, “Where were you the night von Grümh was murdered?”
“I’ve decided to wait until I have a lawyer before answering anything.”
The lieutenant’s phone buzzed. He snapped it open. “Upstairs. Third floor. The corridor right behind the Greco-Roman exhibit.”
He looked at me. “That was Lemure. He’s coming up with the search warrant.”
De Buitliér paled visibly. The lieutenant said, “You want to talk about it.”
“I’m not saying anything without a lawyer …”
“Then we’ll just wait.”
The sergeant showed up a moment later. He took in de Buitliér and nodded to me. He handed an envelope to the lieutenant, who showed it to the curator.
The lieutenant said, “Mr. de Buitliér, please wait outside with Sergeant Lemure.”
“Are you arresting me?”
“Not yet. We’re detaining you temporarily.”
He was halfway out the door when he turned to come back. “Sorry,” the lieutenant said. “Outside.”
“But …”
“Outside.”
We gave the office a thorough going-over. There were lots of nooks and crannies, though not as many as on the boat. Nothing. No gun. No incriminating documents.
“We’ll have to search his home,” the lieutenant said at length. “Getting a warrant for that will be tougher. The probable cause is already weak.”
We were about to go outside when I noticed the jacket hanging on the chair. I took it by the collar and lifted it, surprised by its weight. I felt along the side over the pocket and smiled. Sure enough, there it was, my Smith & Wesson .38-caliber revolver.
The lieutenant put on a pair of latex gloves. He picked up the weapon carefully and delicately and put it in a plastic bag, which he sealed.
He opened the door, “Sergeant, bring Mr. de Buitliér in.”
The curator came in with a resentful, hangdog look on his face. The lieutenant launched right into a Miranda warning. Then, “You’ll have to come with us to police headquarters, Mr. de Buitliér. You can phone an attorney from here if you wish.”
De Buitliér shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. I mean we don’t have to go to police headquarters. I can explain everything.”
The lieutenant glanced at the sergeant, who shrugged. He said, “Let’s get some chairs in here.”
We settled around a small, rectangular table that was off to one side.
“Let’s start at the beginning,” the lieutenant said. “The sergeant will take notes. Mr. de Ratour will be a witness.”
“Fine with me,” said the suspect, who seemed relieved, even jaunty.
“How did you find out about LeBlanc?” I asked to get things started.
He pondered for a moment. “When the collection first arrived here, there was something about it that made me suspicious. It had been packed and repacked, but not very professionally. There were balled-up pieces of wastepaper mixed in with plastic pellets. Anyway, I noticed a piece of billing stationery with LeBlanc’s name and address on it.”
“Maybe he sent them there just to get framed.” the lieutenant said.
“There’s a much better place in Boston. And it’s closer.”
“What about the night von Grümh got murdered?” Lemure said, using his voice like a hammer.
De Buitliér nodded. “On that night I was in the Pink Shamrock when I noticed Mr. de Ratour come in with Mr. von Grümh. I stayed in the background, out of sight, and watched them as they talked and drank. I noticed that Heinie, Mr. von Grümh, seemed very agitated. After a while, I left the pub by a rear entrance and came over to the museum. I let myself in the back way because, well, it’s handier.”
I noticed his accent had reverted to something from the Lower Midwest.
His phone rang and we ignored it.
“Go on,” the lieutenant prompted.
“I happened to glance out the window just when von Grümh’s car came swerving into the road between the lots. I recognized it right away. I watched it for a while. Then I noticed Mr. Ratour. He was walking toward the main entrance. He seemed to notice the car and turn toward it for a few steps. He stopped and began to walk again toward the main entrance when I heard von Grümh call to him. Then Mr. Ratour went over to the car and got in.”
“How long was he there?”
“I don’t know. Maybe ten, fifteen minutes.”
“And you watched the car all the time?”
“Yes.”
“What happened then?”
“Mr. Ratour opened the door and got out.”
“And during that time you didn’t hear a shot or anything?” Lieutenant Tracy asked.
“No.”
My heart lifted. It wasn’t me. Unless …
“Then what happened?”
“The car just stayed there. I watched it, wondering what was happening. Or what had happened. A little while later, Professor Saunders came along walking his dog.”
“And during that time, no one else either got into or out of the car?”
“No.”
“What did Saunders do?”
“He
wasn’t far from the car when the door opened and I think von Grümh called to him. Saunders went over. His dog got in the car and then Saunders himself.”
“How long was Saunders there?”
“I don’t really know. Ten, fifteen minutes.”
I started to relax. Von Grümh had been alive when Saunders talked to him. Which meant that I had not murdered the man. Until that instant, I had not realized how much the possibility had weighed on me.
Still, we were all on the edge of our seats, waiting for the curator to continue. He appeared to be enjoying his moment in the dim limelight of our attention. After a moment he said, “I was watching the car when my phone rang. I knew it was him. He had probably seen me in the window.”
“What did he say?”
“He insulted me. He said I was a creep. He told me to come down and talk to him.”
“And you did?”
“I did.”
“And at that time, did he know that you knew the coins were fakes or suspected them of being fakes?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Were you blackmailing him?”
“No.”
I’m not sure any of us believed him, but right then it didn’t make a whole lot of difference.
“Go on,” the lieutenant said gently.
“I really didn’t want to go down. He had been acting really strange lately. I didn’t mind if he made a scene, I just didn’t want any violence.”
“Unless you initiated it yourself?” Lemure asked in his inimitable way.
De Buitliér kept his silence. Until, in a low voice, he said, “I can show you what happened next.”
We all looked at him and at each other. Really?
“Proceed,” said the lieutenant.
He got up and went over to a flat television screen hanging on the wall and turned it on. Then he took out what looked like a cell phone and plugged it into the television using a slender cable.
Standing to one side of the blank screen like someone about to give a presentation, he said, “Before I went down, I rigged up my cell phone camera. It allows me to put a small lens in my lapel and transmit the sound and video back to my computer. But I’ll let the results speak for themselves.” He touched a button on his phone.
The Counterfeit Murder in the Museum of Man Page 28
