“Today? Well, I started off feeling old. Right now I feel as though I’ve shed a few years.” He checked to see whether she’d taken it as a line. He hadn’t meant it that way, and she didn’t seem bothered. She sat back, the glass in her hands. She’d changed into a tan corduroy skirt and green button-down shirt. Her hair was brushed back, and she wore no makeup. She didn’t need lipstick. Altogether, Hanrahan couldn’t help thinking, a delicious looking lady. He sighed.
There was silence as they sipped their drinks, looked off in different directions. Finally Hanrahan said, “Tell me about tonight. Start at the museum.”
“Is this the statement you said you’d take?”
“No. We’ll do that tomorrow. This is off the record.”
“What can I say? I was standing in the courtyard between the East and West buildings of the National Gallery when someone hit me over the head and stole my purse.”
“Did you see the person?” Joe Pearl, he thought, would have said “perpetrator.”
“No.”
“Any sense of anyone following you?”
“No… I felt a blow and the next thing I knew I was at the bottom of the fountains, my mouth full of water.”
Hanrahan winced. “I’m sorry… Look, your uncle seems to have been important in your life, and to have been linked with some of the aspects of this case. Should I know more about him?”
She look startled, then pleased. “An interesting question, Captain. Well… they called his death a suicide, which I’m sure it wasn’t.”
Hanrahan motioned to a waiter for a refill. Heather shook her head when Hanrahan pointed to her half-empty glass. He waited until his drink had been delivered before saying, “They say your uncle committed suicide and you’re sure it wasn’t? Why?”
She sighed. “I guess I will have another whiskey, after all.”
Hanrahan gave the order. “You were saying…”
“My Uncle Calum did not commit suicide, no matter what the Edinburgh police claim. He’d disappeared for a year while he was investigating the Legion of Harsa. While he was gone rumors spread that he must have died. I knew it wasn’t true. He’d told me just before he left that no matter how long he was gone, no matter what sort of speculation there was, he’d be back safe and sound.”
“And?”
“That’s exactly what he did. He came home to the castle one day, gave me a hug, said it was good to see me again and went to work in his study.”
“Then?”
“A week later I found him in that same study, a bullet hole in his head, a gun in his hand.”
“Did they establish that the bullet came from the gun he was holding?”
“Yes, at least according to the police. It doesn’t matter, though. I don’t care about circumstantial evidence. I know Calum did not kill himself. My uncle was a Scotsman through and through. We have no law against suicide in Scotland, but we do have laws against making a public nuisance of one’s self. The last thing Uncle Calum would ever do is make a public nuisance of himself, or leave me that way.”
He was quiet, but she sensed he wasn’t overly impressed with her case against the suicide finding.
“Captain Hanrahan, I am not just saying that Uncle Calum didn’t kill himself because of his Scottish character. I am saying that he simply was not a man who would prematurely end his life. He was killed, just as the only other man in my life has been, and I mean to sort out and find the truth if it takes me… well, I’ve got the time for it.” Too much, she thought.
Hanrahan knocked back the rest of his drink. “I believe you will, Miss McBean, and speaking for myself and the MPD, I’d like to help—at least where Dr. Tunney’s concerned… So let me ask you… you told me that you’d met Tunney through his relationship with your uncle. Do you think their deaths might be linked up in some way? Assuming you’re right that your uncle’s death wasn’t suicide.”
“It would seem quite a coincidence, wouldn’t it?”
“Let’s take it from there… What about whatever Dr. Tunney told you before he left for Washington. His problem he had to clear up. Nothing more concrete come to mind since we last talked?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
Hanrahan popped a Tums into his mouth. “Indigestion,” he said. “Do this again,” he told the waiter, indicating his glass. To Heather he said, “About what happened tonight in your room… any idea who, why, what someone might be after? I have to tell you such things aren’t exactly unique around here. Yes… even in our nation’s capital, as they say. A mugger finds a hotel key in a stolen purse and hightails it to the room before the victim gets back.”
“Even my female mugger?” Her tone had an edge.
“Equality of opportunity, Miss McBean… But look, let’s not you and me get on each other’s case… You’ve been through a terrible experience, I’m the fellow who’s got to try to solve it. We’re natural allies.”
Her eyes filled up and she fought to hold back the tears. She nodded vigorously and managed a quick smile. Hanrahan wanted to reach out and touch her hand, but he fought the impulse. Change the subject, he told himself… “Tell me about the Legion of Harsa.”
She pulled herself together, sipped her Scotch, sat back. “All right, Captain, you asked for it. Hope I don’t bore you. The society was named after Gaius Terentilius Harsa, a Roman who lived back around 460 B.C. He was a critic of Rome’s dictator, Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus, who believed in an elitist society. Harsa kept pressing for a code of written laws that would equally apply to patricians and plebeians but he never succeeded. After your Revolutionary War a group was formed by officers from your army. They called themselves the Society of the Cincinnati, after the Roman, Cincinnatus, and adopted what some considered his elitist views. I suppose their purposes were honorable… promoting friendship, keeping going the rights they fought for and helping each other and their families. Certain people didn’t see it that way, though.”
Hanrahan said it sounded sort of like a veterans organization. What was the big deal?
“It was the way they ran the society that bothered other people, like your Thomas Jefferson and a judge named Burke from one of your southern states. They attacked the Cincinnati for limiting membership to the eldest male descendant of existing members. The critics accused them of trying to create a race of… well, as it says on the placard beneath the medal, ‘a race of hereditary patricians or nobility.’”
Hanrahan nodded, and was impressed with her knowledge. He told her so.
“Thank you,” Heather said, “but being brought up by Calum McBean was an education in itself. He was probably the world’s foremost authority on Harsa and the Cincinnati.”
“And Harsa was set up in opposition to Cincinnati?”
“Exactly. Thomas Jefferson was its first president, just as George Washington was the first president-general of the Cincinnati.”
“Are both groups still active today?”
“No. The Cincinnati is very much alive in America and in France. Its headquarters are right here in Washington, in a mansion donated by a former Cincinnati member, a Mr. Larz Anderson. I understand it’s magnificent and is open to the public. The society does a lot of fund raising to promote education.” She smiled. “Your city of Cincinnati was named after the society, not after the Roman dictator the way many people believe.”
“Interesting,” Hanrahan said. “What happened to Harsa?”
“Dissolved over the years. That’s what prompted my uncle to devote so much of his professional efforts to building a bridge of knowledge between today’s scholars and Harsa’s history. Lewis picked up that interest from him and got to be an authority in his own right.”
“Another link between them.”
“Another?”
“You, and Harsa. Are there more?”
“Not that I know of.”
“You think Harsa could play any sort of role in their deaths?”
“How?”
“Well… the medal that was stolen
, the Harsa your uncle donated to the Smithsonian… maybe somebody from the Cincinnati—”
“What would that accomplish?”
“Getting even with the past? Sort of crazy, but fanatics never do make much sense.”
She shrugged. “It certainly would be the act of a crazy person. The Cincinnati is a respected, worthy organization. Harsa hasn’t even existed for years. That could be why they only stole the Harsa medal. It’s much more valuable because the organization is extinct.”
“Okay, Miss McBean, you’re beat and upset and we can go on with this in the morning at my office. But be thinking some more about the Harsa medal… By the way, who’d buy a medal like that from the thieves?”
“Collectors? My uncle told me the world is full of unscrupulous collectors who buy through a black market.”
“I’d like to know more about that black market… tomorrow?”
“I’ll tell you whatever I can. And thank you for the drinks, and understanding…”
The policewoman answered the door. “Take good care of her,” Hanrahan said. “I’m getting quite an education.”
“You may discover, Captain, that I know less than you think.”
“I doubt that, Miss McBean. Anyway, good night to you… Officer Shippee will bring you to the office tomorrow morning.”
***
Hanrahan stopped at his favorite diner on the way home, sat at the counter across from the grill, took out a notebook and, as was his careful habit, jotted down what had been said by Heather. The short-order cook, 260 pounds, redfaced and perspiring as the heat from the griddle wiped away any benefits of the air conditioning, delivered orders of fried eggs, waffles, omelettes and a hamburger. He saw Hanrahan. “The usual, inspector?”
“No, give me a hamburger, no onions, and a vanilla milk shake.”
“Tum-tum acting up again?” The cook wiped his hands on a greasy T-shirt, tossed a patty on the grill and popped two halves of a bun in a toaster. Hanrahan watched him juggle a spate of new orders handed him by a waitress. He always enjoyed watching a top-notch griddleman, considered it an art form of sorts.
“Stretch a thick, white Bessie for Sherlock Holmes,” the griddleman called to someone working the fountain. He quickly arranged the platter—bun, lettuce and tomato, a pickle, plopped the meat on it and shoved it in front of Hanrahan with an arm that looked like a tattooed telephone pole.
“Thanks,” Hanrahan said.
“Anything for our finest.” The chef returned to the grill.
Hanrahan ate slowly, enjoying the cooling sensation of the shake as it slid into his belly.
A half hour later he was home, in bed, and awash in thoughts about the Tunney case. When he eventually did drift off to sleep, his last thoughts were of Heather McBean. She hadn’t been the random victim of a D.C. mugger. He was sure of that now. She was tied in with her late fiancée’s murder, and he felt, sensed, knew that if he wanted to avoid another museum-connected murder he’d better pay very close attention to the lovely Heather McBean.
Chapter 9
Constantine Kazakis rode the elevator to the Museum of Natural History’s third floor. He walked slowly along the circular balcony, occasionally looking down at the eight-ton African bush elephant that dominated the first-floor rotunda.
He came to a door marked Staff Only, opened it with a key and moved inside. Ahead of him were endless rows of white steel lockers, tall and short, wide and thin. A small bearded man had taken a drawer from one of them and was examining its contents. He heard Kazakis, glanced up over half-glasses and said, “Good morning, Constantine.”
“Good morning, Sanford. You’re here early.”
“What time is it?”
“Eight.”
“I couldn’t sleep. We’re reevaluating the Gryllidae exhibit this week.”
Kazakis smiled. The box Sanford held contained a variety of crickets, which were the basis for the exhibit he’d mentioned. It was the Entomology section, where, Kazakis knew, no one ever said crickets when the term Gryllidae was available. It was the same in Ornithology, where a simple crossbill was always Loxia curviorstra.
Kazakis moved from Entomology to his section, Gems and Minerals, where he was an assistant curator. He, too, was early. This was the day the famed Hope Diamond, the focal point in the Hall of Gems for millions of visitors, was to be removed from its case for the first time in years.
The Hope had originally been cut from the 112-carat Tavernier diamond belonging to Louis XIV. It had been stolen during the French Revolution, then resurfaced in its new form on the London market in 1830. It was donated to the Smithsonian in 1958 by renowned gem collector Harry Winston.
The Hope had always been considered flawless, but Kazakis’s boss, Walter Welsh, decided to bring in an outside gemologist to search for hidden flaws and to reweigh it. It was listed at 44.5 carats, but the world standard for the carat had recently changed.
Kazakis sat at his desk and read the Post. The Tunney murder was still front-page, and Captain Hanrahan was quoted as saying, “The department has assigned every available resource to the Tunney murder. We’re looking into all possible leads.” When asked whether anything new had developed, Hanrahan answered, “No, nothing concrete. This is a complex case. All I can say at this time is that we have every confidence that something positive will develop in the near future.”
Kazakis put the paper down as a secretary came in. “Coffee?” she asked.
“Yes, please.”
He was soon joined by other curators from the mineral and gem division. “Any bets?” one of them asked.
“About what?”
“On what the Hope weighs?”
Kazakis shook his head.
“How about flaws? I bet you five bucks, Connie, that they find at least one.”
“Save your money,” Kazakis said.
At ten the gemologist, Dr. Max Shilter, arrived. The gem division’s staff accompanied him to where the Hope Diamond glittered from its glass-fronted vault. Ten armed Smithsonian security guards, augmented by four MPD officers, formed a circle around Walter Welsh, who, visibly nervous, unlocked the vault and lifted the blue diamond from its bed as though plucking a newborn from a cesarean section. “Let’s go,” he said, his face grim. The entourage went to Welsh’s office, where, while others looked on, Dr. Shilter began what would be a painstaking examination, culminating in a precise weighing on a special scale.
Kazakis watched carefully. Before coming to the Smithsonian he had worked as a jewelry designer and gem cutter. Taking the assistant curator job had meant less income but there was the prestige to be considered. The way he had it figured, he would put five years into the curatorship, then return to designing and cutting, with the Smithsonian credential enhancing his fees. After all, he was only thirty-four.
Short and compact, with an upper body reflecting the weights he worked out with three times a week, and a strong, square olive face framed by black curls and even blacker eyes, he had joined Washington’s long list of eligible bachelors. He had brought with him to the nation’s capital the spoils of his previous career. His automobile was a silver Corvette. He had an extensive wardrobe of designer suits and expensive gold jewelry, including a seventeen-thousand-dollar Rolex watch. He lived in a Watergate apartment, which he had furnished in leather and chrome.
“Always impressive,” said Shilter, who spoke with a German accent and whose fingers were like fat sausages, more the hands of a butcher than a lapidist. “The original stone must have been so beautiful. I’ve examined the Brunswick,” he said, referring to a fourteen-carat diamond identical in color to the Hope and presumed to have been cut from the original Tavernier gem by its thieves. “No question they came from the same mother stone.”
A secretary whispered to Kazakis, “Mr. Throckly from American History is on the phone. He says it’s important.”
“Not now. I’ll call back in an hour. Please, I want to watch this.”
An hour later, after Shilter had procla
imed the Hope as flawless as its reputation and had weighed it in at 45.5 carats reflecting the change in standards, Kazakis returned the call to Throckly.
“It took you long enough,” Throckly said.
“We were working with the Hope. What’s up?”
“Has Walter called you?”
“Walter Jones? No.”
“He said he was going to. He wants to have dinner tonight.”
“I can’t. I have other plans.”
“Change them.”
“Why?”
“You’re trying my patience, Constantine, and I can assure you that Walter feels the same way.”
“I don’t like being at anyone’s beck and call. I have a life of my own—”
“Tell Walter that when he calls.”
“I will. I’m not trying to be difficult, Alfred, but these plans for tonight can’t be changed. I’ll talk to you later.”
A few minutes afterward he received a call from Walter Jones. “Constantine, how are you?” Jones asked pleasantly in his well-known gravelly voice.
“Just fine, Walter. We examined the Hope today. Absolutely flawless, according to Max Shilter, and a carat heavier than before.”
“No surprise. Is it safely back in the crib or did some ambitious young curator steal it en route?” He laughed too loudly.
Kazakis laughed too. “As a matter of fact, Walter, I did steal it. You called just as I was about to put a chisel to it.”
“Just as long as you’re not hung over. Connie, Chloe and I are putting together a last-minute dinner party tonight, just a few friends in for something simple. Naturally, you head our list.”
“I’m flattered. What happened to the other thousand-and-one names?”
“All fleeting acquaintances. You’re special. Seven?”
“I’d made other plans that I—”
“And she’s young, blond, very pretty and madly in love with you, in which case she’ll understand your need to break her heart for one evening. Seven?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Informal, just a simple get-together. Careful with the chisel, Constantine. You’d never be forgiven.”
Murder in the Smithsonian Page 6
