Murder in the Smithsonian

by Margaret Truman

  Heather’s heart, she was sure, had stopped beating for a moment. She looked through the open doorway, saw nothing, leaned over and picked up the glaive. “That would have been nasty,” she said once she was able to breathe again. She leaned the weapon against the wall, went to the windows and opened the drapes. The sky had cleared over the firth and another rainbow had appeared. She hoped it signaled the end of such natural terrors.

  Heather put the soldiers in a box, left the castle and drove away… passing the green sedan that had followed her from the Cramond Inn but, of course, paying it no notice as it fell in behind her and maintained a consistent distance all the way to town.

  ***

  The Assembly Halls were teeming with antique dealers. Ranald Robertson had taken a large space to the rear of the exhibit area. Heather couldn’t help but smile as she approached his booth. Robertson, who was about fifty, had the perpetual look of a man bemused by life. Half-glasses sat on the tip of an aquiline nose, and his constantly elevated eyebrows nearly doubled the distance between eyes and glasses. He was as eccentric as her uncle had been, only more social. He lived with a dozen cats, a demented mother who sometimes believed she was handmaiden to Mary, Queen of Scots, and a parakeet named Macbeth, who, Robertson claimed, spoke Gaelic at odd hours.

  He was in the midst of a transaction with a matronly woman who couldn’t decide between two icons from the expendable portion of Calum’s estate. Heather was tempted to recommend one over the other but resisted. The woman made her choice, paid Robertson and walked away.

  “Well,” Robertson said over his glasses, “you look splendid, Heather.”

  “Thank you. How are you, Ranald?”

  “Tip-top, doing a brisk business. By the way, there was a fellow looking for you this afternoon.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “He didn’t give his name. A big, fat fellow, well dressed. An Englishman.”

  Evelyn Killinworth? But he would have come to the castle… “What did he say?”

  “Nothing much, just wondered whether I’d seen you. He seemed to know who I was and that I was handling your uncle’s things. He didn’t stay long, chatted about some of the items, mentioned the murder of that Arab in London.”

  “Oh?”

  “Aye. He wondered whether I’d known him. The Arab, I mean. I didn’t, although I certainly knew about him. A bad sort, dealing in anything stolen. I’m certain there’s a legion of people not spilling tears over his demise.” He peered into the box she carried. “For me?”

  “What? Oh, the soldiers from Calum’s collection.” She handed the box to him.

  “Just in time. I’ve someone stopping by who’s in the toy-soldier business. He wants everything I have. Well, how are things at the castle?”

  “The city has approved the takeover.”

  “So I’d heard. I hope you’re doing the right thing.”

  “What choice do I have? Unless the city runs and maintains it, taxes will eat up the estate and the castle will end up being bought by some Frenchman who’ll turn it into an inn with fancy food, modern rooms and postcards in the lobby.”

  Robertson laughed. “Dreadful image you paint.”

  “Imagine the image Calum would have drawn.”

  “Spare me that. How long will you be in Edinburgh?”

  “Not sure, Ranald, but no more than another two days.”

  “Pity. I’ll try to get out to the castle before you leave.”

  “Yes, that would be good. I’m not staying…”

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing. I’m not staying long. Please drop by.”

  “With a check. Death and taxes, as they say.”

  She walked slowly through the halls, stopping at tables but never really examining them. She could only think of what Robertson had said about a big fat Englishman inquiring about her. It had to be Evelyn. But why hadn’t he called, or stopped at the castle? What about the Arab, Ashtat, at… Belgravia, Belgravia, where—

  “Heather, Heather.”

  She turned to see Robertson pushing through the crowds. “I almost forgot. The fellow who was looking for you asked about Collinsworth.”

  “Seth Collinsworth?”

  “None other. He wanted to know his whereabouts.”

  “Name a prison.”

  He laughed. “I haven’t heard anything of him for more than a year. You?”

  She shook her head.

  Seth Collinsworth was Scotland’s most infamous art thief. He’d made international headlines ten years earlier by stealing a truckload of paintings from the Scottish National Portrait Gallery. He was arrested within twenty-four hours and served a six-year prison term, but everyone knew it was small payment for a life of crime. Collinsworth had been the Scottish conduit to London’s art underworld. He’d lived the high life in Glasgow—a Rolls-Royce, town-house, trips to cities around the world, including extended stays in the capitals of the Middle East, a clutch of beautiful young women on his arm who didn’t know that Matisse painted or Stravinsky composed, but who knew that Seth Collinsworth spent.

  Seth Collinsworth… why would Evelyn want to find him? Unless… But that was too farfetched. Wasn’t it…?

  She left the Assembly Hall. Outside George Street was alive with men and women leaving their offices and heading for home now that the storm was over. The gloamin’, Scotland’s unique, slowly fading evening light, was casting its soft spell over the city. She felt good being here. She was home. If only Lewis were standing next to her, sharing the feeling that she felt…

  Was Evelyn Killinworth here?

  That was her uneasy thought as she looked to her right, saw that no traffic was coming and stepped from the curb.

  “Look out,” a woman called from behind.

  Heather saw out of the corner of her eye a car coming down the street on the wrong side. She threw herself back, just in time as the car sped by, its right fender nearly grazing her thigh.

  “You stupid ass,” a man yelled, running into the street and shaking his fist at the driver. Heather looked up the street. The car had turned a corner and disappeared.

  “You all right miss?” someone asked.

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Stupid American, you can bet on that,” someone else said.

  “Did you see him?” Heather asked.

  A man shook his head. “Just another rich overfed American driving on the wrong side of the road.”

  “Didn’t even stop,” a woman said.

  Heather, properly shaken, returned to the George and immediately put through a call to the Chesterfield Hotel in London. She asked for Dr. Killinworth. His room did not answer. “Is he still a guest?” She was assured that he was, that, in fact, he had been good enough to inform the desk in advance that he planned to check out two days later.

  ***

  She left Edinburgh at noon the following day, flying to London and connecting with a British Airways flight to New York.

  Chapter 23

  “How was the trip?” Hanrahan asked after he’d gotten Heather a cup of coffee. She’d arrived at his MPD office early; her internal clock was still set to London time. Her McBean tartan pleated skirt, navy blue blouse and blazer were fresh looking. She looked tired and worn.

  “Hectic, to say the least. But it’s good I went… Have there been any developments here?”

  “Nothing firm… what did you find out from your private detective?”

  “Precious little, I’m afraid. And please don’t say I told you so.”

  “That’s not my style”—though he was tempted. “But what did he say?”

  “Only that Lewis had seen Peter Peckham the week before he was killed, and that now Peter seems to be missing.”

  “Missing?” Hanrahan was surprised that she hadn’t heard about Peckham’s death, and wasn’t anxious to be the one to break the news. She’d already had enough death in her young life.

  “According to Mr. Paley, who by the way is a vile little man, Peter’s fri
ends haven’t seen or heard from him for over a week. I tried his home several times and went to his shop. No luck.”

  Hanrahan leaned back and focused on a crack in the pale yellow wall behind her. “How’s the coffee?” he asked.

  “Quite good, thanks.”

  “I’ve got some news for you, Heather, and I’m afraid it isn’t good.”

  She’d started to return the cup to the desk’s edge, stopped halfway there. “Go ahead,” she said, not looking at him.

  “Peter Peckham is dead.”

  The cup stayed poised midway between her lips and the desk top. “How do you know?” she finally asked in a low, flat voice.

  “Scotland Yard.” He started to give her the details, then stopped. Better take it slow.

  “How did it happen?… was he murdered too?”

  “Seems that way.”

  “Tell me.”

  He told her what he knew.

  Her voice was stronger now. She put the cup on the desk and went to a window. It was dirty, and the heat and humidity outside seemed dirty too, as though it would stick to your skin if it touched you. She took several deep breaths, then raised her head.

  Hanrahan got up and grabbed what had become a thick purple file folder bearing the label Lewis Tunney: Case #641-T. He came around the desk and slapped the file on it. Heather turned at the noise. “I’m all right,” she said. “I guess one becomes toughened… How did Peter Peckham die?”

  “A blow to the head. Whoever did it dumped him under a bridge on the Thames… I’m sorry, but you asked.”

  She wrapped her arms about herself and slowly shook her head from side to side.

  Hanrahan picked up the folder again and held it in the air. “See this? It’s your fiancé’s file. It’s got his name and a department file classification on it. It’s purple because somebody was selling purple file folders cheap. Another couple of months and victims will be filed in orange, or yellow, depending on the price. You know, I’ve been dealing with folders like this for most of my adult life. The only thing that ever changes are the colors. Somebody gets killed for the usual reasons, jealousy, greed, a short circuit in the brain, a mistake, fear, self-defense. It’s like plots for stories. How many are there? Nothing much seems to change. At least that’s the way I’ve always looked at it. But this one is different, not because the file’s purple instead of white, but because I see it different. Feel different.”

  She started to say something but he shook his head.

  “I was really worried about you while you were away. Now, Heather McBean, I’m here to tell you that’s different for me. It means I’ve got an interest in this case that goes beyond the usual. I care, damn it, about what’s in this folder. That’s different. I accept that many cases never get solved. The folders and everything in them goes into a dead file, and the only time anybody cares or remembers is when a cop gets drunk and asks whether I remember when so-and-so got it. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t. But that’s not true with purple folder Number 641-T. Okay? I’m going to remember this case because I’m going to get to the bottom of it. I’m also going to try to make damn sure that nobody else gets hurt, especially you.”

  “I appreciate that, but I—”

  “You’re lucky you aren’t in this folder, you know that? You keep sticking your neck out and making it easy. Do you know how they chop a guy’s head off in Arab countries for stealing or killing someone? They tie his hands behind his back, get him down in the sand on his knees and poke him in the back with a stick. His body reacts, his neck extends and the guy with the sword does his job. With you, nobody needs a stick. Your head’s stuck out all the time.”

  She returned to her chair, crossed her legs and played with the strap on her purse.

  “You know what, I’ll level with you. I don’t like feeling this way about a case. I like it better the other way, just looking at it as another file folder. I sure as hell don’t need to be worrying about you, and I’ve already told you that. I’ve got enough troubles of my own without picking up extra ones. End of speech.”

  She was quiet for several moments, then looked up uneasily at him. “I’ve been trying to find some answers myself. I appreciate everything you’ve said, but can I also remind you that I’m the one whose fiancé was killed.” She slung her purse over her shoulder and started for the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Sit down.”

  “Why? What’s your next move, to arrest me, put me in solitary confinement and keep a twenty-four-hour guard over me until you’ve found Lewis’s murderer, or until your purple folder goes to its final resting place in dead storage.”

  “That’s not a bad idea.” He allowed a sour grin.

  “I don’t see the humor in it, Captain—”

  “And I keep trying, although it isn’t easy. Sit down and I’ll tell you what I’ve come to. Maybe if I do you’ll understand a little better why I’m so worried about you.”

  She sat in the chair.

  “Let’s start with this.” He pulled a sheet of paper from the folder and handed it to her. Typed across the top in capital letters was EVELYN KILLINWORTH.

  She had just started to read when Joe Pearl opened the door.

  “Not now, Joe.”

  “Only take a minute, Mac,” he said, motioning Hanrahan to accompany him to the bullpen, where he gave Hanrahan a list of Evelyn Killinworth’s travels over the previous five years.

  “And?”

  “Lots of unexplained chunks of time, as we knew. Not that it’s unusual for a professor to have lots of time off to travel.”

  “Get to it, Joe.”

  Pearl glanced through the glass at Heather, who seemed deep in her reading. “There’ve been six separate trips to the Middle East over the past five years—Jidda, Beirut, Morocco, a couple of others.”

  “What’d he do in all those places?”

  “Ask him, Mac. Whatever, he always stayed at the best hotels, that’s for sure. Anyway, you wanted it and we got it for you. What’s going on with her?”

  “I’m not sure. Well, thanks, Joe. Keep on it.”

  “Mac.”

  “What?”

  “You ought to take that suit back and have it re-altered. It bunches in the back, up around the neck.”

  Hanrahan looked down at his suit. It was new; he hadn’t worn it before, had picked it up only two days ago from Cavalier at F and Ninth, where he bought all his clothes off the rack. “I think it fits fine,” he said.

  “Just thought I’d mention it. I like the color, though. Slate blue.”

  Hanrahan returned to his office, took off his jacket and hung it on a rack. He ran his thumbs around the waistband of the pants, caught a fast look at his reflection in the door’s glass and sat behind the desk.

  “Why did you give me this?” Heather asked, handing him back the paper on Killinworth.

  “You read it?”

  “Yes. I knew all these things about him. It’s really nothing more than a short biography.”

  “Nothing strikes you as strange?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Where does he get all his money?”

  “All his money? I didn’t think Evelyn was a rich man.”

  “He lives like one. What about it? No questions about him, no doubts?” He sensed that she’d suddenly become uncomfortable. “Haven’t even thought about it?”

  “Well… not exactly.”

  “You don’t sound too sure. When Dr. Tunney was murdered, Killinworth was here in Washington. He was here when you were attacked, and when your hotel room was broken into. Now, he’s in London when someone else is murdered.”

  “He wasn’t there when Peter was killed. You said he’d been dead a week before they found him.” Wasn’t she overdoing this defending him? After what had happened to her…?

  “I’m not talking about Peter Peckham, I’m talking about an Arab art dealer named Rashad Ashtat. Ever hear of him?”


  “Well, I read about him in London.”

  “Then you know he was killed while you and Killinworth were in London?”

  “Yes…”

  “What was your reaction?”

  “I didn’t know the man—”

  “I didn’t ask you that. Well, did Dr. Tunney know him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How about Peckham? Did he know this Ashtat?”

  “I don’t know that either.”

  “Killinworth… did he ever mention an art dealer named Rashad Ashtat?”

  “No…”

  “He’s spent a lot of time in the Middle East… Look, I’m just trying to put some things together. That’s my job.”

  “I understand that.”

  “Good. You said that the private detective confirmed that Dr. Tunney had spent time with Peter Peckham before coming to Washington. Do you have any idea what they talked about?”

  “No… I don’t.”

  Hanrahan picked up the purple folder, bent it and its contents back and forth. “Like I said, this one’s not ending up in a dead file. Anything else to add to it?”

  “Captain Hanrahan, I know you feel I don’t always tell you everything I should, but I—”

  “Now that you mention it, I’ll say you’re right. For instance, I heard you almost got yourself run over in Edinburgh.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “It’s not important, but where I come from that might be considered a pretty close call.”

  “It was, but people on the scene said it was just a stupid hit-and-run American who couldn’t remember the right side of the road to drive on… by the way, did you have me followed?”

  “That would annoy you, wouldn’t it? Even if the reason was that I was worried about you.”

  “I do seem to be a problem for you, don’t I? In fact, I mostly seem to be apologizing to you. I’ll be going now.”