Killinworth said nothing.
“Exactly. He waited until your uncle was presumed dead, then removed the Harsa from the back room with the help of friends who worked here. The medal was offered for sale through the Arab, Ashtat. But unfortunately for Dr. Killinworth your uncle was not dead. He returned, knowing that his Harsa, which he’d given the Smithsonian, had gone on the market. Which is why Ashtat killed your uncle.”
“And made it appear to be suicide?”
“Precisely, my dear. Well, am I correct so far, Dr. Killinworth?”
“Continue, Chloe. I find it fascinating.”
“I certainly shall, doctor. But I doubt you will continue to find it so fascinating… You see, Heather, when Peter Peckham learned what had happened to the Harsa, he confided in his good friend, your Lewis. That was terribly unfortunate for him. Both Peter and Lewis had to be… what shall we say, Dr. Killinworth, eliminated? Silenced? Otherwise your whole highly lucrative career in crime would be revealed.”
Heather stood rigid. She fought to keep her rage from erupting. “I trusted you,” she said to Killinworth. “And Saunders is your man, accomplice… he does what you tell him. Such as trying to get the Harsa from me. Such as killing Lewis—”
“Exactly right, Heather,” Chloe said. Her voice took on a threatening edge. “Dr. Killinworth, Heather and I are walking away from here now. I suggest you not try to stop us. I’ve just come from my office, where I dictated a full account of my investigation. You will only make things worse for yourself if you harm us in any way—”
Killinworth did not move, but said to Heather, “Much of what this incredible woman has said is true, Heather. She knows a great deal. But that is only because she has masterminded this whole sorry business… I know it is difficult for you to believe this, but you must. If you go with her and give her the Harsa you will jeopardize months of important investigative work, not to mention your life—”
Heather shook her head. “No, damn it, you’re lying, you’ve lied all along—”
“It’s no use, Dr. Killinworth, these clever lies and accusations. The only way Heather will be in danger is if she believes you… It’s all right now, Heather, give me the Harsa and we’ll turn it over together to Captain Hanrahan—”
The sound of fireworks crashed in on them, the flash of the airborne explosions causing the windows to become momentary strobe lights.
The sound of footsteps coming from the Mall entrance made them turn around… and see Ford Saunders running toward them.
Chloe’s previous composure seemed to leave her. She looked from Killinworth to Saunders. Her mouth tightened.
“You bitch,” Saunders stopped some ten feet from them, fighting to catch his breath and pointing at Chloe. “Damn you—”
“Be quiet.” Her look was murderous.
“So smart, so proper, and yet when it comes down to it, just a pair of thieves falling out… Enough of this, Heather,” Killinworth said. “Give me the Harsa and we’ll see that these people never again play their terrible games—”
“No.”
Killinworth shook his head and turned his attention to Saunders. “What do you plan to do now, Mr. Saunders? What control she’s managed to exert over you all these years… was Lewis Tunney the first person she had you kill? Were there others—?”
“Tell them what happened, Chloe, tell them,” Sanders said. “Yes… I’d dress up like a woman for you and steal her purse and search through rooms for that damn medal, but you know I’d never kill anybody for you or anybody else—”
Chloe lost more of her composure. “You disgust me,” she said. “So incredibly brazen… trying to switch your guilt…” To Heather she said, “They’d been in league all along, Heather. My own assistant and Professor Killinworth. When I found out about it I was devastated. I’d been good to him, was even fond of him. I’ve defended, protected him in his perverse needs… now this. I told you how he lied to me about where to meet you—”
“You are the liar… oh God, she killed Tunney, all I did was get rid of the medal that night—”
Saunders was cut short by Chloe reaching into the folds of her caftan and bringing out a Swiss .357 Hammerli “Virginian” revolver.
“More killings to keep people quiet, Miss Prentwhistle?” Killinworth asked. “Tunney, and Ashtat and Peckham in London. Nobody to do your dirty work there, I reckon.” Killinworth couldn’t be sure of those last accusations, but it made sense, he felt.
More so when Chloe ignored him and said to Heather. “I won’t ask again, Heather. You and I are both in terrible danger. We must act now. Come with me, we’ll call the police and it will be over—”
“Over my dead body—” Saunders began.
“Damn you.” Chloe raised the revolver, pointed it at him. He raised his hands as she pulled the trigger. The bullet struck him in the chest. He collapsed inward and pitched forward, his head thudding against the floor.
“The Harsa,” Chloe said. “Give it to me now, Heather.”
Killinworth quickly stepped between. “Give the gun to me Chloe. This is, as you say, over. You are only making it worse—”
This time, Chloe’s aim was lower. Killinworth’s eyes opened wide. His mouth formed a word that was never said or heard. He clutched his stomach, as though trying to close flesh torn apart by the bullet, then fell forward, hands still gripping his stomach, his large body hitting the floor with a thud. Somehow, as though refusing to be humiliated by his position, he managed to roll over onto his back.
Heather bolted and moved quickly into the shadows of the Harsa-Cincinnati exhibition, went behind a towering statue of George Washington and looked around it at the pendulum railing where Evelyn Killinworth writhed in pain a few feet from Ford Saunders’s motionless body.
Behind them was Chloe Prentwhistle.
Chloe turned and looked in the direction Heather had gone. “Heather? It’s all right now. No need to be afraid. Heather…?”
Heather looked for the next place to hide. She watched Chloe walk away from the bodies and slowly approach the exhibition area, gun still in her hand.
Heather held her breath as Chloe reached the exhibit entrance and stopped. “Heather,” she called, “don’t be foolish. Can’t you see the truth now? Killinworth was right about one thing… You don’t seem able to tell who your friends really are… Listen to me, Heather… Lewis was killed for the medal you have right now. He would want us to work together. Let’s not let his death be even more tragic than it is. He cared about the Harsa and what it meant, Heather. You know I do. Come…”
Heather quietly slipped off her shoes. Her injured foot throbbed. She reached about in the darkness and touched a display case, moved around it and went deeper into the vast black cavern. She glanced back, did not see Chloe, gasped as she bumped into a heavy cannon. She held her breath.
“Heather? I realize you’re confused, but you must trust me.”
The voice was shockingly close—to her left, which put Chloe on a line that made them equally distant from the exhibit entrance.
“Damn it, Heather”—Chloe’s voice had more of an edge now—“this has been difficult for me too—”
Heather ran toward the vague light of the rotunda and the pendulum circle. A loud noise came from behind as Chloe apparently collided with something and called out for Heather to stop.
Heather reached the railing, gripped it with both hands. The Mall entrance was too far away, Chloe’s path from the exhibit area would cut it off.
“Heather—”
She looked down at the voice, a male voice. It came from the edge of the pendulum pit, and belonged to Mac Hanrahan. He’d gotten her message.
“Heather—” This time the voice was once again Chloe’s. She had planted herself ten feet away and held the revolver in both hands, the barrel pointed directly at Heather.
The pendulum had now swung to where Heather stood. No time to think, calculate the odds. She lunged for it, gripped it with both hands and was pull
ed over the rail as it started its return trajectory. A shot, the bullet just missing its mark. She slid her hands down to the brass bob, fell from it and sprawled across the compass rose.
Hanrahan called up through the opening in the ceiling, told Chloe to put down the gun, that there were other police surrounding the museum.
Joe Pearl, who had arrived moments earlier, joined Hanrahan. Hanrahan extended his hand to Heather and helped her over the railing.
“Dr. Killinworth’s up there… he’s been shot…”
Hanrahan told an officer to call for an ambulance. Then: “What about you? Are you—?”
“I’m all right. Now…”
They went to the second level, where Pearl and another detective had Chloe. The lady was not done yet… “Thank God you’re here,” she said to Hanrahan, her voice cool as it has been that afternoon in her apartment. “It’s over, Lewis Tunney’s murderers, no matter what they say, are there.” She pointed to Saunders and Killinworth. “I’ll explain everything…”
Hanrahan knelt beside Killinworth, whose face was twisted in pain. Blood stained the floor beside him. “Take it easy,” Hanrahan said, feeling anger at his helplessness, as he always did in such circumstance, “there’s an ambulance on the way.”
Killinworth looked at Heather. “Do you understand now—?” his words cut off by violent coughing.
“Never mind that now, what’s important is for you to get help—”
“Heather, listen to me… You must know that your uncle did not commit suicide. I met with Scotland Yard, found out the truth… Ashtat, the Arab, killed him… Chloe Prentwhistle, others at the Smithsonian have been stealing pieces from storage for years. They wait for a donor like Calum to die, then sell the piece in the black market, usually the Middle East. Ashtat had been their prime middleman for years. They gave him the Harsa when Calum was presumed dead. He tried to sell it but Calum got wind of it, came back and confronted Ashtat. Ashtat went to the castle and killed him. The Edinburgh police never bothered to compare the bullet that killed Calum with the gun they found in his hand. The revolver was registered to him, was in his hand, his finger on the trigger and matched the caliber of the bullet that killed him. Sloppy, lazy work by the Edinburgh bobbies. Not unusual, they look for the easy way out too often…” Heather glanced at Hanrahan, told Killinworth to rest, but he wouldn’t.
“Ashtat killed Calum with his revolver, which was the same model and caliber as Calum’s. He probably fired a round from Calum’s gun, then put it in his hand.”
“Agnes swore she heard two shots. She was right,” Heather said.
“I convinced the Yard to make the ballistic comparison…” Killinworth was gasping for breath now. “The bullet that killed Calum came from a revolver found in Ashtat’s house.” Killinworth heaved with coughing. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth. Heather looked away so he would not see her crying.
***
A groan came from Ford Saunders. Hanrahan moved to him. “I didn’t kill…” Saunders’s voice was strained, hoarse. “She told me to but I wouldn’t… neither would Walter…”
“Her husband?”
“Yes… Look, I admit I did most everything else she wanted, she threatened to expose me, called me a pervert—” An explosion of air came from deep inside, causing his chest to heave, blood to erupt from his wound. He looked up at Hanrahan, then went into a series of death spasms.
Chapter 29
JULY 6
Two days after the celebration of the nation’s birthday. After the death of Ford Saunders. After the arrest of Chloe Prentwhistle.
Hanrahan sat in his office with Commissioner Johnson, who had picked up a new Alan Flusser double-breasted blue-and-white cord suit the day before and was not anxious to sit on Hanrahan’s furniture. “Just as soon stand, Mac,” he said each time Hanrahan offered him a chair… “The professor will make it?”
“Killinworth? Yeah, he’s past the crisis stage. I’m going over to see him later this morning.”
“Where do we stand?”
“Prentwhistle still claims she’s innocent as a lamb, accuses Saunders. We’ve booked her for Saunders’s murder, and we’ll keep digging into Tunney. We picked up a passport at her house that was cleared through British Customs the night of Ashtat’s murder.” He handed Johnson the passport that read: Linda Clare Salzbank. “We know she’s the one who’s been running the ring at the Smithsonian for years. Janis Dewey at the National Gallery isn’t what you’d call hard-nosed. She spilled all about it, confirms what Killinworth said. Prentwhistle’s husband, this Walter Jones, recruited young curators into the Smithsonian, people he had something on or knew were easy marks. Once he had them in place he taught them the ropes. When a donor of a piece to the Smithsonian died, they waited a while, then took the piece and fenced it through people like this Ashtat in London.”
“Sounds like Jones was really behind it—”
“No, like my mother said, look for the woman. Jones, it seems, has been uneasy for years about the deal but his wife wouldn’t let go of it. Apparently she liked the excitement—she is quite a woman, in a rotten sort of way—and liked the extra loot to keep her and Jones in a life-style her salary couldn’t provide.”
Johnson shook his head, almost sat on the edge of Hanrahan’s desk but caught himself in time. “What took the people at the Smithsonian so long to catch on?”
Hanrahan propped his feet on the desk. “They made it easy, Cal. Apparently they’ve been trying to get a computer inventory system going for years but it’s slow. In the meantime they’ve got pieces worth thousands stashed in shoe boxes in back rooms. Hell, nobody knows where half the stuff is.”
“What about the gem cutter… Kazakis?”
“He’s like Janis Dewey, small-time. Dishonest enough to steal a little to put gas in his Corvette and keep the apartment in videotapes of first-run films. He’s got talent, though. I look at the real Harsa next to his and can’t tell the difference. Obviously plenty of others couldn’t either. He should have stuck to setting engagement rings.”
“You have a confession from Jones?”
“Yeah. He said he got started by being called in by Prentwhistle as an independent appraiser. Nobody knew they were married and his was the last word. Nobody suspected collusion. He’d declare a piece relatively worthless after a donor died, which meant it was never even considered for public display. They’d let some time pass and out it went under their coats. All very neat until the Harsa came along.”
“And Vice President Oxenhauer wanted it exhibited.”
“Right, but I’m not too partial to him right now. Okay, he wanted his own investigation, wanted to keep scandal away from the Smithsonian, but I still think he should have let us in on it.”
“Mac, I don’t say you’re wrong, but from his point of view he was doing the best for the Smithsonian, avoiding scandal as long as possible, at least until after the Fourth—”
Hanrahan stood and got his jacket from the clothes tree. He noticed that a button was hanging by a thread. So was his temper. “Are we finished?”
“For this morning. I’ve scheduled a press conference at three. That’ll give the TV people time to get back for their six o’clock broadcasts. I’ve prepared a statement for you.” He gave Hanrahan a sheet of paper that he fished from his inside pocket. Hanrahan glanced at it, tossed it on the desk.
“You can make changes if you want, Mac, but I’d like to see us stick to the script. Let’s face it, solving this case is a big—”
“Solving it?”
“We’re the Metropolitan Police Department, the agency of record. A crime was committed, a crime has been solved. We did it. The public deserves to believe that.”
“I won’t be there.”
“Suit yourself. If you are, read that statement. If you’re not, do me a favor and don’t give interviews.”
Hanrahan hung around the office until it was time to leave for Doctor’s Hospital, where he was to meet Heather and visit Killinw
orth. He was heading for the door when Kathy called.
“Kathy, I’m running—”
“I just wanted to congratulate you on the Tunney case. You must be relieved it’s over.”
No answer.
“Mac?”
“What?”
“Buy me dinner?”
“I’m pretty busy. Maybe.”
“Are you tied up?”
“I may be.”
“Another woman?”
“Good-by Kathy. I’ll call.”
***
Heather was in Killinworth’s room when Hanrahan arrived. The professor was sitting up in bed. An IV was attached to his arm. He was very pale. Otherwise he was very much himself. Including the part that rankled Hanrahan.
“Hello, Captain,” he said with surprising vigor. He held out his hand, which obviously caused him pain. Hanrahan shook it and pulled up a chair next to Heather.
“Evelyn was just telling me about Peter’s death,” she said.
“Peckham? I’d like to hear.”
“Well, my dear captain, after Ashtat killed Heather’s uncle, he was still in possession of the Harsa. The rule had always been that a stolen piece was never to be sold in the region from which it originated, in this case the British Isles. But Ashtat became greedy. He offered it for sale in London, and Peckham bought it.”
“I thought Peckham was a legitimate dealer.”
Killinworth shrugged. “Even the most legitimate of people have their weaknesses, as I’m sure you’ve discovered in your work, Captain. Also, remember that Peckham did not know the piece was stolen, but he did know Ashtat’s reputation, no question of that. He asked his friend… Lewis Tunney… to verify the piece. Lewis’s reaction was not what Peckham had anticipated. He told Peckham he was going to Washington and expose to the world what seemed to be a theft of the Harsa. Which left Peckham in a difficult position. He, in turn, called Ashtat and told him what had happened with Tunney. Ashtat called Chloe Prentwhistle in Washington, which made her decide to kill Tunney. Or have him killed. I rather think the former.”
Heather turned away, and Killinworth reached for her, touched her arm. “Dear, I know how difficult this is for you, but in the long run it will be better to know the truth, not need to guess…” To Hanrahan he said, “Chloe Prentwhistle must have called Ashtat and told him to get rid of Peckham, who now knew too much, which he did. Earlier I thought she might have done that as well as taken care of Ashtat—when I heard of your discovery of the fake passport she used to London—but of course she could not have. Peckham was dead before she arrived, courtesy of Ashtat.”
Murder in the Smithsonian Page 24
