“But Ashtat now had the real Harsa,” Heather said. “I mean, if he killed Peckham he must have taken it back from his place.”
“Yes,” Killinworth said. “And when Vice President Oxenhauer insisted upon an exhibit of the Harsa, Chloe had Mr. Kazakis create a replica, and a rather good one I might add. That probably would have been the end of it if Lewis had not threatened to expose matters. I would guess Chloe tried to find out from Lewis at the museum what he had told others, perhaps not. In any case, she couldn’t be sure, couldn’t take chances. She’d already gone too far, was responsible for two deaths. So as far as she knew, even with Lewis Tunney dead, there was still the chance that the bogus medal might be examined. That was when she decided to stage a fake robbery of the replica on exhibition in conjunction with Tunney’s murder.”
Hanrahan was finding Killinworth as annoyingly all-knowing as ever, but of course had to hear him out. “A fair amount of this is speculation on your part, isn’t it. Dr. Killinworth?”
“Not so much as you might think, Captain, I must admit that I was operating at a distinct advantage over you. Much of what was going on within the Smithsonian was known to me because of Vice President Oxenhauer. When he called me in to conduct a private investigation, he had already placed many pieces into the puzzle. I was able to add the rest. Miss Dewey at the National Gallery was most helpful, albeit reluctantly. I noticed a small Gainsborough in Ashtat’s house that I knew had been donated to the Smithsonian. I confronted her about it and she responded with a great deal of information. A misguided girl. Too bad.”
“And Throckly?” Hanrahan said.
“His only crime was weakness. He knew what was going on around him but never imagined it could involve murder. I believe the vice president and Mr. Costain are even now arranging his departure from the Smithsonian.”
Heather suddenly asked, “Why were you looking up Seth Collinsworth in Edinburgh? Ranald Robertson told me you were.”
“Charming rogue, Collinsworth. He knows more about art crime in the British Isles than any ten men. He owed me a favor or two; I collected. Just information, some rumor, but useful in piecing things together.”
Heather nodded. “But what about the dishwasher finding the fake medal in the garbage. Who put it there, and why?”
Killinworth shifted his position in bed, grimacing at the pain. “As I said, once Dr. Tunney was dead they had to get rid of the medal before it could be examined. They couldn’t very well put it any place in the museum, so Ford Saunders carried it outside and deposited it in the trash, no doubt assuming that it would end up at or near the bottom of a garbage heap and never be seen again.”
“Why are you so sure it was Saunders?” Heather asked.
Hanrahan was glad to answer something. “He was the only guest unaccounted for at the end of the evening. Given what we know about his talent for dressing up as a woman, I think he dressed up as one and hid in the First Ladies’ exhibition until the coast was clear, then left the museum and deep-sixed the Harsa in the garbage.”
Killinworth laughed, which caused such pain that his eyes teared. “Dressed up in ladies’ clothing and posed as a mannequin? That’s… well, Captain, that’s certainly creative, but it does strain the imagination—”
Lucky for him, Hanrahan thought, that he was a patient. He smiled tightly, said: “There was an extra mannequin in the exhibit the night I inspected it after Dr. Tunney’s murder. I’m sure of it.”
Killinworth continued to fight against his pained laughter. “I won’t argue with you, Captain,” he managed to say. “God, it hurts.”
Tough, Hanrahan thought.
“I think we should let him sleep,” Heather said. She leaned over and kissed his cheek.
Hanrahan stood up, forced himself to say, “I appreciate your help, doctor. Get some rest. Maybe we’ll catch up again some day.”
“I’m sure we will.”
“By the way, any special reason why the vice president picked you to conduct a private investigation?”
“We’re old friends. He trusts me. And I’ve been doing this sort of thing within the art world for years. I’ve never been involved with anything this… extreme before, of course. It’s been rather exciting, I confess. Well, thank you for visiting the wounded.”
***
Hanrahan and Heather silently rode the elevator to the ground floor and went outside. “In case you’re wondering about being almost run over in Edinburgh, I now come clean and admit that I did have you followed by Scotland Yard. But the way I figure it, whoever was driving that car was nothing more than a crazy bad driver. Not my man.”
“Yes… you know, when it happened I actually thought that it was Evelyn. Someone said the driver was overfed and with everything else that had been happening, well, I guess paranoia took over.”
“You know what they say, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t following you… Anyway, how about dinner?”
She looked at him, half-smiled. “I’d like to, Captain. But somehow it doesn’t seem the right time, or place… I’m going back to Edinburgh tomorrow morning and—oh, I almost forgot. I’ve been carrying this around with me ever since I got back from Scotland. It’s for you.” She took a can from a plastic British Museum shopping bag and gave it to Hanrahan. He read the label—Haggis. “I know how much you like cooking—how good you are—and I thought you’d enjoy the Scottish national dish.”
“I’ve heard of it. What’s in it?”
“I’m delighted you asked. The heart, lights and liver of a sheep cooked with finely-chopped suet, toasted oatmeal and seasonings, all stuffed into the sheep’s paunch and boiled. I prefer it with chappit tatties and bashed neeps, but it’s quite acceptable by itself.” She said it all with a straight face.
Hanrahan winced. “Thanks, thanks a lot, but I wouldn’t think of trying it without you.”
“Then you must come to Scotland. Soon. I’ll whip up a batch for you.”
“Watch out, I just may take you up on that.”
“I’m counting on it Captain. And meanwhile—” she kissed him on the lips—“take care of yourself. Whatever else, I think I’ve found a new friend.”
“Count on it, Miss McBean.”
He watched as she went down the steps to a line of cabs, and was still watching moments after she’d gotten into one of them, and it pulled into Washington’s traffic and was lost from view.
***
Back in his office, he suffered Joe Pearl’s inevitable comment on his loose button. He read over the statement prepared for him by Commissioner Johnson, decided he wouldn’t show up at the press conference to read it.
He thought about his promise to call Kathy about dinner. He was free, but somehow he didn’t think it would be a good idea.
He called and did his best to tell her that.
And then he went home, decided he wasn’t really hungry, and poured himself a Scotch neat.
What else?
Other Books by Margaret Truman
Murder at the FBI
Murder on Capitol Hill
Murder in the White House
Murder on Embassy Row
Murder in the Smithsonian Page 25
