“Not at all,” the Security Director replied quickly. “The Secure Area is for storing especially rare and valuable objects. This is the best-protected museum in the country. We’ve recently installed a system of sliding metal doors throughout the Museum. They’re all linked to our computer system, and in the event of a burglary we can seal off the Museum in sections, just like the watertight compartments on a—”
“I get the picture, Mr. Ippolito, thank you very much,” Pendergast said. “Interesting. An old copper-sheathed door,” he said, examining it closely.
D’Agosta saw that the copper covering was riddled with shallow dents.
“Fresh dents, by the look of them,” Pendergast said. “Now, what do you make of this?” He pointed downward.
“Jesus H. Christ,” breathed D’Agosta, looking at the lower section of the door. The wooden door frame was scored and gouged into a welter of fresh splinters, as if something with claws had been scrabbling at it.
Pendergast stepped back. “I want the entire door analyzed, if you please, Lieutenant. And now to see what’s inside. Mr. Ippolito, if you would be so kind as to open the door without getting your hands all over it?”
“I’m not supposed to let anyone in there without clearance.”
D’Agosta looked at him in disbelief. “You mean you want us to get a damn warrant?”
[87] “Oh, no, no, it’s just that—”
“He forgot the key,” said Pendergast. “We’ll wait.”
“I’ll be right back,” said Ippolito, and his hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor. When he was out of hearing D’Agosta turned to Pendergast. “I hate to say it, Pendergast, but I like the way you work. That was pretty slick, the painting, and the way you handled Ippolito. Good luck with the New York boys.”
Pendergast looked amused. “Thank you. The feeling is mutual. I’m glad I am working with you, Lieutenant, and not one of these hard-boiled fellows. Judging from what happened back there, you still have a heart. You’re still a normal human being.”
D’Agosta laughed. “Naw, it wasn’t that. It was the fucking scrambled eggs with ham and cheese and ketchup I had for breakfast. And that crew cut. I hate crew cuts.”
= 15 =
The herbarium door was shut, as usual, despite the sign that read DO NOT CLOSE THIS DOOR. Margo knocked. Come on, Smith, I know you’re in there. She knocked again, louder, and heard a querulous voice: “All right, hold your horses! I’m coming!”
The door opened and Bailey Smith, the old Curatorial Assistant of the herbarium, sat back down at his desk with an enormous sigh of irritation and began shuffling through his mail.
Margo stepped forward resolutely. Bailey Smith seemed to consider his job a gross imposition. And when at last he got around to things, it was hard to shut him up. Normally Margo would have merely sent down a requisition slip and avoided the ordeal. But she needed to examine the Kiribitu plant specimens as soon as possible for her next dissertation chapter. Moriarty’s write-up was still unfinished, and she’d been hearing rumors of another horrible killing that might shut the Museum down for the rest of the day.
[89] Bailey Smith hummed, ignoring her. Though he was nearly eighty, Margo suspected he only feigned deafness to annoy people.
“Mr. Smith!” she called out. “I need these specimens, please.” She pushed a list over the counter top. “Right away, if possible.”
Smith grunted, rose from his chair, and slowly picked up the list, scanning it disapprovingly. “May take awhile to locate, you know. How about tomorrow morning?”
“Please, Mr. Smith. I’ve heard they might close down the Museum at any moment. I really need these specimens.”
Scenting the chance to gossip, the old man became friendlier. “Terrible business,” he said, shaking his head. “In my forty-two years here I’ve never seen anything like it. But I can’t say I’m surprised,” he added, with a significant nod.
Margo didn’t want to get Smith going. She said nothing.
“But not the first, from what I hear. And not the last, either.” He turned with the list, holding it in front of his nose. “What’s this? Muhlenbergia dunbarii? We don’t have any of that.”
Then Margo heard a voice behind her.
“Not the first?”
It was Gregory Kawakita, the young Assistant Curator who had accompanied her to the staff lounge the previous morning. Margo had read the Museum’s bio of Kawakita: born to wealthy parents, orphaned young, he had left his native Yokohama and grown up with relatives in England. After studying at Magdalene College, Oxford, he moved to M.I.T. for graduate work, then on to the Museum and an assistant curatorship. He was Frock’s most brilliant protégé, which made Margo occasionally resentful. To her, Kawakita didn’t seem the kind of scientist who’d wish to be allied with Frock. Kawakita had an instinctual sense for Museum politics, and Frock was controversial, an iconoclast. But despite [90] his self-absorption, Kawakita was undeniably brilliant, and he was working with Frock on a model of genetic mutation that no one but the two of them seemed to fully understand. With Frock’s guidance, Kawakita was developing the Extrapolator, a program that could compare and combine genetic codes of different species. When they ran their data through the Museum’s powerful computer, the system’s throughput was reduced to such a degree that people joked it was in “hand calculator mode.”
“Not the first what?” asked Smith, giving Kawakita an unwelcoming stare.
Margo flashed a warning glance at Kawakita, but he continued. “You said something about this murder not being the first.”
“Greg, did you have to?” Margo groaned sotto voce. “I’ll never get my plant specimens now.”
“I’m not surprised by any of this,” Smith continued. “Now, I’m not a superstitious man,” he said, leaning on the counter, “but this isn’t the first time some creature has prowled the halls of the Museum. At least that’s what people say. Not that I believe a word of it, mind you.”
“Creature?” asked Kawakita.
Margo gave Kawakita a light kick in the shins.
“I’m only repeating what everyone’s talking about, Dr. Kawakita. I don’t believe in starting false rumors.”
“Of course not,” said Kawakita, winking at Margo. Smith fixed Kawakita with a stern glare. “They say it’s been around a long time. Living down in the basement, eating rats and mice and cockroaches. Have you noticed there aren’t any rats or mice loose in the Museum? There should be, God knows they’re all over the rest of New York. But not here. Curious, don’t you think?”
“I hadn’t noticed,” said Kawakita. “I’ll make a special effort to check that out.”
“Then there was a researcher here who was breeding [91] cats for some experiment,” Smith continued. “Sloane I think his name was, Doctor Sloane, in the Animal Behavior Department. One day a dozen of his cats escaped. And you know what? They were never seen again. Vanished. Now that’s kind of funny. You’d expect one or two at least to show up.”
“Maybe they left because there weren’t any mice to eat,” said Kawakita.
Smith ignored him. “Some say it hatched from one of those crates of dinosaur eggs brought back from Siberia.”
“I see,” said Kawakita, trying to suppress a grin. “Dinosaurs loose in the Museum.”
Smith shrugged. “I only say what I hear. Others think it was something brought back from one of the graves they’ve robbed over the years. Some artifact with a curse. You know, like the King Tut curse. And if you ask me, those fellows deserve what they get. I don’t care what they call it, archaeology, anthropology, or hoodooology, it’s just plain old grave robbing to me. You don’t see them digging up their grandmother’s graves, but they sure don’t hesitate to dig up somebody else’s and take all the goodies. Am I right?”