“Absolutely,” said Kawakita. “But what was that you said about these murders not being the first?”
Smith looked at them conspiratorially. “Well, if you tell anybody I told you this I’ll deny it, but about five years back, something strange happened.” He paused for a minute, as if to gauge the effect his story was having. “There was this curator, Morrissey, or Montana, or something. He was involved with that disastrous Amazon expedition. You know the one I mean, where everyone was killed. Anyway, one day he simply vanished. Nobody ever heard from him again. So people started to whisper about it. Apparently, a guard was overheard saying that his body had been found in the basement, horribly mutilated.”
[92] “I see,” Kawakita said. “And you think the Museum Beast did it?”
“I don’t think anything,” Smith responded quickly. “I’m just telling you what I’ve heard, that’s all. I’ve heard a lot of things from a lot of people, I can tell you.”
“So has anyone seen this, ah, creature?” Kawakita asked, unsuccessfully stifling a smile.
“Why, yessir. Couple of people, in fact. You know old Carl Conover in the metal shop? Three years ago now he says he saw it, came in early to get some work done and saw it slouching around a corner in the basement. Saw it right there, plain as day.”
“Really?” said Kawakita. “What’d it look like?”
“Well—” Smith began, then stopped. Even he finally noticed Kawakita’s amusement. The old man’s expression changed. “I expect, Dr. Kawakita, that it looked a bit like Mr. Jim Beam,” he said.
Kawakita was puzzled. “Beam? I don’t believe I know him—”
Bailey Smith suddenly roared with laughter, and Margo couldn’t help grinning herself. “George,” she said, “I think he meant that Conover was drunk.”
“I see,” said Kawakita stiffly. “Of course.”
All his good humor had vanished. Doesn’t like having the joke turned on him, Margo thought. He can dish it out, but he can’t take it.
“Well, anyway,” said Kawakita briskly, “I need some specimens.”
“Now, wait just a minute!” Margo protested as Kawakita pushed his own list onto the counter. The old man eyed it and peered at the scientist.
“Week after next okay?” he asked.
= 16 =
Several floors above, Lieutenant D’Agosta sat in a huge leather sofa in the curator’s study. He smacked his lips contentedly, propped one chubby leg upon the knee of the other, and looked around. Pendergast, absorbed in a book of lithographs, was reclining in an armchair behind a desk. Above his head, in a gold rococo frame, hung a massive Audubon painting depicting the mating ritual of the snowy egret. Oak paneling with a century’s patina ran along the walls above a beadboard wainscot. Delicate gilded lights of hand-blown glass hung just below the pressed tin ceiling. A large fireplace of elaborately carved Dolomite limestone dominated one corner of the room. Nice place, D’Agosta thought. Old money. Old New York. It has class. Not the place to smoke a two-bit cigar. He lit up.
“It’s come and gone two-thirty, Pendergast,” he said, exhaling blue smoke. “Where the hell do you think Wright is?”
[94] Pendergast shrugged. “Trying to intimidate us,” he said, turning another page.
D’Agosta looked at the FBI agent for a minute.
“You know these Museum big shots, they think they can keep anybody waiting,” he said finally, watching for a reaction. “Wright and his cronies have been treating us like second-class citizens since yesterday morning.
Pendergast turned another page. “I had no idea the Museum had a complete collection of Piranesi’s Forum sketches,” he murmured.
D’Agosta snorted to himself. This should be interesting, he thought.
Over lunch, he’d made a few surreptitious calls to some friends in the Bureau. Turned out they’d not only heard of Pendergast, but they’d heard several rumors about him. Graduated with honors from some English university—probably true. A special forces officer who’d been captured in Vietnam and had later walked out of the jungle, the only survivor of a Cambodian death camp—D’Agosta wasn’t sure about that one. But he was revising his opinion nevertheless.
Now the massive door opened silently and Wright came in, the Security Director at his heels. Abruptly, Wright sat down opposite the FBI agent. “You’re Pendergast, I suppose,” the Director sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”
D’Agosta sat back to watch the fun.
There was a long silence while Pendergast turned pages. Wright shifted. “If you’re busy,” he said irritably, “We can come back another time.”
Pendergast’s face was invisible behind the large book. “No,” he said finally. “Now is a good time.” Another page was leisurely turned. Then another.
D’Agosta watched with amusement as the Director reddened.
“The Security Director isn’t needed for this meeting,” came the voice from behind the book.
[95] “Mr. Ippolito is part of the investigation—”
The agent’s eyes suddenly appeared over the spine of the book. “I’m in charge of the investigation, Dr. Wright,” Pendergast said quietly. “Now, if Mr. Ippolito would be so kind—?”
Ippolito glanced nervously at Wright, who flicked his hand in dismissal.
“Look, Mr. Pendergast,” Wright began as the door closed. “I’ve got a Museum that needs running, and I don’t have much time. I hope this can be brief.”
Pendergast laid the open book carefully on the desk in front of him.
“I’ve often thought,” he said slowly, “that this early classicist stuff of Piranesi’s was his best. Do you agree?” Wright looked utterly astonished. “I fail to see,” he stammered, “what that has to do with—”
“His later work was interesting, of course, but too fantastical for my taste,” Pendergast replied.
“Actually,” said the Director in his best lecture voice, “I’ve always thought—”
The book slammed shut like a shot. “Actually, Dr. Wright,” Pendergast said tightly, his courtly manner gone, “it’s time to forget what you’ve always thought. We’re going to play a little game here. I’m going to talk, and y’all are going to listen. Understood?”
Wright sat speechless. Then his face mottled in anger. “Mr. Pendergast, I will not be spoken to in that manner—”
Pendergast cut him off. “In case you haven’t read the headlines, Dr. Wright, there have been three grisly murders in this Museum in the last forty-eight hours. Three. The press is speculating that some kind of ferocious beast is responsible. Museum attendance is down fifty percent since the weekend. Your staff is very upset, to put it mildly. Have you bothered taking a stroll through your Museum today, Dr. Wright? You might find it edifying. The feeling of dread is almost palpable. Most [96] people, if they leave their offices at all, travel in twos and threes. The maintenance staff is finding any reasons it can to avoid the Old Basement. Yet you prefer to act as if nothing is wrong. Believe me, Dr. Wright, something is extremely wrong.”
Pendergast leaned forward, and slowly folded his arms on top of the book. There was something so menacing in his deliberateness, so cold in his pale eyes, that the Director sat back involuntarily. D’Agosta unconsciously held his breath. Then Pendergast continued.
“Now we can handle this one of three ways,” he said. “Your way, my way, or the Bureau’s way. So far, your way has been far too much in evidence. I understand that the police investigation has been subtly obstructed. Phone calls are returned late, if at all. Staff are busy or not to be found. Those who are available—such as Mr. Ippolito—have not proven particularly useful. People are late to appointments. Why, it’s enough to make one suspicious. As of now, your way is no longer acceptable.”