From the crimson gloom behind her came the unmistakable sound of something clearing its throat.
PART TWO
SUPERSTITION
EXIBITION
= 21 =
“What’s going on here?” came the stern voice.
Margo whirled around and almost collapsed with relief. “Officer Beauregard, there’s—” she began, stopping in mid-sentence.
F. Beauregard, who was righting the brass posts that the swinging door had knocked over, looked up at the sound of his name. “Hey, you’re the girl who tried to get in earlier!” The policeman’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong, Miss, can’t take no for an answer?”
“Officer, there’s a—” Margo tried to start again, then faltered.
The officer stepped back and folded his arms across his chest, waiting. Then a look of surprise crossed his face. “What the hell? Hey, you okay, lady?”
Margo was slumped over, laughing—or crying, she wasn’t sure which—and wiping tears from her face. The policeman freed one folded hand and took her arm. “I think you should come with me.”
The implications of that last sentence—sitting in a [140] room full of policemen, telling her story again and again, maybe having Dr. Frock or even Dr. Wright called in, having to go back into that exhibition—forced Margo to straighten up. They’ll just think I’m crazy. “Oh no, that’s not necessary,” she said, snuffling. “I just had a bit of a scare.”
Officer Beauregard looked unconvinced. “I still think we should go talk to Lieutenant D’Agosta.” With his other hand, he pulled a large, leather-bound notebook out of his back pocket. “What’s your name?” he asked. “I’ll have to make a report.”
It was clear he wouldn’t let her go until she gave him the information. “My name’s Margo Green,” she said finally. “I’m a graduate student working under Dr. Frock. I was doing an assignment for George Moriarty—he’s curating this exhibition. But you were right. Nobody was in there.” She gently freed her arm from the policeman’s grip as she spoke. Then she started backing away, toward Selous Memorial Hall, still talking. Officer Beauregard watched her and finally, with a shrug, he flipped open the notebook and started writing.
Back in the Hall, Margo paused. She couldn’t go back to her office; it was almost six, and the curfew was sure to be enforced by now. She didn’t want to go home—she couldn’t go home, not just yet.
Then she remembered Moriarty’s copy. She pressed one elbow against her side-sure enough, her carryall was still there, hanging unnoticed through the ordeal. She stood still another moment, then walked over to the deserted information kiosk. She picked up the receiver of an internal phone and dialed.
One ring, then: “Moriarty here.”
“George?” she said. “It’s Margo Green.”
“Hi, Margo,” Moriarty answered. “What’s up?”
“I’m in the Selous Hall,” she replied. “I just came from the exhibition.”
“My exhibition?” Moriarty said, surprised. “What were you doing there? Who let you in?”
[141] “I was looking for you,” she answered. “I wanted to give you the Cameroon copy. Were you in there?” She felt panic rising once again to the surface.
“No. The exhibition’s supposed to be sealed, in preparation for Friday night’s opening,” Moriarty said. “Why?”
Margo was breathing deeply. trying to control herself. Her hands were trembling, and the receiver knocked against her ear.
“What did you think of it?” Moriarty asked curiously.
A hysterical giggle escaped Margo. “Scary.”
“We brought in some experts to work out the lighting and the placement of the visuals. Dr. Cuthbert even hired the man who designed Fantasyworld’s Haunted Mausoleum. That’s considered the best in the world, you know.”
Margo finally trusted herself to speak again. “George, something was in that exhibition with me.” A security guard on the far side of the Hall had spotted her, and was walking in her direction.
“What do you mean, something?”
“Exactly that!” Suddenly, she was back in the exhibit, in the dark, beside that horrible figurine. She remembered the bitter taste of terror in her mouth.
“Hey, stop shouting!” Moriarty said. “Look, let’s go to The Bones and talk this over. We’re both supposed to be out of the Museum, anyway. I hear what you’re saying, but I don’t understand it.”
The Bones, as it was called by everyone in the Museum, was known to other local residents as the Blarney Stone Tavern. Its unimposing facade was nestled between two huge, ornate co-op buildings, directly across Seventy-second Street from the Museum’s southern entrance. Unlike typical Upper West Side fern bars, the Blarney Stone did not serve hare pâté or five flavors of mineral [142] water; but you could get homemade meatloaf and a pitcher of Harp for ten dollars.
Museum staffers called it The Bones because Boylan, the owner, had hammered and wired an amazing number of bones into every available flat surface. The walls were lined with countless femurs and tibias, arranged in neat ivory ranks like bamboo matting. Metatarsals, scapulas, and patellas traced bizarre mosaics across the ceiling. Craniums from strange mammals were lodged in every conceivable niche. Where he got the bones was a mystery, but some claimed he raided the Museum at night.
“People bring ‘em in,” is all Boylan would ever say, shrugging his shoulders. Naturally, the place was a favorite hangout among the Museum staff.
The Bones was doing brisk business, and Moriarty and Margo had to push their way back through the crowd to an empty booth. Looking around, Margo spotted several Museum staffers, including Bill Smithback. The writer was seated at the bar, talking animatedly to a slender blonde woman.
“Okay,” Moriarty said, raising his voice over the babble. “Now what were you saying over the phone? I’m not quite sure I caught it.”
Margo took a deep breath. “I went down to the exhibition to give you the copy. It was dark. Something was in there. Following me. Chasing me.”
“There’s that word again, something. Why do you say that?”
Margo shook her head impatiently. “Don’t ask me to explain. There were these sounds, like padded steps. They were so stealthy, so deliberate, I—” she shrugged, at a loss. “And there was this strange smell, too. It was horrible.”
“Look, Margo—” Moriarty began, then paused while the waitress took their drink orders. “That exhibition was designed to be creepy. You told me yourself that Frock and others consider it too sensational. I can [143] imagine what it must have been like: being locked in there, alone in the dark ...”
“In other words, I just imagined it.” Margo laughed mirthlessly. “You don’t know how much I’d like to believe that.”
The drinks arrived: a light beer for Margo, and a pint of Guinness for Moriarty, topped with the requisite half-inch of creamy foam. Moriarty sipped it critically. “These killings, all the rumors that have been going around,” he said. “I probably would have reacted the same way.”
Margo, calmer now, spoke hesitantly. “George, that Kothoga figurine in the exhibition ... ?”
“Mbwun? What about it?”
“Its front legs have three claws.”
Moriarty was enjoying the Guinness. “I know. It’s a marvelous piece of sculpture, one of the highlights of the show. Of course, though I hate to admit it, I suppose its biggest attraction is the curse.”
Margo took an exploratory sip from her beer.
“George. I want you to tell me, in as much detail as you can, what you know about the Mbwun curse.”