“As I was saying,” Smithback continued, ignoring the outburst, “she’s supposedly an expert on big cats. Dr. Matilda Ziewicz. Some name, huh. Sounds fat.”
Despite her annoyance, Margo suppressed a smile. Smithback might be a jerk, but at least he was a funny jerk. She shoved her tray away. “Where’d you hear all this?” she asked.
Smithback grinned. “I have my sources.” He shoveled another piece of lasagna into his mouth. “Actually, I ran into a friend who writes for the News. Somebody got the story from a contact in the NYPD. It’s going to be all over the afternoon papers. Can you imagine Wright’s face when he sees that? Oh, God.”
Smithback cackled for a moment before filling his [41] mouth again. He’d finished his own and was starting on Margo’s. For a thin guy, he ate like a beast.
“But how could there be a wild animal loose in the Museum?” Margo asked. “That’s absurd.”
“Yeah? Well, get this: They’ve got someone in here with a bloodhound, trying to track the son of a bitch.”
“Now you’re joking.”
“Hey, not me. Ask any of the security guards. There’s a million square feet in this joint where a big cat or something could be roaming, including five miles of forced-air ducts big enough for a man to crawl around in. And under the Museum is a warren of abandoned tunnels. They’re taking it seriously.”
“Tunnels?”
“Yup. Didn’t you read my article in last month’s magazine? The first Museum was built on an artesian swamp that couldn’t be permanently drained. So they built all these tunnels to divert the water. Then, when the original Museum burned down in 1911, they built the present Museum on top of the old Museum’s basement. The subbasement is huge, multileveled ... much of it isn’t even electrified. I doubt if there’s anybody still alive who really knows their way around down there.”
Smithback munched the last piece of lasagna and pushed the tray aside. “And then, there’re the usual rumors about the Museum Beast.”
Anybody who worked in the Museum had heard that story. Maintenance men working late-night shifts saw it out of the corners of their eyes. Assistant curators wandering down dimly lit corridors on their way to specimen vaults saw it moving in the shadows. Nobody knew what it was, or where it had come from, but some claimed the beast had killed a man several years before.
Margo decided to change the subject. “Is Rickman still giving you trouble?” she asked.
At the mention of the name, Smithback grimaced. Margo knew that Lavinia Rickman, the Chief of Public Relations for the Museum, had hired Smithback to write [42] his book. She had also worked out the Museum’s cut of the advance and royalties. Although Smithback wasn’t happy about the contractual details, the exhibition promised to be such a blockbuster that book sales, riding on the success of the exhibit, could easily climb into six figures. It hadn’t been a bad deal for Smithback at all, Margo thought, given the only modest success of his previous book on the Boston Aquarium.
“Rickman? Trouble?” Smithback snorted. “Oh, God. She’s the definition of trouble. Listen, I want to read you something.” He pulled a sheaf of papers out of a notebook.
“ ‘When Dr. Cuthbert pitched the idea for an exhibition on Superstition to the Museum Director, Wright was very impressed. It had all the makings of a blockbuster exhibition, something on the level of The Treasures of King Tut or The Seven Levels of Troy. That meant big money for the Museum, Wright knew, and an unparalleled opportunity to raise funds from corporate and government sponsorship. But some older curators were unconvinced; they thought the exhibit smacked of sensationalism.’ ”
Smithback stopped. “Look what Rickman did.” He pushed the paper over to her. A big line sliced across the paragraph and a marginal note in fat red marker read: OUT!
Margo giggled.
“What’s so funny?” Smithback demanded. “She’s butchering my manuscript. Look at this.” He jabbed his finger at another page.
Margo shook her head. “What Rickman wants is a snow job for the Museum. You two won’t ever see eye to eye.”
“She’s driving me crazy. She’s taking out everything that’s the slightest bit controversial. She wants me to spend all my time talking to that nerd who’s curating the exhibition. She knows that he’ll only say what his boss Cuthbert tells him to.” He leaned forward [43] conspiratorially. “You’ve never seen such a company man in your life.” He looked up, and groaned. “Oh, God, here he comes now.”
A young, slightly overweight man with horn-rimmed glasses materialized at their table, holding a tray balanced on a shiny leather briefcase. “May I join you?” he asked shyly. “I’m afraid this is practically the only seat left in the house.”
“Sure,” said Smithback. “Have a seat. We were just talking about you, anyway. Margo, meet George Moriarty. He’s the guy who’s curating the Superstition exhibition.”
Smithback shook the papers at Moriarty. “Look what Rickman did to my manuscript. The only things she didn’t touch were your quotations.”
Moriarty scanned the pages and looked at Smithback with almost childlike gravity. “I’m not surprised,” he said. “Why air the Museum’s dirty linen, anyway?”
“Come on, George. This is what makes for an interesting story!”
Moriarty turned to Margo. “You’re the graduate student working on ethnopharmacology, aren’t you?” he asked.
“That’s right,” she said, flattered. “How did you know?”
“I’m interested in the subject.” He smiled and looked at her briefly. “The exhibition has several cases devoted to pharmacology and medicine. I wanted to talk to you about one of them, actually.”
“Sure. What did you have in mind?” She looked at Moriarty more closely. He was about as average a Museum character as she could imagine: average height, a little pudgy, hair an average brown. His rumpled tweed jacket sported the heather tones that were regulation Museum-issue. The only things unusual about him were his large wristwatch, shaped like a sundial, and his eyes: an unusually clear hazel, shining with intelligence from behind his horn-rims.
[44] Smithback sat forward, shifted irritably in his chair, and stared at the two. “Well,” he said, “I’d like to stay on and witness this charming scene, but I’m interviewing someone in the Bug Room on Wednesday, and I need to finish my current chapter. George, don’t sign any movie contracts for that exhibition of yours without talking to me first.” He stood up with a snort and made for the door, threading a complex path between tables as he went.
= 8 =
Jonathan Hamm peered down the basement corridor through a thick pair of glasses that badly needed cleaning. Leather leashes were wrapped around his blackgloved hands, and two hounds sat obediently at his feet. His assistant tracker stood beside him. Next to the assistant was Lieutenant D’Agosta, holding soiled, heavily creased blueprints, his two deputies leaning against the wall behind him. Police-issue pump-action Remington 12-gauges hung off their shoulders.
D’Agosta rustled through the blueprints. “Can’t the dogs smell which way to go?” he asked irritably. Hamm let out a long breath. “Hounds. They’re hounds. And they’re not on a scent. They haven’t been on a good scent since we began. Or rather, they’ve been on too many scents.”
D’Agosta grunted, withdrew a sodden cigar from his jacket pocket, and began to raise it toward his mouth. Hamm caught his eye.
[46] “Oh yeah,” said D’Agosta. He pushed the cigar back into his pocket.
Hamm sniffed the air. It was damp, which was good. But that was the only good thing about this little picnic. First, there was the usual stupidity of the police. What kind of dogs are these? they’d asked. We wanted bloodhounds. These were hounds, he’d explained, a blue-tick hound and a black-and-tan coonhound. Given the right conditions, these hounds could track a lost hiker after a three-foot blizzard. But these, thought Hamm, aren’t exactly the right conditions.