Then the keytaps stopped. “Margo,” Moriarty said quietly. “I’ve got it.”
The screen filled. [194]
**DETAIL LISTING**
Item: 1989-2006.2
###################################
Removed By: Rickman, L. 53210
Approvaclass="underline" Cuthbert, I. 40123
Removal Date: 3/15/95
Removal To: Personal supervision
Reason:
Return Date:
###################################
Removed By: Depardieu, B. 72412
Approvaclass="underline" Cuthbert, I. 40123
RemLW/@;oval Date: 10/1/90
Remov~DS*-~@2e34 5WIFU
=++ET2 34 h34!~
DB ERROR
=:?
“Hell!” Moriarty exclaimed. “I was afraid of that. It’s been partially overwritten, corrupted. See that? It just trails off into garbage.”
“Yes, but look!” Margo said excitedly.
Moriarty examined the screen. “The journal was removed by Mrs. Rickman two weeks ago, with Dr. Cuthbert’s permission. No return date.”
Margo snorted. “Cuthbert said the journal had been lost.”
“So why was this record deleted? And by whom?” Suddenly his eyes widened. “Oh, Lord, I have to release my lock on the tape before somebody notices us.” His fingers danced over the keys.
“George,” Margo said. “Do you know what this means? They took the journal out of the crates before [195] the killings started. Around the time Cuthbert had the crates put in the Secure Area. Now they’re concealing evidence from the police. Why?”
Moriarty frowned. “You’re starting to sound like Smithback,” he said. “There could be a thousand explanations.”
“Name one,” Margo challenged.
“The most obvious would be that somebody else deleted the detail record before Rickman could add a Lost Artifact notation.”
Margo shook her head. “I don’t believe it. There are just too many coincidences.”
“Margo—” Moriarty began. Then he sighed. “Listen,” he went on patiently, “this is a trying time for all of us, you especially. I know you’re trying to make a tough decision, and then with a crisis like this ... well ...”
“These murders weren’t committed by some garden-variety maniac,” Margo interrupted impatiently. “I’m notcrazy.”
“I’m not saying that,” Moriarty continued. “I just think you ought to let the police handle this. It’s a very, very dangerous business. And you should be concentrating on your own life right now. Digging into this won’t help you make up your mind about your own future.” He swallowed. “And it won’t bring your father back.”
“Is that what you think?” Margo blazed. “You don’t—”
She broke off abruptly as her eye fell on the wall clock. “Jesus. I’m late for my meeting with Dr. Frock.” She grabbed her carryall and headed for the door. Halfway into the hall, she turned around. “I’ll speak to youlater,” she said.
The door slammed.
God, Moriarty thought, sitting at the darkened [196] terminal and resting his chin in his hands. If a graduate student in plant genetics actually thinks Mbwun might be loose—if even Margo Green starts seeing conspiracies behind every door—what about the rest of the Museum?
= 29 =
Margo watched Frock spill his sherry down his shirtfront.
“Blast,” he said, dabbing with plump hands. He set the glass down on the desk with exaggerated care and looked up at Margo.
“Thank you for coming to me, my dear. It’s an extraordinary discovery. I’d say we should go down there this moment and take another look at the figurine, but that Pendergast fellow will be here shortly to make a further nuisance of himself.”
Bless You, Agent Pendergast, Margo thought. The last thing she felt like doing was going back down into the exhibition.
Frock sighed. “No matter, we’ll know soon enough. Once Pendergast leaves, we’ll learn the truth. This Mbwun figurine could be the additional proof I’ve been searching for. If, that is, you are correct about the claws matching the lacerations in the victim.”
[198] “But how could such a creature be loose in the Museum?” Margo asked.
“Ah!” Frock exclaimed, eyes shining. “That’s the question, is it not? And let me answer a question with a question. What thing, my dear Margo, is rugose?”
“I don’t know,” Margo said. “Rugose, as in bumpy?”
“Yes. It’s a regular pattern of ridges, wrinkles, or creases. I’ll tell you what’s rugose. Reptilian eggs are rugose. As are dinosaur eggs.”
A sudden current passed through Margo as she remembered. “That’s the word—“
“—that Cuthbert used to describe the seed pods missing from the crate,” Frock finished her sentence. “I ask you: were they reallyseed pods‘? What kind of seed pod would look wrinkled and scaly? But an egg ...
Frock drew himself up in his wheelchair. “Next question. Where have they gone? Were they stolen? Or did something else happen to them?”
Abruptly, the scientist stopped, sinking back in his wheelchair, shaking his head.
“But if something ... if something hatched, something broke out of the crates,” Margo said, “how does that explain the killings on board the freighter that carried the crates from South America?”
“Margo,” Frock said, laughing quietly, “what we have here is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. It is essentialthat we gather more facts without wasting additional time.”
There was a soft rapping at the door.
“That must be Pendergast,” Frock said, drawing back. Then, louder: “Come in, please!”
The agent walked in, carrying a briefcase, his black suit as ever impeccable, his blond white hair brushed back from his face. To Margo, he looked as collected and placid as before. When Frock gestured to one of the Victorian chairs, Pendergast seated himself.
“A pleasure to see you again, sir,” Frock said. “You’ve [199] met Miss Green. We were once again in the middle of something just now, so I hope you won’t mind if she remains.”
Pendergast waved his hand. “Of course. I know you’ll both continue to respect my request for confidentiality.”
“Of course,” said Frock.
“Dr. Frock, I know you’re busy and I’ll keep this short,” Pendergast began. “I was hoping you’d had some success in locating the artifact we spoke about. An artifact that might have been used as a weapon in these murders.”
Frock shifted in the wheelchair. “As you requested, I considered the matter further. I ran a search of our accession database, both for single items and for items that could potentially have been broken apart and recombined.” He shook his head. “Unfortunately, I found nothing that even remotely resembled the imprint you showed us. There has never been anything like it in the collections.”
Pendergast’s expression betrayed nothing. Then he smiled. “Officially, we’d never admit this, but the case is—shall we say—a trying one.” He indicated his briefcase. “I am awash in false sightings, lab reports, interviews. But we’re slow in finding a fit.”