Frock remained motionless for a moment. Then he tore off the copy and gave it to her. “I’ll have the original delivered upstairs. I have to, if we’re going to maintain the charade. The guard may call Central Processing to verify receipt. You won’t have much time. As soon as it comes in they’ll be on the alert. You will have to be gone by then.”
From a desk drawer, he withdrew a yellow paper and a key. He showed them to Margo.
“This paper holds the combination to the Secure Area vaults,” he said. “And here’s the key to the vault itself. All directors have them. With luck, Cuthbert won’t have thought to change the combinations.” He handed them to Margo. “These will get you through the doors. It’s the guards you’ll have to deal with.” He was talking fast now, his eyes locked on Margo’s. “You know what to look for in the crates. Any evidence of eggs, living organisms, even cult objects associated with the creature. [209] Anything that can prove my theory. Check the smaller crate first, Whittlesey’s crate. That’s the one that contained the Mbwun figurine. Check the others if you have time, but, for Heaven’s sake, expose yourself to as little risk as possible. Go now, my dear, and Godspeed.”
The last thing Margo saw as she left the office was Frock beneath the bow windows, his broad back turned away from her, drumming his fists repeatedly against the arms of his wheelchair. “Damn this thing!” he was saying. “Damn it to hell!”
= 30 =
Five minutes later, in her office several floors below, Margo picked up the phone and dialed. Smithback was in a rare mood. As Margo explained Moriarty’s discovery of the deleted accession record and—in somewhat less detail—the events in Frock’s office, his mood grew even more cheerful.
She heard him chuckling. “Was I right about Rickman, or what? Concealing evidence. Now I’ll make her see the book my way, or—”
“Smithback, don’t you dare,” Margo warned. “This isn’t for your personal gratification. We don’t know the story behind that journal, and we can’t worry about it, right now. We haveto get into those crates, and we only have a few minutes to do it.”
“All right, all right,” came the answer. “Meet me at the landing outside Entomology. I’m leaving now.”
“I never thought Frock could be such a radical,” Smithback said. “My respect for the old feller has just gone [211] up two notches.” He was making his way down a long flight of iron stairs. They’d taken a back way in hopes of avoiding the police checkpoints set up at all elevator banks.
“You’ve got the key and the combination, right?” he asked from the bottom of the stairs. Margo checked her carryall, then followed him.
She glanced quickly up and down the corridor. “You know how the hall outside the Secure Area has lighted alcoves along it? You go ahead, I’ll follow a minute later. Talk to the guard, try to draw him into an alcove where the light is better, on the pretext of showing him this form. Get him to turn his back for a couple of minutes, and then I’ll unlock the door and go in. Just keep him occupied. You’re a good talker.”
“That’s your plan?” Smithback scoffed. “All right.” He spun on his heels, continued down the corridor, and vanished around the corner.
Margo waited, counting to sixty. Then she moved forward, pulling on a pair of latex gloves.
Soon she could hear Smithback’s voice, already raised in righteous protest. “This paper is signed by the Chairman of the department himself! Are you trying to tell me that ...”
She poked her head around the corner. About fifty feet down the hall was an intersection with another hallway that led to the police barricades. Further down was the door to the Secure Area itself, and, beyond that, Margo could see the guard. He had his back to her, and was holding her form in one hand.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she could hear him say, “but this hasn’t gone through Processing ...”
“You’re not looking in the right place,” Smithback responded. “Take it over here where you can read it, here in the light.”
They moved down the hall away from Margo, into an illuminated alcove. As they disappeared from view, Margo came around the corner and walked briskly down [212] the hall. At the Secure Area door, she inserted the key and pushed gingerly. The door swung open on oiled hinges. She peered around the edge to make sure she was alone; the darkened room seemed empty, and she eased the door shut behind her.
Her heart was already racing, the blood pounding in her ears. She caught her breath, fumbled for the light switch. The vaults stretched ahead of her in rows to the left and right. When she noticed the third door on the right had a yellow EVIDENCE sheet taped to it, she grasped its dial with one hand and took out Frock’s scrap of paper with the other. 56-77-23. She took a deep breath and began, remembering the locker she’d once used to store her oboe in high school music class. Right, left, right...
There was a loud click. Immediately, she grabbed the lever and pulled downward. The door opened.
Inside, the crates were dim shapes against the far wall. She turned on the light and glanced at her watch. Three minutes had passed.
She had to work very quickly now. She could see the ragged marks where one of the larger crates had been torn and splintered apart. The marks sent shivers down her spine. Kneeling in front of the smaller crate, she removed its top and plunged her hands into the packing material, parting the stiff fibers to expose the artifacts.
Her hand closed around something hard. Pulling it out, Margo saw a small stone, carved with odd designs. Not very promising. She exposed a collection of what looked like jade lip plugs, then flint arrowheads, some points, a blow gun tube with a set of darts, long and sharp, the tips blackened with some hardened substance. Don’t want to be pricked by those, she thought. Still nothing worth taking. She delved deeper. The next layer held a small plant press, screwed shut; a damaged shaman’s rattle covered in grotesque designs; and a beautiful manta made of woven cloth and feathers.
On an impulse she stuffed the plant press, covered [213] with packing fibers, into her bag. The stone disc and rattle followed.
On the bottom layer, she found several jars containing small reptiles. Colorful, but nothing out of the ordinary.
Six minutes had passed. She sat up, listening, expecting any moment to hear the footsteps of the returning guard. But there was nothing.
She hastily stuffed the rest of the artifacts back into the crate and surrounded them with packing material. She picked up the lid, noting its loose inner lining. As she pried the lining away curiously, a brittle, water-damaged envelope slipped out into her lap; hastily, she crammed it into her bag.
Eight minutes. There was no time left.
Back in the central room, she listened, trying to make out the muffled sounds outside. She eased the door open a crack.
“What’s your badge number?” Smithback was saying loudly.
Margo couldn’t make out the guard’s reply. She slipped out and shut the door behind her, quickly peeling off her gloves and stuffing them into her carryall. She straightened up, looked herself up and down, then started walking past the alcove where Smithback and the guard were standing.
“Hey!”
She turned. The guard, flushed, was looking at her.
“Oh, there you are, Bill!” she said, thinking fast, hoping the guard hadn’t seen her come out the door. “Am I too late? Have you already been inside?”
“This guy won’t let me in!” Smithback complained.
“Listen, you,” the guard said, turning back to Smithback. “I’ve told you a thousand times, and I won’t tell you again. That form has to be properly processed before I can give you access. Understand?”
They’d pulled it off.
Margo looked back down the hall. In the distance, she saw a tall, lean figure approaching: Ian Cuthbert.
[214] She grabbed Smithback’s arm. “We’ve got to go. Remember our appointment? We’ll have to look at the collections some other time.”