Frock blinked in the cold white light. “Lieutenant D’Agosta told me these skeletons came out of the West Side Lateral Drain.”
“That’s right,” said D’Agosta.
“Flushed out by the recent storm.”
“That’s the theory.”
“Perhaps feral dogs worried our couple while their dead bodies lay in the drain system.”
“That’s one possibility,” said Brambell. “I would estimate the pressure required to make the deepest of those pressure marks at around 1200 psi. A bit high for a dog, don’t you think?”
“Not for, say, a Rhodesian Ridgeback,” said Frock.
Brambell inclined his head. “Or the Hound of the Baskervilles, Professor?”
Frock frowned at the sarcasm. “I’m not convinced those marks are as powerful as you believe.”
“Alligator,” said D’Agosta.
All heads turned toward him.
“Alligator,” he repeated, almost defensively. “You know. They get flushed down the toilets as babies, then grow big in the sewers.” He looked around. “I read it somewhere.”
Brambell issued a chuckle as dry as dust. “Alligators, like all reptiles, have cone-shaped teeth. These marks were made by small triangular mammalian teeth, probably canines.”
“Canine, but not dog?” Frock said. “Let’s not forget the principle of Occam’s razor. The simplest explanation is usually the correct one.”
Brambell tilted his head in Frock’s direction. “I know that Occam’s razor is held in great esteem in yourprofession, Dr. Frock. In mine,we find the Holmesian philosophy more apt: ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable,must be the truth.’ ”
“So what answer remains, Dr. Brambell?” Frock snapped.
“As of this moment, I have no explanation.”
Frock settled back in the wheelchair. “This second skeleton is interesting. Perhaps even worth the trip in from Mendham. But you forget that I am now retired.”
Margo watched him, frowning. Normally, the professor would have been more entranced by a puzzle such as this. She wondered if—perhaps in the same way as herself—Frock was reminded of the events of eighteen months before. If so, perhaps he was resisting. It was not the kind of reminiscence likely to ensure tranquil retirement.
Olivia Merriam spoke up. “Dr. Frock,” she said, “we were hoping that you would be willing to assist in the analysis of the skeleton. Because of the unusual circumstances, the Museum has agreed to put its laboratory at the disposal of the police. We’ll be happy to provide you an office on the fifth floor, with secretary, for as long as necessary.”
Frock raised his eyebrows. “Surely the City Morgue has all the latest equipment. Not to mention the luminous medical talents of Dr. Brambell here.”
“You are correct about the luminous talent, Dr. Frock,” Brambell replied. “But as for having the latest equipment, you are sadly in error. The budget shortfalls of recent years have left us rather behind the times. Besides, the Morgue is a bit public for this sort of thing. Right now, we are infested with reporters and television crews.” He paused. “And, of course, we don’t have your particular expertise at the City Morgue.”
“Thank you,” Frock said. He gestured at the second skeleton. “But how hard could it be to identify someone who in life must have looked like, ahem, the Missing Link?”
“Believe me, we’ve tried,” said D’Agosta. “Over the last twenty-four hours, we’ve checked every missing Tom, Dick, and Harry in the Instate area. Nothing. And as far as we can tell, no freak like this ever existed, let alone one who got himself lost and chewed up in the New York City sewers.”
Frock seemed not to hear the answer to his question. His head sunk slowly to his chest and he remained motionless for several minutes. Except for an impatient cluck from Dr. Brambell, the laboratory was still. At last, Frock roused himself, sighed deeply, and nodded with what to Margo seemed like weary resignation. “Very well. I can give you a week. I have other business in the city to attend to. I assume you wish Dr. Green here to assist me?”
Too late, Margo realized she hadn’t given any thought to why she had been invited to this secret gathering. But now it was clear. She knew that Frock trusted her completely. Together, they had solved the mystery of the Museum Beast killings. They must have figured,she thought, that Frock would work with me and nobody else.
“Wait a minute,” she blurted. “I can’t do that.”
All eyes turned toward her, and Margo realized she had spoken more sharply than she’d meant to. “What I mean is, I don’t think I can spare the time right now,” she stammered.
Frock looked at her, comprehension in his eyes. More than anyone else, he understood this assignment was guaranteed to stir up fearsome memories.
Director Merriam’s narrow features creased into a frown. “I’ll speak to Dr. Hawthorne,” she said. “You’ll be given whatever time necessary to assist the police.”
Margo opened her mouth to protest, then decided against it. Too bad, she thought, that her curatorial appointment at the Museum was too recent for her to refuse.
“Very good,” said Brambell, a tight smile briefly cracking his face. “I will be working alongside the two of you, of course. Before we disperse, I might just emphasize that the utmost discretion will be required. It was bad enough having to release the news that Pamela Wisher had been found dead and decapitated. If word ever gets out that our socialite was nibbled on after death… or perhaps before…” His voice trailed off, and he smoothed a hand over his bald pate.
Frock glanced up sharply. “The teeth marks are not postmortem?”
“That, Dr. Frock, is the question of the hour. Or one of them, at least. The Mayor and the Chief of Police are waiting rather impatiently for results.”
Frock made no reply, and it was clear to everybody that the meeting was at an end. The group turned to go, most of them eager to distance themselves from the gaunt brownish things that lay on the specimen tables.
As she walked past, the Museum Director turned briefly toward Margo. “Let me know if I can help in any way,” she said.
Dr. Brambell took in Frock and Margo with one last sweep of his eyes, then followed the Director out the door.
Last to leave was Lieutenant D’Agosta. In the doorway, he paused for a moment. “If you have to talk to anyone, talk to me.” He opened his mouth as if to say more, then stopped, nodded, and turned away abruptly. The door closed behind him and Margo was alone: with Frock, Pamela Wisher, and the bizarrely malformed skeleton.
Frock sat up in his wheelchair. “Lock the door please, Margo,” he said, “and get the rest of the lights up.” He wheeled himself toward the specimen table. “I guess you’d better wash and put on scrubs.”
Margo glanced at the two skeletons. Then she looked toward her old professor.
“Dr. Frock?” she began. “You don’t think this could be the work of a—”
He turned suddenly, an odd expression on his ruddy face. Their eyes locked, and he shook his head.
“Don’t,” he whispered fiercely. “Not until we’re certain.”
Margo held his gaze for a moment. Finally she nodded and turned toward the bank of light switches. What had not been said between them was much more unsettling than the two grisly skeletons.
= 6 =
IN THE SMOKY recesses of the Cat’s Paw bar, Smithback wedged himself into a narrow telephone booth. Balancing his drink in one hand and squinting at the buttons in the dim light, he dialed the number of his office, wondering how many messages would be waiting for him this time.
Smithback never doubted that he was one of the greatest journalists in New York. Probably thegreatest. A year and a half ago, he’d brought the story of the Museum Beast to the world. And not in the usual dickless, detached way: He’d been there with D’Agosta and the others, struggling in the dark on that April night. On the strength of the book which quickly followed, he’d secured this position as Postcrime correspondent. Now the Wisher thing had come along, and none too soon, either. Big stories were rarer than he could have guessed, and there were always others—like that stain-on-the-wall Bryce Harriman, crime reporter for the Times—out to scoop him. But if he played it right, this could be as big as the Mbwun story had been. Maybe bigger.