Текст книги "Relic"

= 18 =

Wednesday

Frock sat in his wheelchair, dabbing his forehead with a Gucci handkerchief. “Sit down, please,” he said to Margo. “Thank you for coming so promptly. It’s dreadful, just dreadful.”

“The poor guard,” she replied. Nobody in the Museum was talking about anything else.

“Guard?” Frock looked up. “Oh yes, quite a tragedy. No, I mean this.” He held up a memorandum.

“All sorts of new rules,” said Frock. “Very inconvenient. Effective today, staff are only allowed in the building between ten and five. No working late or on Sundays. There will be guards stationed in each department. You’ll be expected to sign in and out of Anthropology each day. They are asking everybody to carry IDs at all times. Nobody will be allowed to enter or leave the Museum without one.”

He continued reading. “Let’s see, what else ... ah, yes. Try as much as possible to keep to your assigned section. And I’m supposed to tell you not to go into [108] isolated areas of the Museum alone. If you need to go somewhere, go with someone. The police will be interviewing everyone who works in the Old Basement. Yours is scheduled for early next week. And various sections of the Museum are being posted as off-limits.” He pushed the memo across the desk.

Margo saw a floor plan attached, the off-limits areas shaded in red. “Don’t worry,” Frock continued. “I note your office is just outside the area.”

Lovely, thought Margo. Just outside where the murderer is probably lurking. “This seems like a complicated arrangement, Professor Frock. Why didn’t they just close the whole Museum?”

“No doubt they tried, my dear. I’m sure Winston talked them out of it. If Superstitiondoesn’t open on schedule, the Museum will be in deep trouble.” Frock held out his hand for the memo. “Shall we consider this discussed? There are other things I wish to talk to you about.”

Margo nodded. The Museum will be in deep trouble. It seemed to her that it already was. Her office mate, along with half of the Museum staff, had called in sick that morning. Those who did show up were spending most of their time at the coffee machines or photocopiers, trading rumors and staying in groups. If that wasn’t bad enough, the Museum’s exhibit halls were nearly empty. The vacationing families, school groups, shouting children—the normal visitors—were few and far between. Now the Museum attracted mostly ghoulish rubberneckers.

“I was curious whether you’d obtained any of the plants for your chapter on the Kiribitu yet,” Frock continued. “I thought it might be a useful exercise for both of us to run them through the Extrapolator.”

The telephone rang. “Blast,” Frock said, picking up the receiver. “Yes?” he demanded.

There was a long silence. “Is this necessary?” Frock asked. Then he paused. “If you insist,” he concluded, [109] dropping the phone into its cradle and heaving a great sigh.

“The authorities want me down in the basement, Heaven knows why. Somebody named Pendergast. Would you mind wheeling me down? We can chat along the way.”

In the elevator, Margo continued. “I was able to get a few specimens from the herbarium, though not as many as I’d wanted. But I don’t understand. You’re suggesting we run them through the G.S.E.?”

“Correct,” Frock replied. “Depending on the condition of the plants, of course. Is there printable material?”

G.S.E. stood for Genetic Sequence Extrapolator, the program being developed by Kawakita and Frock for analyzing genetic “prints.”

“The plants are in good condition, for the most part,” Margo admitted. “But, Dr. Frock, I don’t see what use they could be to the Extrapolator.” Am I just jealous of Kawakita?She wondered to herself. Is that why I’m resisting?

“My dear Margo, your situation is tailor-made!” Frock exclaimed, using her first name in his excitement. “You can’t replay evolution. But you can simulateit with computers. Perhaps these plants are allied genetically, along the same lines as the Kiribitu shamans have developed for their own classification. Wouldn’t that make an interesting sidebar for your dissertation?”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Margo said.

“We’re beta-testing the program now, and this is exactly the kind of scenario we need,” Frock continued eagerly. “Why don’t you talk to Kawakita about working together?”

Margo nodded. Privately, she thought that Kawakita didn’t seem like the type who wanted to share his spotlight—or even his research—with anybody.

The elevator door opened onto a checkpoint manned by two police officers armed with shotguns. “Are you Dr. Frock?” one asked.

[110] “Yes,” Frock replied irritably.

“Come with us, please.”

Margo wheeled Frock through several intersections, arriving at last at a second checkpoint. Behind the barricade stood two more policemen and a tall, thin man in a somber black suit, blond white hair combed severely back from his forehead. As the policemen moved the barricade, he stepped forward.

“You must be Dr. Frock,” he said, extending his hand. “Thank you for coming down. As I told you, I’m expecting another visitor, so I wasn’t able to come by your office myself. Had I known you were—” he indicated the wheelchair with a nod, “—I would never have asked. Special Agent Pendergast.” He held out his hand. Interesting accent, thought Margo. Alabama? This guy doesn’t look anything like an FBI agent.

“Quite all right,” said Frock, mollified by Pendergast’s courtesy. “This is my assistant, Miss Green.” Pendergast’s hand felt cool in Margo’s grasp.

“It’s an honor to meet such a distinguished scientist as yourself,” Pendergast continued. “I hope time will permit me to read your latest book.”

“Thank you.” Frock nodded.

“In it, do you apply the ‘Gambler’s Ruin’ scenario to your theory of evolution? I always thought that backed up your hypothesis rather well, especially if you assume most genera start out close to the absorbing boundary.”

Frock sat up in his wheelchair. “Well, ah, I was planning to make certain references to that in my next book.” He seemed at a loss for words.

Pendergast nodded to the officers, who readjusted the barrier. “I need your help, Dr. Frock,” he said in a lower tone.

“Certainly,” Frock said amiably. Margo was amazed at how quickly Pendergast had won Frock’s cooperation.

“I must ask, first of all, that this discussion be kept among ourselves for the time being,” said Pendergast. “May I have your assurance? And that of Ms. Green?”

[111] “Of course,” said Frock. Margo nodded.

Pendergast motioned to one of the officers, who brought forward a large plastic bag marked EVIDENCE. From it he removed a small, dark object, which he handed to Frock.

“What you’re holding,” he said, “is the latex cast of a claw found embedded in one of the children that were murdered last weekend.”

Margo leaned forward for a closer look. It was about an inch long, perhaps a little less, curved and jagged.

“A claw?” Frock said, bringing the object close to his face and examining it. “Very unusual. But I’d guess it’s a fake.”

Pendergast smiled. “We haven’t been able to identify its source, Doctor. But I’m not sure it’s a fake. In the root canal of the claw we found some matter, which is now being sequenced for DNA. The results are still ambiguous, and our tests are continuing.”

Frock raised his eyebrows. “Interesting.”

“Now this,” said Pendergast, reaching into the bag and withdrawing a much larger object, “is a reconstruction of the instrument that raked the same child.” He handed it to Frock.

Margo looked at the cast with disgust. At one end, the latex was mottled and uneven, but at the other, details were clear and well-defined. It ended in three hooked claws: a large central claw, and two shorter talons on either side.

“Good heavens!” said Frock. “This looks saurian.”

“Saurian?” asked Pendergast dubiously.

“ Dino-saurian,” said Frock. “Typical ornithischian forelimb, I should say, with one difference. Look here. The central digital process is thickened enormously, while the talons themselves are undersized.”

Pendergast raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. “Well, sir,” he said slowly, “we’d been leaning toward the big cats, or some other mammalian carnivore.”

[112] “But surelyyou know, Mr. Pendergast, that all mammalian predators have five digits.”

“Of course, Doctor,” said Pendergast. “If you would indulge me for a moment, I’d like to describe a scenario to you.”

“Certainly,” said Frock.

“There is a theory that the murderer is using this—” he hefted the forelimb—“as a weapon to rake his victims. We feel that what I’m holding might be the impression of an artifactof some kind, something made by a primitive tribe out of, say, a jaguar or lion forelimb. The DNA appears to be degraded. It may be an old artifact, collected by the Museum a long time ago, then stolen.”

Frock’s head lowered until his chin was on his chest. The silence stretched out, broken only by the shuffling of the policemen by the barricade. Then Frock spoke.

“The guard who was killed? Did his wounds show evidence of a broken or missing claw?”

“Good question,” Pendergast said. “See for yourself.” He slid his hand into the plastic bag and removed a heavy plaque of latex, a long rectangle with three jagged ridges down its middle.

“This is a cast of one of the guard’s abdominal wounds,” Pendergast explained. Margo shuddered. It was a vile-looking thing.

Frock peered at the deep ridges intently. “The penetration must have been remarkable. But the wound shows no indication of a broken claw. Therefore, you are suggesting that twosuch artifacts are in use by the murderer.”

Pendergast looked a little uncomfortable, but nodded.

Frock’s head sank once more. The silence went on for minutes. “Another thing,” he suddenly said, quite loudly. “Do you see how the claw marks draw togetherslightly? How they are farther apart at the top than at the bottom?”

“Yes?” said Pendergast.

[113] “Like a hand clenching into a fist. That would indicate flexibility in the instrument.”

“Granted,” said Pendergast. “Human flesh, however, is rather soft and easily distorted. We cannot read too much into these casts.” He paused. “Dr. Frock, is any artifact capable of doing this missing from the collection?”

“There is no such artifact inthe collection,” said Frock with a faint smile. “You see, this comes from no living animal I’ve studied. Do you see how this claw has a conical shape, a deep fully enclosed root? See how it tapers to an almost perfect tripyramidal cross section near the top? This appears in only two classes of animal: dinosaur and bird. That is one of the reasons some evolutionary biologists think birds evolved from dinosaurs. I would say it isfrom a bird, except that it is far too large. Thus, dinosaurian.”

He placed the latex claw in his lap and looked up again. “Certainly, a clever person familiar with dinosaur morphology could have shaped a claw like this, and used it as a tool for murder. I assume you have tested the original fragment to see if it indeed is composed of a genuine biological material, such as keratin, rather than being cast or carved from some inorganic material?”

“Yes, Doctor. It is real.”

“And you are sure that the DNA was real, and not simply blood or flesh from the victim?”

“Yes,” Pendergast replied. “As I said, it came from the root canal, not under the cuticle.”

“And what, pray tell, wasthe DNA from?” “The final report isn’t in yet.”

Frock held up his hand. “Understood, But tell me, why aren’t you making use of our own DNA laboratory, here in the Museum? We have facilities equal to that of anybody in the state.”

“Equal to anybody in the country, Doctor. But you must understand that our procedures forbid it. Could we be sure of the results if the tests were conducted at the [114] crime scene? With perhaps the murderer himself operating the equipment?” Pendergast smiled. “I hope you’ll forgive my persistence, Doctor, but would you be willing to considerthe possibility that this weapon is constructed from relics belonging to the Anthropology collection, and to think about what artifact or artifacts this cast most closely resembles?”

“If you’d like,” Frock replied.

“Thank you. We can discuss it again in a day or so. Meanwhile, would it be possible to obtain a printed inventory of the Anthropology collection?”

Frock smiled. “Six million items? You can use the computer catalog, however. Would you like a terminal set up?”

“Perhaps later,” said Pendergast, replacing the latex plaque in the plastic bag. “It’s kind of you to offer. Our command post is currently in the unused gallery behind reprographics.”

Footsteps sounded behind them. Margo turned to see the tall form of Dr. Ian Cuthbert, Deputy Director of the Museum, followed by the two officers from the elevator.

“Look here, how long is this going to take?” Cuthbert was complaining. He stopped at the barricade. “Oh, Frock, so they’ve got you, too. What a damned nuisance this is.”

Frock nodded imperceptibly.

“Dr. Frock,” said Pendergast, “I’m sorry. This is the gentleman I’d been waiting for when we first spoke. You’re welcome to remain; if you’d care to.” Frock nodded again.

“Now, Dr. Cuthbert,” said Pendergast briskly, turning to the Scotsman. “I asked you to come down because I’d like some information about this area behind me.” He indicated a, large doorway.

“The Secure Area? What about it? Surely somebody else could—” Cuthbert began.

“Ah, but my questions are for you,” Pendergast interrupted, politely but firmly. “Shall we step inside?”

[115] “If it won’t take much time,” Cuthbert said. “I’ve got an exhibition to mount.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Frock, his tone faintly sardonic. “An exhibition.” He motioned Margo to wheel him forward.

“Dr. Frock?” Pendergast said politely.

“Yes?”

“I wonder if I might have that cast back.”

The copper-sheathed door to the Museum’s Secure Area had been removed and a new steel one installed in its place. Across the hall was a small door labelled PACHYDERMAE. Margo wondered how the staff had been able to fit huge elephant bones through it.

Turning away, she wheeled Frock into the narrow walkway beyond the open door to the Secure Area. The Museum kept its most valuable artifacts in small vaults on either side: sapphires and diamonds; ivory and rhinoceros horns heaped on racks like cordwood; bones and skins of extinct animals; Zuñi war gods. Two men in dark suits stood at the far end, talking in low tones. They straightened up when Pendergast entered.

Pendergast stopped at one open vault door, much like the others, sporting a large black combination knob, brass lever, and ornate decorative scrollwork. Inside, a bulb threw a harsh light across the metal walls. The vault was empty except for several crates, all of which were quite large except one. The smaller crate’s lid was removed, while one of the larger crates was badly damaged, with excelsior-like stuffing protruding.

Pendergast waited until everybody was inside the vault. “Allow me to provide some background,” Pendergast said. “The murder of the guard took place not far from this spot. It appears that afterward, the murderer came down the hallway just outside. The murderer attempted to break down the door that leads to the Secure Area. He may have tried before. The attempts were unsuccessful.

[116] “At first we weren’t sure what the killer was after. As you know, there is a lot of valuable material in here.” Pendergast motioned to one of the policemen, who came over and handed him a piece of paper. “So we asked around, and found that nothing has come in or out of the Secure Area for six months. Except these crates. They were moved into this vault last week. On your orders, Dr. Cuthbert.”

“Mr. Pendergast, allow me to explain—” said Cuthbert.

“One moment, if you please,” said Pendergast. “When we inspected the crates, we found something very interesting.” He pointed to the damaged crate. “Notice the slats. The two-by-sixes here are deeply scored by claw marks. Our forensic people tell me the marks on the victims were probably made by the same object or instrument.”

Pendergast stopped and looked intently at Cuthbert.

“I had no idea—” said Cuthbert. “Nothing had been taken. I merely thought that ...” His voice trailed away.

“I wonder, Doctor, if you could enlighten us as to the history of these crates?”

“That’s easily explained,” said Cuthbert. “There’s no mystery about it. The crates are from an old expedition.”

“I gathered that,” Pendergast said. “Which expedition?”

“The Whittlesey expedition,” Cuthbert replied.

Pendergast waited.

Finally Cuthbert sighed. “It was a South American expedition that took place over five years ago. It was ... not entirely successful.”

“It was a disaster,” Frock said derisively. Oblivious to Cuthbert’s angry glance, he continued. “It caused a scandal in the Museum at the time. The expedition broke up early, due to personality conflicts. Some of the expedition members were killed by hostile tribesmen; the rest were killed in a plane crash on the way back to New [117] York. There were the inevitable rumors of a curse, that kind of thing.”

“That’s an exaggeration,” Cuthbert snapped. “There was no scandal of any sort.”

Pendergast looked at them. “And the crates?” he said mildly.

“They were shipped back separately,” Cuthbert said. “But this is all beside the point. There was a very unusual object in one of these crates, a figurine created by an extinct South American tribe. It’s to be an important element in the Superstitionexhibition.”

Pendergast nodded. “Go on.”

“Last week, when we went to retrieve the figurine, I found that one of the crates had been broken into.” He pointed. “So I ordered all of the crates moved temporarily to the Secure Area.”

“What was taken?”

“Well, now, that was a little odd,” said Cuthbert. “None of the artifacts were missing from the crate. The figurine itself is worth a fortune. It’s unique, the only one of its kind in the world. The Kothoga tribe that made it vanished years ago.”

“You mean nothingwas missing?” Pendergast asked. “Well, nothing important. The only thing that seemed to be missing were the seed pods, or whatever they were. Maxwell, the scientist who packed them, died in the plane crash near Venezuela.”

“Seed pods?” asked Pendergast.

“I honestly don’t know what they were. None of the documentation survived except for the anthropological material. We had Whittlesey’s journal, you see, but that was all. There was a little reconstructive work done when the crates first came back, but since then ...” he stopped.

“You’d better tell me about this expedition,” said Pendergast.

“There’s not much to tell. They had originally assembled to search for traces of the Kothoga tribe, and to do [118] a survey and general collection in a very remote area of the rain forest. I think the preliminary work estimated that ninety-five percent of the plant species in the area were unknown to science. Whittlesey, an anthropologist, was the leader. I believe there was also a paleontologist, a mammalogist, a physical anthropologist, perhaps an entomologist, a few assistants. Whittlesey and an assistant named Crocker disappeared and were probably killed by tribesmen. The rest died in the plane crash. The only thing we had any documentation on was the figurine, from Whittlesey’s journal. The rest of the stuff is just a mystery, no locality data, nothing.”

“Why did the material sit in these crates for so long? Why wasn’t it unpacked and cataloged and put in the collections?”

Cuthbert stirred uncomfortably. “Well,” he said defensively, “ask Frock. He’s the chairman of the department.”

“Our collections are enormous,” said Frock. “We have dinosaur bones still crated up from the 1930s that have never been touched. It costs a tremendous amount of money and time to curate these things.” He sighed. “But in this particular case, it’s not a question of mere oversight. As I recall, the Anthropology Department was forbidden to curate these crates upon their return.” He looked pointedly at Cuthbert.

“That was years ago!” Cuthbert replied acidly.

“How do you know there are no rare artifacts in the unopened boxes?” Pendergast asked.

“Whittlesey’s journal implied that the figurine in the small crate was the only item of importance.”

“May I see this journal?”

Cuthbert shook his head. “It’s gone missing.”

“Were the crates moved on your own authority?”

“I suggested it to Dr. Wright after I learned the crates had been tampered with,” Cuthbert said. “We kept the material together in its original crates until it could be curated. That’s one of the Museum’s rules.”

[119] “So the crates were moved late last week,” Pendergast murmured, almost to himself. “Just prior to the killing of the two boys. What could the killer have been after?” Then he looked back at Cuthbert. “What did you say had been taken from the crates? Seed pods, was it?”

Cuthbert shrugged. “As I said, I’m not sure what they were. They looked like seed pods to me, but I’m no botanist.”

“Can you describe them?”

“It’s been years, I don’t really remember. Big, round, heavy. Rugose on the outside. Light brown color. I’ve only seen the inside of the crate twice, you understand; once when it first came back, and then last week, looking for Mbwun. That’s the figurine.”