The Counterfeit Murder in the Museum of Man (17 page)

I couldn’t let Felix hang. He came by with the Elgin Warwick folder, which I noticed had thickened since the last time I saw it. Tanned, tall and energetic, Felix was positively beamish, his face at such a wattage I found it necessary in my recovering state to avert my eyes from time to time.

“Not now, Felix,” I begged as he sat down and looked at me intently.

“You don’t look happy.”

“I have committed a dietary indiscretion.”

“With a bottle?”

“With several bottles.”

“You should take a personal day.”

“I think a personal month would be more like it. Did you see the
Bugle?”

“No big deal. It’s become a regular rag since Don Patcher left. No one takes it seriously anymore. No one that counts. It’s a newspaper that talks to itself.”

“I need to get a statement up about the Neanderthals.”

“Why? It’s none of their business.”

“They’ve made it their business.”

“So tell them the issue is under consideration given the weight of scientific research, et cetera, et cetera. Swamp them with facts.”

“I suppose. But I am very vulnerable right now. I need all the … non-enemies I can get.”

Felix smiled. “That’s why I’m here.” He patted the file. “And good old Warwick.”

“Felix, not now.”

“Norman, this guy is on the Governing Board. You don’t want to alienate him. You want him on your side. You want him in your pocket. You should be helping him to pick out the right
byssus
for his eternal wrapping.”

“Byssus?”

“The fine linen used by the ancient Egyptians to bandage their departed. I’ve been doing my homework.”

“There are principles involved.”

“How about the principle of survival?”

“I am not going to stand by and watch the Museum of Man be turned into a mortuary for the rich.”

“Of course not. Your active involvement would be very much appreciated.”

“No, Felix, no. People will start calling it the Mausoleum of Man.”

“That’s not bad. That’s a great tag. Instant brand recognition. This is so big, I can’t believe it.” He removed several sheets from
the folder. “I’ve come up with a plan. We wouldn’t just be storing the remains of people. No. For a modest fee, they could have their history kept in perpetuity on a special Web site sponsored by the museum. For a little more, no, a lot more, they could also have their DNA preserved in the Genetics Lab. With the promise, of course, that when the technology is available, we bring them back alive. We’ll be taking over from God. And we’ll do a better job. If we get proactive, it won’t look like we’re buckling under to a powerful and wealthy supporter. No, it will look like we are staking out the ultimate future. I’d sign up in a heartbeat. And talk about outreach … I’ve come up with some suggestions.” He pointed to the folder.

“Such as?”

“We could hold an annual Halloween party there. Everyone comes in costume. All ghouls night. Charge a mint.”

“No.”

“Come on, Norman.…” He gave me his winning smile. “Why not?”

“Because … in all honesty, Felix, I do not want to be reduced to running a high-end funeral parlor.”

“It’s an honorable calling.”

“Felix … I can’t think about this right now.”

“I’ll think for you.” He turned lawyerly. “Let’s back up. According to the last communiqué you received from Robert Remick, the board will convene on July twenty-fourth for a special meeting to decide, and I quote, ‘action to be taken regarding the directorship of the museum,’ unquote.”

“I know.”

“He also said, you told me, that you are to serve on a probationary basis in close consultation with the museum’s counsel. Which happens to be one Felix Skinnerman.”

“Is this a
coup d’état?”

“No, just a regular coup. Norman, let me remind you of the clause in the Rules of Governance.”

“I know it by heart.”

“ ‘… the Director will serve at the pleasure of the Board of Governors. The Director may be removed for “dereliction of duty, obvious incapacity to perform his functions as Director, public censure, criminal activity, or moral turpitude.” ’ ”

“Yes, good old moral turpitude. What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you need Warwick on your side.”

“Maybe it is time to resign.”

“And let Malachy Morin have it?”

“He might be more amenable to this scheme of yours.”

He leaned back with that look on his face. “Hmmm … Hadn’t thought about that. Maybe you’re right.” Then, “Look, don’t fight this thing. It’s inevitable. It makes great sense.”

“It would be a museum of the dead, the locally dead, anyway.” I spoke morosely.

“But it’s already that, Norman. You have that vast Skull Collection. You have thousands of pieces of human remains from all over the globe.”

“So how would we proceed? What do we say to Warwick?”

“We agree to a meeting. We discuss setting up a mortuary wing based on his proposal. We talk up the visionary thing.”

“The cemeteries might object.”

“Nah, they’re already overcrowded. Standing room only.”

“I will consider it.” I spoke without enthusiasm, still wondering why I could find only thorns on the flowering branch Felix held out to me.

I find myself in a dither over an incident that in fact I handled very well. I was clattering down the stairs that lead from floor to floor around the central atrium on my way to get coffee as Doreen’s condition makes it difficult for her, even using the elevator. As I neared the ground floor, I noticed three men in shirts and ties, one with an expensive-looking camera-like device, one with a clipboard, and one with a tape measure.

I paused, trying to remember if any kind of restoration or refurbishment had begun. There’s always something going on like that in a museum. But I could think of nothing. I felt a jolt of adrenaline as my territorial instincts took over. Still, I affected a calm exterior as I approached the three men, who were going about their work in a professional manner.

“Excuse me,” I said to the one with the clipboard as he appeared to be in charge, “could you tell me what you’re doing here?”

He pointed to the man who had set the camera on a tripod and was scanning up and down and around. “That’s the boss.”

I went over and stood by him until he glanced up. He was a pleasant-looking, clean-shaven sort of man who exuded competence. “Can I help you?” he said, noticing me waiting.

“You can. You can tell me what’s going on here.” I extended my hand. “I’m Norman de Ratour. I’m the director of the museum.”

He freed his right hand and shook mine. “Marv Gorman. They mentioned you might show up.”

“Indeed. So what is going on?”

“Sure. We’re from Facilities Planning. We’re doing a preliminary survey. It’s the first step in any renovations. The architects need to know with some precision what’s in place before they go changing it around.”

“I see. And with whose authority are you conducting this preliminary survey?”

He turned to the man with the clipboard. “Pete, you got the req there?”

“Right here.”

Marv took the paper from Pete and handed to me. He pointed to the signature. “Jack Marchand. He’s in charge of Facilities Planning.”

I read it over. I noticed with an extra pulse of blood pressure the name Professor Laluna Jackson under the heading “Requested By.”

I had the presence of mind to ask in an offhand way, “Do you mind if I make a copy of this?”

Marv shrugged.

“I’ll be right back,” I said. I went into the financial office, which is nearby, and had a copy made.

I returned and handed back the original. I said, “Well, gentlemen, I don’t regret to inform you that this is not university property. Mr. Marchand’s signature has no effect here.”

“I was told …”

“You were misinformed. I have a court order to that effect while the question of proprietorship is being litigated. So I will respectfully ask you to leave.” I smiled. “Of course, you are all welcome to return as visitors.”

They conferred momentarily. Then they all shook my hand and left.

But I was in a royal snit about the incident as I tried to sort through the coming year’s curatorial budgets. Why does everyone always want more? More staff. More stuff. More space. More gadgets. More discretionary spending. Why do people think that the idea of an expanding universe applies to us? Not to mention the philistine notion that more is better.

All of which is piffling next to the documentary proof that L. Jackson has designs — in both senses of the word — on the Museum of Man. It’s monstrous. Or do I detect the meaty hands of Malachy Morin, playing one of his games? He’s not above that. Probing. Testing. Disrupting. Not that he doesn’t have to be careful. Izzy informs me he’s on the short list to replace George Twill as president of Wainscott, as incredible as that sounds.

Well, two can play this game. I’ll have copies made of this req form to go along with an account of the incident to show the Board of Governors. And I’ll give a copy to Felix and let him sleuth out the particulars.

On top of all this, I have marital woes. Diantha is scarcely speaking to me. It seems Max Shofar is angry with Merissa for telling Di about what their plans may or may not have been regarding Heinie. So Merissa is on the outs with Di and Di is miffed at me.

Nor has Diantha been amenable to any explanations I have proffered. She doesn’t grasp that I have been charged with a serious crime and that I am out on bail, which means I can be sent back to jail on the flimsiest pretext. Moreover, if I cannot clear my name, everything I have worked for will be for naught. Instead, she talks about “my friend” Merissa and how I betrayed her trust. How a woman can go from devastating disparagement
of someone one minute to being her soul mate the next is something I will never understand.

Of course having an ape living in the house has not helped. And when I told her, in a moment of unwise candor, about the broken vase, she hit the ceiling. But what can I do in all honor? If she knew Alphus as Alphus, if she had a chance to sit down and sign with him over a cup of coffee, she would realize that he is a sapient, feeling, trustworthy being who would not knowingly hurt a soul.

But distance makes anything like reconciliation very difficult. And during times of stress, the disparity in our ages starts to show. Even when she’s here she lives in another cultural zone. When I glance at the covers of
People
magazine and other such publications left hanging around, I swear I do not have a clue as to who any of those celebrities are. Nor have I the least interest in their mismarriages or dining disorders.

I am also bored witless by the television crime dramas Di likes to watch. You would think that a real-life detective, as I consider myself, would enjoy such things. Not in the least. All I see are actors doing a lot of meaningful staring at one another as they talk half cryptically in the latest police jargon. How any reasonably intelligent person — and Di is far more than reasonably intelligent — can watch that stuff for more than a minute or two staggers my credulity. How, these days, can one not be a snob?

But I digress. Which is what I’m prone to when I’m in a quandary. I have in hand a letter that came in a sealed envelope to the mailroom with nothing more than my name on it. Inside, neatly typed (with printers, everything these days is neatly typed), I found the following letter. I will let it speak for itself.

Some background about the stater might be useful at this point. Experts have called it the most rare and valuable coin still on the open market. Unlike many ancient coins, it appears newly minted, so much so that, until modern times and advances in dating and metallurgic analysis, it was rumored to be a forgery. Referred to in the numismatic literature as a Thasos Satyr and Nymph stater, it depicts the former, bearded and long-haired and in an exaggerated ithyphallic state, about to ravish the latter whom, gesticulating, he holds on his lap. It dates from Thasos, Thrace, circa 490
BC
.

The coin has a provenance worthy of a Hollywood film. Napoleon himself is said to have owned it. Then someone in Himmler’s entourage. That person apparently obtained it from one Maurice Debas, a Parisian coin dealer, later shot as a collaborator. He had obtained it, no doubt very cheaply, from a refugee fleeing Hitler.

About a year ago, rumors started in the numismatic world that the Dresden, as it is generally called, would be coming up for auction in London. Max Shofar, through his connections, learned who was negotiating with Sotheby’s. He convinced von Grümh to fly to London with him and go directly to the source. That turned out to be a London dealer by the name of Sidney Grabbe. Grabbe had it on consignment from a Kuwaiti sheik impoverished by a lavish lifestyle who was in desperate need of ready cash. They paid the necessary amount and walked off with the prize.

I went out to Doreen’s little office and made several copies of the letter. My heuristic proclivities roused, I wanted to go over the style for clues as to who might have written it. Of course, its belabored style might have resulted from an effort on the part of the writer to conceal his identity. The bit about the Frock wanting the coin is true enough but not generally known. That institution has a truly superb collection of ancient money. I say
money
because they have some superb examples of ninth-century Chinese paper currency as well as a veritable hoard of old coins left by August Frock himself.