The Counterfeit Murder in the Museum of Man (31 page)

He shrugged. “No, why should I?”

Still, he frowned at the bluntness of the questions, particularly when I asked him if he murdered von Grümh. But he answered them all with no hesitations.

“What was that all about?” he asked when I had finished. Again, he was aware of Alphus’s intent gaze at him.

“Just something I told Lieutenant Tracy I’d do.”

“That’s right, you’re working with him, aren’t you? I mean that Sterl murder. Of course we all knew Marty Sterl wouldn’t shoot himself. He might shoot someone else if they crossed him. But never himself.”

I cleared my throat preparatory to a difficult matter. I said, “I happen to know, Max, that you and Merissa didn’t take a drive up the coast the night of Heinie’s murder.”

“Oh?”

“You and she went to a club instead. The Garden of Delights.”

“She told you that?”

“She did. And she didn’t make that up, did she?”

When he simply stared at me, I said, “Look, I know the GOD exists. And, I can have Edgar brought in for questioning …”

“Okay, okay.” He was clearly embarrassed, which to me, in my persona as a newly minted man of the world, I found inexplicable. The Garden of Delights wouldn’t be my dry martini, but I am, despite everything, not a prude. “Okay, Norman, we did go there. I just don’t want it to get around.”

I nodded. “It’s safe with me. But I do need to know that everything else you told me about that night is the truth.”

“It is. Everything. I swear.”

I looked him right in the eyes. I said, “I believe you.”

We both happened to glance at Alphus. He nodded.

Max Shofar put on his fashionable summer hat, a modified Panama. He stood and shook my hand. “Merissa’s something else, isn’t she.”

“She told you?”

“Naw. I can tell.”

I was chagrined after he left to take down the small video camera from the shelf to find I hadn’t turned it on.

Alphus signaled that it wasn’t necessary. “He’s clean,” he signed.

“About everything?”

“Except the part about the forgers.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I think he left something out.”

“Deliberately?”

“Deliberately.”

Not long afterward, Doreen came in to announce the arrival of Ms. Esther Homard, a literary agent from New York who wanted to meet Alphus before considering him as a client.

A woman in her late middle age, hard-crusted in that New York way, she wore a business suit and an expression of skepticism bordering on suspicion. She was accompanied by an “interpreter,” a tall blond woman of indeterminate age named Priscilla Watts.

We all shook hands and sat down around a small table I have under the windows facing north.

Ms. Watts looked distinctly taken aback when Alphus responded to her simple hello in sign language with an impressive display of gestural volubility.

“What did he say?” Ms. Homard wanted to know.

“He said, ‘Welcome to Seaboard and the Museum of Man.’ And that we had picked a nice day to travel.”

“He understands spoken language,” I put in.

Ms. Homard turned to him. “Do you read?” she asked.

Alphus nodded.

“What are you reading now?”

Alphus reached into a rucksack he uses, dug out a copy of Edward O. Wilson’s
On Human Nature
, and handed it to her.

“What’s it about?” she asked, still skeptical.

When Alphus began to sign with his usual speed, the interpreter said, “You’ll need to go slower.”

He nodded and began again. Ms. Watts repeated his words vocally. “It’s an introduction to sociobiology as it applies to the human species …”

“What’s sociobiology?” the agent wanted to know.

Alphus thought for a moment and then began signing. Ms. Watts, speaking for him, said, “Sociobiology is the application of evolutionary principles to behavior in everything from ants to elephants. The general theory as it relates to people explains charity, incest avoidance, and other instinctive behaviors that contribute to reproductive fitness.”

Amazement showed in the faces of both women.

Alphus put up a finger and spelled something out for Ms. Watts. She said, “He says
charity
is the wrong word.
Altruism
would be more accurate.”

“Who’s your favorite actor?” Ms. Homard asked, much less wary but still in a test mode.

“Jack Nicholson,” he spelled out for Ms. Watts.

“And your favorite movie?”

“Chinatown.”

“Why?”

Alphus gave it some thought. He signed and again Ms. Watts
spoke. “All of the characters are deeply flawed and yet ideal in some way.”

Incredulity was giving way to awe. Ms. Homard said, “How would you count to fifteen by twos?”

Alphus thought for a moment. “Start with minus one?”

The agent looked at me. “This is no scam, is it?”

“No, he’s the real deal, as you might say.”

“Are you handling his affairs?”

“The museum’s counsel, Mr. Skinnerman, has agreed to represent Alphus’s interests in making any arrangements with an agency such as yours.”

I provided her with Felix’s coordinates.

“Tell him he’ll be hearing from me shortly.”

We all stood. “And you, Mr. Ratour, are you working on anything right now?”

“I’m neck-deep in a murder case.”

“Are you writing it up?”

“I’m keeping notes.”

She gave me her card. After handshakes all around, they left.

I tried to shake Alphus’s hand, but he insisted on what is called a “high five.” He then used my computer to text something to Ridley of which, with a shudder, I caught the word
celebration
.

On the morning of the meeting of the Governing Board, I woke feeling like a condemned man on the day of his execution. I expected no reprieves. There had been no last-minute phone call from Lieutenant Tracy regarding the charges against me. Elgin Warwick had not deigned to respond to my impulsive letter. Even Felix seemed to have vanished.

I was certain the board would ask for my resignation and that they would accept it with voiced regret and unvoiced relief.

While shaving I regarded the face that regarded me, the face of an adulterer, a possible murderer, a former museum director. Izzy Landes once remarked that low self-esteem can be a sign of intelligence, but on this occasion, I took it as a measure of reality. Good thing my revolver is missing. Only a slight pressure with the index finger. Quick and painless. Go out with a bang. And not much of a mess.

I dressed carefully in a well-tailored chino suit, blue button-down shirt, and tan tie with a subdued red floral design. I had a frugal breakfast of toast, two five-minute eggs, coffee, and tomato juice. I made sure Alphus had someone coming to watch over him. Knowing my situation, he gave me one of his hairy hugs just before I went out the door.

The meeting was set for eleven. I dawdled at my desk as I waited. Doreen came in long enough to make sure there was coffee and elegant little pastries on hand in the Twitchell Room. I nearly suggested she provide a blindfold for my execution.

And, indeed, it began badly. I could tell from their faces and from the look of pained sympathy on the face of my old friend Robert Remick that they were ready to pronounce sentence. We seated ourselves awkwardly around the long table in this room, which had been the scene of so many memorable events in my professional life. At ten minutes after eleven, Felix had not arrived and we agreed to start without him.

I imagined that the profound, existential loneliness that I experienced is what one feels as the blade is about to drop, as the trapdoor of the gallows is about to open, as the switch to the electric chair is about be thrown, as the pump for the injection is about to start. But I also knew I was indulging in gratuitous self-pity not to mention self-dramatization. Looked at in another way, these worthy people were about to set me free.

Robert Remick began uneasily. “At the behest of several members of the board, I have called this extraordinary meeting. We have some difficult and perhaps painful decisions ahead of us. I do not think we should move hastily or rashly regarding complaints as to the management of the museum. Norman de Ratour has served this institution long, faithfully, and with considerable success.

“Having said that, developments of late have been such that Norman’s judgment has been called into question. On this matter, the Rules of Governance are unequivocal. They state that the Director of the museum may be removed for ‘dereliction of duty, obvious incapacity to perform his functions as Director, public censure, criminal activity, or moral turpitude.’ ”

He turned to Maryanne Rossini, the university’s representative. “Maryanne, I believe you wanted to go first.”

Damn
, I thought,
they’ve rehearsed this thing
. I sighed and settled back in my seat as the poison gas drifted in clouds around me.

An attractive, distracted woman in her fifties, Ms. Rossini works in Wainscott’s international office. She pushed aside wisps of her abundant dark hair and, like a district attorney with an ironclad case, read the bill of indictment. This she prefaced with remarks about what she called “the lurid publicity surrounding recent events at the museum.”

Then her statements began, with bullets in front of them. “First, authorities found it necessary to break up a pornographic ring within the museum that involved students, younger faculty, and dangerous animals.”

“That’s nonsense,” I heard myself say. There’s nothing like false accusations to get the blood boiling.

“You’ll have your turn, Norman,” old Remick said.

Ms. Rossini shuffled her papers. She continued. “The museum management, despite warnings from its own expert, accepted a significant number of coins that proved to be fakes. The incident, unfortunate in and of itself, has called into question the integrity of the entire collection.”

I looked around the table at the grim faces. Where the hell was Felix? Not that his presence would change anything.

Ms. Rossini droned on. “The current administration of the museum has caused irreparable harm in its relations with the disadvantaged communities of Greater Seaboard and beyond by proposing that the models in the Stone Age exhibit be made fair-haired and white-skinned.”

Harvey Deharo raised his pencil. “I’ll address that one.”

“In due time.”

“In due time.”

The next one took me by surprise. Ms. Rossini, still reading from her bill of particulars, said, “It has come to the attention of this body that the museum has turned down a proposal from a member of the board that entailed a significant and generous
donation. While currently solvent, I think we would all agree that the MOM needs all the assistance it can get during these times of financial decline.”

I glanced in the direction of Elgin Warwick. He pretended I wasn’t there. I had my answer to the letter I sent him.

Ms. Rossini paused to frown and went on. “Under its current management, the museum has become involved in no less than two murders. It turns out, according to reliable media reports, that the planning for the murder of Martin Sterl, a prominent businessman, took place in the aforementioned Stone Age diorama. More seriously, the murder of one of the museum’s own curators, the late Heinrich von Grümh, took place in the parking lot of the museum.”

I didn’t even bother to shake my head.

“And finally and most lamentably, Mr. de Ratour has been arrested and charged with accessory in the murder of Curator von Grümh.”

Before anyone could clear their throats, Ms. Rossini went on. “I would like to add a professional note to these proceedings. Under Mr. de Ratour’s administration, relations between the museum and the university have reached an all-time low. He has refused to acknowledge that Wainscott and the Museum of Man are and have been for generations part and parcel of each other. His campaign to assert the independence of the museum despite solid legal, historical, and institutional ties to the contrary have contributed not a little to the situation in which we find ourselves today.”

“Thank you, Maryanne, for that sad litany,” Robert Remick intoned. “Are there any comments.”

Harvey spoke up. He demolished the item regarding the pale-skinned Neanderthals. “And most of the rest of these allegations are so spurious as to be ludicrous.”

“Norman?” Remick turned to me. “Do you have anything to say?”

“Before you pass sentence?” I joked. I contemplated making an impassioned plea for my job, my career, my reputation. But I knew it would be to no avail. I simply shook my head.

“The chair will entertain motions.”

Ms. Rossini said, “I move that we ask Mr. de Ratour for his resignation. And, failing compliance with that request, that we vote to dismiss him as Director of the Museum of Man.”

Someone had seconded the motion when the door opened and Felix Skinnerman came in with a flourish worthy of the stage. I had the novel experience of hearing him apologize. A bit out of breath, he plunked a wad of folders down on the table in front of his seat but didn’t sit down.

“At the risk of interrupting,” he began, “I would like to present to the board some pertinent, important information before it proceeds any further.”

“I believe a vote is in order,” Ms. Rossini interposed.

Old Remick smiled and something of his old character asserted itself. “I am ruling that we hear all the pertinent information before we make such a vote. Proceed, Mr. Skinnerman, you have the floor.”

“First, all charges against Norman … Mr. de Ratour … have been dropped.” He handed out a folder to each member. “The first document should be a copy of an affidavit signed by the District Attorney Jason Duff.” He glanced at me and smiled a crooked smile.

“That’s all well and good,” Elgin Warwick said huffily, “but the damage has been done.”

There were enough assenting nods to quell the sudden hope that rose in my breast.

Felix bowed. “I’m not quite finished. In fact, I’ve hardly begun.”

He lifted from his folder a stapled clip of e-mails originating in the Victim Studies Department from no less a personage than its chair. Several were addressed to the University Vice President for Affiliated Institutions, that is, to Malachy Morin.