“Nonsense!” cried Frock. “Come in, Gregory. Mr. Pendergast, Captain D’Agosta, this is Gregory Kawakita. He’s the author of the G.S.E., the extrapolation program that allowed us to come up with such an accurate profile of the creature.”
“You have my gratitude,” Pendergast said. “Without that program, none of us would have been here today.”
“Thanks very much, but the program was really Dr. Frock’s brainchild,” Kawakita said, eyeing the cake. “I just put the pieces together. Besides, there were a lot of things the Extrapolator didn’t tell you. The forward placement of the eyes, for instance.”
“Why, Greg, success has made you humble,” Smithback said. “In any case,” he continued, turning to Pendergast, “I’ve got a few questions for you. This vintage champagne doesn’t come free, you know.” He fixed the FBI agent with an expectant gaze. “Whose bodies did we discover in the lair, anyway?”
Pendergast raised his shoulders in a slight shrug. “I guess there’s no harm in telling you—although this is not for publication until you receive official word. As it happens, five of the eight remains have been identified. Two were those of homeless street persons, who crept into the Old Basement, presumably looking for warmth on a winter’s night. Another was that of a foreign tourist we found on Interpol’s missing persons list. Another, as you know, was George Moriarty, the Assistant Curator under Ian Cuthbert.”
“Poor George,” Margo whispered. For weeks, she had avoided thinking about Moriarty’s last moments, his final struggle with the beast. To die that way, then to be hung up like a side of beef ...
Pendergast waited a moment before continuing. “The fifth body has been tentatively identified from dental records as a man named Montague, an employee of the Museum who vanished several years ago.”
“Montague!” Frock said. “So the story was true.”
“Yes,” said Pendergast. “It seems that certain members of the Museum administration—Wright, Rickman, Cuthbert, and perhaps Ippolito—suspected there was something prowling the Museum. When a vast quantity of blood was found in the Old Basement, they had it washed away without notifying the police. When Montague’s disappearance coincided with that discovery, the group did nothing to shed any light on the event. They also had reason to believe that the creature was somehow connected to the Whittlesey expedition. Those suspicions may have been behind the moving of the crates. In retrospect, it was a terribly unwise move: It was what precipitated the killings.”
“You’re right, of course,” Frock said, wheeling himself back toward his desk. “We know the creature was highly intelligent. It realized it would be in danger if its existence in the Museum was discovered. I think it must have curbed its normally fierce nature as a means of self-preservation. When it first reached the Museum, it was desperate, perhaps feral, and it killed Montague when it saw him with the artifacts and the plants. But after that, it grew quickly cautious. It knew where the crates were, and it had a supply of the plant—or, at least, it would until the packing material gave out. It was parsimonious in its consumption. Of course, the hormones in the plant were highly concentrated. And the beast supplemented its diet occasionally, in stealthy ways. Rats living in the subbasement, cats escaped from the Animal Behavior department ... once or twice, even luckless human beings that wandered too deep into the Museum’s secret places. But it was always careful to conceal its kills, and several years passed in which it remained—for the most part—undetected.” He shifted slightly, the wheelchair creaking.
“Then it happened. The crates were removed, put under lock and key in the Secure Area. The beast grew first hungry, then desperate. Perhaps it grew murderous with rage at the beings who had deprived it of the plants—beings who themselves could be a substitute, though poor, for that which they’d taken away. The frenzy grew, and the beast killed, then killed again.”
Frock withdrew his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “But it didn’t lose all rationality,” he continued. “Remember how it hid the body of the policeman in the exhibition? Even though its blood lust had been aroused, even though it was mad with desire for the plants, it had the presence of mind to realize that the killings were attracting unwanted attention to itself. Perhaps it had planned on bringing the body of Beauregard back down to its lair. Chances are, it was unable to do so—the exhibition was far beyond its usual haunts—so it hid the body instead. After all, the hypothalamus was its primary objective; the rest was just meat.”
Margo shuddered.
“I’ve wondered more than once just why the beast went into that exhibition,” Pendergast said.
Frock raised his index finger. “So have I. And I think I know the reason. Remember, Mr. Pendergast, what else was in the exhibition.”
Pendergast nodded slowly. “Of course. The figurine of Mbwun.”