“Leading to—?”
“Well, there’s the Secure Area down to the right. But it’s not possible the killer went that way, because …”
“Excuse me for contradicting you, Mr. Ippolito, but I’m sure the killer did go that way,” Pendergast replied. “Let me guess. Beyond the Secure Area is the Old Basement, am I right?”
“Right,” said Ippolito.
“Where the two children were found.”
“Bingo,” said D’Agosta.
“This Secure Area sounds interesting, Mr. Ippolito. Shall we take a stroll?”
Beyond the rusty metal door, a row of light bulbs stretched down a long basement corridor. The floor was covered in shabby linoleum, and the walls were hung with murals of Southwestern Pueblo Indians grinding corn, weaving, and stalking deer.
“Lovely,” said Pendergast. “A shame they’re down here. They look like early Fremont Ellis.”
“They used to hang in the Hall of the Southwest,” said Ippolito. “It closed in the twenties, I think.”
“Ah!” said Pendergast, scrutinizing one of the murals. “It is Ellis. My heavens, these are lovely. Look at the light on that adobe facade.”
“So,” said Ippolito. “How do you know?”
“Why,” said Pendergast, “anyone who knows Ellis would recognize these.”
“I mean, how do you know the killer came through here?”
“I suppose I was guessing,” said Pendergast, examining the next painting. “You see, when someone says ‘it’s impossible,’ I have this very bad habit, I can’t help myself, I immediately contradict that person in the most positive terms possible. A very bad habit, but one that I find hard to break. But of course, now we do know the killer came through here.”
“How?” Ippolito seemed confused.
“Look at this marvelous rendition of old Santa Fe. Have you ever been to Santa Fe?”
There was a momentary silence. “Er, no,” said Ippolito.
“There is a mountain range behind the town, called the Sierra de Sangre de Cristo. It means the ‘Blood of Christ Mountains’ in Spanish.”
“So?”
“Well the mountains do look quite red in the setting sun, but not, I dare say, that red. That’s real blood, and it’s fresh. A shame, really, it’s ruined the painting.”
“Holy shit,” said D’Agosta. “Look at that.”
A broad streak of blood was smeared waist-high across the painting.
“You know, murder is a messy thing. We should find traces of blood all along this corridor. Lieutenant, we’ll need the crime lab people in here. I think we have your egress, at any rate.” He paused. “Let’s finish our little tour, and then call them in. I’d like to go ahead and look for evidence, if you don’t mind.”
“Be my guest,” said D’Agosta.
“Careful where you walk, Mr. Ippolito, we’ll be asking them to check the floors as well as the walls.” They came to a locked door marked RESTRICTED. “This is the Secure Area,” said Ippolito.
“I see,” said Pendergast. “And what exactly is the point of this Secure Area, Mr. Ippolito? Is the rest of the Museum insecure?”
“Not at all,” the Security Director replied quickly. “The Secure Area is for storing especially rare and valuable objects. This is the best-protected museum in the country. We’ve recently installed a system of sliding metal doors throughout the Museum. They’re all linked to our computer system, and in the event of a burglary we can seal off the Museum in sections, just like the watertight compartments on a—”
“I get the picture, Mr. Ippolito, thank you very much,” Pendergast said. “Interesting. An old copper-sheathed door,” he said, examining it closely.
D’Agosta saw that the copper covering was riddled with shallow dents.
“Fresh dents, by the look of them,” Pendergast said. “Now, what do you make of this?” He pointed downward.
“Jesus H. Christ,” breathed D’Agosta, looking at the lower section of the door. The wooden door frame was scored and gouged into a welter of fresh splinters, as if something with claws had been scrabbling at it.
Pendergast stepped back. “I want the entire door analyzed, if you please, Lieutenant. And now to see what’s inside. Mr. Ippolito, if you would be so kind as to open the door without getting your hands all over it?”
“I’m not supposed to let anyone in there without clearance.”
D’Agosta looked at him in disbelief. “You mean you want us to get a damn warrant?”
“Oh, no, no, it’s just that—”
“He forgot the key,” said Pendergast. “We’ll wait.”