“I hadn’t noticed,” said Kawakita. “I’ll make a special effort to check that out.”
“Then there was a researcher here who was breeding cats for some experiment,” Smith continued. “Sloane I think his name was, Doctor Sloane, in the Animal Behavior Department. One day a dozen of his cats escaped. And you know what? They were never seen again. Vanished. Now that’s kind of funny. You’d expect one or two at least to show up.”
“Maybe they left because there weren’t any mice to eat,” said Kawakita.
Smith ignored him. “Some say it hatched from one of those crates of dinosaur eggs brought back from Siberia.”
“I see,” said Kawakita, trying to suppress a grin. “Dinosaurs loose in the Museum.”
Smith shrugged. “I only say what I hear. Others think it was something brought back from one of the graves they’ve robbed over the years. Some artifact with a curse. You know, like the King Tut curse. And if you ask me, those fellows deserve what they get. I don’t care what they call it, archaeology, anthropology, or hoodooology, it’s just plain old grave robbing to me. You don’t see them digging up their grandmother’s graves, but they sure don’t hesitate to dig up somebody else’s and take all the goodies. Am I right?”
“Absolutely,” said Kawakita. “But what was that you said about these murders not being the first?”
Smith looked at them conspiratorially. “Well, if you tell anybody I told you this I’ll deny it, but about five years back, something strange happened.” He paused for a minute, as if to gauge the effect his story was having. “There was this curator, Morrissey, or Montana, or something. He was involved with that disastrous Amazon expedition. You know the one I mean, where everyone was killed. Anyway, one day he simply vanished. Nobody ever heard from him again. So people started to whisper about it. Apparently, a guard was overheard saying that his body had been found in the basement, horribly mutilated.”
“I see,” Kawakita said. “And you think the Museum Beast did it?”
“I don’t think anything,” Smith responded quickly. “I’m just telling you what I’ve heard, that’s all. I’ve heard a lot of things from a lot of people, I can tell you.”
“So has anyone seen this, ah, creature?” Kawakita asked, unsuccessfully stifling a smile.
“Why, yessir. Couple of people, in fact. You know old Carl Conover in the metal shop? Three years ago now he says he saw it, came in early to get some work done and saw it slouching around a corner in the basement. Saw it right there, plain as day.”
“Really?” said Kawakita. “What’d it look like?”
“Well—” Smith began, then stopped. Even he finally noticed Kawakita’s amusement. The old man’s expression changed. “I expect, Dr. Kawakita, that it looked a bit like Mr. Jim Beam,” he said.
Kawakita was puzzled. “Beam? I don’t believe I know him—”
Bailey Smith suddenly roared with laughter, and Margo couldn’t help grinning herself. “George,” she said, “I think he meant that Conover was drunk.”
“I see,” said Kawakita stiffly. “Of course.”
All his good humor had vanished. Doesn’t like having the joke turned on him, Margo thought. He can dish it out, but he can’t take it.
“Well, anyway,” said Kawakita briskly, “I need some specimens.”
“Now, wait just a minute!” Margo protested as Kawakita pushed his own list onto the counter. The old man eyed it and peered at the scientist.
“Week after next okay?” he asked.
= 16 =
Several floors above, Lieutenant D’Agosta sat in a huge leather sofa in the curator’s study. He smacked his lips contentedly, propped one chubby leg upon the knee of the other, and looked around. Pendergast, absorbed in a book of lithographs, was reclining in an armchair behind a desk. Above his head, in a gold rococo frame, hung a massive Audubon painting depicting the mating ritual of the snowy egret. Oak paneling with a century’s patina ran along the walls above a beadboard wainscot. Delicate gilded lights of hand-blown glass hung just below the pressed tin ceiling. A large fireplace of elaborately carved Dolomite limestone dominated one corner of the room. Nice place, D’Agosta thought. Old money. Old New York. It has class. Not the place to smoke a two-bit cigar. He lit up.
“It’s come and gone two-thirty, Pendergast,” he said, exhaling blue smoke. “Where the hell do you think Wright is?”
Pendergast shrugged. “Trying to intimidate us,” he said, turning another page.
D’Agosta looked at the FBI agent for a minute.
“You know these Museum big shots, they think they can keep anybody waiting,” he said finally, watching for a reaction. “Wright and his cronies have been treating us like second-class citizens since yesterday morning.
Pendergast turned another page. “I had no idea the Museum had a complete collection of Piranesi’s Forum sketches,” he murmured.