“I think his name was Bill. I don’t know about the woman, but—”
“Bill? Bill? Oh, that’s bloody brilliant. The first thing you should do is ask for identification.”
“I’m sorry, sir. It was just that he insisted it was—”
But Cuthbert was already striding back angrily. The footfalls faded down the corridor.
At a nod from Smithback, Margo rose gingerly and dusted herself off. They stepped out into the hall.
“Hey, you there!” shouted the guard. “Come here, I need to see your ID! Wait!”
Smithback and Margo took off at a sprint. They raced around a bend, then ducked into a stairwell and dashed up the wide concrete steps.
“Where are we going?” Margo panted.
“Damned if I know.”
They reached the next landing, and Smithback stepped out gingerly into the hallway. He looked up and down the corridor, then wrenched open a door marked MAMMALOGY, PONGIDAE STORAGE.
Inside, they stopped to catch their breath. The room was quiet and cool. As Margo’s eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, she noticed stuffed gorillas and chimpanzees standing in ranks like sentinels, and heaping piles of hairy skins on wooden racks. Against one wall were dozens of shelves lined with primate skulls.
Smithback listened intently at the door for a moment. Then he turned to Margo. “Lets see what you found,” he said.
“There wasn’t much,” Margo said, breathing heavily. “I took a couple of unimportant artifacts, that’s it. I did find this, though,” she said, reaching into her carryall.
“It was wedged in the lid of the crate.”
The unsealed envelope was addressed simply “H. C. Montague, NYMNH.”
The yellowed writing paper was embossed with a curious double-arrow motif. As Smithback peered over her shoulder, Margo held the sheet carefully up to the light and began to read.
Upper Xingú
Sept. 17, 1987
Montague,
I’ve decided to send Carlos back with the last crate and go on alone in search of Crocker. Carlos is trustworthy, and I can’t risk losing the crate should anything happen to me. Take note of the shaman’s rattle and other ritual objects. They seem unique. But the figurine I’ve enclosed, which we found in a deserted hut at this site, is the proof I’ve been looking for. Note the exaggerated claws, the reptilian attributes, the hints at bipedalia. The Kothoga exist, and the Mbwun legend is not mere fabrication.
All my field notes are in this notebook. ...
= 31 =
Mrs. Lavinia Rickman sat in a wine-colored leather armchair in the Director’s office. The room was deathly silent. Not even traffic noises from the street three floors below penetrated the thick turret windows. Wright himself sat behind the desk, practically swallowed by the vast length of mahogany. A Reynolds portrait of Ridley A. Davis, the Museum’s founder, glared down from behind Wright.
Dr. Ian Cuthbert occupied a sofa along a far wall of the room. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his tweed suit loose on his spare frame. He was frowning. Normally humorless and irritable, he looked particularly austere on this afternoon.
Finally, Wright broke the silence.
“He’s called twice already this afternoon,” the Director snapped at Cuthbert. “I can’t avoid him forever. Sooner or later he’s going to raise a stink about being denied access to the crates. He may well drag this Mbwun business into it. There’s going to be controversy.”
Cuthbert nodded. “As long as it’s later rather than sooner. When the exhibition is open and running, with forty thousand visitors a day and favorable notices in all the periodicals, let him bloody well raise hell about whatever he likes.”
There was another long silence.
“I hate to play devil’s advocate,” Cuthbert continued at last, “but when the dust settles from all this, you, Winston, are going to have the necessary increase in attendance. These rumors of a curse may be annoying now, but when things are safe again, everyone’s going to want a vicarious shudder and some scandal. Everyone’s going to want to go inside the Museum and see for themselves. It’s good for business. I’m telling you, Winston, we couldn’t have arranged it better ourselves.”
Wright frowned at the Assistant Director. “Rumors of a curse. Maybe it’s true. Look at all the disasters that have followed that ugly little figurine halfway around the world.” He laughed mirthlessly.
“You’re not serious,” said Cuthbert.