“Right,” the Director answered, his voice shaking. “I see. You can’t do your own job, but you still want to tell me how to do mine. Do you have any idea what delaying the opening would do to our exhibition? Do you know what kind of message it would send to the public? Well, Pendergast, I’m not going to allow it.”
Pendergast stared steadily at Wright. “Any unauthorized personnel found on the premises after five o’clock will be arrested and charged with trespassing at a scene of crime. This is a misdemeanor. Second violations will be charged with obstruction of justice, which is a felony, Dr. Wright. I trust I make myself sufficiently clear?”
“The only thing that’s clear right now is your path to the door,” Wright said, his voice rising. “It’s unobstructed. Please take it.”
Pendergast nodded. “Gentlemen. Ma’am.” Then he turned around and moved silently out of the room.
Closing the door quietly, Pendergast stopped for a moment in the Director’s outer office. Then, staring at the door, he quoted,
So I return rebuk’d to my content,
And gain by ills thrice more than I have spent.
Wright’s executive secretary stopped her gum chewing in mid-snap. “Howzat?” she inquired.
“No, Shakespeare,” Pendergast replied, heading for the elevator.
ˉ
Inside, Wright fumbled at the telephone with shaking hands.
“What the hell happens now?” exploded Cuthbert. “I’ll be damned if a bloody policeman’s going to boot us out of our own Museum.”
“Cuthbert, be quiet,” said Wright. Then he spoke into the handset. “Get me Albany, right away.”
There was a silence while he was put on hold. Wright looked over the receiver at Cuthbert and Rickman, controlling his heavy breathing with an effort. “Time to call in some favors,” he said. “We’ll see who has the final word here: some inbred albino from the Delta, or the Director of the largest natural history museum in the world.”
= 32 =
The vegetation here is very unusual. The cycads and ferns look almost primordial. Too bad there isn’t time for more careful study. We’ve used a particularly resilient variety as packing material for the crates; feel free to let J?rgensen take a look, if he’s interested.
I fully expect to be with you at the Explorer’s Club a month from now, celebrating our success with a brace of dry martinis and a good Macanudo. Until then, I know I can entrust this material and my reputation to you.
Your colleague,
Whittlesey
Smithback looked up from the letter. “We can’t stay here. Let’s go to my office.”
His cubbyhole lay deep in a maze of overflow offices on the Museum’s ground level. The honeycomb passages, full of noise and bustle, seemed a refreshing change to Margo after the damp, echoing basement corridors outside the Secure Area. They walked past a large green Dumpster overflowing with back issues of the Museum’s magazine. Outside Smithback’s office, a large bulletin board was plastered with a variety of irate letters from subscribers, for the amusement of the magazine staff.
Once before, hot on the trail of an issue of Science long overdue from the periodical library, Margo had penetrated Smithback’s messy lair. It was as she remembered it: his desk a riot of photocopied articles, half-finished letters, Chinese take-out menus, and numerous books and journals the Museum’s libraries were no doubt very eager to find.
“Have a seat,” Smithback said, pushing a two-foot stack of paper brusquely off a chair. He closed the door, then walked around his desk to an ancient bentwood rocker. Paper crackled beneath his feet.
“Okay,” he said in a low tone. “Now, you’re sure the journal wasn’t there?”
“I told you, the only crate I had a chance to look at was the one Whittlesey packed himself. But it wouldn’t have been in the others.”
Smithback examined the letter again. “Who’s this Montague the thing’s addressed to?” he asked.
“Don’t know,” Margo replied.
“How about J?rgensen?”
“Haven’t heard of him, either.”
Smithback pulled down the Museum’s telephone listing from a shelf. “No Montague here,” he murmured, flipping pages. “Aha! Here’s J?rgensen. Botany. Says he’s retired. How come he still has an office?”
“Not unusual in this place,” Margo replied. “Independently wealthy people with little else to fill up their time. Where’s his office?”
“Section forty-one, fourth floor,” Smithback said, closing the book and dropping it on his desk. “Near the herbarium.” He stood up. “Let’s go.”
“Wait a minute, Smithback. It’s almost four o’clock. I should call Frock and let him know what ...”
“Later,” Smithback said, making for the door. “Come on, Lotus Blossom. My journalist’s nose hasn’t picked up a decent scent all afternoon.”
J?rgensen’s office was a small, windowless laboratory with a high ceiling. It held none of the plants or floral specimens Margo expected to see in a botanist’s lab. In fact, the room was empty except for a large workbench, a chair, and a coat rack. A drawer of the workbench was open, exposing a variety of worn tools. J?rgensen was bending over the workbench, fiddling with a small motor.