“Dr. J?rgensen?” Smithback asked.
The old man turned and gazed at Smithback. He was almost completely bald, with bushy white eyebrows overhanging intense eyes the color of bleached denim. He was bony and stooped but Margo thought he must be at least six feet four.
“Yes?” he said in a quiet voice.
Before Margo could stop him, Smithback handed J?rgensen the letter.
The man began reading, then started visibly. Without taking his eyes from the letter, he reached around for the battered chair and carefully eased himself into it.
“Where did you get this?” he demanded when he had finished.
Margo and Smithback looked at each other.
“It’s genuine,” Smithback said.
J?rgensen stared at them. Then he handed the letter back to Smithback. “I don’t know anything about this,” he said.
There was a silence. “It came from the crate John Whittlesey sent back from the Amazon expedition seven years ago,” Smithback prompted hopefully.
J?rgensen continued to stare at them. After a few moments, he returned to his motor.
The two watched him tinker for a moment. “I’m sorry we interrupted your work,” Margo said at last. “Perhaps this isn’t a good time.”
“What work?” asked J?rgensen, without turning around.
“Whatever that is you’re doing,” Margo replied.
J?rgensen suddenly barked out a laugh. “This?” he said, turning to face them again. “This isn’t work. This is just a broken vacuum cleaner. Since my wife died, I’ve had to do the housework myself. Darn thing blew up on me the other day. I only brought it in here because this is where all my tools are. I don’t have much work to do anymore.”
“About that letter, sir—” Margo pressed.
J?rgensen shifted in the creaky chair and leaned back, looking at the ceiling. “I hadn’t known it existed. The double-arrow motif served as the Whittlesey family crest. And that’s Whittlesey’s handwriting, all right. It brings back memories.”
“What kind?” asked Smithback eagerly.
J?rgensen looked over at him, his brows contracting with irritation. “Nothing that’s any of your business,” he said tartly. “Or at least, I haven’t heard just why it might be your business.”
Margo shot Smithback a shut-up look. “Dr. J?rgensen,” she began, “I’m a graduate student working with Dr. Frock. My colleague here is a journalist. Dr. Frock believes that the Whittlesey expedition, and the crates that were sent back, have a link to the Museum murders.”
“A curse?” said J?rgensen, raising his eyebrows theatrically.
“No, not a curse,” said Margo.
“I’m glad you haven’t bought into that one. There’s no curse. Unless you define a curse as a mixture of greed, human folly, and scientific jealousy. You don’t need Mbwun to explain ...”
He stopped. “Why are you so interested?” he asked suspiciously.
“To explain what?” Smithback interjected.
J?rgensen looked at him with distaste. “Young man, if you open your mouth one more time I’m going to ask you to leave.”
Smithback narrowed his eyes but remained silent. Margo wondered if she should go into detail about Frock’s theories, the claw marks, the damaged crate, but decided not to. “We’re interested because we feel that there’s a connection here that no one is paying attention to. Not the police, and not the Museum. You were mentioned in this letter. We hoped you might be able to tell us more about this expedition.”
J?rgensen held out a gnarled hand. “May I see that again?”
Reluctantly, Smithback complied.
J?rgensen’s eyes passed over the letter again, hungrily, as if sucking in memories. “There was a time,” he murmured, “I would have been reluctant to talk about this. Maybe afraid would be a better word. Certain parties might have sought to fire me.” He shrugged. “But when you get as old as I am, you don’t have much to be afraid of. Except maybe being alone.”
He nodded slowly to Margo, clutching the letter. “I would have been on that expedition, if it hadn’t been for Maxwell.”
“Maxwell? Who’s he?” asked Smithback.
J?rgensen shot him a look. “I’ve knocked down bigger journalists than you,” he snapped. “Now I said, be quiet. I’m talking to the lady.”
He turned to Margo again.
“Maxwell was one of the leaders of the expedition. Maxwell and Whittlesey. That was the first mistake, letting Maxwell muscle his way in, making the two of them coleaders. They were at odds right from the beginning. Neither one had full control. Maxwell’s gain was my loss—he decided they didn’t have room for a botanist on the expedition, and that was it for me. But Whittlesey was even less happy about it than I. Having Maxwell along put his hidden agenda at risk.”