Murder in the Smithsonian Page 11

  “You’re uncomfortable,” she said as coffee was served and he shifted, as he had several times before, to accommodate his bulk.

  “The price one pays for gastronomic indulgence.” He laughed, causing his immense jowls to quake. His cheeks were unnaturally pink; a tattoo artist might have created them with needlepoint. The hair remaining on his head was stringy, inadequate for the dimensions of what was there to cover. His mouth was small and round, and he worked it even when not chewing. He wore a double-breasted blue blazer over light gray slacks, a custom-made white cotton shirt and red silk tie.

  “I’m glad you’re back from California,” Heather said. “I’d thought so many times of trying to reach you but this has been such a dreadful week and…” Tears flowed in spite of herself, as they had earlier.

  He took her hand, patted it. “You have every right to cry. ‘Heavy the sorrow that bows the head, when love is alive and hope is dead.’” He delivered the words in deep, near-stentorian tones.

  Heather dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “That’s lovely. Shakespeare?”

  “Gilbert, H.M.S. Pinafore. You cry all you want, dear. Get rid of it, let it drain from you.”

  “It’s so good to see an old friend.”

  “Of course.” He placed his arm around her, and she buried her face in his shoulder.

  When she pulled away, Killinworth took out a long, thick black cigar. “Do you mind?”

  “No. Actually I like the aroma.”

  He lit it, being careful not to allow the flame to touch the tobacco, blew smoke into the air, grunted with pleasure, turned to her. “Any notion who killed Lewis, Heather?”

  The directness of the question took her aback. She raised her dark eyebrows, shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”

  “I assume you’ve spoken with the police.”

  “Yes. There’s a Captain Hanrahan who’s in charge of the case and who’s been very good to me. As a matter of fact, I’d like you to meet him.”

  “Fine. People at the museum? Have you spoken to Chloe Prentwhistle?”

  “Yes. She’s nice, a little odd but very decent.”

  He drew on his cigar and released its blue smoke.

  “Do you know anything that might help?” Heather asked him.

  “No, not any more than I could factually disprove the absurd theory that your Uncle Calum took his own life.”

  A tiny smile came to her lips. “That’s right, you always shared my view that he hadn’t killed himself. I believe that’s the last time we talked.”

  “Exactly so. Now, let’s get back to Lewis’s death. I know it’s difficult for you constantly to be reminded of it, but we must get to the bottom of things.”

  “You sound determined.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Of course I am, but I assumed your interest would be… well, more as a friend than a colleague.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe because I need a friend at this point more than I need a partner.”

  “I am your friend, Heather, but I hope that doesn’t exclude me from caring about seeing Lewis’s killer brought to justice. I think I can be of help. I know many of the people in the field. I understand them. Lewis, I’m sure, was murdered by someone involved with his career and interests.”

  “Oh…?”

  “Why would you think otherwise?”

  “I don’t know… I suppose it’s easier accepting the act of a demented person, a thief caught in the act, an irrational human being who acted on impulse rather than someone who’d thought it out ahead of time.”

  “Heather, what’s important right now is for you to tell me everything you’ve learned, from any source, for any reason. I’m going to take notes… I’m afraid note-taking is a way of life with me. Please, proceed. Share your information with me and we can begin working together. You know, Heather McBean, your Uncle Calum always said that if you want to accomplish anything in this world, you must do it yourself.”

  She nodded, managed a smile. “I recently quoted him to that effect myself. All right, this is what’s happened to date…”

  ***

  After she’d filled him in on the details, he put away his notepad and said, “You must leave the hotel.”

  “Why?”

  “After what you’ve told me, Heather, I’d say your own life is in jeopardy. Captain Hanrahan apparently thought so too. Whoever killed Lewis will be uncomfortable with you on the scene.”

  “But—”

  “I insist. When I came to America I bought a quite handsome house in Georgetown. You’re familiar with that portion of this city?”

  “Yes, I’ve—”

  “I live in the bottom half. Until leaving for California I rented the upstairs to a professor of linguistics at Catholic University. Frankly I think he was in the employ of the government, possibly the CIA, but that’s neither here nor there. He was a delightful chap, very popular with the ladies if my ears served me right. At any rate, he’s gone, Arizona or Utah—I’m afraid they all tend to be the same to me—and the apartment is furnished, clean and vacant. I insist you stay there for the duration of your stay in America.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know, it would be taking advantage of a friendship and—”

  “And your sense of propriety makes you uncomfortable sharing a house with a man? Nonsense. In the first place, I am like a father to you. In the second place, I stopped pursuing the opposite sex years ago, more’s the pity, but there it is. In the third place, I have a splendid Victorian housekeeper who blushes at Walt Disney cartoons and who will see to your every need. No further discussion. Here.” He handed her a key. “You’ll come and go as you please. I shall never intrude on your sanctity unless summoned. Please, do this for me, and for Calum. He’d be horrified at the thought of you staying alone in a hotel. They’re not safe, as you’ve found out, even the best of them. And they cost money, something that was very dear to his Scottish heart.”

  Heather looked at the key, then at Killinworth. “All right. Thank you.”

  “Splendid. We shall go to the Madison immediately, transport you and your belongings in my automobile and have you tucked in within the hour.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Evelyn.”

  “Say nothing. You are a stranger in a strange city. I am your friend, the closest thing you have to family in this grand experiment known as the United States of America. Come, my dear.”

  ***

  When Mac Hanrahan called Heather at the Madison the next morning he was told that she’d checked out.

  “Where’d she go?”

  “We don’t know, sir.”

  She called him later that afternoon, told him about accepting Killinworth’s offer. “You must meet him, Captain.”

  “Yeah, I’d like to meet him. Very much.”

  They made a date for lunch the next day.

  Chapter 16

  “…And so, Captain, I’d say it’s impossible, at least from a professional’s point of view.”

  “I appreciate your expert opinion, Mr. Kazakis,” Hanrahan said. He had stopped at the Museum of Natural History on his way to lunch with Heather and Evelyn Killinworth. He and Constantine Kazakis had spent a half hour talking about the Harsa. Mostly Hanrahan wanted to know whether it would be possible to create a good copy of the Harsa.

  “You see, Captain,” Kazakis said, “it isn’t a matter of duplicating the craftsmanship. That’s easy, if you know what you’re doing. The problem is in the stones. When the Harsa was designed and assembled, jewels were cut in a distinctly different fashion from the way they are today. The difference would not be discernible to a layman… but it would be to me.”

  “And you’re certain the medal that’s been returned to the Museum of American History is, in fact, the original Harsa.”

  “No question about it.”

  “Any dissenting votes?”

  “What do you mean?”

  �
��Was it a unanimous decision that it’s the real McCoy?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about Mr. Jones?”

  “Walter? He concurred. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious. Well, thanks for your time, Mr. Kazakis.”

  “My pleasure, Captain. Any progress on the case?”

  “I’m optimistic. Let’s leave it at that.”

  Heather had told him to meet her and Killinworth at Le Lion d’Or on Connecticut Avenue. Hanrahan knew that the restaurant was as expensive as it was good from having celebrated a few special occasions there over the years with his wife. He stopped thinking about that when Killinworth, after being introduced, said in full voice, “What a pleasure to have an esteemed law enforcement officer to lunch.”

  When they’d been seated Hanrahan ordered Gordon’s gin on the rocks. Heather and Killinworth had wine, a Robert Mondavi 1974 Cabernet Sauvignon Reserve. It was obvious to Hanrahan that Killinworth was well known and welcome at Le Lion d’Or.

  “Before we get down to the unpleasant business of discussing the death of Dr. Lewis Tunney,” Killinworth announced, “allow me to suggest that we might order. If bear were in season I’d heartily endorse it, but since it isn’t, the lobster stew, anything in puff pastry, duck breast with black currant sauce or venison are guaranteed to please.” He looked at Heather and Hanrahan for their reactions. “The shrimp in basil sounds good to me,” Heather said.

  Hanrahan was tempted to order anything except what this Evelyn Killinworth had touted, but he remembered once having had a great striped bass in pastry. He ordered it. Killinworth insisted on their sharing an appetizer of hot rabbit pâté.

  “Well,” Killinworth said to Hanrahan, “I don’t envy your trying to sort out this nightmarish business. Needles in proverbial haystacks, it appears.”

  “Not quite that bad,” Hanrahan said. “Heather tells me you might be able to help.”

  Killinworth, who’d tucked his napkin into his collar, delivered a modest laugh and shook his head in Heather’s direction, then said to Hanrahan, “Modesty precludes me from admitting that what you’ve said might be true, Captain. But the truth is, it could well be.”

  Hanrahan was now wishing he’d declined the invitation. He found the whale of a man across from him to be a monumental bore. But he reminded himself that the reason he was there was to get a line on Killinworth’s relationship to Heather. He felt a rush of annoyance… possessiveness?… at her for trusting Evelyn to the extent of moving in with him. All right so he was older, a friend of the family, but he’d come across a few of those that were also dangerous and dirty old men… “Go ahead, Mr. Killinworth,” he said, “I’m listening.”

  “It’s Dr. Killinworth,” Heather said.

  “Sorry… what do you think, doctor? What’s your diagnosis?”

  “I don’t have one… thoughts, yes. Diagnosis, as you put it, no. I understand the Harsa has been returned.”

  “That’s right.”

  Killinworth raised heavy, bushy eyebrows. “And you are confident it is, in fact, the Legion of Harsa?”

  “According to experts at the museum, it’s authentic, the same one stolen the night of Dr. Tunney’s murder.”

  “You and your men are to be congratulated, Captain. Retrieving the Harsa is a major coup.”

  “Minor compared to solving Dr. Tunney’s death.”

  “Of course. What is a medal compared to a life? Frankly, though, I would have assumed that the Harsa would never be seen again.”

  “Why?”

  “Priceless icons have a way of disappearing once they end up in the wrong hands.”

  “Go on.”

  Killinworth dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “Dessert?” he asked.

  Heather and Hanrahan passed, Killinworth ordered a giant flaming orange soufflé. “Sorry, Captain, but I can’t pass up this soufflé. There’s just none better. You must taste it… Now, we were discussing how valuable works of art and historic treasures tend to disappear once in the hands of the less-than-honorable. Obviously, all stolen goods have their channels of disposition, but with works of art, these avenues of distribution are… how shall I say it?… well, more esoteric, more difficult to follow. The buyer hides it along with his other illegally obtained items.”

  “I realize that fencing a precious jewel or historic medal is different than fencing a stolen TV set. Do you have any idea who might have bought the Harsa, if it had been fenced?”

  Killinworth laughed, setting his corpulent body into motion like a giant jello mold. “Hypothetical, wouldn’t you say, Captain? No one, of course, bought the Harsa. It was stolen by an Hispanic dishwasher—”

  “No, that’s not so.”

  “The papers…”

  Hanrahan leaned close to Killinworth. “I really enjoyed the lunch, Dr. Killinworth, and I’ve enjoyed meeting you, but I have a notorious short attention span. My ex-boss used to preach that any lunch not resulting in progress in a case was a wasted lunch.” He looked at Heather to see whether she was offended. She didn’t seem to be, maybe a little uncomfortable…

  Killinworth, too, checked Heather for a reaction, then sat back, removed the napkin from beneath his chin, pursed his lips. He looked to Hanrahan rather like a large, pouting baby. His feelings had, Hanrahan realized, obviously been hurt, and Hanrahan was almost sorry for what he’d said. Almost.

  Killinworth leaned the elbow patches of his gray tweed jacket on the table. He spread the fingers of his right hand across his lips. Hanrahan noticed that his fingernails were lacquered.

  “Look, Dr. Killinworth, I didn’t mean to offend you but—”

  The fingers left Killinworth’s lips and he waved them in front of Hanrahan. “No apologies necessary, Captain. I was, I confess, a bit overbearing. Apologies should come from me.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Absolutely not. We’ve been fencing. You’re here to scrutinize this stranger who’s suddenly entered the picture, especially where Miss McBean is concerned. I assure you that I am Miss McBean’s friend. As I was her uncle’s. My intentions are honorable, my motives familial. I hope that reassures you…”

  Hanrahan thanked him for lunch. He stood up and looked at Heather. “Glad to see you’re in good hands, Miss McBean. Keep in touch.”

  ***

  Later that afternoon, Hanrahan received a call from Heather. She hoped he hadn’t been offended at Killinworth’s manner… “He’s overbearing, I know, but brilliant and well meaning. He was very impressed with you. And it’s true, he’s like family to me. He—”

  “I don’t know why you’re going through all this”—he didn’t like the churlish sound of his own voice—“Killinworth doesn’t seem to have anything to offer the investigation. I’ve no interest in him. But if you’re comfortable with him, that’s what counts. Like I said, keep in touch.”

  After hanging up, and telling himself he’d sounded like a jerk, Hanrahan called Joe Pearl into his office. “A Doctor Evelyn Killinworth,” he said, “I want to know everything there is to know about him, down to the color of his oversized shorts and whether he has holes in his socks.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because I don’t like him. He’s too fat, pompous, arrogant, knows too much about stolen art, has conned the McBean girl into moving in with him and, on top of all that, manicures his fingernails, for Christ’s sake. I hate men who have manicures. Color me prejudiced.”

  “Well, Mac, there’s no arguing with cool, professional logic. Especially if it comes from one’s boss.”

  Chapter 17

  “Got anything on Killinworth?” Hanrahan asked Joe Pearl, who’d just entered his office carrying an armful of purple file folders.

  “Working on it, Mac. We do know he taught at Oxford, then at Georgetown U. He—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know all that.”

  “Testy. Bad night?”

  Hanrahan looked up, ran his hand over his beard. He had stopped to have it trimmed on the way to the office and ha
d gotten the usual line from his Italian barber of many years… “I charge you for the beard, not the haircut. There’s more hair on your face than on your head.” Hanrahan had laughed, as usual, but his heart wasn’t in it. For some reason his creeping baldness seemed more pronounced this morning than on other days. And it bothered him more.

  “No, Joe, I did not have a bad night. In fact, I had a very good night. I made veal scaloppine in apple-lemon sauce.”

  Pearl raised his eyebrows. “That’s wonderful. Company?”

  “My mother stopped over.”

  “Oh.” No wonder he was testy. “Mac, two things. First, a guy from San Francisco called after you left last night. He said it wasn’t important enough to bother you at home. He left his number.” He handed a slip of paper to Hanrahan. On it was a name, Arthur Detienne, and a San Francisco area code and number.

  “What’d he want?”

  “He’s an art dealer in Frisco, said he’d learned something that might interest you. He wants to speak with you directly.”

  “What else?”

  “This.” He pulled a sheet of lined yellow paper from one of the folders and put it on the desk. Hanrahan picked it up, squinted, looked up. “I can’t read your damn handwriting.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t get a chance to type it up. It’s about Chloe Jones.” He said it almost casually.

  “Chloe who?”

  “Chloe Jones. Chloe Prentwhistle was married to one Walter Jones in Maryland twenty-nine years ago.”

  “No kidding. I wonder why they keep it secret.”

  “Who knows… it’s more fashionable to live together these days than to be married.”

  “I’ll ask them. I’m going out to her house at eleven.”

  “Their house.”

  “Whatever. Got anything else?”