Murder in the Smithsonian Read online

  “Wouldn’t set foot in such a tourist trap, ma’am. Urgent business will have me at the Quid. Best I can do.”

  He was certainly damnably independent. But right now she didn’t feel in any position to quibble over protocol. “I’ll be there at eight.”

  Moments after hanging up on Paley she felt even more angry at his treatment of her. She was, damn it, paying him. But she forced herself to forget about it and spent the rest of the morning talking to Mills and other staffers who’d been at the museum during her employment. Four of them went to lunch at a nearby pub, where in spite of heroic attempts to steer clear of Tunney’s murder the conversation eventually got around to it. At first, Heather had great trouble talking about it. Then she told everything she knew, and even gave a chronological account of her Washington experiences. In the end, she felt a little better.

  ***

  Evelyn Killinworth, too, had lunch, but not in a pub. He shared a table at the Savoy, overlooking the Thames, with a tall, attractive blond woman in her mid-forties. Killinworth had spent a portion of the morning at a branch of the Barclay Bank, where he maintained a sizable account. He had gone on to Lewin on Jermyn Street to order four custom-striped dress shirts, then to Nutters, his favorite tailor on Savile Row, where after receiving a warm greeting from Tommy Nutter himself he ordered two suits costing seven hundred pounds each.

  Killinworth and his companion left the Savoy at two-thirty. They stood on the sidewalk, and she handed him a set of keys. “You really are a despicable bastard, Evelyn,” she said.

  He laughed. “I prefer to think of myself as simply being astute, brilliant and knowing which buttons to push. Besides, you ought to be a little more selective with whom you sleep. Have a splendid day, and thank you.”

  He hailed a passing taxi. The driver pulled down the window. Killinworth said, “Belgrave Place in Belgravia, please.”

  He sat back in the spacious comfort of the immaculately clean black Austin taxi and watched London slide by his window, tiny side streets chosen by the driver to avoid Trafalgar Square’s congestion, down Piccadilly to Wellington Arch and then into the quiet, refined section of London known as Belgravia, stately foreign embassies flanking elegant private townhouses, one of them the scene of the popular British television program, “Upstairs, Downstairs.”

  Most of the buildings were of off-white stone, and the taxi stopped in front of one of them, three stories tall, on Belgrave Place. Four fluted columns defined the entryway. Large black gilt-decorated doors with ornate brass knockers were formidable, as was a high black wrought-iron fence with sharp spikes that flared out in two directions, making entering and leaving difficult except for the most athletic of intruders.

  Killinworth paid the cabbie, tipped him ten percent, received a polite “thank you” and went to the iron gate. He pressed a button. Curtains on a window to one side of the door fluttered, then hung still. The door did not open. Killinworth pressed the button again. Now the doors opened and a short man of obviously Arabic origins stepped onto the small, curved top step. “Killinworth?” he asked in a singsong voice.

  “Of course it is, Ashtat. If you weren’t sure, you’d never have opened those bloody doors and exposed your crown jewels to the world. Buzz this gate open. It’s starting to rain.”

  Ashtat looked up into a thickening gray sky. A drop of rain hit his eye. He blinked, reached inside the door to a button that controlled the gate. There was a soft buzzing sound as the gate quietly, slowly glided open. Killinworth stepped through and extended his hand to the Arab. The Arab hesitated, took it, quickly turned and went inside the house, Killinworth at his heels.

  Rashad Ashtat wore a tight-fitting black silk suit, white shirt and black tie. His face was pockmarked. His left eye, as a result of a childhood injury, perpetually looked to the side. He went over to a large, richly furnished living room, turned and waited for Killinworth to join him. Killinworth had stopped in the foyer to look at the paintings on the walls: a Girtin watercolor of early London, an unsigned medieval religious egg tempera and gesso, a Monet, a Cézanne and a small Gainsborough portrait.

  “I especially like the Gainsborough,” Killinworth said as he joined Ashtat in the living room. “His brushwork always impresses me.”

  “A minor piece, Killinworth, of little value.”

  Killinworth saw that one end of the living room contained six steamer trunks and numerous suitcases. “Taking a holiday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Evidently an extended one.”

  “I don’t know how long, Killinworth. And it is business.”

  Killinworth laughed. “Yes, I’m sure it is. Where are you going?”

  “That is not your concern.”

  “Of course it isn’t, but I’d like to know.”

  “I’m going home, to visit family.”

  “That’s difficult business, Ashtat.”

  “Business and pleasure.”

  Killinworth shrugged and admired the living room’s art.

  “Why are you here?” Ashtat asked, his voice rising even higher in pitch, testifying to his anxiety at this unannounced visit.

  “Just a friendly call, my friend,” Killinworth said, not looking at him, “but while I am here, perhaps you can help me.”

  “I don’t have much time, I must finish packing and I have an important dinner engagement.”

  Killinworth turned and extended his hands, palms up. “And I wouldn’t dream of standing in your way, my friend. Tell me something, Rashad, what’s the local gossip about Lewis Tunney’s murder?”

  “Why would I know?”

  “You did hear about it, I presume.”

  “Of course, but that is all I know, that he was murdered—”

  “Startling, wasn’t it?”

  “Killinworth, I have much to do and your visit is… ill timed.”

  “Not unusual for me.”

  “Is that all you wanted, to ask whether I had heard about the Tunney murder?”

  “No, Ashtat, that’s not all.”

  “Then tell me and leave. I do not wish to be rude but—”

  “I’ve never seen you rude, Ashtat. Devious and calculating perhaps, but never rude. I’ll come to the point. I am in London representing a very wealthy and, I might add, famous person. This person, whose name you would immediately recognize, which is why the person shall remain nameless, wishes to purchase a certain artifact.”

  “And?”

  “And,” Killinworth said with an exaggerated sigh, “you came immediately to mind as someone who could fulfill the person’s request.”

  “What does this rich and famous person wish to purchase?”

  Killinworth smiled, laid the fingers of his right hand on the palm of his left, examined his nails, then said without looking up, “The Legion of Harsa.”

  Ashtat started to laugh, stopped, started again, then uttered a series of short, rapid sounds like an ack-ack gun, or an automobile with ignition problems. “The Harsa is not on the market, Killinworth. It has been returned to the Smithsonian.”

  “Rather,” Killinworth said, moving to a large Velázquez original illuminated by pinspots in the ceiling. “How fortunate Velázquez was to have Philip IV as a patron. Think of what Holbein might have done if he hadn’t been strapped as court painter to Henry VIII.”

  “I am not in the mood, Killinworth, to discuss the relative merit of dead artists.”

  “But you will admit that Velázquez had a sense of composition unparalleled in western art—”

  “Please leave, Killinworth.”

  “I shall, but keep in mind that my client is quite serious about wishing to obtain the Harsa, if, of course, you should ever hear of its availability. You will then give me first opportunity?”

  “Yes, yes. Now, please, go.”

  “Good chap. Delightful seeing you again. Enjoy your holiday with your family. As one gets older it becomes increasingly important to maintain family ties. Life is so transitory, and one of the saddest conditions is
to lose someone without having, how shall I say, resolved the relationship. Assalamoo ahlaykum, my friend.”

  “Peace be with you, too, Killinworth.”

  Killinworth thanked the Arab and went to the street, where he waved down a passing taxi. “The Dorchester,” he said.

  ***

  As Killinworth stood at the bar in the Dorchester drinking double gins without ice, Heather was walking down Davies Street. She stopped in front of the shop bearing the sign—Antiques, Peter S. Peckham, Prop. By Appointment Only. She pressed the bell and heard the musical triplet chime from inside. She pressed it a few more times, then knocked repeatedly on the door. There was no response.

  She went to a red phone booth and dialed a number written on a piece of paper. She let it ring twenty times before hanging up. “Where are you?” she muttered as she took a final look at the name on the paper, Peter Peckham (Home Number). She walked down Audley Street to the Dorchester, and found Killinworth in the main lobby, where tea service was set up at elaborately dressed tables attended by waiters in black swallowtails. They compared their day’s activities over diamond-shaped tea sandwiches of salmon, cucumber, ham and egg. Killinworth told her about his purchases, and said he’d enjoyed a fine lunch at the Savoy. When Heather asked him whom he’d lunched with he told her it was no one she knew, just an old crony.

  “And you, my dear, what did you do your first day back in London?”

  “Spent time at the B.M., had lunch with friends, browsed some shops. I tried to contact Lewis’s friend Peter Peckham but had no luck.”

  “What about the Paley chap?”

  “I rang him up. Unfortunately he had nothing to report.” She had decided not to mention her appointment with Paley that evening, not wanting him to pressure her into having him accompany her. This was something she wanted to do for herself, by herself. Evelyn was so helpful, but enough was enough. She wasn’t, after all, totally helpless.

  “Just as well,” Killinworth said as the waiter brought a silver platter heaped with tarts, meringues, eclairs and slices of obscenely rich Black Forest cake. “Would you be good enough to leave the tray?” he asked the waiter. Then to Heather again: “What’s the plan for this evening?”

  “I made a date with an old friend,” Heather said.

  “Oh? Someone I should know?”

  She shook her head. “A school chum.” She was getting annoyed with his curiosity… however well intentioned.

  “I see. Well, I’m tied up this evening too, but not for long. Will you be having dinner with your school chum?”

  “No.”

  “I’m not engaged for dinner either. Shall we meet later?”

  “Yes, I suppose that will be all right…”

  “Good. Nine-thirty, at the hotel?”

  “Yes, that—” And then she shook her head. “I’m not sure I can handle the restaurant, Evelyn. The hotel was difficult enough, but we had my birthday celebration in the restaurant the night Lewis and I…”

  “The night you announced your engagement. I understand, Heather, believe me I do. But you must face up to it. In fact, I insist that we dine there. Nine-thirty. You’ll honor me.”

  “Yes, all right,” she said in a near-whisper.

  They returned to the Chesterfield at five. As Heather napped, then showered, and as Killinworth made phone calls while room service delivered gin to his rooms, a tall, well-dressed woman stood in line at Customs at Heathrow airport. Her flight had arrived moments earlier. The Passport Control officer took her U.S. passport and scrutinized the name and photograph. Linda Claire Salzbank. “Business or pleasure, Miss Salzbank?”

  “Overnight, a last-minute business obligation,” she said.

  “Have a pleasant evening,” he said, handing her her passport and looking to the next non-British citizen in line. She proceeded to a waiting line of cabs. It was raining heavily, and a dense fog had rolled in, enveloping everything in a gray, wet cocoon. She gave the driver an address, sat back and tightly gripped an oversized combination attaché case and overnight bag that was her only piece of luggage.

  ***

  Heather came down to the Chesterfield’s lobby at seven-thirty. She chatted with one of the desk staff, then went to the front door and peered out. The rain had intensified; buildings across Charles Street were vague, fluid shapes. She gingerly stepped through the doors and saw Killinworth on the corner, an umbrella over his head, his attention on the busier Curzon Street a block away.

  “Evelyn,” Heather called.

  He turned and shouted, “Bloody rain.” A few moments later a taxi responded to his frantic waving. Killinworth again looked at Heather. “Share it with me?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  When they were together in the taxi, Killinworth told the driver, “Belgrave Place, Belgravia.” To Heather he said, “I’m running a little late. Hope you don’t mind my being dropped off first.”

  “Not at all.”

  A few minutes, and eighty pence later, Killinworth told the driver to stop at a corner in Belgrave Square. He handed him two pounds and said to Heather, “Getting off here. See you at nine-thirty.”

  “Yes. All right.”

  As he opened the door the blowing rain whipped inside the cab. He slammed the door behind him and disappeared into the fog.

  “Where to now?” the driver asked.

  “The East End, Cable Street, please, a pub called the Quid.”

  “Don’t know that particular pub, ma’am.”

  “We’ll find it as long as we get to Cable Street.”

  “As you say, only that’s not the sort of spot I’m comfortable dropping a proper lady at.”

  “I appreciate your concern, but it’s quite all right.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Fifteen minutes later, as the driver circled the Tower of London and turned onto Cable Street, he said, “There’s a very nice pub, ma’am, close to here called the Prospect of Whitby. I’d recommend it over the spot you’ve chosen.”

  Heather smiled. “I know that pub, but I’m meeting someone at the Quid. Thank you, though, for the suggestion.”

  He pulled up in front of the Quid. The area was dominated by project housing and warehouses. The lighted signs were blurred images through the fog and rain. Heather paid the driver and ran to the protection of a small ledge overhanging the front door. Raucous female laughter cut through the general male din inside. She watched the taxi pull away, then opened the door. An oval bar in the center of the room was crowded with drinkers, several of whom turned to look at her. An Irish jig played loudly through a speaker suspended in a corner. The floor was covered with chipped red-and-gray tiles. The barstools were red vinyl, and there were ripped tan vinyl benches along the walls.

  To the rear of the pub two men played darts. One was tall and heavy; his nose and cheeks were plum red. He wore a green plaid shirt and heavy workman’s trousers. His sandy hair was thick and unruly. His opponent was a much smaller man, sallow-faced and bald except for a fringe of gray hair. He wore a black raincoat over a rumpled brown suit.

  Heather told the bartender, “I’m looking for Mr. Elwood Paley.”

  “That’d be him over there,” the bartender said, pointing to the smaller of the two dart players.

  Paley spotted her, assumed who she was and waved for her to join him. She walked to the fringe of the dart playing area. He held up a finger. “One minute, luv. I’m up.”

  Heather watched him throw his three darts, putting them in a tight bunch around the triple-twenty section. His score was written on the board as he turned to Heather, extended his hand and said, “Elwood Paley at your service. Glad you found it. I’d have come over to your neck of the woods but like I told you on the blower, I’m tied up here tonight.”

  Heather wondered if his main business wasn’t drinking and dart playing. She asked if they could sit down and talk.

  “Just as soon as I teach this bloke what darts are all about. Go on over there and have yourself a bitter on me. I�
�ll join you shortly.”

  Heather sat on a bench, and Paley told the bartender to see that his “lady-friend” was served “half a bitter.”

  Heather sipped it and watched the finish of the game. Paley lost, she was rather glad to note, and handed his opponent money. He came to the table and sat down next to her, evidently sensing what she was thinking when he said, “It might not seem work to you, mum, but I keep in with the locals. Good sources of information, if you catch my drift.”

  “I suppose,” Heather said, not wanting to prolong the conversation in recriminations. “What have you found out, Mr. Paley?”

  “About your fiancé?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, now, Miss McBean, I’d be lyin’ in me teeth if I said I learned very much, be handin’ you a bag a hooey. I’ve gained my reputation by bein’ honest to a fault—”

  “That’s admirable, Mr. Paley.”

  “Only way to work. Tell too many lies and you find yourself in the Thames tryin’ to swim with blocks on your feet and hands.”

  Heather sighed. “What have you learned?”

  “Well, now, let me see.” He pulled a dog-eared pad from his raincoat pocket and turned pages until he found what he was looking for. “First of all,” he said, “I’ve not been able to find Mr. Peter Peckham, which, I might add, is cause for concern, and I’m not the only one feelin’ this way. The gent seems to have disappeared, which isn’t regular for someone like him.”

  “You have no idea where he might be?” she said, her voice reflecting her concern.

  “Not a clue, ma’am. I come up with a few people who knew him but they’ve not seen hide nor hair of him for more ’n a week.”

  “I see.” Heather sipped from her mug and stared at the scarred tabletop. Two drunken longshoremen came into the pub. One of them made a mildly suggestive comment to her as they passed. “Don’t mind them,” Paley whispered in her ear. “Nothin’ to fear as long as you’re with me.”

  Heather did her best to ignore everything and everyone around her. “What about Dr. Tunney? Did you learn anything about his movements before he left for America?”