Murder in the Smithsonian (20 page)

“Do you know what I’m going to do to this nut when we nail him?” Hanrahan said to a uniformed officer.

“What’s that, Captain?”

“I’m personally going to stuff him alive into the boiler of that locomotive, shovel in coal myself and put a match to it. I’m going to watch that silly ass evaporate in steam, right up through the stack. And do you know what else?”

“What?”

“I’m going to laugh, really laugh while that pain in the ass condenses on the ceiling. I mean it. I don’t need this.”

***

He was back at his office by six. Sergeant Arey, who was on the desk, told him he’d had a phone call from London. They’d said it was important.

“Who was it?” Hanrahan asked, expecting to hear Heather’s name.

Arey went through slips of paper until he found the right one. He handed it to Hanrahan. The call was from Inspector Albert Burns of Scotland Yard. Hanrahan had worked with Burns on two previous cases, one of which took him to London to testify at the trial at the Old Bailey. He’d gotten a kick out of it, seeing men with deep voices in black robes and wearing wigs pursuing justice in a system his own had come from. “It’s just like TV or a movie,” he’d told his then wife.

“Thanks, Jim,” Hanrahan told the sergeant. “Did he say what he wanted?”

“Nope, but you should call him whenever you got back, no matter what the time.”

Hanrahan looked at his watch as he went to the office. Six o’clock in Washington meant eleven in London. He was about to put through a call when a typed list on his desk caught his eye. It had the names of people who’d been at the transvestite party in Georgetown. Such lists were sent to him routinely by Vice, although he seldom had use for them. He knew that another copy would have gone to the FBI, a practice established under J. Edgar Hoover… Hoover’s legendary files on
everyone
in Washington were a fact, and it was those files that had given him such immense power. Hanrahan had always hated the practice but had been powerless to change it.

He tossed the list aside and dialed an MPD operator, who put through his call to London. Burns came on the line.

“I tried the office first, Bert,” Hanrahan said, “figuring you wouldn’t be there and would get your home number. I was wrong.”

Burns laughed. “It’ll be another late one, Mac, I’m afraid. We’ve had an interesting day.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“I thought it worth checking with you. We had a murder last night in Belgravia. That’s a posh section of town, lots of money and high-tone types. This chap who was murdered is an Arab named Ashtat, Rashad Ashtat. I don’t know very much about him except that he’s evidently well known in art circles, was quite a collector.”

“Ashtat? Doesn’t ring a bell. I assume you’re telling me because of the Tunney case.”

“Exactly. To be honest with you, I probably wouldn’t have linked it up except for another murder that came to light this afternoon, a chap named Peter Peckham.”

“Tunney’s friend… I’ve heard about him.”

“It stuck me as strange that two fellows in the same business would be murdered in the same week, particularly on the heels of the Tunney business you’re dealing with.”

“You’re right, Bert. How’d they get it?”

“Ashtat was found in his home with a kitchen knife in his belly. Peckham was dragged out from under a bridge on the Thames. His skull had been smashed, although we’ll have to wait for the forensic chaps to finish up.”

“Look, Bert, I think there’s something you might want to do before you end up with another body in the river.” He told him about Heather.

“Want me to pick her up?”

“No, she’s too feisty for that, but I sure would appreciate somebody keeping close tabs on her. She’s staying at a hotel called the Chesterfield.”

“In Mayfair. I’ll get on it right away.”

“Thanks. And keep me informed, will you? She’s quite a lady.”

“I certainly shall. How’s the family?”

“Fine, Bert. Yours?”

“Tip-top. Well, back to work. I’ll ring you up tomorrow when I’ve got more details under my belt.”

Hanrahan hung up, picked up the phone again and told the operator to put through a call to Miss Heather McBean at the Chesterfield Hotel in London. A minute later he heard a desk clerk say that Miss McBean had checked out that morning. Hanrahan broke in on the conversation. “Connect me with Dr. Evelyn Killinworth.” He waited as the phone in Killinworth’s room rang at least a dozen times. He slammed down the receiver.

It took a while but he finally got a number for the McBean castle outside Edinburgh and put a call through.

No answer.

He was about to leave the office when he spotted the list from Vice, angrily scanned the names. Two jumped off the page at him—Ford Saunders and Norman Huffaker.

“I’ll be damned,” he said.

Heather had gotten up that morning feeling almost unaccountably rested and relaxed. She’d stayed in her room, fussing with her hair and makeup and reviewing papers that had a bearing on the conversion of the McBean castle from a private residence to a public museum. As she read them she was glad she’d decided to leave for Edinburgh that afternoon. There was more to be done there than she’d realized.

She went downstairs to the Buttery, where she ordered a full British breakfast—juice, eggs, porridge, toast and jam, kippers, bacon and sausage. “The lass eats like a lumberjack. She’ll not
faa throu ane’s claes
,” her Uncle Calum used to say about her, meaning she’d not grow up thin.

An East Indian waiter delivered copies of the morning papers with her juice. She glanced at the front page of one of them, then turned inside. A small headline in the lower left-hand corner didn’t at first stop her, but, like a double take, her attention quickly returned to it. The headline read: ARAB ART DEALER SLAIN. And the brief story:

She looked up from the paper and closed her eyes. “Belgravia… but wasn’t that where—?”

“Good morning, sleep well?”

Killinworth stood over her. He was dressed in a vested royal blue silk suit, white shirt and yellow-and-blue striped tie. A handkerchief that matched his tie bloomed from his breast pocket.

“I startled you,” he said as he sat down. “Sorry.”

“No, no, you didn’t… I was just… daydreaming.” She glanced down at the paper on her lap, then quickly away.

“Ordered yet?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’m famished.” He motioned for the waiter to take his order. “Well,” he said as he tucked a napkin into the folds of his vest, “what does the day hold in store for you, my dear?”

“What? Oh, some shopping… a few people to see…”

“I’ve an early appointment.” He looked at his watch. “Hmmm, I’d better eat up and be on my way. I’m running late. Lunch? Will you be free? I thought the Connaught would be nice.”

“I don’t think so, I… I have a tentative luncheon date with someone from the B.M.”

“Pity. Well, should you change your mind, which, I’m told, is not uncommon with members of your fair
sex, I’ll be at the Connaught at noon. I try to break the habit but can’t.”

“Habit?”

“The Connaught. One simply can’t leave London without lunching there. Please try to break free, dear. You’re leaving for Edinburgh this afternoon?”

“Yes, on the three-twenty shuttle.” Why do you
talk
so much, she scolded herself.

“I do hope I can spring free and join you in Scotland for a day. I’d love to see the castle again.”

“Yes, I…”

“Is something wrong, my dear?”

She shook her head. “No, nothing’s wrong… yes, please try to come up.”

“I certainly shall, my dear. But if not, I’ll of course see you back in Washington.”

“In Washington, yes… here’s breakfast.”

Killinworth ate quickly. He wished Heather a pleasant day, reminded her he’d be at the Connaught and left for his appointment. The moment he was gone she picked up the newspaper from her lap and finished reading about this Ashtat’s murder.

She walked aimlessly for most of the morning, browsing in small shops. There wasn’t anything she really needed, except to get her mind off what had happened recently. She bought a basket of soaps in chamomile, wild thyme, rosemary, myrtle, sweet woodruff and bergamot, a packet of notepaper and envelopes, and two pairs of lace panties in a shocking wild rose color.

She lunched alone at the Red Lion on Waverton Street, only a few blocks from her hotel, returned, checked out of the Chesterfield and took a cab to Heathrow, where she boarded the 3:20 British Airways shuttle to Edinburgh.

At Edinburgh she picked up a rental car, tossed her luggage in the back and drove toward the city, stopping once on Princess Street to look at Edinburgh’s oldest building, the Edinburgh Castle, that loomed over the city like a gigantic temple, a fairy-tale structure of ancient masonry that flowed up out of volcanic rock as though it grew from it, buildings and hardened lava one continuous mass. That castle, even more than the smaller one she’d been raised in, had special meaning for her. She sat at the curb, motor running, full of an overwhelming sense of history that made her feel insignificant, a feeling she welcomed at that moment. How many births and deaths had occurred within its thick, scarred walls and cold, dank rooms? The castle had survived since the seventh century, when it was first fortified by the Picts, and had been a continuing symbol for all Scots, stronger than those who’d built it, as permanent as its inhabitants were transient.

She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth as her thoughts inexorably went to Lewis and her birthday party at the Chesterfield. They’d toasted their engagement with champagne, glasses raised, rims clinking together, wishes around the table for a long and happy life. They’d made love that night in his apartment. “I’ll love you until the day I die,” he’d said…

She slammed the gearshift into first and continued down Princess Street, Edinburgh’s main shopping thoroughfare, turned left on Frederick and right on George until she reached the George Hotel. She’d decided during the flight not to stay at the McBean castle. It was too forbidding, too isolated. She hated to admit it, but
she was afraid to be alone. Especially after the Belgravia—she caught herself up short. Stop jumping to conclusions, she told herself. My God, to suspect Evelyn… he was hardly the only one who’d gone to Belgravia that day. Her nerves were beginning to go on her… pull yourself together, Heather McBean…

She walked past the desk and went directly to the office of Ian Sutherland, the hotel’s sales manager. They’d met during the year after Calum’s death, and had almost become romantically involved. Sutherland was forty, widowed, a former star rugby player on the Scottish national team and a lover of classical music; their dates usually took them to Friday performances of the Scottish National Orchestra at Usher Hall. He was stocky, had thick, black hair. Although the practice had faded, he still wore traditional Scottish outfits to formal occasions, a kilt in his mother’s Macquarrie clan tartan; large squares of brilliant red broken by smaller patches of green, a green velvet jacket with horn buttons, a sporran, or purse, made of sealskin and worn around his waist, a red Balmoral bonnet bearing the Macquarrie crest and a razor-sharp sgian-dubh tucked into red knitted hose that reached the knee.

This day, however, he was in more conventional slacks, button-down shirt, tie and tweed jacket. He sprang up from his desk and hugged her.

“Hello, Ian,” she said.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” he said, holding her at arms’ length. “I’d heard that…”

“It’s all right, Ian, you can mention it. Coming here was a last-minute decision.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s just good to see you. Tea? A drink?”

“I could use a whiskey.”

He ordered two Knockando single-malt Scotch
whiskeys in the Clans Bar. They sat on a couch in front of a fireplace, and he offered a toast. “To seeing the fair Heather once again. I’ve missed you.”

She lowered her eyes. She was glad the whiskey was strong. She needed it.

“How long will you be here?”

“A few days. The castle is still in the process of being turned over to the city, and I have a million things to check on.”

“I was talking to someone about that the other day. I understand the city has finally agreed to accept the castle and maintain it.”

“You know more than I do,” she said. “Ian, I’d like to stay here instead of at the castle.”

“Fine. We’re fairly booked up but I can always find room for you. I know at least one suite is available.”

“Anything, a closet, it doesn’t matter.”

He stared at her. “You look tired, Heather. It’s been a rough road, hasn’t it? I’ll do anything I can. I hope you know that.”

“I do know it, Ian.”

“Tell you what. Let me get you squared away in the suite, give you a chance to unwind and then we’ll have dinner. Unless, of course, you have other plans.”

She finished her drink. “That would be just fine,” she said.

A porter showed her to a suite in the older west wing. Large windows in the beige-and-brown living room looked out over rooftops to the Firth of Forth, a wide inlet from the North Sea. She went to the window and looked in the direction of Cramond, a village at the mouth of the River Almond that was, as far back as the second century A.D., an important Roman fort and supply base. She located it, then shifted a little to the right, where she saw an orange sun’s rays bouncing off the roof of the McBean castle. She felt a sudden,
overwhelming urge to go to it, reminded herself that morning would be time enough…

She joined Ian Sutherland in the Carver’s Table, where she had another whiskey, a peaty Laphroaig this time. Sutherland recognized the mood she was in and didn’t try to be part of it. They ate Aberdeen Angus beef from the buffet, and Ian had a bottle of wine delivered to the table. After dinner they sat in the lobby. He sipped a brandy, she had nothing, said almost nothing.