Murder in the Smithsonian (30 page)

Heather quietly slipped off her shoes. Her injured foot throbbed. She reached about in the darkness and
touched a display case, moved around it and went deeper into the vast black cavern. She glanced back, did not see Chloe, gasped as she bumped into a heavy cannon. She held her breath.

“Heather? I realize you’re confused, but you must trust me.”

The voice was shockingly close—to her left, which put Chloe on a line that made them equally distant from the exhibit entrance.

“Damn it, Heather”—Chloe’s voice had more of an edge now—“this has been difficult for me too—”

Heather ran toward the vague light of the rotunda and the pendulum circle. A loud noise came from behind as Chloe apparently collided with something and called out for Heather to stop.

Heather reached the railing, gripped it with both hands. The Mall entrance was too far away, Chloe’s path from the exhibit area would cut it off.

“Heather—”

She looked down at the voice, a male voice. It came from the edge of the pendulum pit, and belonged to Mac Hanrahan. He’d gotten her message.

“Heather—” This time the voice was once again Chloe’s. She had planted herself ten feet away and held the revolver in both hands, the barrel pointed directly at Heather.

The pendulum had now swung to where Heather stood. No time to think, calculate the odds. She lunged for it, gripped it with both hands and was pulled over the rail as it started its return trajectory. A shot, the bullet just missing its mark. She slid her hands down to the brass bob, fell from it and sprawled across the compass rose.

Hanrahan called up through the opening in the ceiling, told Chloe to put down the gun, that there were other police surrounding the museum.

Joe Pearl, who had arrived moments earlier, joined Hanrahan. Hanrahan extended his hand to Heather and helped her over the railing.

“Dr. Killinworth’s up there… he’s been shot…”

Hanrahan told an officer to call for an ambulance. Then: “What about you? Are you—?”

“I’m all right. Now…”

They went to the second level, where Pearl and another detective had Chloe. The lady was not done yet… “Thank God you’re here,” she said to Hanrahan, her voice cool as it has been that afternoon in her apartment. “It’s over, Lewis Tunney’s murderers, no matter what they say, are
there
.” She pointed to Saunders and Killinworth. “I’ll explain everything…”

Hanrahan knelt beside Killinworth, whose face was twisted in pain. Blood stained the floor beside him. “Take it easy,” Hanrahan said, feeling anger at his helplessness, as he always did in such circumstance, “there’s an ambulance on the way.”

Killinworth looked at Heather. “Do you understand now—?” his words cut off by violent coughing.

“Never mind that now, what’s important is for you to get help—”

“Heather, listen to me… You must know that your uncle did not commit suicide. I met with Scotland Yard, found out the truth… Ashtat, the Arab, killed him… Chloe Prentwhistle, others at the Smithsonian have been stealing pieces from storage for years. They wait for a donor like Calum to die, then sell the piece in the black market, usually the Middle East. Ashtat had been their prime middleman for years. They gave him the Harsa when Calum was presumed dead. He tried to sell it but Calum got wind of it, came back and confronted Ashtat. Ashtat went to the castle and killed him. The Edinburgh police never bothered to compare the bullet that killed Calum with the gun they found in his
hand. The revolver was registered to him, was in his hand, his finger on the trigger and matched the caliber of the bullet that killed him. Sloppy, lazy work by the Edinburgh bobbies. Not unusual, they look for the easy way out too often…” Heather glanced at Hanrahan, told Killinworth to rest, but he wouldn’t.

“Ashtat killed Calum with
his
revolver, which was the same model and caliber as Calum’s. He probably fired a round from Calum’s gun, then put it in his hand.”

“Agnes swore she heard two shots. She was right,” Heather said.

“I convinced the Yard to make the ballistic comparison…” Killinworth was gasping for breath now. “The bullet that killed Calum came from a revolver found in Ashtat’s house.” Killinworth heaved with coughing. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth. Heather looked away so he would not see her crying.

***

A groan came from Ford Saunders. Hanrahan moved to him. “I didn’t kill…” Saunders’s voice was strained, hoarse. “She told me to but I wouldn’t… neither would Walter…”

“Her husband?”

“Yes… Look, I admit I did most everything else she wanted, she threatened to expose me, called me a pervert—” An explosion of air came from deep inside, causing his chest to heave, blood to erupt from his wound. He looked up at Hanrahan, then went into a series of death spasms.

J
ULY
6

Two days after the celebration of the nation’s birthday. After the death of Ford Saunders. After the arrest of Chloe Prentwhistle.

Hanrahan sat in his office with Commissioner Johnson, who had picked up a new Alan Flusser double-breasted blue-and-white cord suit the day before and was not anxious to sit on Hanrahan’s furniture. “Just as soon stand, Mac,” he said each time Hanrahan offered him a chair… “The professor will make it?”

“Killinworth? Yeah, he’s past the crisis stage. I’m going over to see him later this morning.”

“Where do we stand?”

“Prentwhistle still claims she’s innocent as a lamb, accuses Saunders. We’ve booked her for Saunders’s murder, and we’ll keep digging into Tunney. We picked up a passport at her house that was cleared through British Customs the night of Ashtat’s murder.” He handed Johnson the passport that read:
Linda Clare Salzbank
. “We know she’s the one who’s been running the ring at the Smithsonian for years. Janis Dewey at the National Gallery isn’t what you’d call hard-nosed. She spilled all about it, confirms what Killinworth said. Prentwhistle’s husband, this Walter Jones, recruited
young curators into the Smithsonian, people he had something on or knew were easy marks. Once he had them in place he taught them the ropes. When a donor of a piece to the Smithsonian died, they waited a while, then took the piece and fenced it through people like this Ashtat in London.”

“Sounds like Jones was really behind it—”

“No, like my mother said, look for the woman. Jones, it seems, has been uneasy for years about the deal but his wife wouldn’t let go of it. Apparently she liked the excitement—she is quite a woman, in a rotten sort of way—and liked the extra loot to keep her and Jones in a life-style her salary couldn’t provide.”

Johnson shook his head, almost sat on the edge of Hanrahan’s desk but caught himself in time. “What took the people at the Smithsonian so long to catch on?”

Hanrahan propped his feet on the desk. “They made it easy, Cal. Apparently they’ve been trying to get a computer inventory system going for years but it’s slow. In the meantime they’ve got pieces worth thousands stashed in shoe boxes in back rooms. Hell, nobody knows where half the stuff is.”

“What about the gem cutter… Kazakis?”

“He’s like Janis Dewey, small-time. Dishonest enough to steal a little to put gas in his Corvette and keep the apartment in videotapes of first-run films. He’s got talent, though. I look at the real Harsa next to his and can’t tell the difference. Obviously plenty of others couldn’t either. He should have stuck to setting engagement rings.”

“You have a confession from Jones?”

“Yeah. He said he got started by being called in by Prentwhistle as an independent appraiser. Nobody knew they were married and his was the last word. Nobody suspected collusion. He’d declare a piece relatively
worthless after a donor died, which meant it was never even considered for public display. They’d let some time pass and out it went under their coats. All very neat until the Harsa came along.”

“And Vice President Oxenhauer wanted it exhibited.”

“Right, but I’m not too partial to him right now. Okay, he wanted his own investigation, wanted to keep scandal away from the Smithsonian, but I still think he should have let us in on it.”

“Mac, I don’t say you’re wrong, but from his point of view he was doing the best for the Smithsonian, avoiding scandal as long as possible, at least until after the Fourth—”

Hanrahan stood and got his jacket from the clothes tree. He noticed that a button was hanging by a thread. So was his temper. “Are we finished?”

“For this morning. I’ve scheduled a press conference at three. That’ll give the TV people time to get back for their six o’clock broadcasts. I’ve prepared a statement for you.” He gave Hanrahan a sheet of paper that he fished from his inside pocket. Hanrahan glanced at it, tossed it on the desk.

“You can make changes if you want, Mac, but I’d like to see us stick to the script. Let’s face it, solving this case is a big—”

“Solving it?”

“We’re the Metropolitan Police Department, the agency of record. A crime was committed, a crime has been solved. We did it. The public deserves to believe that.”

“I won’t be there.”

“Suit yourself. If you are, read that statement. If you’re not, do me a favor and don’t give interviews.”

Hanrahan hung around the office until it was time to leave for Doctor’s Hospital, where he was to meet Heather and visit Killinworth. He was heading for the door when Kathy called.

“Kathy, I’m running—”

“I just wanted to congratulate you on the Tunney case. You must be relieved it’s over.”

No answer.

“Mac?”

“What?”

“Buy me dinner?”

“I’m pretty busy. Maybe.”

“Are you tied up?”

“I may be.”

“Another woman?”

“Good-by Kathy. I’ll call.”

***

Heather was in Killinworth’s room when Hanrahan arrived. The professor was sitting up in bed. An IV was attached to his arm. He was very pale. Otherwise he was very much himself. Including the part that rankled Hanrahan.

“Hello, Captain,” he said with surprising vigor. He held out his hand, which obviously caused him pain. Hanrahan shook it and pulled up a chair next to Heather.

“Evelyn was just telling me about Peter’s death,” she said.

“Peckham? I’d like to hear.”

“Well, my dear captain, after Ashtat killed Heather’s uncle, he was still in possession of the Harsa. The rule had always been that a stolen piece was never to be sold in the region from which it originated, in this case the British Isles. But Ashtat became greedy. He offered it for sale in London, and Peckham bought it.”

“I thought Peckham was a legitimate dealer.”

Killinworth shrugged. “Even the most legitimate of
people have their weaknesses, as I’m sure you’ve discovered in your work, Captain. Also, remember that Peckham did not know the piece was stolen, but he did know Ashtat’s reputation, no question of that. He asked his friend… Lewis Tunney… to verify the piece. Lewis’s reaction was not what Peckham had anticipated. He told Peckham he was going to Washington and expose to the world what seemed to be a theft of the Harsa. Which left Peckham in a difficult position. He, in turn, called Ashtat and told him what had happened with Tunney. Ashtat called Chloe Prentwhistle in Washington, which made her decide to kill Tunney. Or have him killed. I rather think the former.”

Heather turned away, and Killinworth reached for her, touched her arm. “Dear, I know how difficult this is for you, but in the long run it will be better to know the truth, not need to guess…” To Hanrahan he said, “Chloe Prentwhistle must have called Ashtat and told him to get rid of Peckham, who now knew too much, which he did. Earlier I thought she might have done that as well as taken care of Ashtat—when I heard of your discovery of the fake passport she used to London—but of course she could not have. Peckham was dead before she arrived, courtesy of Ashtat.”

“But Ashtat now had the real Harsa,” Heather said. “I mean, if he killed Peckham he must have taken it back from his place.”

“Yes,” Killinworth said. “And when Vice President Oxenhauer insisted upon an exhibit of the Harsa, Chloe had Mr. Kazakis create a replica, and a rather good one I might add. That probably would have been the end of it if Lewis had not threatened to expose matters. I would guess Chloe tried to find out from Lewis at the museum what he had told others, perhaps not. In any case, she couldn’t be sure, couldn’t take chances. She’d already gone too far, was responsible for two
deaths. So as far as she knew, even with Lewis Tunney dead, there was still the chance that the bogus medal might be examined. That was when she decided to stage a fake robbery of the replica on exhibition in conjunction with Tunney’s murder.”

Hanrahan was finding Killinworth as annoyingly all-knowing as ever, but of course had to hear him out. “A fair amount of this is speculation on your part, isn’t it. Dr. Killinworth?”

“Not so much as you might think, Captain, I must admit that I was operating at a distinct advantage over you. Much of what was going on within the Smithsonian was known to me because of Vice President Oxenhauer. When he called me in to conduct a private investigation, he had already placed many pieces into the puzzle. I was able to add the rest. Miss Dewey at the National Gallery was most helpful, albeit reluctantly. I noticed a small Gainsborough in Ashtat’s house that I knew had been donated to the Smithsonian. I confronted her about it and she responded with a great deal of information. A misguided girl. Too bad.”

“And Throckly?” Hanrahan said.

“His only crime was weakness. He knew what was going on around him but never imagined it could involve murder. I believe the vice president and Mr. Costain are even now arranging his departure from the Smithsonian.”

Heather suddenly asked, “Why were you looking up Seth Collinsworth in Edinburgh? Ranald Robertson told me you were.”

“Charming rogue, Collinsworth. He knows more about art crime in the British Isles than any ten men. He owed me a favor or two; I collected. Just information, some rumor, but useful in piecing things together.”

Heather nodded. “But what about the dishwasher
finding the fake medal in the garbage. Who put it there, and why?”