Murder in the Smithsonian (2 page)

They moved from the pendulum to where an old-fashioned
ice cream factory and parlor had been faithfully recreated, the four Secret Servicemen assigned to them never breaking their protective box as they walked.

Oxenhauer greeted Congressman Jubel Watson, who also sat on the Smithsonian’s board of regents along with two other members of the House of Representatives, three U.S. senators, the chief justice of the United States Supreme Court and six private citizens. Watson was the only other member of that board besides Oxenhauer who took an interest in Smithsonian activities. He was an avid collector of art and rare books, and many of his millions were tied up in collections. Short, slender with black hair looking like patent leather, he was on the opposite end of the political and philosophical spectrum from Oxenhauer. Watson was an arch-conservative, to the right of John Birch, and proud of it. “Lovely gown, Mrs. Oxenhauer,” he told Joline.

“Thank you, Mr. Watson. Actually it’s quite old—”

“Like me,” her husband said.

“Bill you’re
not
old,” his wife said, squeezing his arm. “Bill loves playing the role of the grizzled old man, but underneath that exterior is—”

“Hold it,” Watson said, raising his hands. “No lurid tales out of the house of the vice president. There’s press around.”

Alfred Throckly turned to a tall young man whose way into the vice president’s elite circle was discreetly blocked by the Secret Servicemen. “Ford,” Throckly said, extending his hand past the V.P.’s protection, “say hello to the vice president.”

The young man was considerably taller than Throckly but looked like a younger version of the director. “Mr. Vice President,” Throckly said, “this is
Ford Saunders, administrative assistant to Chloe Prentwhistle.”

Oxenhauer extended a large, calloused hand and was met with Saunders’s startlingly cold, limp one. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Saunders. I’ve been a fan of Miss Prentwhistle for years.”

“She’s said it’s a mutual admiration society, Mr. Vice President.”

“Chloe and I go back a long way together. She put together the first really good Lincoln exhibition in the state of Illinois.”

“Especially noteworthy since she’s not from Illinois,” said Throckly.

“Where is she?” Oxenhauer asked. “I haven’t seen her.”

Saunders looked at Throckly before answering. “Busy, Mr. Vice President, last minute details. She’ll be down shortly.”

Congressman Watson now asked Oxenhauer, “Anything new on the Smithson nut?”

Oxenhauer shrugged. “I understand he’s still leaving notes around, claiming to be a relation to James Smithson and threatening to blow up every museum in the Smithsonian unless he’s ‘recognized.’”

“The frightening thing is that he might do something drastic some day,” Joline Oxenhauer said. “It’s so easy to dismiss people as crazy, but then sometimes they act out.”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t,” her husband said.

One floor above, where two hundred folding chairs formed a horseshoe around a lectern, women in gowns moved through the aisles and placed an insert into programs that had been placed on the seats. The women were volunteer members of the Friends of the Smithsonian, a fund-raising group dedicated to obtaining rare items for the Smithsonian’s museums.

The insert had been written and reproduced at the last minute after Lewis Tunney changed his mind about attending the event and delivering the welcoming address.

It read:

“I can’t wait to meet him,” one of the volunteer women said. “He’s so handsome in his pictures. Looks like Alan Alda.”

Another woman laughed. “You’re giving away your age. Alan Alda appeals to… well, to more mature women who appreciate sensitivity in men.”

“Sensitivity in men? What’s that?”

They both laughed.

Sounds from the party downstairs drifted up through the Foucault pendulum’s opening in the floor. One of the women leaned close to another. “I’ve never seen Mr. Throckly so wound up. I can’t decide whether
he’s excited about having Dr. Tunney here or annoyed.”

“Well, it did upset Mr. Throckly’s plans… Come on, let’s go downstairs and enjoy the party.”

***

A long, black limousine turned off Constitution Avenue into a circular drive in front of the National Museum of American History. The chauffeur came around to open the door for his passenger but Lewis Tunney had already gotten out. He thanked the driver for a safe and pleasant ride, looked up at the building he’d once said had all the architectural charm of a stone shoe box, drew a deep breath and went to the main doors, where two uniformed guards and a Secret Serviceman stood. He identified himself, was checked off a long list and entered the building. “Hello, I’m Lewis Tunney,” he said to the first person he met, an attractive middle-aged woman wearing a maroon gown.

“Oh, Dr. Tunney, welcome,” she said, shaking his hand, “let me find Mr. Throckly for you. He’s been worried that your flight might be delayed.”

“First,” Tunney said, “I’d like to see Vice President Oxenhauer.”

Before she could respond Tunney spotted the vice president, thanked her for her hospitality and moved away. Oxenhauer saw him coming, left the circle and greeted him warmly. “Lewis, good to see you. How’ve you been?”

“Just fine, Bill. Yourself?”

“Considering the fact I willingly committed myself to four years inside an institution, not bad. Come, say hello to Joline. She’s as excited as I am.”

Joline threw her arms around Tunney, then stepped back and took him in from head to toe. “My God, more handsome than ever. How you’ve stayed a bachelor
so long is worth congressional study in itself. You’re an American original.”

Tunney felt embarrassed by the open flattery. “Thanks, Joline. And you look… splendid.”

Throckly, who’d broken away from Oxenhauer’s group moments before Tunney’s arrival, returned and said, “Hello, Dr. Tunney. I’m Alfred Throckly. We met a long time ago.”

“Hello.” Tunney turned to Oxenhauer. “Could I catch a minute with you?” Throckly’s face reflected his annoyance at Tunney’s abrupt greeting, and seeming dismissal.

“Now?” Oxenhauer asked.

“Please.”

“We’ll be going in to dinner soon,” Throckly said. “I thought you might like to come upstairs and see where you’ll be speaking. I have an audiovisual person on hand in case you want to—”

“Maybe later,” Tunney said. “I’m not using my props. Would you excuse us?” He touched the vice president’s arm. Oxenhauer looked at his wife, whose expression said that she didn’t understand either.

Oxenhauer and Tunney, accompanied by three Secret Servicemen, went to a corner of the museum near the main entrance, where a rural country store and post office were displayed. It had been a functioning store and post office in West Virginia back in 1861, and had literally been moved lock, stock and barrel to the Smithsonian. Besides being a popular exhibition, it also served as the Smithsonian’s only working postal outlet.

Oxenhauer nodded to the Secret Servicemen, who retreated out of earshot. “Well?” he said to Tunney. “You look as though whatever’s on your mind is pretty damned important.”

“It is, Bill.”

“Personal, something Joline and I can help with?”

“No. We can discuss my personal life later.” His face was serious, hard. He put his hands on his hips, exposing a field of dark blue vest and a gold watch on a chain, looked down at the floor, then up at Oxenhauer. “Let me tell you a story, Bill. I’ll make it as brief as I can.”

Oxenhauer looked to where his wife stood with a cluster of young curators. “Make it quick, Lewis. We really should be getting back…”

***

Ten minutes later Alfred Throckly looked at his watch, then told two committeewomen acting as hostesses, “Let’s try to move them into dinner. We’re running behind schedule.” He looked to where Tunney and Oxenhauer were talking in front of the old post office, and disappeared behind a partition.

***

“Lewis,” the vice president was saying, “we’d better get back to the party. I think dinner is close to being served—”

“
That’s
your answer to what I’ve told you?”

“Of course not. I’m as sickened as you are. Look, you’re staying around a few days, aren’t you?”

“I planned to fly back to London tomorrow night. I have someone waiting for me.”

“That gives us the day, then. I’ll clear the decks. Come to my office at ten. I have some things to tell you about too.”

“All right, Bill, but I still intend to refer to it in my remarks.”

“I wish you wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“You could win a battle and lose a war. Besides, there are compelling reasons to hold up. Don’t misunderstand, I’m as concerned as you are. All I ask is
that you keep it to yourself until we get a chance to really sit down and talk.”

“Ten tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

Throckly intercepted Tunney as he headed for one of three bars. “We’ll be going in for dinner soon, Dr. Tunney. You’ll be sitting with the vice president and with—”

“Thank you, that’s fine, Mr. Throckly,” Tunney said. “I’ll get a drink and join you shortly—”

“Dr. Tunney…”

Tunney turned, and was face-to-face with a tall, gaunt woman in her late fifties. She wore a long, loose gray gown with a strip of black silk at the neck and cuffs. Her face was a montage of angles and planes, but not without a certain bright attractiveness.

“Miss Prentwhistle. Nice to see you.”

“Likewise. We’re all so glad you could come.”

“Yes. I was on my way for a drink.”

“I’ll have someone get it for you.”

Tunney looked past her and saw that guests were moving toward the museum’s private dining rooms. “No, I’ll get it myself,” he said. “I need a few minutes alone… you know, to gather my thoughts before speaking.”

“I’m sure it will be stimulating.”

“I hope so. I’ll see you inside. How is Mr. Jones?”

“Walter? Fine, just fine.”

“See you in a few minutes, Miss Prentwhistle.”

She hesitated… “I wonder if we could talk privately before dinner.”

“I’m not sure that’s necessary—”

“I think it is.”

Tunney sighed and followed her to a small room that housed public telephones. They were alone. Five minutes later Tunney left the room.

A hostess asked if there was anything he needed. He told her, “Just a drink.” She went to where two other women, all wives of prominent Washington businessmen, stood, and said
sotto voce
, “Just like Alan Alda, really. And never married, I understand.”

***

Tunney took a gin and tonic from a bartender and walked to a bank of elevators. A member of the museum’s security force stood in its open door. “The second floor, please,” Tunney said.

“Yes, sir.”

He stepped out on the next level. When the elevator doors had closed behind him he went to the folding chairs and put his hand on one of them. In front of him, rising majestically, was the “Star-Spangled Banner,” the thirty-by-forty-two-foot American flag that had flown over Fort McHenry following the successful defense against British naval forces in September, 1814. A young lawyer on a ship that fateful night observed that the “flag was still there” by the “dawn’s early light” which inspired him to create America’s national anthem.

Tunney felt a chill as he looked up at the huge red, white and blue banner that had been so painstakingly restored by museum experts.

The room was dark except for low-wattage perimeter lights. A single spotlight illuminated the lectern. To its left were a large movie screen and two speakers. Tunney went to the lectern and looked out over the sea of metal chairs. Behind them was the opening through which the Foucault pendulum dangled.

He turned and faced the reason he was here, the Harsa-Cincinnati exhibition. In the morning the exhibit would be open to the public, another chance for Americans to touch base with their heritage. He stepped
down from the lectern and entered the shadowy exhibition space. A massive oil painting of George Washington stared down at him from one side, an equally large portrait of Thomas Jefferson from the other.

He went over to a wall that had been constructed in the center of the exhibit, two glass cases housing precious memorabilia. Swords belonging to Washington and Jefferson hung vertically on either side. Behind each of the two glass windows were gem-studded medals, symbols of the Harsa and Cincinnati societies.

Tunney listened to the carefree sounds from the floor below; a woman’s loud laughter cut through the din. Suddenly he looked to his left, thinking he’d heard someone.

He saw nothing.

He was conscious of the baroque music.

He took three steps forward and looked through the glass at the Harsa medal.

“I’ll be damned,” he said aloud to himself, and downed half his drink.

The hostesses at the party downstairs moved through the crowd and urged people to go into the dining room.

Bill and Joline Oxenhauer stood with six other people at the railing surrounding the pendulum. Another red marker was about to be toppled. Everyone laughed as Joline suggested they bet on how many seconds before the earth rotated sufficiently to bring the pendulum into contact with it.

“Want to get in on the bet?” Oxenhauer asked the Secret Serviceman nearest him.

“No, sir, but thank you,” he replied, his eyes never straying from the crowd.

“Twenty seconds. I’ll count,” Oxenhauer said. He looked at Joline, who was staring at the ceiling. “What’s the matter?” he asked.