Murder in the Smithsonian (8 page)

“Thanks,” Hanrahan said.

“Anything for our finest.” The chef returned to the grill.

Hanrahan ate slowly, enjoying the cooling sensation of the shake as it slid into his belly.

A half hour later he was home, in bed, and awash in thoughts about the Tunney case. When he eventually did drift off to sleep, his last thoughts were of Heather McBean. She hadn’t been the random victim of a D.C. mugger. He was sure of that now. She was tied in with her late fiancée’s murder, and he felt, sensed, knew that if he wanted to avoid another museum-connected murder he’d better pay very close attention to the lovely Heather McBean.

Constantine Kazakis rode the elevator to the Museum of Natural History’s third floor. He walked slowly along the circular balcony, occasionally looking down at the eight-ton African bush elephant that dominated the first-floor rotunda.

He came to a door marked
Staff Only
, opened it with a key and moved inside. Ahead of him were endless rows of white steel lockers, tall and short, wide and thin. A small bearded man had taken a drawer from one of them and was examining its contents. He heard Kazakis, glanced up over half-glasses and said, “Good morning, Constantine.”

“Good morning, Sanford. You’re here early.”

“What time is it?”

“Eight.”

“I couldn’t sleep. We’re reevaluating the
Gryllidae
exhibit this week.”

Kazakis smiled. The box Sanford held contained a variety of crickets, which were the basis for the exhibit he’d mentioned. It was the Entomology section, where, Kazakis knew, no one ever said crickets when the term
Gryllidae
was available. It was the same in Ornithology,
where a simple crossbill was always
Loxia curviorstra
.

Kazakis moved from Entomology to his section, Gems and Minerals, where he was an assistant curator. He, too, was early. This was the day the famed Hope Diamond, the focal point in the Hall of Gems for millions of visitors, was to be removed from its case for the first time in years.

The Hope had originally been cut from the 112-carat Tavernier diamond belonging to Louis XIV. It had been stolen during the French Revolution, then resurfaced in its new form on the London market in 1830. It was donated to the Smithsonian in 1958 by renowned gem collector Harry Winston.

The Hope had always been considered flawless, but Kazakis’s boss, Walter Welsh, decided to bring in an outside gemologist to search for hidden flaws and to reweigh it. It was listed at 44.5 carats, but the world standard for the carat had recently changed.

Kazakis sat at his desk and read the
Post
. The Tunney murder was still front-page, and Captain Hanrahan was quoted as saying, “The department has assigned every available resource to the Tunney murder. We’re looking into all possible leads.” When asked whether anything new had developed, Hanrahan answered, “No, nothing concrete. This is a complex case. All I can say at this time is that we have every confidence that something positive will develop in the near future.”

Kazakis put the paper down as a secretary came in. “Coffee?” she asked.

“Yes, please.”

He was soon joined by other curators from the mineral and gem division. “Any bets?” one of them asked.

“About what?”

“On what the Hope weighs?”

Kazakis shook his head.

“How about flaws? I bet you five bucks, Connie, that they find at least one.”

“Save your money,” Kazakis said.

At ten the gemologist, Dr. Max Shilter, arrived. The gem division’s staff accompanied him to where the Hope Diamond glittered from its glass-fronted vault. Ten armed Smithsonian security guards, augmented by four MPD officers, formed a circle around Walter Welsh, who, visibly nervous, unlocked the vault and lifted the blue diamond from its bed as though plucking a newborn from a cesarean section. “Let’s go,” he said, his face grim. The entourage went to Welsh’s office, where, while others looked on, Dr. Shilter began what would be a painstaking examination, culminating in a precise weighing on a special scale.

Kazakis watched carefully. Before coming to the Smithsonian he had worked as a jewelry designer and gem cutter. Taking the assistant curator job had meant less income but there was the prestige to be considered. The way he had it figured, he would put five years into the curatorship, then return to designing and cutting, with the Smithsonian credential enhancing his fees. After all, he was only thirty-four.

Short and compact, with an upper body reflecting the weights he worked out with three times a week, and a strong, square olive face framed by black curls and even blacker eyes, he had joined Washington’s long list of eligible bachelors. He had brought with him to the nation’s capital the spoils of his previous career. His automobile was a silver Corvette. He had an extensive wardrobe of designer suits and expensive gold jewelry, including a seventeen-thousand-dollar Rolex watch. He lived in a Watergate apartment, which he had furnished in leather and chrome.

“Always impressive,” said Shilter, who spoke with a German accent and whose fingers were like fat sausages,
more the hands of a butcher than a lapidist. “The original stone must have been so beautiful. I’ve examined the Brunswick,” he said, referring to a fourteen-carat diamond identical in color to the Hope and presumed to have been cut from the original Tavernier gem by its thieves. “No question they came from the same mother stone.”

A secretary whispered to Kazakis, “Mr. Throckly from American History is on the phone. He says it’s important.”

“Not now. I’ll call back in an hour. Please, I want to watch this.”

An hour later, after Shilter had proclaimed the Hope as flawless as its reputation and had weighed it in at 45.5 carats reflecting the change in standards, Kazakis returned the call to Throckly.

“It took you long enough,” Throckly said.

“We were working with the Hope. What’s up?”

“Has Walter called you?”

“Walter Jones? No.”

“He said he was going to. He wants to have dinner tonight.”

“I can’t. I have other plans.”

“Change them.”

“Why?”

“You’re trying my patience, Constantine, and I can assure you that Walter feels the same way.”

“I don’t like being at anyone’s beck and call. I have a life of my own—”

“Tell Walter that when he calls.”

“I will. I’m not trying to be difficult, Alfred, but these plans for tonight can’t be changed. I’ll talk to you later.”

A few minutes afterward he received a call from Walter Jones. “Constantine, how are you?” Jones asked pleasantly in his well-known gravelly voice.

“Just fine, Walter. We examined the Hope today. Absolutely flawless, according to Max Shilter, and a carat heavier than before.”

“No surprise. Is it safely back in the crib or did some ambitious young curator steal it en route?” He laughed too loudly.

Kazakis laughed too. “As a matter of fact, Walter, I did steal it. You called just as I was about to put a chisel to it.”

“Just as long as you’re not hung over. Connie, Chloe and I are putting together a last-minute dinner party tonight, just a few friends in for something simple. Naturally, you head our list.”

“I’m flattered. What happened to the other thousand-and-one names?”

“All fleeting acquaintances. You’re special. Seven?”

“I’d made other plans that I—”

“And she’s young, blond, very pretty and madly in love with you, in which case she’ll understand your need to break her heart for one evening. Seven?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Informal, just a simple get-together. Careful with the chisel, Constantine. You’d never be forgiven.”

Heather McBean gave a complete statement about the previous night’s attack to an MPD stenographer. When she was finished and the stenographer had left the office, Hanrahan asked, “What are your plans now?”

Heather looked at him quizzically. “I told you my plans, Captain. I intend to stay here until Lewis’s murderer is brought to justice.”

“I knew what your plans
were
, Miss McBean, but considering what’s happened to you over the past twenty-four hours, I thought you might be thinking about returning to England.”

“That never crossed my mind.”

Hanrahan shuffled loose papers into a pile, put a paper clip on them. “I happen to find your determination admirable, and obviously I can’t force you to go home, but frankly I’d like to convince you to do just that.”

“Why?”

“Because I think you’d be safer there.” He sat back and folded his hands on his chest. “It would also make my job easier if you weren’t in Washington—”

“I don’t understand. You told me that I could be of help to you—”

“That was true when I said it, but yesterday’s events have changed things. Heather McBean, I don’t want to have to worry about your safety and at the same time look for Dr. Tunney’s killer.” He saw her stiffen in the chair. “
Try
to understand, Miss McBean. I’m not—”

“I understand, but you must understand me too. I don’t
want
you to be concerned about my personal safety. I’m also fairly capable of taking care of myself. I always have been. I was careless yesterday. I admit it. It never occurred to me to look over my shoulder while I was walking your streets, nor was I thinking that someone might ransack my hotel room. I’ve learned my American lesson and I won’t make the same mistake twice. No… I’d never be able to live with myself if I left Washington for London and sat there, thousands of miles away, waiting for news. Somehow I feel close to Lewis here. That may sound strange, Captain, but that’s the way it is… and Miss Prentwhistle has been helpful… And I know I’ll meet others… In the meantime I’ll just follow my uncle’s advice.”

“Which was?”

“No offense, Captain, but he said ‘Do it yourself if you want it done right.’”

“No offense taken, Miss McBean…” Well almost none, he thought… “but I must tell you police officers can be right once in a while, and even helpful… Well, it’s up to you, of course, but if you stay you’ll have to follow my orders and accept that the investigation is my territory.”

“I assure you I won’t be underfoot, Captain, although I don’t intend to pretend I’m a helpless little woman… another thing my uncle taught me was that
any action is better than no action, which is why I’ve hired a private investigator in London.”

“To do what?” He didn’t like the churlish tone in his voice.

“To find out what happened in Lewis’s life the week before he left London. I want to know what it was that so upset him that week.”

Hanrahan rubbed his eyes. “I’d say you’re wasting your money, Miss McBean. I’ve already been in touch with Scotland Yard, they promise full cooperation—”

“Money is not exactly a problem or the point, Captain.”

“Yes… I realize that… who’s this investigator?”

“Someone I found in the London phone directory. His name is Elwood Paley and he sounds quite trustworthy. I called him last night and he’s agreed to take the case.”

Agreed?
Hanrahan wanted to say. What private op ever turns down a case when money’s no object? Instead, he said, “If I can provide your Mr. Paley with any information, you just let me know.”

“That’s very kind of you. I’ll keep it in mind. And you can continue to depend upon my cooperation, which you seemed to want twenty-four hours ago—”

Hanrahan’s phone rang. He picked it up and heard a desk sergeant say, “Captain, the Air and Space Museum this time. That Smithsonian nut left another bomb threat.”

“Son of a bitch,” Hanrahan said. And to Heather, “I’m sorry, but—”

“Please don’t apologize,” Heather told him. “I’m not that delicate, and I heard much stronger stuff from my uncle… What is it?”

Hanrahan smiled. “The looney running around town
threatening to blow up the Smithsonian has left another note. He claims he’s related to Smithson.”

“Is he?”

“Am I? Half the people in this city have elevators that don’t reach the top floor.”

At first, she didn’t understand, then did and smiled back. “May I come with you?”

Hanrahan stood up and took up his jacket from a clothes tree. “I don’t think that would be too good an idea… Thanks very much for coming by with your statement… We’ll be in touch—”

“But what if this so-called Smithson bomber has something to do with Lewis’s murder? I told you, and I meant it, Captain, I wanted to be involved in every phase of the investigation. I deserve that—”

“And I told you, Miss McBean, that I thought it would be best if you went back to England. This is what I do for a living… I’ll have to decide…”

She understood, of course, but she didn’t like it. Strangely, she
did
like him…

Hanrahan entered the Smithsonian’s Air and Space Museum through the Jefferson Drive entrance. Two uniformed MPD officers stood with museum security guards next to “Friendship Seven,” which had carried John Glenn on America’s first manned orbiting flight in 1962. The note, neatly typed, was taped to a small window through which Glenn had viewed the earth as no American had ever viewed it before.

The note read:

It was signed “
The Wronged
.”

“You questioned your men about anyone who might have left the note?” Hanrahan asked the museum security chief.

“Yes, sir, I did, but it’s been a heavy morning. Summer, you know.”

“Nobody unusual?”

The security chief shook his head.

“Keep asking.”

Hanrahan told one of his men to take down the note and take it to the lab for prints, then walked outside into a hot, humid, festering Washington summer day. Two reporters who’d responded to the call over the police radio came up behind him. One of them, a pretty young woman wearing a yellow sundress and carrying a pad and pen, asked him if the bomber’s note was connected with the Tunney murder.