Douglas Preston - Relic

Pendergast stared steadily at Wright. “Any unauthorized personnel found on the premises after five o’clock will be arrested and charged with trespassing at a scene of crime. This is a misdemeanor. Second violations will be charged with obstruction of justice, which is a felony, Dr. Wright. I trust I make myself sufficiently clear?”

“The only thing that’s clear right now is your path to the door,” Wright said, his voice rising. “It’s unobstructed. Please take it.”

Pendergast nodded. “Gentlemen. Ma’am.” Then he turned around and moved silently out of the room.

Closing the door quietly, Pendergast stopped for a moment in the Director’s outer office. Then, staring at the door, he quoted,

So I return rebuk’d to my content,

And gain by ills thrice more than I have spent.

Wright’s executive secretary stopped her gum chewing in mid-snap. “Howzat?” she inquired.

“No, Shakespeare,” Pendergast replied, heading for the elevator.

¯

[222] Inside, Wright fumbled at the telephone with shaking hands.

“What the hell happens now?” exploded Cuthbert. “I’ll be damned if a bloody policeman’s going to boot us out of our own Museum.”

“Cuthbert, be quiet,” said Wright. Then he spoke into the handset. “Get me Albany, right away.”

There was a silence while he was put on hold. Wright looked over the receiver at Cuthbert and Rickman, controlling his heavy breathing with an effort. “Time to call in some favors,” he said. “We’ll see who has the final word here: some inbred albino from the Delta, or the Director of the largest natural history museum in the world.”

= 32 =

The vegetation here is very unusual. The cycads and ferns look almost primordial. Too bad there isn’t time for more careful study. We’ve used a particularly resilient variety as packing material for the crates; feel free to let Jörgensen take a look, if he’s interested.

I fully expect to be with you at the Explorer’s Club a month from now, celebrating our success with a brace of dry martinis and a good Macanudo. Until then, I know I can entrust this material and my reputation to you.

Your colleague,

Whittlesey

Smithback looked up from the letter. “We can’t stay here. Let’s go to my office.”

His cubbyhole lay deep in a maze of overflow offices on the Museum’s ground level. The honeycomb [224] passages, full of noise and bustle, seemed a refreshing change to Margo after the damp, echoing basement corridors outside the Secure Area. They walked past a large green Dumpster overflowing with back issues of the Museum’s magazine. Outside Smithback’s office, a large bulletin board was plastered with a variety of irate letters from subscribers, for the amusement of the magazine staff.

Once before, hot on the trail of an issue of Science long overdue from the periodical library, Margo had penetrated Smithback’s messy lair. It was as she remembered it: his desk a riot of photocopied articles, half-finished letters, Chinese take-out menus, and numerous books and journals the Museum’s libraries were no doubt very eager to find.

“Have a seat,” Smithback said, pushing a two-foot stack of paper brusquely off a chair. He closed the door, then walked around his desk to an ancient bentwood rocker. Paper crackled beneath his feet.

“Okay,” he said in a low tone. “Now, you’re sure the journal wasn’t there?”

“I told you, the only crate I had a chance to look at was the one Whittlesey packed himself. But it wouldn’t have been in the others.”

Smithback examined the letter again. “Who’s this Montague the thing’s addressed to?” he asked.

“Don’t know,” Margo replied.

“How about Jörgensen?”

“Haven’t heard of him, either.”

Smithback pulled down the Museum’s telephone listing from a shelf. “No Montague here,” he murmured, flipping pages. “Aha! Here’s Jörgensen. Botany. Says he’s retired. How come he still has an office?”

“Not unusual in this place,” Margo replied. “Independently wealthy people with little else to fill up their time. Where’s his office?”

“Section forty-one, fourth floor,” Smithback said, [225] closing the book and dropping it on his desk. “Near the herbarium.” He stood up. “Let’s go.”

“Wait a minute, Smithback. It’s almost four o’clock. I should call Frock and let him know what ...”

“Later,” Smithback said, making for the door. “Come on, Lotus Blossom. My journalist’s nose hasn’t picked up a decent scent all afternoon.”

Jörgensen’s office was a small, windowless laboratory with a high ceiling. It held none of the plants or floral specimens Margo expected to see in a botanist’s lab. In fact, the room was empty except for a large workbench, a chair, and a coat rack. A drawer of the workbench was open, exposing a variety of worn tools. Jörgensen was bending over the workbench, fiddling with a small motor.

“Dr. Jörgensen?” Smithback asked.

The old man turned and gazed at Smithback. He was almost completely bald, with bushy white eyebrows overhanging intense eyes the color of bleached denim. He was bony and stooped but Margo thought he must be at least six feet four.

“Yes?” he said in a quiet voice.

Before Margo could stop him, Smithback handed Jörgensen the letter.

The man began reading, then started visibly. Without taking his eyes from the letter, he reached around for the battered chair and carefully eased himself into it.

“Where did you get this?” he demanded when he had finished.

Margo and Smithback looked at each other.

“It’s genuine,” Smithback said.

Jörgensen stared at them. Then he handed the letter back to Smithback. “I don’t know anything about this,” he said.

There was a silence. “It came from the crate John Whittlesey sent back from the Amazon expedition seven years ago,” Smithback prompted hopefully.

[226] Jörgensen continued to stare at them. After a few moments, he returned to his motor.

The two watched him tinker for a moment. “I’m sorry we interrupted your work,” Margo said at last. “Perhaps this isn’t a good time.”

“What work?” asked Jörgensen, without turning around.

“Whatever that is you’re doing,” Margo replied.

Jörgensen suddenly barked out a laugh. “This?” he said, turning to face them again. “This isn’t work. This is just a broken vacuum cleaner. Since my wife died, I’ve had to do the housework myself. Darn thing blew up on me the other day. I only brought it in here because this is where all my tools are. I don’t have much work to do anymore.”

“About that letter, sir—” Margo pressed.

Jörgensen shifted in the creaky chair and leaned back, looking at the ceiling. “I hadn’t known it existed. The double-arrow motif served as the Whittlesey family crest. And that’s Whittlesey’s handwriting, all right. It brings back memories.”

“What kind?” asked Smithback eagerly.

Jörgensen looked over at him, his brows contracting with irritation. “Nothing that’s any of your business,” he said tartly. “Or at least, I haven’t heard just why it might be your business.”

Margo shot Smithback a shut-up look. “Dr. Jörgensen,” she began, “I’m a graduate student working with Dr. Frock. My colleague here is a journalist. Dr. Frock believes that the Whittlesey expedition, and the crates that were sent back, have a link to the Museum murders.”

“A curse ?” said Jörgensen, raising his eyebrows theatrically.

“No, not a curse,” said Margo.

“I’m glad you haven’t bought into that one. There’s no curse. Unless you define a curse as a mixture of [227] greed, human folly, and scientific jealousy. You don’t need Mbwun to explain ...”