Murder in the Smithsonian (9 page)

Hanrahan had no comment.

“Are you still claiming it’s just a coincidence?”

“I’m claiming nothing.” How could he? He knew little more than they did.

He got in his car, slammed the door, started the engine and turned the air conditioning to its lowest setting. He drove around the perimeter of the Mall and parked near the Castle, a red sandstone building with eight crenelated towers that symbolized the entire Smithsonian for millions of visitors. During the Smithsonian’s early years it had housed all of its operations, including a science museum, lecture hall, art gallery, research laboratories and administrative offices. Since the building of new, individual museums, the Castle had become the Smithsonian’s administrative offices,
as well as home for the Woodrow Wilson International Center for Scholars. It also housed the tomb of James Smithson.

Hanrahan circled the Castle to the Mall entrance, stopping to admire species of flora identified by small signs, one of which read, “Poison Ivy.” He climbed the steps and paused in the lobby. Immediately to his left was the Smithson crypt.

He entered the small room and looked around. The symbol of the Smithsonian was, according to a placard beneath it, designed to represent the life of Smithson. There was a demi-lion with ruby eyes from the Smithson family coat of arms set in Smithsonite, a mineral also named after him.

Smithson, according to printed material on the walls, had been the illegitimate son of Elizabeth Hungerford Keate (Macie) and Sir Hugh Smithson, Duke of Northumberland. The younger Smithson was characterized as a gentleman-scientist in the eighteenth-century tradition, pursuing his interests in the same era as Beethoven and Mozart, Voltaire and George III, Cavendish, Priestley, Arago, Lavoisier, Lord Byron, Napoleon and, in America, Washington, Jefferson and Adams. He’d graduated from Oxford in 1786 as James Lewis Macie, and later was admitted to the Royal Society as a gentleman well versed in natural philosophy, chemistry and mineralogy.

Another sign told Hanrahan that Smithson’s will had directed that “an establishment for the increase and diffusion of knowledge among men” be founded at Washington under the name Smithsonian Institution. His reasons were unstated, although there was speculation that he wanted to leave a name greater than his illegitimate birth had given him. The decision to establish his center of learning in Washington was especially mysterious because Smithson had never set
foot in America. Again, one could only speculate, according to the placard’s author, that America represented an illegitimate offspring of Mother England, and perhaps was thereby metaphorically appealing to Smithson. Distant relatives of Smithson had contested his will. It was only after a lengthy battle that the United States won. That happened in 1838, and for the next eight years Congress debated the nature of the institution; should it be a college, arboretum, library, observatory or scientific research organization? Finally in 1846 the Smithsonian was created mainly for scientific research patterned after Smithson’s own life of scientific achievement. The final bit of information Hanrahan tried to take in before leaving was that Smithson’s papers and personal effects had been lost in an 1865 fire that destroyed the second floor of the Castle.

Hanrahan went on to the office of the Secretary of the Smithsonian, Borden G. Costain. Costain’s secretary told Hanrahan that he was in Central America supervising an archaeological dig. Hanrahan wasn’t exactly sure why he wanted to see Costain. He wasn’t a suspect, hadn’t, so he was told, even been in Washington at the time of Tunney’s murder. But Hanrahan recognized, felt an increasing need to spend more time with the Smithsonian, absorb its atmosphere, and knew he’d been avoiding it because, for whatever maybe psychological reasons, he was somehow intimidated by it.

As he drove back to MPD he decided that that better not be the case any longer. It was pretty clear that this bizarre case was all wrapped up in the memorial to the illegitimate “gentleman-scientist.”

Alfred Throckly read the telegram slowly, for dramatic effect. Ford Saunders and Chloe Prentwhistle sat across the desk from him.

“Returning in three days STOP Expect solid and positive progress in Tunney matter STOP Entire Institution at stake STOP Costain.”

Saunders examined his fingernails. “So?”

“So?” Throckly mimicked. “He means it.”

“What are we supposed to do, reach into a display case and produce Lewis Tunney’s killer?”

“I wish we could,” said Throckly. He sounded appropriately oppressed.

Chloe, who wore a tailored powder-blue suit, ruffled navy-blue silk blouse, patterned blue stockings, and black pumps, touched Saunders on the arm. “Relax, Ford, Borden is very much under the gun. We can’t expect him to return to his domain, the scene of a murder of a leading historian, pat us on our heads and offer bonuses.”

Throckly stood and paced. “This museum,
my
museum, is where Dr. Lewis Tunney was murdered with Thomas Jefferson’s own sword. A precious medal has been stolen. What Costain is saying is that he wants
this house cleaned by those who live in it,
us
. What I want to know is what we’re going to do to accomplish that?”

“What
can
we do?” Chloe asked. “It’s a police matter. Yes, it’s unfortunate that the murder and theft happened here, but that doesn’t make it our problem, certainly not our fault. We don’t solve murders, the police do.”

“Perhaps you’d like to be the one to explain that to Costain when he returns.”

“With the salary and title of director come certain unpleasant tasks,” Saunders said.

“That doesn’t help,” Throckly said.

“Sorry.”

Throckly drummed his fingers on a windowpane, turned. “Look, I have other meetings. Let me ask you… do you think it would be a good idea to hire our own private investigator?”

“I think it’s a terrible idea,” said Saunders.

Chloe stood, tucked her large leather handbag underneath her arm and took a few steps toward the door.

“You agree with Ford?” Throckly asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Leave it to the police. It isn’t our business. Coming, Ford? I want to go over those plans with you for the Roosevelt reception.”

If they had left Throckly’s office a few moments later they would have seen a Hispanic man come up the back stairs, pause in front of the third-floor directory, then walk toward Throckly’s office. He told the receptionist that he wished to speak with Mr. Throckly. She asked whether he had an appointment. He said he didn’t. She told him Throckly was busy. He said it was important that he talk to Throckly right away. “He’ll want to see me…” The receptionist sighed, and buzzed Throckly, explained the situation.

Throckly began to say through the intercom that he
was too busy when the man broke in, “I know where the medal is.”

“Send him in,” Throckly said.

The man entered Throckly’s office, closed the door behind him. He wore baggy white kitchen-workers’ pants, scuffed black shoes, a flowered shirt in yellow and green colors, a wrinkled, stained tan jacket.

“Well?” Throckly said.

“I work in the kitchen.”

“What’s your name?”

“Carlos Montenez. I wish to speak to you about the medal that is missing…”

“Go on.”

“I know where it is—”

The director impatiently shook his head. “Don’t play games with me, Mr. Montenez. That medal is not only very valuable, it’s involved with a murder.”

“I know that, Señor Throckly. It is why I’ve come to you. You must want it back very much.”

Montenez sat in a chair and lighted a cigarette. “I will tell you where it is for money.”

“Blackmail?”

Montenez shook his head. “A reward. When something worth a lot of money is missing, the owner must pay to have it returned.”

“I’ll call the police—”

“If you do that you will never see it again.”

“How much do you want?”

“Five thousand dollars… and I know it is worth a lot more.”

Throckly hesitated, then, “How did you get it?”

“It does not matter.”

Maybe it didn’t, Throckly thought… “I’ll have to talk to someone else about this. I don’t have the authority to pay rewards for stolen items. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

Montenez snubbed out his cigarette. He obviously hadn’t planned for this. It was taking too long. “Five minutes,” he said.

“All right, all right.” Throckly quickly moved into the reception area, then into the hallway and hurried to Chloe Prentwhistle’s office. She was with Ford Saunders. “You won’t believe this,” Throckly said, “but there’s someone in my office who claims he has the Harsa.”

Saunders and Chloe looked at each other. Chloe said, “Who is he?”

“A Spanish kitchen worker. Look, it doesn’t matter, he says he can lead us to the Harsa for five thousand dollars—”

“That’s impossible.”

“I know but—”

“I don’t mean
paying
him is impossible, Alfred, I mean his having the medal. Where did he get it?”

“I don’t know, I think we should call the police—”

“God, no,” Chloe said. She opened her purse and took out a checkbook. “
I’ll
pay him.”

“With a check?” Saunders said.

“I’ll go to the bank if he insists.”

“Chloe that’s—”

“Calm down, Alfred,” she said. “Think a moment. Costain wants us to clean our own house. If we call in the police, this man in your office might well panic and run. Then what do we have? Nothing. But if we can actually get the Harsa back in our hands, we’ll have the satisfaction of having accomplished it ourselves, and we’ll
have
it. That’s what counts…”

“There’s only one thing to do,” Saunders said, “and that’s get the Harsa back. Chloe’s right. We’ll worry about the rest later—”

“But what if
he
stole it? What if he’s fronting for someone—?”

“Alfred, this is no time to play what if. Let’s not lose this chance.”

Back in Throckly’s office, Montenez was on the verge of bolting. “Too late, too late, good-by—”

“Wait, Mr. Montenez,” Throckly said, “it means you may get what you want.”

Chloe told him to sit down. She stood over him, checkbook in hand. “I understand you want five thousand dollars for the Harsa medal. Do you have it with you?”

“No.”

“Where is it?”

“I will tell you when I have the reward.”

“Do you think we’d turn over five thousand dollars to you without the medal?” Saunders asked.

Chloe motioned him to be quiet, turned to Montenez. “We’ll go together to the bank and I’ll cash this check.”

They left the museum, drove in Saunders’s red Chevy Citation to a suburban branch of Chloe’s bank, where she cashed the check, then drove to Florida Avenue near Fourteenth Street, one of Washington’s ghettos.

Saunders reluctantly pulled up to the curb. Two men drinking wine from bottles in paper bags scrutinized them as they got out and stood in front of a decrepit four-story building. The ground floor was occupied by a plumbing supply company. The windows were dirty; pipes and fittings strewn about on a carpeted ledge were barely visible.

“The medal is upstairs?” Chloe asked.

“
Si
. Come in.”

They entered a small foyer, noted a scribbled sign over a mailbox:
Montenez
.

They climbed a shaky staircase to the second floor where a man was asleep in a corner.

Chloe asked Montenez which apartment.

Montenez went to a door, knocked, said something in Spanish. When no one responded he took a key from his pocket and opened the door. The others followed him inside. “Betty,” he called. No reply. He went to a bedroom at the rear, Chloe at his heels. An unmade bed took up the center of the room. Montenez went to the room’s only closet and pulled out boxes.

“Well?” Chloe asked.

“It’s gone.”

“The medal?”

“
Si
. She took it.”

“Your wife?”

“Si.”

“I knew this was wrong,” Throckly said. “We should have called the police—”

“Where is she?” Chloe asked Montenez.

He shrugged and threw one of the boxes across the room.

“Are you sure she has the medal?”

He answered by cursing in his native language and slapping a dress against the window.

“Let’s go,” Chloe said. They left the apartment and proceeded to drive back to the museum.

“Do you think he was making it up?” Saunders asked as he eased into the flow of traffic.

“It seems
obvious
, doesn’t it?” Throckly said, wiping his face with a handkerchief. “Don’t you agree, Chloe?”

“It was worth the chance,” she said. “And at least we didn’t make fools of ourselves publicly by calling the police. This murder has had enough terrible publicity without adding to it. By the way, when this is over, make sure that man is fired.”

***

Betty Rodriguez sat across the desk from Mac Hanrahan. On the desk was the Legion of Harsa. Hanrahan
stared at it as though it were alive. Two other detectives stood behind him. A court stenographer was poised in a corner, waiting for something to record.

Hanrahan looked at Betty, who wore a white nurse’s-aide uniform beneath a tan raincoat. Her thick, black hair was short and neatly combed.

“You realize, Miss Rodriguez, that this medal was stolen from the scene of a murder?” Hanrahan said.

“I know that,” she said. “Carlos found it that night and brought it home.”

“Carlos is your husband?”

She shook her head. “We live together as man and wife. His name is Carlos Montenez.”

“And he works at the Museum of American History?”

“Yes, in the kitchen.”

“He’s a chef?”

“He washes dishes.”

“Where did Carlos find the medal?”

“He told me he found it in the garbage when he was leaving work.”

“The same night as the murder you’ve heard about?”

“Yes.”

Hanrahan turned to one of the detectives. “Get me that list of people interviewed that night.” Then to Betty Rodriguez: “Go on, there’s nothing to be afraid of, you did the right thing by coming here.”

“I
told
Carlos to bring it back to you. He said he would, but that he wanted a reward.”