“What were you meeting about?”
I hesitated, embarrassed. When I spoke, I felt like I was making an official statement. “About a year and a half ago, Heinie … von Grümh had an affair with Diantha, my wife. Di called it a fling, a weekend thing. In any event, it didn’t last long and in the meanwhile we have patched things back together.” I was gratified to see he was not taking notes but just listening very intently and with what might have been sympathy.
“But lately Heinie had taken to calling Diantha. At first it was just friendly calls, looking for advice and sympathy.”
“Regarding what?”
“I don’t know all the details. I think his wife, Merissa, Merissa Bonne, was having an affair. In fact I know Merissa was having an affair, and it was driving Heinie mad.”
“Do you know who the person was? The one she was having an affair with?”
I hesitated a moment. Then I said, “Max Shofar.”
The detective took out his notebook. “Anything to old Abe Shofar?”
“His son. He’s a coin dealer. In fact, he was von Grümh’s principal locator.”
“He found coins for him?”
“Yes.”
“Including the collection von Grümh gave to the museum?”
“Some of them. Most of them, I think.”
“So von Grümh started to call your wife?”
“He did. It turned compulsive. He kept asking her to meet him for coffee. It became a kind of stalking.”
“So you arranged to meet with him instead?”
“Yes. We were supposed to have a cup of coffee, but he wanted a drink. So we went to the Shamrock.”
“Had you been there together before?”
I resented the possible insinuation in his question. I said, flatly, “No. We went there because it was handy. I had a glass of ale. He had whiskey and soda. Several in fact.”
“And you talked?”
“It was quite civilized actually. I told him he could not continue to call Diantha, that she was not interested in him or in resuming her liaison with him.”
“How did he take that?”
“Surprisingly well. He apologized profusely. You know, one of those apologies that become embarrassing. It was all I could do to resist apologizing for making him apologize. And then …”
The detective waited patiently.
“Well, it was then that he began to complain to me about Merissa’s affair with Max Shofar, and I could tell that he was shifting the burden he had imposed on Diantha onto me.”
“What did he tell you about Max Shofar and his wife?”
“Oh, the usual things. He couldn’t see what she saw in him. He said he was little more than a petty playboy, a shallow character who would go broke if it weren’t for the help and business that he, Heinie, threw his way.”
“Is any of that true?”
“The playboy part, maybe. But Max actually does a large mail-order business.”
“Anything else?”
“Not really. He repeated himself ad nauseam, variations on the same theme. He said he was at his wits’ end. That life had lost its meaning for him.”
The lieutenant waited, his patience apparent as I paused to catch my inner breath. I went on. “He also said that it shouldn’t have bothered him as he didn’t care about Merissa anymore. That he had decided to divorce her.”
“But he was still strung out about it?”
“It seemed that way.”
“At what time did you leave the pub?”
“Not long after eight. Ten past maybe.”
“And did you part company then?”
“No. He drove me back to the museum.”
“Where he dropped you off?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you do then?”
“I took a walk. To clear my head.”
“For how long?”
“I’m not sure. Ten, fifteen minutes.”
“Where did you walk?”
“Over to the Arboretum. There’s a well-lit path along the edge.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I returned to my office.”
“Do you have any proof of that?”
I thought for a moment. I had checked my e-mails but I had not answered any. Then I remembered our new security system. “I had to swipe my museum card to get in after hours …”
“Is there any way we can verify that time?”
“Indeed there is. The mechanism at the door is wired to a computer that records the card and time of any employee coming in or going out after hours.”
The lieutenant noticed my reaction. “That will help, Norman, but the time of death could have been before that.” He sighed. “I wish you had told me this earlier.”
I nodded an apology. “But you see, Lieutenant, when one is innocent, and I am innocent, these kinds of coincidences seem irrelevant.”
It took me a while to recover from this interview. If not a suspect, I had become a “person of interest” in the case. Had that been all, I might have been able to shake off the queasy feeling of having been less than frank with a trusted colleague. Sometimes a walk around the exhibits helps. Or a call to Diantha for a chat or to arrange lunch. Not this time. What a tangled web we weave and all that.
What I did do finally was make my way over to the Genetics Lab and the facility that houses the electron microscope. It has a verification capacity that the curators use from time to time for objects in the collections to ascertain their authenticity. The facility is impressive in its own way, with clean-room equipment and what seemed like, to me at any rate, an array of futuristic-looking devices. Of course, people of my generation tend to forget that what used to be the future has already arrived and in some cases gone hurtling by.
Perhaps I should have called first, but right then, in the wake of the lieutenant’s visit, I needed to do something, to act.
Robin Sylphan was not in, I was told by her assistant, a young woman with close-cropped hair and hostile, suspicious eyes.
“When do you expect her back?” I asked.
“Tomorrow. She’s taking a personal day.”
I was about to quip that I thought all days were personal days, but thought better of it. Instead, I said, “My name is Norman de Ratour. I’m the museum’s director …”
“Yes, I know.”
“I’m here about the work Ms.…”
“Doctor …”
“Doctor Sylphan is doing on coins from our collections.”
“You’ll have to speak to her directly about that.”
I did not have the moral stamina to persist. People think being director gives one power. But institutions like the Museum of Man comprise little fiefdoms defended in depth by thickets of procedures, precedents, and prerogatives. So I glanced around, gritted my teeth, and kept myself from speculating aloud about just how essential to the museum was this particular facility.
At the same time, I knew myself well enough to know that I was desperate to find any scrap of evidence, however tangential to the case, that I could give to Lieutenant Tracy. If only to appease him.
5
All things considered, I was not unreasonably happy when, in pajamas and slippers, steaming cup of coffee in hand, I went out into our bird-loud front garden to pick up the plastic-sheathed Bugle. It looked to be another jewel of a late-spring day. Not only that, but warmth, rain, and no doubt high levels of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere had conspired to produce a plush of green vegetation seldom seen before.
Diantha and I had just returned from two marvelous days together in Boston, where we had gone to visit some friends, attend a concert, and take in an exhibition at the Museum of Fine Arts, a sterling place. We stayed at one of those small, boutique hotels where we took the honeymoon suite and indulged ourselves to sybaritic excess. Not that we both weren’t anxious to get back to Elsie, whom we left in the care of Millicent Mulally from Sign House and Bella, her nanny.
My not unreasonable happines
s dissolved into a nasty chagrin when, in the silent kitchen, I unfolded the paper to read the headline, “Museum Collection of Rare Coins Found to Be Fakes.”
My heart did not skip a beat so much as suffer a few extra ones, real thudders, as I read, “The investigation into the murder of real estate tycoon Heinrich von Grümh took a new twist yesterday when the Bugle learned that the large and presumably very valuable coin collection he donated to the Museum of Man has proven to be mostly if not all counterfeits.
“Norman de Ratour, director of the museum, was not available for comment and did not return telephone calls as the story broke.”
Of course I wasn’t available, I stormed silently at Amanda Feeney, who had written the article. I was in Boston. And I don’t wear a cell phone. Even so, had she really wanted to, she could have gotten in touch.
“Feidhlimidh de Buitliér, curator of the museum’s Greco-Roman Collection, confirmed earlier background reports that the coins, originally valued at more than two million dollars, were ‘extremely good copies.’ He added that they had been fabricated with a process that he had not encountered before.
“De Buitliér told the Bugle that he had suspected the authenticity of the coins from the very start, but was discouraged from having them tested. An expert numismatist, the scholarly de Buitliér stated that ‘the coins all had the same feel. They were all too perfectly imperfect.’ A spokesperson for Authentech, an independent lab, said a sample of the coins were subject to EDXRF, energy dispersive X-ray fluorescence. The results showed that while the alloys in individual coins differed in their compositions, their constituent base metals were isotopically identical.
“Von Grümh, the son of the late Albrecht Groome and owner of Natural Realty, was found murdered in his car on museum property on May 11. A spokesperson for the Seaboard Police Department, which is investigating the murder, said the discovery of the faked coins may or may not have a bearing on the case.
“Malachy Morin, Vice President for Affiliated Institutions at Wainscott University, stated, ‘My office will shortly be conducting a thorough-going investigation into the museum’s acceptance of the forgeries. We will examine procedures involving acquisition, verification, provenance, and matters relating to a possible cover-up.’
“An informed source, who did not want to be identified, said the university would also be investigating ‘rampant corruption and cronyism on the part of the museum’s management.’ ”
I paused for a moment to let a flush of anger recede. Interesting, I thought. It sounded more like a prepared statement than something Mr. Morin, a verbal slob among other things, might be able to summon off the cuff.
It also made me believe the rumors that he is now the real power behind President Twill, who, upon announcing his resignation, has become something of a figurehead.
What the article failed to report is that the coins came to us with certificates of authenticity from, among others, the IBSCC, the International Bureau for the Suppression of Counterfeit Coins. Of course, the certificates themselves could have been faked.
The Bugle piece went on, rehashing other murders at the MOM and taking indirect, gratuitous potshots at me. Gratuitous in the sense that the news of the forged coins was itself damaging enough. To learn by whatever means that some presumably priceless object or collection in one’s domain is a fake remains a museum director’s worst nightmare. A disputed provenance is bad enough. To have bought at several removes a Klimt or a Mondrian looted by the Nazis six decades ago suggests venality at worst. But fakes make us look incompetent and cast a long shadow of doubt on everything else we love, care for, and display.
I cringed inwardly remembering how fulsomely we had wined and dined and feted and patted Heinie when he began to hint that he would donate his collection to the museum. How extravagant had been the unveiling ceremony just a couple of weeks before. How craven I had been to get my hands on those solid emblems of quotidian antiquity. Because there is something palpable, precise, ordinary, and romantic about old money. Countless Romans, Greeks, Hebrews, Persians, and others had handled these tokens of value. With them they had bought bread, wine, shelter, love, power, and betrayal. With images of gods, emperors, and Athenian owls stamped on them, old coins constitute nothing less than the hard currency of history. Who wouldn’t want to hoard them?
I restrained myself from anything like an outburst until I arrived at the office. I restrained myself even when Doreen told me that “Mr. Butler,” as she referred to him, had already called and wanted to see me.
“I’m sure he does,” I said. And I would have let him dangle awhile longer had not reporters begun to call.
Feidhlimidh de Buitliér is a smallish, ill-favored man, his hair tonsured like a monk’s above a hirsute if well-trimmed face of a piece with the coarse tweeds he wears regardless of the season. Now he sat in front of me behind a frown of puzzled apology and explaining how he had scarcely begun to write a report to me about the counterfeit coins when unknown parties leaked its contents to the press.
“Why didn’t you inform me earlier that you were testing the collection?”
“Sure, I had no real proof,” he replied with what seemed to me feigned and overplayed incredulity. Or perhaps it was the effect of his brogue, which thickens and thins according to context. I have on occasion heard him in unguarded moments sound like someone from the Lower Midwest.
“That’s not the issue,” I said coldly.
“I have it all here,” he said, placing a folder on the desk between us and ignoring my remark.
“Last week I sent you no less than three e-mails and left a telephone message,” I persisted.
“I was out of the office. All week. Sick leave.” His yellowish brown eyes met mine with a glint of challenge before turning away. He reminded me that he had gone on record, in writing, as opposed to acceptance of the collection until at least a few of the coins could be tested for authenticity.
“You should have been careful about confidentiality,” I said, opening the folder.
“We’re part of the academy,” he said with a significance I didn’t gather right then. “People don’t believe there should be secrets.”
I caught again the insolence of his eyes. I said, “I don’t care what people believe. I want all press inquiries directed here. I want no show-and-tell with you on camera.”
When he began to protest, I put up my hand. “Mr. Butler …”
“De Buitliér …”
“Yes. De Buitliér.” I smiled pleasantly to put him off guard. Then I said, “Was Mr. von Grümh aware that you were testing samples from his collection for authenticity?”
He simulated puzzlement with a convincing frown, but with the hesitation of someone dissembling. “I don’t think so. I don’t know. To what is it relevant?”
“His murder.”
“I don’t see …”
“I don’t expect you to.”
He again gave me a challenging glance.
I returned it and said, “I should tell you that I have grown very ambivalent about our Greco-Roman Collection. I am of half a mind to give the whole damn thing to the Frock.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. But I’m sure you would find working under Col Saunders to your liking, if he would have you. I think that’s how they arrange things there.”
He subsided back into his beard and tweediness, his eyes revealing nothing.
“That’s all for now,” I said presently without looking up from his report, from language such as “… despite my objections as to the authenticity of the specimens in the collection and as to their provenance …”
I don’t trust the man in the least. It wasn’t just that he had challenged me, which he had done in his muffled, occluded way. No, it was recalling how, as he entered my office, he had cast an appraising eye around, as though sizing up what he hoped soon to occupy.
I read through the report and then again. It was competent enough, indeed, quite thorough. Worried had been rig
ht about the use of the electron microscope and its ancillary equipment.
Between press calls, I contacted young Edwards, who is in charge of exhibitions, and told him to remove the von Grümh collection from display and secure it.
The media asked me the same questions in the same way. What was going through your head when …? When did you first find out that …? They got tough. Why didn’t you verify at least a sampling from the collection before taking it? How is it possible with all of today’s hard science to be fooled by fakes?
And then the most provocative question of all: Does the fact that the late Heinrich von Grümh gave the museum a collection of fakes have anything to do with his murder?
I pondered this question with considerable mental effort off and on as the morning progressed. My suspicions revolved around Max Shofar, particularly in light of what Diantha had told me about him and Merissa. Working with expert counterfeiters, had he duped Heinie and perhaps others out of millions of dollars? How else could he live the way he did?
Perhaps Heinie found out about the forgeries. It might have upset him more than Max’s playing around with Merissa. He confronts Max and threatens to expose him, ruining him and the profitable mail-order business he conducts. Max, facing disaster, either has a gun or gets one, no difficult task for someone in his position. He gets close enough to Heinie and shoots him.
I was in the midst of these conjurations when Felix sidled into my office with mischief showing in his acne-scarred and yet attractive face. He was also in a state of rare excitement, his eyes as big as his grin. He sat down and plunked the Warwick file on my desk. “Norm, this is fantastic.”
“What,” I said, “a fake mummy to go with the fake coins.”
“What coins?”
“The von Grümh collection.”
He shrugged. “The guy was a three-dollar bill all the way. But this is real. This is the beginning of something big.”
“I’m not going to allow it. I don’t care how much he gives us.”
The Counterfeit Murder in the Museum of Man Page 6