Murder in the Smithsonian

by Margaret Truman

  Watson returned from the bedroom. He’d taken off his dress shirt and wore a T-shirt. “I need a shower and shave,” he said. “What can I do for you? Drink?” Before Hanrahan could answer Watson called into the kitchen, “Get my guest a drink.” He excused himself and returned to the bedroom.

  The housekeeper asked Hanrahan what he wanted.

  “Gin,” he said, “and ice.”

  “Plain gin?”

  “Yup.”

  She brought him a glass filled with ice and a bottle of Beefeater. Hanrahan poured his own drink and took it with him as he toured the living room. Two items side by side on the wall caught his eye. They were hung over a Ming dynasty chest; neatly printed cards inside each frame explained what they were. One contained a painted enamel badge set in a star of pastes that was, according to the card, from the “Noble order of Bucks, an eighteenth-century convivial society that had features in common with freemasonry.” In the other frame was a medal from the “Anti-Gallican Society, formed in 1745 to oppose French imports and influence.” The medal was fashioned from faceted rock crystals and two painted enamels.

  “Like them, Captain?” Watson had reappeared.

  Hanrahan turned, “They remind me of the Harsa and Cincinnati medals.”

  “Not nearly as important or valuable, but significant.”

  “I never realized how many societies there’ve been.”

  “Hundreds. Some had an impact, like Cincinnati and Harsa, others were just clubs for some good ole boys, sort of like a poker club or local firehouse. You know, a chance to get away from the wife for a night with the excuse of an important meeting.” He laughed. “So what’s new?” When Hanrahan didn’t join in the hilarity, Watson said, “Well, I’ve got to get dressed. What’s on your mind, Captain?”

  “The Tunney murder.”

  “What about it?”

  “The Legion of Harsa…”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I understand you’d like to own it.”

  Watson frowned. “That’s a damn peculiar thing to say.”

  “Well, sir, I was talking to a—”

  “Is there anything wrong in appreciating an historically valuable item, Captain?”

  “No, but—”

  “I’m fascinated with early secret societies, as many people are.”

  “As Lewis Tunney was.”

  “He was more than interested, he was a leading expert.”

  Hanrahan put down his glass. “Congressman, do you know an art dealer in San Francisco named Detienne?”

  Watson thought for a moment. “No, can’t say that I do. Should I?”

  “Probably. He told me you’d made it known that if the Legion of Harsa came on the market you’d be interested in buying it.”

  “That’s damn nonsense. Now look here—”

  “Just asking. Information comes from many sources, congressman, and I follow up. That’s my job.”

  “This… Detienne says that I’m looking for the Harsa? Which, as I understand it, has been recovered.”

  “That was the rumor.”

  “And you put credence in ridiculous rumors?”

  “Depends.”

  “Captain Hanrahan, perhaps you aren’t aware of the fact that I am the Smithsonian’s leading advocate in Congress.”

  “I know you’re behind a bill to increase funding for it.”

  “Yes, and the murder of Lewis Tunney on its premises has damaged the public’s perception of this nation’s finest and most revered public institution. Nowhere else in the world has such a collection of history been gathered under one…”

  As he went on with his speech Hanrahan thought that he sounded as though he were filibustering on the floor of Congress. When he finished lecturing on the virtues of the Smithsonian and his love for it, Hanrahan said quietly, “Thanks for your time, congressman. Enjoy your reception.” Watson made a move to escort him to the door. “No need,” Hanrahan said. “I can find the door.”

  He no sooner had reached the lobby when his beeper went off. He called from a booth and was told that the Smithsonian bomber had left another note, this one at the Arts and Industries Museum, next to the Castle.

  Just what we needed, Hanrahan thought as he drove to the scene of the latest threat, “The Jupiter,” an eight-wheel, thirty-six-inch-gauge wood-burning passenger locomotive that dominated one of the display galleries that radiated like spokes from an octagonal rotunda. The locomotive had been built by the Baldwin Locomotive Works of Philadelphia for the Santa Cruz Railroad of California. A maroon gas lamp trimmed in gold sat atop its front; a maroon cow catcher flared out below it. The note was Scotch-taped to the gas lamp.

  Hanrahan tore it down, using his handkerchief to avoid smudging prints.

  This is the final warning. I have acted as a gentleman should, have given you ample time to consider my demands before an unfortunate incident occurs. You have twenty-four hours to introduce a bill in the Congress of the United States of America to return to me, as the rightful heir to James Smithson, the Smithsonian Institution and its belongings. Time has run out, sirs.

  “Do you know what I’m going to do to this nut when we nail him?” Hanrahan said to a uniformed officer.

  “What’s that, Captain?”

  “I’m personally going to stuff him alive into the boiler of that locomotive, shovel in coal myself and put a match to it. I’m going to watch that silly ass evaporate in steam, right up through the stack. And do you know what else?”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to laugh, really laugh while that pain in the ass condenses on the ceiling. I mean it. I don’t need this.”

  ***

  He was back at his office by six. Sergeant Arey, who was on the desk, told him he’d had a phone call from London. They’d said it was important.

  “Who was it?” Hanrahan asked, expecting to hear Heather’s name.

  Arey went through slips of paper until he found the right one. He handed it to Hanrahan. The call was from Inspector Albert Burns of Scotland Yard. Hanrahan had worked with Burns on two previous cases, one of which took him to London to testify at the trial at the Old Bailey. He’d gotten a kick out of it, seeing men with deep voices in black robes and wearing wigs pursuing justice in a system his own had come from. “It’s just like TV or a movie,” he’d told his then wife.

  “Thanks, Jim,” Hanrahan told the sergeant. “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “Nope, but you should call him whenever you got back, no matter what the time.”

  Hanrahan looked at his watch as he went to the office. Six o’clock in Washington meant eleven in London. He was about to put through a call when a typed list on his desk caught his eye. It had the names of people who’d been at the transvestite party in Georgetown. Such lists were sent to him routinely by Vice, although he seldom had use for them. He knew that another copy would have gone to the FBI, a practice established under J. Edgar Hoover… Hoover’s legendary files on everyone in Washington were a fact, and it was those files that had given him such immense power. Hanrahan had always hated the practice but had been powerless to change it.

  He tossed the list aside and dialed an MPD operator, who put through his call to London. Burns came on the line.

  “I tried the office first, Bert,” Hanrahan said, “figuring you wouldn’t be there and would get your home number. I was wrong.”

  Burns laughed. “It’ll be another late one, Mac, I’m afraid. We’ve had an interesting day.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “I thought it worth checking with you. We had a murder last night in Belgravia. That’s a posh section of town, lots of money and high-tone types. This chap who was murdered is an Arab named Ashtat, Rashad Ashtat. I don’t know very much about him except that he’s evidently well known in art circles, was quite a collector.”

  “Ashtat? Doesn’t ring a bell. I assume you’re telling me because of the Tunney case.”

  “Exactly. To be honest with you, I probably wou
ldn’t have linked it up except for another murder that came to light this afternoon, a chap named Peter Peckham.”

  “Tunney’s friend… I’ve heard about him.”

  “It stuck me as strange that two fellows in the same business would be murdered in the same week, particularly on the heels of the Tunney business you’re dealing with.”

  “You’re right, Bert. How’d they get it?”

  “Ashtat was found in his home with a kitchen knife in his belly. Peckham was dragged out from under a bridge on the Thames. His skull had been smashed, although we’ll have to wait for the forensic chaps to finish up.”

  “Look, Bert, I think there’s something you might want to do before you end up with another body in the river.” He told him about Heather.

  “Want me to pick her up?”

  “No, she’s too feisty for that, but I sure would appreciate somebody keeping close tabs on her. She’s staying at a hotel called the Chesterfield.”

  “In Mayfair. I’ll get on it right away.”

  “Thanks. And keep me informed, will you? She’s quite a lady.”

  “I certainly shall. How’s the family?”

  “Fine, Bert. Yours?”

  “Tip-top. Well, back to work. I’ll ring you up tomorrow when I’ve got more details under my belt.”

  Hanrahan hung up, picked up the phone again and told the operator to put through a call to Miss Heather McBean at the Chesterfield Hotel in London. A minute later he heard a desk clerk say that Miss McBean had checked out that morning. Hanrahan broke in on the conversation. “Connect me with Dr. Evelyn Killinworth.” He waited as the phone in Killinworth’s room rang at least a dozen times. He slammed down the receiver.

  It took a while but he finally got a number for the McBean castle outside Edinburgh and put a call through.

  No answer.

  He was about to leave the office when he spotted the list from Vice, angrily scanned the names. Two jumped off the page at him—Ford Saunders and Norman Huffaker.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said.

  Chapter 22

  Heather had gotten up that morning feeling almost unaccountably rested and relaxed. She’d stayed in her room, fussing with her hair and makeup and reviewing papers that had a bearing on the conversion of the McBean castle from a private residence to a public museum. As she read them she was glad she’d decided to leave for Edinburgh that afternoon. There was more to be done there than she’d realized.

  She went downstairs to the Buttery, where she ordered a full British breakfast—juice, eggs, porridge, toast and jam, kippers, bacon and sausage. “The lass eats like a lumberjack. She’ll not faa throu ane’s claes,” her Uncle Calum used to say about her, meaning she’d not grow up thin.

  An East Indian waiter delivered copies of the morning papers with her juice. She glanced at the front page of one of them, then turned inside. A small headline in the lower left-hand corner didn’t at first stop her, but, like a double take, her attention quickly returned to it. The headline read: ARAB ART DEALER SLAIN. And the brief story:

  Authorities have reported the slaying of a prominent Arab art dealer, Rashad Ashtat, at his home at 7 Belgrave Place, Belgravia. The victim, who was reputed to have dealt in contraband works of art and historic artifacts, was found last night in the living room of his Belgravia townhouse, a large kitchen utility knife protruding from his abdomen.

  She looked up from the paper and closed her eyes. “Belgravia… but wasn’t that where—?”

  “Good morning, sleep well?”

  Killinworth stood over her. He was dressed in a vested royal blue silk suit, white shirt and yellow-and-blue striped tie. A handkerchief that matched his tie bloomed from his breast pocket.

  “I startled you,” he said as he sat down. “Sorry.”

  “No, no, you didn’t… I was just… daydreaming.” She glanced down at the paper on her lap, then quickly away.

  “Ordered yet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’m famished.” He motioned for the waiter to take his order. “Well,” he said as he tucked a napkin into the folds of his vest, “what does the day hold in store for you, my dear?”

  “What? Oh, some shopping… a few people to see…”

  “I’ve an early appointment.” He looked at his watch. “Hmmm, I’d better eat up and be on my way. I’m running late. Lunch? Will you be free? I thought the Connaught would be nice.”

  “I don’t think so, I… I have a tentative luncheon date with someone from the B.M.”

  “Pity. Well, should you change your mind, which, I’m told, is not uncommon with members of your fair sex, I’ll be at the Connaught at noon. I try to break the habit but can’t.”

  “Habit?”

  “The Connaught. One simply can’t leave London without lunching there. Please try to break free, dear. You’re leaving for Edinburgh this afternoon?”

  “Yes, on the three-twenty shuttle.” Why do you talk so much, she scolded herself.

  “I do hope I can spring free and join you in Scotland for a day. I’d love to see the castle again.”

  “Yes, I…”

  “Is something wrong, my dear?”

  She shook her head. “No, nothing’s wrong… yes, please try to come up.”

  “I certainly shall, my dear. But if not, I’ll of course see you back in Washington.”

  “In Washington, yes… here’s breakfast.”

  Killinworth ate quickly. He wished Heather a pleasant day, reminded her he’d be at the Connaught and left for his appointment. The moment he was gone she picked up the newspaper from her lap and finished reading about this Ashtat’s murder.

  Local authorities, in a preliminary statement, said that there was no sign of forced entry, and that the murder had been reported by a phone call to Scotland Yard from an anonymous male caller.

  She walked aimlessly for most of the morning, browsing in small shops. There wasn’t anything she really needed, except to get her mind off what had happened recently. She bought a basket of soaps in chamomile, wild thyme, rosemary, myrtle, sweet woodruff and bergamot, a packet of notepaper and envelopes, and two pairs of lace panties in a shocking wild rose color.

  She lunched alone at the Red Lion on Waverton Street, only a few blocks from her hotel, returned, checked out of the Chesterfield and took a cab to Heathrow, where she boarded the 3:20 British Airways shuttle to Edinburgh.

  At Edinburgh she picked up a rental car, tossed her luggage in the back and drove toward the city, stopping once on Princess Street to look at Edinburgh’s oldest building, the Edinburgh Castle, that loomed over the city like a gigantic temple, a fairy-tale structure of ancient masonry that flowed up out of volcanic rock as though it grew from it, buildings and hardened lava one continuous mass. That castle, even more than the smaller one she’d been raised in, had special meaning for her. She sat at the curb, motor running, full of an overwhelming sense of history that made her feel insignificant, a feeling she welcomed at that moment. How many births and deaths had occurred within its thick, scarred walls and cold, dank rooms? The castle had survived since the seventh century, when it was first fortified by the Picts, and had been a continuing symbol for all Scots, stronger than those who’d built it, as permanent as its inhabitants were transient.

  She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth as her thoughts inexorably went to Lewis and her birthday party at the Chesterfield. They’d toasted their engagement with champagne, glasses raised, rims clinking together, wishes around the table for a long and happy life. They’d made love that night in his apartment. “I’ll love you until the day I die,” he’d said…

  She slammed the gearshift into first and continued down Princess Street, Edinburgh’s main shopping thoroughfare, turned left on Frederick and right on George until she reached the George Hotel. She’d decided during the flight not to stay at the McBean castle. It was too forbidding, too isolated. She hated to admit it, but she was afraid to be alone. Especially after the Belgravia—she caught hers
elf up short. Stop jumping to conclusions, she told herself. My God, to suspect Evelyn… he was hardly the only one who’d gone to Belgravia that day. Her nerves were beginning to go on her… pull yourself together, Heather McBean…

  She walked past the desk and went directly to the office of Ian Sutherland, the hotel’s sales manager. They’d met during the year after Calum’s death, and had almost become romantically involved. Sutherland was forty, widowed, a former star rugby player on the Scottish national team and a lover of classical music; their dates usually took them to Friday performances of the Scottish National Orchestra at Usher Hall. He was stocky, had thick, black hair. Although the practice had faded, he still wore traditional Scottish outfits to formal occasions, a kilt in his mother’s Macquarrie clan tartan; large squares of brilliant red broken by smaller patches of green, a green velvet jacket with horn buttons, a sporran, or purse, made of sealskin and worn around his waist, a red Balmoral bonnet bearing the Macquarrie crest and a razor-sharp sgian-dubh tucked into red knitted hose that reached the knee.

  This day, however, he was in more conventional slacks, button-down shirt, tie and tweed jacket. He sprang up from his desk and hugged her.

  “Hello, Ian,” she said.

  “I didn’t know you were coming,” he said, holding her at arms’ length. “I’d heard that…”

  “It’s all right, Ian, you can mention it. Coming here was a last-minute decision.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s just good to see you. Tea? A drink?”

  “I could use a whiskey.”

  He ordered two Knockando single-malt Scotch whiskeys in the Clans Bar. They sat on a couch in front of a fireplace, and he offered a toast. “To seeing the fair Heather once again. I’ve missed you.”

  She lowered her eyes. She was glad the whiskey was strong. She needed it.

  “How long will you be here?”

  “A few days. The castle is still in the process of being turned over to the city, and I have a million things to check on.”

  “I was talking to someone about that the other day. I understand the city has finally agreed to accept the castle and maintain it.”