Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [29]
“Dr. Martinez was just telling me about these missing diaries,” Hale said.
“Missing … if they even exist in the first place,” Dolores offered.
“What do you think, Mrs. Smith?” Hale asked. “A wasted exercise trying to find something that isn’t there?”
Annabel shook her head. “No,” she said, “I don’t think it’s a wasted exercise at all. There’s enough tantalizing evidence—well, maybe calling it evidence is wishful thinking—let’s say enough tantalizing hints in the literature over the centuries suggesting that Las Casas did, in fact, write his own diaries about the first three voyages. He did write about Columbus later. And there is reason to think that a real writer would not have passed up the chance to at least make notes while the little ships were under way. Anyhow, as so often happens, when you’re trying to run down one story, you get on to something else. Do the diaries exist? It can’t be dismissed out of hand.”
“And a map?” Hale said. “A treasure map? Sounds like the stuff of fiction to me.”
“Far less credence is given the map than the diaries,” Consuela said.
“And is anyone close to coming up with either?” asked Hale.
“No,” Consuela said, “but lots of dedicated people are looking, trying to trace other written links to Las Casas and his relationship with Columbus.”
Annabel looked past the others to where Broadhurst and Menendez were emerging from the office. A single drop of rain landed on her nose. She looked up at low, dark clouds scooting quickly by, then saw guests being ushered inside. Annabel followed the crowd.
The hour passed quickly. Dr. Broadhurst stood at the door and personally thanked each person for coming. Left behind with him were the two senators and their wives, General Counsel Mullin and her husband, and Broadhurst’s chief of staff, Helen Kelly, whose husband had arrived just as the cocktail party was ending; Broadhurst’s wife, Patricia, was out of town visiting one of their daughters who’d given birth to their third grandchild.
Annabel looked at her watch. Oops. Five after eight. She was meeting Mac at B. Smith’s in Union Station, a ten-minute walk at best, two minutes by cab. She started for the building’s main entrance, opening her briefcase as she went in anticipation of it being searched, stopped, fished in the bag for the notes she’d taken in the Manuscript reading room the previous day, couldn’t find them, went down the stairs to the underground tunnel leading to the Jefferson Building, and walked at a brisk pace, almost a run, muttering to herself how careless she’d been to have left them in her cubbyhole. She was to revisit the Manuscripts room the next day and wanted to spend an hour or two at home after dinner planning how to make optimum use of the time.
They joke in the Library of Congress about how the three buildings turn into ghost towns the minute the doors close to visitors. Annabel certainly had that feeling as she traveled through the tunnel. No one passed her, and frequent glances over her shoulder confirmed she was alone. The clack of her heels was the only sound.
She reached the Jefferson. The elevators could be painfully slow, so she took the stairs two at a time to the second floor and entered the Hispanic room. She peeked into Consuela’s office, which was empty, then heard a noise, far off. She looked, saw no one.
She was about to swipe her magnetic card in the door leading to the stacks and the private research spaces but hesitated. Somehow, she felt intimidated entering that off-limits area without an escort. She knew how important security was at LC, the new system initiated eight years ago in response to a rash of thefts and defacing of materials. Back then, almost anyone could wander into the stacks; more than one person had been found sleeping in them by security guards during routine morning rounds. Not anymore. The enhanced system prohibited everyone from the stacks except those staff members with an absolute need to enter.