Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [56]
“That would not be my decision to make unilaterally, David. Our Congressional overseers.”
“Over whom you have considerable influence.”
“And Congress itself?”
“Acknowledgment of my contribution to having secured the diaries and map for the American people.”
“Which you would certainly have earned.”
“I’ve already incurred considerable expenses.”
“That’s to be expected.”
“And I happily incur them. My reimbursement will come from having been instrumental in seeing a preeminent institution of learning become the keeper of such monumentally important documents as created by Las Casas during his journeys with Columbus. The diaries are all about having discovered us, Cale. Now, we’ve discovered them. They belong in the Library of Congress, not in some private collection.”
“I agree, of course.”
“Should I go forward?” Driscoll asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. I’m flying home after lunch. I see you have one of the star crusading TV journalists, Ms. Huston, to contend with.”
Broadhurst laughed. “Our public affairs people are keeping her in check.”
“Michele Paul. His murder still a mystery?”
“Yes.”
“It’s my understanding that he was reclusive in his work.”
“Reclusive and exclusive. He tended to work alone.”
“We had met. Has his apartment been examined for any Las Casas or other materials he might have had there?”
“Yes. By Consuela Martinez—she’s our Hispanic division chief—Consuela and a writer named Annabel Reed-Smith were there yesterday. They brought some files back with them to the library. A truck and crew are returning today to pick up everything else.”
“Annabel Reed-Smith? She has a gallery here in Washington.”
“Exactly. She’s spending a few months at LC researching a Las Casas article for Civilization.”
“I met her once or twice. Beautiful woman, as I recall.”
“Very attractive. And knowledgeable. Her husband, Mackensie, and I are friends. Tennis partners.”
Driscoll stood and went to the window. Broadhurst followed. They looked down on Pennsylvania Avenue.
“I trust you know how appreciative I am of what you’re attempting to do, David.”
Driscoll replied without looking at Broadhurst, “It’s the least I can do for my country.”
On his way out, Broadhurst paused again in the Willard’s lobby to soak up a little of its genteel ambiance before returning to the reality of the Library of Congress and murder. He glanced around for friends. Ayn Rand would have winced at Driscoll’s parting comment, he thought. Driscoll wasn’t doing this for his country. He was doing it to satisfy his own needs, which was fine, Broadhurst knew, continuing to think of Rand, the philosopher and novelist, who believed no one ever did anything that wasn’t self-serving, and that good things happened because of self-interest. Driscoll was like any big contributor to a church or synagogue, Broadhurst mused. After a while, he begins to think he owns the place—and later to confuse himself with God. Oh, yes, and he wants to get a receipt for the maximum valuation of his contributions, to smooth the way for deductions with the IRS. I wonder when he and Michele Paul met? Probably at one or another of our social functions. Whatever Driscoll’s motives, a wonderful thing could result, for the Library of Congress and for the American people.
And for me, he silently admitted.
Chapter 22
Once the two private detectives had put Munsch in the front passenger seat of their car, he realized there was nothing he could do but go along with them, at least for the moment. His mind raced: Maybe they’d let him use a public restroom, or he could pretend to be carsick. Maybe he could talk them out of whatever it was they intended to do with him. Maybe … He was tired and confused. If that whore hadn’t taken his money; if Garraga hadn’t shot the fat security guard … Once I get to Cuba—if I get to Cuba—things will