Red Dragon - Thomas Harris [116]
“Will the checkroom be open tomorrow?” he asked.
“The museum's closed tomorrow.” The attendant was a wizened woman in a blue smock. She turned away from him.
“The people who come in tomorrow, do they use the checkroom?”
“No. The museum's closed, the checkroom's closed.”
Good. “Thank you.”
“Don't mention it.”
Dolarhyde cruised among the great glass cases in the Oceanic Hall and the Hall of the Americas on the ground floor - Andes pottery, primitive edged weapons, artifacts and powerful masks ftom the Indians of the Northwest coast.
Now there were only forty minutes left before the museum closed. There was no more time to learn the ground floor. He knew where the exits and the public elevators were.
He rode up to the fifth floor. He could feel that he was closer to the Dragon now, but it was all right - he wouldn't turn a corner and run into Him.
The Dragon was not on public display; the painting had been locked away in the dark since its return from the Tate Gallery in London.
Dolarhyde had learned on the telephone that The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun was rarely displayed. It was almost two hundred years old and a watercolor - light would fade it.
Dolarhyde stopped in front of Albert Bierstadt's A Storm in the Rocky Mountains - Mt. Rosalie 1866. From there he could see the locked doors of the Painting Study and Storage Department. That's where the Dragon was. Not a copy, not a photograph: the Dragon. This is where he would come tomorrow when he had his appointment.
He walked around the perimeter of the fifth floor, past the corridor of portraits, seeing nothing of the paintings. The exits were what interested him. He found the fire exits and the main stairs, and marked the location of the public elevators.
The guards were polite middleaged men in thicksoled shoes, years of standing in the set of their legs. None was armed, Dolarhyde noted; one of the guards in the lobby was armed. Maybe he was a moonlighting cop.
The announcement of closing time came over the publicaddress system.
Dolarhyde stood on the pavement under the allegorical figure of Brooklyn and watched the crowd come out into the pleasant summer evening.
Joggers ran in place, waiting while the stream of people crossed the sidewalk toward the subway.
Dolarhyde spent a few minutes in the botanical gardens. Then he flagged a taxi and gave the driver the address of a store he had found in the Yellow Pages.
? HYPERLINK “” \l “CONTENTS” ??
Red Dragon
CHAPTER 40
At nine P.M. Monday Graham set his briefcase on the floor outside the Chicago apartment he was using and rooted in his pocket for the keys.
He had spent a long day in Detroit interviewing staff and checking employment records at a hospital where Mrs. Jacobi did volunteer work before the family moved to Birmingham. He was looking for a drifter, someone who might have worked in both Detroit and Atlanta or in Birmingham and Atlanta; someone with access to a van and a wheelchair who saw Mrs. Jacobi and Mrs. Leeds before he broke into their houses.
Crawford thought the trip was a waste of time, but humored him. Crawford had been right. Damn Crawford. He was right too much.
Graham could hear the telephone ringing in the apartment. The keys caught in the lining of his pocket. When he jerked them out, a long thread came with them. Change spilled down the inside of the trouser leg and scattered on the floor.
“Son of a bitch.”
He made it halfway across the room before the phone stopped ringing. Maybe that was Molly trying to reach him.
He called her in Oregon.
Willy's grandfather answered the telephone with his mouth full. It was suppertime in Oregon.
“Just ask Molly to call me when she's finished,” Graham told him. He was in the shower with shampoo in his eyes when the telephone rang again. He sluiced his head and went dripping to grab the receiver. “Hello, Hotlips.”
“You silvertongued devil, this is Byron Metcalf in Birmingham.”
“Sorry.”
"I've got good news and bad news. You were right about Niles Jacobi. He took