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The agent looked at me. “This is no scam, is it?”

“No, he’s the real deal, as you might say.”

“Are you handling his affairs?”

“The museum’s counsel, Mr. Skinnerman, has agreed to represent Alphus’s interests in making any arrangements with an agency such as yours.”

I provided her with Felix’s coordinates.

“Tell him he’ll be hearing from me shortly.”

We all stood. “And you, Mr. Ratour, are you working on anything right now?”

“I’m neck-deep in a murder case.”

“Are you writing it up?”

“I’m keeping notes.”

She gave me her card. After handshakes all around, they left.

I tried to shake Alphus’s hand, but he insisted on what is called a “high five.” He then used my computer to text something to Ridley of which, with a shudder, I caught the word celebration.

21

On the morning of the meeting of the Governing Board, I woke feeling like a condemned man on the day of his execution. I expected no reprieves. There had been no last-minute phone call from Lieutenant Tracy regarding the charges against me. Elgin Warwick had not deigned to respond to my impulsive letter. Even Felix seemed to have vanished.

I was certain the board would ask for my resignation and that they would accept it with voiced regret and unvoiced relief.

While shaving I regarded the face that regarded me, the face of an adulterer, a possible murderer, a former museum director. Izzy Landes once remarked that low self-esteem can be a sign of intelligence, but on this occasion, I took it as a measure of reality. Good thing my revolver is missing. Only a slight pressure with the index finger. Quick and painless. Go out with a bang. And not much of a mess.

I dressed carefully in a well-tailored chino suit, blue button-down shirt, and tan tie with a subdued red floral design. I had a frugal breakfast of toast, two five-minute eggs, coffee, and tomato juice. I made sure Alphus had someone coming to watch over him. Knowing my situation, he gave me one of his hairy hugs just before I went out the door.

The meeting was set for eleven. I dawdled at my desk as I waited. Doreen came in long enough to make sure there was coffee and elegant little pastries on hand in the Twitchell Room. I nearly suggested she provide a blindfold for my execution.

And, indeed, it began badly. I could tell from their faces and from the look of pained sympathy on the face of my old friend Robert Remick that they were ready to pronounce sentence. We seated ourselves awkwardly around the long table in this room, which had been the scene of so many memorable events in my professional life. At ten minutes after eleven, Felix had not arrived and we agreed to start without him.

I imagined that the profound, existential loneliness that I experienced is what one feels as the blade is about to drop, as the trapdoor of the gallows is about to open, as the switch to the electric chair is about be thrown, as the pump for the injection is about to start. But I also knew I was indulging in gratuitous self-pity not to mention self-dramatization. Looked at in another way, these worthy people were about to set me free.

Robert Remick began uneasily. “At the behest of several members of the board, I have called this extraordinary meeting. We have some difficult and perhaps painful decisions ahead of us. I do not think we should move hastily or rashly regarding complaints as to the management of the museum. Norman de Ratour has served this institution long, faithfully, and with considerable success.

“Having said that, developments of late have been such that Norman’s judgment has been called into question. On this matter, the Rules of Governance are unequivocal. They state that the Director of the museum may be removed for ‘dereliction of duty, obvious incapacity to perform his functions as Director, public censure, criminal activity, or moral turpitude.’ ”

He turned to Maryanne Rossini, the university’s representative. “Maryanne, I believe you wanted to go first.”

Damn, I thought, they’ve rehearsed this thing. I sighed and settled back in my seat as the poison