The Counterfeit Murder in the Museum of Man_ A Norman De Ratour Mystery - Alfred Alcorn [32]
He paced around the enclosure like the trapped animal he was. There was no high, barred window through which he could glimpse the sky or natural light of any kind. No books or magazines, which, however dated and irrelevant, one finds while waiting for the doctor or the dentist. His plight closed around him. He sat on the hard cot and covered his face with his hands.
To be imprisoned is to experience a humiliation like no other. The bars and solid walls enclosing you are symbol and substance of your existence at that moment. You are caged. A chain around your neck welded to an eyebolt embedded in a cement wall could not be more definitive. You have no freedom. You are on display like a live exhibit. You are presumed dangerous. But, unlike you, the animals in a zoo are considered innocent, even those that might kill and devour a saint.
Not long afterward, Lieutenant Tracy dropped by and asked if I would be willing to answer some questions. He said I could wait for an attorney to be present. I demurred and we walked to an interrogation room smelling of futility and guilt and Sergeant Lemure. I sat down in the chair indicated. They asked if I wanted coffee. I nodded, thinking an honest cup of bad coffee might help. It was brought in. They started.
“Do you want to tell us what really happened on the night of Heinie Grümh’s death?”
I sighed. My shoulders slumped and my bones felt weak. A kind of hopelessness had begun to settle in.
“You’re right, Lieutenant, I did leave out something. It’s true that we left the pub on good terms, though I must say he was still in an agitated state. He mentioned at least twice that he had to meet someone. He kept looking at his watch.”
They both waited impassively.
“When he offered me a lift back to the museum, I accepted.”
“What time was that?” the sergeant asked.
“As I told you, just after eight, ten, fifteen past.”
“Did you go to the museum’s parking lot?” the lieutenant asked.
“No. He pulled into the drive that swings in front of the main doors. There’s a basement entrance to one side.”
“On Belmont?”
“Yes.”
Again they waited, the lieutenant’s eyes neutral, the sergeant’s heavy face hostile with triumph.
“So what happened then?”
“He said he wanted to talk, and I told him I had to go. I could tell from his face that he was huffy, but I had had enough. I went for my walk in the arboretum.”
“So how long did you walk in the arboretum?” the sergeant asked.
“Ten, fifteen minutes.”
“And then?”
“When I came back, I started for my car in the parking lot. I hadn’t gone very far when it occurred to me that I needed to close up the office. It was then that I noticed Heinie’s car. I didn’t recognize it and wouldn’t have given it much thought, but the interior light went on and I saw who it was. I would have avoided him except that he saw me and called for me to come over to him.”
“That must have been what, eight thirty?” the lieutenant said.
“I would think so.”
“What happened at that point?”
“He opened the door for me to get in and began apologizing for burdening me with his problems. Which he continued to do, going on and on about Merissa Bonne and her affair with Max Shofar. But then he did say something that didn’t make sense until later on.”
“We’re listening.”
“He said that de Buitliér, you know, the curator of our Greco-Roman Collection, had been messing with him.”
“Messing with him? What did he mean by that?”
“I don’t know. I asked him, but he wouldn’t tell me.”
“Go on.”
“When I began to open the door, he said he had something to show me. I watched as he reached over to the glove compartment. I was naturally alarmed to see that he had a revolver in