The Counterfeit Murder in the Museum of Man_ A Norman De Ratour Mystery - Alfred Alcorn [35]
Unless, of course, I did murder Heinie von Grümh.
(Felix, playing with my name, once pointed out that the lower-case French preposition it contains, if transformed, as it was in the case of Scotland’s Robert the Bruce, into the English definite article, I become The N.A. Ratour. Which, under the circumstances, gives me little comfort.)
I have not been entirely honest, it’s true. But I really did not recognize the death car on that morning when I discovered Heinie’s body. I have a blind spot when it comes to cars and the vast, tedious subject of how people convey themselves from one place to another.
Yet I was truly more shocked than surprised to look through the rolled-up window to see the still form of the honorary curator. He had been most careless with my weapon the night before. I could at several points have taken it away from him. And there is a detail, a maddening, pertinent detail to this whole affair that I cannot for the life of me recall.
I scarcely know what I would have done without Felix. He showed up as the day began to wane along with hope of freedom before nightfall. He and his colleague had pushed for and gotten a bail hearing.
Jason Duff, the district attorney, a surprisingly young man with gelled hair and a complexion of steroid pink, shuffled papers at the table to the right of Judge Arlen McHenry, who glared out from his perch with the jaundiced look of one who has spent a long life weighing human foibles.
The proceedings began so abruptly, I scarcely realized that Mr. Duff was claiming he had enough evidence to have me charged with first-degree murder and held without bail.
Counsel for the defendant demurred. “Your Honor, I can prove that my client, a longtime and respected person of this community, was not present at the time that Heinrich von Grümh died from a gunshot wound.”
“Proceed, Mr. Skinnerman.”
“Your Honor, the electronic records of the Museum of Man show that Mr. de Ratour entered the building at precisely eight fifty-four on the evening in question. They show that he did not leave the building until close to ten past ten PM.”
“Your Honor …”
“Mr. Duff, you will have a chance to respond. Continue, Mr. Skinnerman.”
“I would like to place those records in evidence, Your Honor, along with a copy of the preliminary report from the office of the coroner. According to Doctor Cutler, this report, based on body temperature, lividity, and the incipient state of rigor mortis, puts the time of death with ‘high probability’ at between nine fifteen and ten o’clock on the night in question.”
District Attorney Duff’s pinkness deepened. “Your Honor, the museum records are of negligible value. As director of the museum, the defendant could easily have rigged the system to show what he wanted it to show.”
But Felix had another trick in his cards. “Your Honor, that is very unlikely. The alarm system at the museum is up to date and, according to the company that installed and maintains it, virtually tamper-proof. I would like to place in evidence a copy of the guarantee that Securart, the company in question, gave the museum upon installation of the new system.”
“Your Honor, the defendant was in the vicinity at the time of the murder. He had a motive. And it was his revolver that fired the fatal bullet. And he has admitted that he has already killed one man with the weapon in question, a man, Your Honor, who, like the murder victim, had been carrying on with the woman he professed to love.”
“Your Honor, the man my learned colleague is referring to was none other than Manfred Bannerovich, aka Freddie Bain. A criminal mastermind. And at the time, Your Honor, Mr. de Ratour was defending himself and the woman who was to become