The Counterfeit Murder in the Museum of Man_ A Norman De Ratour Mystery - Alfred Alcorn [41]
Which I found him to be. Indeed, Dr. Simone had told me not to be surprised at his intelligence. It turns out he had been involved in a risky procedure conducted by the demented Dr. Gottling when he was trying to genetically engineer a new human prototype. The operation, something called peripheral vascular angioplasty, killed two of Alphus’s fellow chimps but apparently worked for him. It is a procedure in which a catheter is inserted into the main artery leading to the head. A balloon is then introduced into the catheter and inflated in successive stages along the artery, enlarging it and concomitantly increasing the flow of blood to the brain.
One of his Pavilion mates went utterly mad and had to be euthanized in the recovery room. One died of a brain hemorrhage, and Alphus, already a very bright animal, underwent what one researcher called an increase in intelligence of several magnitudes. Once he had recovered from the procedure, it became obvious to everyone involved that he had become not merely smart but smart by human standards. Indeed, it was this enhanced IQ that allowed him to escape.
We were sitting in the small parlor of Sign House each with a cup of tea when I told them what my original intentions were. They both listened gravely. Then, when I said I had changed my mind, they gave each other that raised slapping handshake you see athletes using.
We discussed practical details. Alphus understands that if he leaves the house unattended he will be apprehended, forcibly if necessary, by the authorities. Millicent told me in simple signage that Alphus had friends at Sign House who would be willing to come over from time to time, especially during the day, to keep him company and take him for walks.
She then quickly wrote a message on what looks like a pocket computer and showed it to me. It read, “A. has a very close friend named Ridley living here. He is a very nice young man, but he is still not quite mature enough to have him be responsible for A.”
She showed the communication to Alphus. He nodded.
At that point we went around the house, meeting some of the residents, including Boyd Ridley. A stocky young man with blondish hair, a handsome broad face, and blue eyes touched with glints of manic mischief, Ridley, as he likes to be called, hails from a prominent and quite wealthy family in Tennessee. He is also mathematically gifted, according to Millicent.
We packed Alphus’s belongings — a lot of CDs, books, and clothes, including some shirts, two ties, and a suit jacket. When I noticed him carefully wrapping a bottle of expensive single-malt Scotch, I looked quizzically at Millicent. But she just shrugged.
I won’t deny I found it unsettling to have a chimpanzee sitting next to me in my ancient Renault with his seat belt buckled on. But then, even with people gawking and pointing at us, it quickly grew to seem normal. Especially when, indicating the radio and signing “okay?” he tuned in the local classical station and we listened to a Brahms clarinet trio.
“Nice place,” he signed as we entered my empty house.
I had planned to let him have what had been, in my parents’ day, the maid’s small room. Located toward the back of the house, it has its own minimal bathroom and a narrow stairway leading into the kitchen.
Alphus looked at me dubiously. He shook his head. He pointed to the door leading up to the attic. “Can I look?” he signed.
I said why not and led him up. I didn’t want to give up my own eyrie. But he wasn’t interested in that. He went directly across a jumbled storage area to a door that opened into a small round room, the upper part of the turret that had been stuck on the house in Victorian times.