The Counterfeit Murder in the Museum of Man_ A Norman De Ratour Mystery - Alfred Alcorn [60]
Hank has yet to get back to me with anything regarding my sighting of Ms. Fox in the Neanderthal exhibition. I’m beginning to wonder if I simply imagined it in an advanced state of wishful thinking.
I put in a call to Col Saunders. His secretary told me he was in the Far East, but would be home by Saturday. I told her I was calling in reference to the von Grümh murder and that he should call me at the office at his earliest convenience.
I find it bracing to be around a man like Harvey Deharo. He very publicly walked me to our table in the Creole Lounge, a Caribbean restaurant with colorful decor and pungent odors popular with the movers and shakers of Seaboard, such as they are.
Diantha likes to come here, especially in winter, when the decor and the menu remind her of sandy beaches, swaying palm trees, and warm sunshine. I enjoy it, though when they have live music, very often young black men playing on what look like steel barrels, I find it intrusive.
I seldom drink at lunch, but could not resist joining Harvey in ordering a piña colada upon our being seated. While we perused the offerings and waited for the drinks to arrive, he leaned across the table, his memorable eyes holding mine for an instant. He has the knack of being relaxed and intense at the same time. Perhaps it’s the softness of his accent.
“You’re probably wondering, Norman, why I’ve asked you to lunch. I mean other than the pleasure of your company.” He smiled, and I was struck by a note of uncertainty.
“It occurred to me,” I said, looking up from the temptations of the menu, which included a seafood gumbo I had ordered before.
He leaned back as the drinks arrived and as we ordered. He asked about the stone-baked pork and settled for something “less damaging,” as he put it. I settled for the gumbo with a green salad. We sipped our drinks.
“Anyway,” he resumed, still awkward for some reason, “I have a regular agenda.” He smiled and relaxed. “Okay, first, I wanted to talk about some projects at the lab. You’ve asked me in the past for informal updates instead of the biannual reports that can be a nuisance for me to write and for you to read.”
So we chatted about the lab for a while. Harvey has begun several green initiatives in an effort to reorient the focus of the work there. We are both of the opinion that research on genes, especially for applied genetics, is not as popular as it used to be, and for good reasons.
He mentioned a project to genetically modify a strain of bacteria to make it more efficient in the breakdown of cellulose. The object would be to create and capture methane gas that could be used directly in the production of energy. “It’s cleaner than oxidizing, that is, burning the cellulose, and would allow us to fuel power plants from garbage, grass, leaves, waste lumber.”
“Instead of it going into landfills,” I offered. I was basking in a sense of well-being that Harvey has the knack of bestowing on the people he likes.
“Exactly. Where methane results anyway and has a far worse greenhouse effect than CO2.”
He spoke of efforts to produce a lawn cover “with minimal genetic tinkering”—something that didn’t need mowing, fertilizing, or watering.
“A new kind of grass?” I volunteered.
“No, no. No one should be messing genetically with grass. The family Gramineae is too important to humankind. Think, Norman, of what would happen if we inadvertently unleashed a broad-spectrum pathogen that affected wheat, barley, oats, corn, rice, millet, sugarcane. A lot of people would starve.”
“That might save the environment,” I couldn’t keep myself from saying.
He laughed his rich laugh and wagged a finger at me. Then, serious again, he lowered his voice. “I also need