The Counterfeit Murder in the Museum of Man_ A Norman De Ratour Mystery - Alfred Alcorn [65]
“How did he seem to you?” Again, Alphus’s attention appeared to make him uneasy.
“I could tell he had been drinking. I mean his face was flushed and he sounded very agitated about something.”
“What did he say?”
“He called to me. He said, ‘Col, you’re just the man I need to talk to.’ ”
I waited as he decided what to tell me next.
“So I walked over to the passenger side and said hello. ‘Get in’ he said, opening the door. Spencer, a friendly dog, jumped in before I could stop him and went right over the seat into the back. As I was apologizing and trying to pull him out, Heinie said, ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m used to dogs. Get in.’ ”
“So you got in?”
“I didn’t want to, but I did.”
“Why didn’t you want to?”
He glanced at me suspiciously. “Well, everyone knows that Heinie and I have a history. The letter spells that out.”
“Did he have a gun?”
He hesitated just long enough for me to think he was lying. He said, “No. I didn’t see one. I mean it could have been there. On the floor or between the seats.”
“So you were parked near the Dumpster? The one you mentioned.”
He glanced at me warily. “Not that close. What are you getting at?”
It was my turn to lie. “Nothing. Really. I’m trying to nail down a detail.” In fact I was thinking that the Dumpster would be a good place for the murderer to drop the gun. With an inner wince I dissembled with a frown, I wondered if that was where I had put it after I had used it on Heinie.
“Go on,” I said.
“Well, he started right in apologizing. He said he had nothing personal against me, that the ‘misunderstanding’ about the chair was really between himself and his father.”
“Did you believe him?”
“Not really. I was more embarrassed than anything else. He got profuse, repeating himself. Then he started abusing you.”
“Really? About what?”
“He said you were trying to destroy him professionally by having the authenticity of the collection he gave the MOM tested. He said he had made a mistake giving it to you, that all the MOM had was a lot of native junk.”
I nodded. “That does sound like Heinie when he gets going.”
“Oh, there’s more. He apologized for grabbing the Dresden stater before I, I mean the Frock, had a chance to bid on it.”
“What did you say to that?”
“Nothing really. Something like what’s done is done. Then he shook his head. His voice was quaking. He said, ‘Listen, if you want the Dresden, it’s yours. I’m not going to give it to that son of a bitch Ratour!’ ”
I could not suppress a smile. This part of his story rang true.
“Then he began rummaging in the back of his car. Spencer tried to lick his face. He pulled out a small briefcase from which he took a sheaf of writing paper. He used a regular ink pen, a gold Montblanc, I believe. His hand wasn’t all that steady when he wrote something like, ‘To whom it may concern, I Heinrich von Grümh, being of sound mind and body, do bequeath to Professor Colin Saunders and the Frock Museum of Wainscott University on my decease a coin in my lawful possession known as the Dresden stater.’ Then he signed and dated it before he showed it to me.”
“Do you have that document?”
He took an envelope out of his jacket pocket and handed it to me. Inside was a photocopy of the words above in very shaky handwriting on monogrammed paper. I read it over carefully several times. When I made to keep it, he held out his hand.
I handed it back and said, “Have you asked his estate about the whereabouts of the coin?”
Again he glanced at Alphus.