The Counterfeit Murder in the Museum of Man_ A Norman De Ratour Mystery - Alfred Alcorn [94]
The burly guy said, “Boy, this guy’s pulse just jumped off the chart. And, you know, his blood pressure’s been normal. If he wasn’t some kind of ape, I’d say he was faking it.”
Through the slits of my eyes, I could see, up through the windows in the double back doors of the vehicle, that we had entered some kind of forest. With one abrupt movement, I ripped off my oxygen mask and pulled off the blood pressure cuff.
“Hey,” my startled attendant cried, and reached to restrain me. But even strong men are weaklings compared with chimpanzees. I quickly overpowered him. The vehicle slewed to a sudden stop. I opened the door and fled on all fours to a glorious haven in the upper branches of towering, well-leafed maples.
I put it down. I felt humbled and exalted. This animal, this beast, this fellow being had confirmed the pieties of civilization in which so many of us humans put our faith. We will, regardless of circumstances, rise toward the light. We will, at whatever cost, choose freedom when we have a chance.
I planned to make a copy to send to Diantha. But, like a lot a people, she’ll probably think it a fraud. She hasn’t deigned to respond to any of my overtures. I have all but given up. There is something demeaning about calling and either leaving yet another message or hanging up, knowing that it’s known who called. I could swallow what little pride I have left and drive out there. And do what? Surprise her consorting with her paramour? No, I am a coward when it comes to scenes. I would rather suffer my worst imaginings in private, would rather let the green-eyed monster feed on my entrails than make a spectacle.
It doesn’t help that my time is running short. The Governing Board meets next week. I am still out on bail. I am still equivocating about Elgin Warwick’s proposal. I don’t know what to do except to go on trying to find out who murdered Heinie if only to prove that it wasn’t I.
Speaking of which, I have a call in to Merissa Bonne. She is a suspect and needs to undergo the Alphus test. She might also tell me what Diantha’s up to.
18
The heavy and heavily insured package came by courier service from George Simons of Park Street, Boston, directly to the top of my desk in the museum. I won’t say my fingers trembled as I scissored my way through the strong tape and opened the sturdy cardboard box, but I was full of eager foreboding.
The letter on top confirmed my suspicions.
“Dear Mr. de Ratour, I regret to inform you that the pairs of coins you have sent me match each other precisely. That is to say, the coins from the boat are forgeries as well as the ones that were gifted to your museum.
“Along with close-up photos in black and white, I have attached the results of various technical tests, including several on the metallurgy of the samples. In fact, they are among the best forgeries my staff has ever come across, not that that will be of much comfort to you.
“Also, it might interest you to know that they are in all likelihood not copies of each other, but copies from the originals, whether they be real or forgeries.
“Please call if you have any questions …”
I sat for a while trying to sort out the significance of Mr. Simons’s report, when Doreen followed her very enlarged midsection into my presence and told me that Lieutenant Tracy had just called and that I was to tune in Channel Five. She turned then and clicked on the small television set I keep handy.
Under a flashing banner stating BREAKING NEWS, a gentleman named Ken was telling an attractive woman named Baretta, no doubt his anchor team partner, something about “dramatic news regarding the Sterl case.”
Baretta turned full-on to the camera saying, “Seaboard police this morning announced a major development in the ongoing investigation into the suspicious death of businessman Martin Sterl.”
Then Ken again: “Our reporter Jack