The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [225]
Smithback nodded. “Thank you. It would.”
Brisbane stood still, the smile frozen on his face. He looked first at Pendergast, then at Smithback. His eyes raked Smithback’s soiled tux. “Didn’t your mother teach you that caviar goes in the mouth, not on the shirt?” He walked off.
“Imbecile,” Smithback murmured.
“Don’t underestimate him,” replied Pendergast. “He has Moegen-Fairhaven, the Museum, and the mayor behind him. And he is no imbecile.”
“Yeah. Except that I’m a reporter for the New York Times.”
“Don’t make the mistake of thinking even that lofty position will protect you.”
… and now, without more ado, let us unveil the Museum’s latest creation, the Hall of Primates…
O’Shaughnessy watched as a ribbon beside the podium was cut with an oversized pair of scissors. There was a smattering of applause and a general drift toward the open doors of the new hall beyond. Pendergast glanced at him. “Shall we?”
“Why not?” Anything was better than standing around here.
“Count me out,” said Smithback. “I’ve seen enough exhibitions in this joint to last me a lifetime.”
Pendergast turned and grasped the reporter’s hand. “I am sure we shall meet again. Soon.”
It seemed to O’Shaughnessy that Smithback fairly flinched.
Soon they were through the doors. People drifted along the spacious hall, which was lined with dioramas of stuffed chimpanzees, gorillas, orangutans, and various monkeys and lemurs, displayed in their native habitats. With some surprise, O’Shaughnessy realized the dioramas were fascinating, beautiful in their own way. They were like magic casements opening onto distant worlds. How had these morons done it? But of course, they hadn’t done it—it was the curators and artists who had. People like Brisbane were the deadwood at the top of the pile. He really needed to come here more often.
He saw a knot of people gathering around one case, which displayed a hooting chimpanzee swinging on a tree limb. There was whispered conversation, muffled laughter. It didn’t look any different from the other cases, and yet it seemed to have attracted half the people in the hall. O’Shaughnessy wondered what was so interesting about that chimpanzee. He looked about. Pendergast was in a far corner, examining some strange little monkey with intense interest. Funny man. A little scary, actually, when you got right down to it.
He strolled over to check out the case, standing at the fringe of the crowd. There were more murmurs, some stifled laughter, some disapproving clucks. A bejeweled lady was gesturing for a guard. When people noticed O’Shaughnessy was a cop, they automatically shuffled aside.
He saw that an elaborate label had been attached to the case. The label was made from a plaque of richly grained oak, on which gold letters were edged in black. It read:
ROGER C. BRISBANE III
FIRST VICE PRESIDENT
THIRTEEN
THE BOX WAS MADE OF FRUITWOOD. IT HAD LAIN, untouched and unneeded, for many decades, and was now covered in a heavy mantle of dust. But it had only taken one swipe of a soft velour cloth to remove the sediment of years, and a second swipe to bring out the rich, mellow sheen of the wood beneath.
Next, the cloth moved toward the brass corners, rubbing and burnishing. Then the brass hinges, shined and lightly oiled. Finally came the gold nameplate, fastened to the lid by four tiny screws. It was only when every inch, every element, of the box had been polished to brilliance that the fingers moved toward the latch, and—trembling slightly with the gravity of the moment—unsnapped the lock, lifted the lid.
Within, the tools gleamed from their beds of purple velvet. The fingers moved from one to the next, touching each lightly, almost reverently, as if they could impart some healing gift. As indeed they could—and had—and would again.
First came the large amputation knife.