The Love Potion Murders in the Museum of Man_ A Norman De Ratour Mystery - Alfred Alcorn [47]
I told him he was wasting his time, something I have a feeling he is very good at. “I will not have the museum turned into a setting for sensationalism.”
“Norm,” he said, in that fake congeniality of his that makes me clench my teeth, “we live in a new age. Any public perception is better than none. People are gonna flock here.”
I told him I did not approve of flocking people.
He stood and pulled himself up to his full six foot five or six, a grandeur compromised somewhat by a rather rotund middle and an agitation that showed itself in the color of his ears. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to overrule you, Norm.”
“You don’t have the authority to overrule me, Mr. Morin. The university has no warrant here that’s in any way enforceable. We are establishing that in court. If Mr. Castor or any of his minions as much as sets foot on museum property, I will contact the Seaboard Police Department and have him arrested on criminal trespass.”
Mr. Morin shook his head with the assumed grimace of the worldly-wise and turned to go. At the door, just as in a certain kind of movie, he stopped and looked back. “You just don’t get it, do you Norm. You just don’t get it.”
“What don’t I get, Mr. Morin?”
“Mr. Morin, Mr. f*cking Morin. You know how to make it sound like a put-down. Well you ought to know, Bow Tie, that there’s some serious and tough, very tough money behind this thing. I’m not talking about a couple of Hollywood fags, either, that want to make some kind of feel-good movie …”
“What are you trying to say?
“I ain’t going to say any more. Just remember what I told you.”
“It will take an effort.”
At which point he stormed out.
There still has been no word from Korky. I finally got up the courage yesterday to tell Elsbeth he had gone missing. I was forced to, really. Not only has Korky been officially listed as missing by the Seaboard Police Department, but the Bugle is to run a front-page story tomorrow with an account of his disappearance. A goodly sum has been collected as a reward to anyone coming forward with information as to his whereabouts. But as time passes, hope dims.
She took it well, as though, in facing her own death she already knew all she needed to know about disappearing. “I hope he’s all right,” she said. “But if he has gone to that great restaurant in the sky, I’m sure he’s telling the head chef what he thinks of the ambrosia.”
Lieutenant Tracy called me this afternoon as a courtesy to fill me in on some new developments. He told me Korky was last reported seen at the White Trash Grill, which opened some months ago at the old truck stop out on the bypass. According to the lieutenant, it is a hangout for a pretty tough bunch of what he called biker and trucker guys. He said prostitutes of various persuasions cruise the trucks pulled up for the night, and this attracts other unsavory types. Korky’s editor at the Bugle said he may have gone out there to do a review of the restaurant, but he didn’t know for sure. As for suspects in any possible foul play, I told Lieutenant Tracy he might want to check Korky’s clips at the Bugle morgue. I daresay there are lots of restaurateurs out there who would love to see him choke on some indelicate morsel. At the same time, I don’t know why, I cannot get out of my mind that Korky’s disappearance has something to do with the Ossmann-Woodley case.
Speaking of which, I informed the lieutenant what I had learned at the meeting of the Subcommittee on Appropriateness. We agreed the best course right now would be for me to contact the parties involved and try to find out quietly if what happened that afternoon in the storage closet at Sigmund Library has any bearing on the Ossmann-Woodley case. He told me to get back to him were I to run into any real obstacles.
Well, I think I’ll wend my way home. I only hope that Sixy and Diantha will be going out tonight.