The Love Potion Murders in the Museum of Man_ A Norman De Ratour Mystery - Alfred Alcorn [82]
He sighed. “If I do tell you, it’s strictly, strictly confidential.”
“Of course.”
“I want to be able to use the Skull Collection.”
“Okay.”
“And the Oceanic exhibit.”
“With restrictions.”
“Understood. And outside shots, doors and one or two window shots.”
“Within a period of no more than …”
“Say three weeks.”
“Two and a half.”
“Done. You’ll get a call from Mr. Castor.”
“Yes. I’ve spoken to him before. And now …”
“Yes. You know this is in absolute confidence.”
“Understood.”
“For your protection as much as anyone else’s.”
“I understand.”
“Most of the funding came from Freddie Bain.”
“Freddie Bain,” I said. “The restaurateur?”
“Yes. Among other things, the proprietor of the Green Sherpa.”
“Yes. Of course. He makes quite an impression. When did he join the club?”
“Not long after the trial. Of the Snyders brothers. He’s quite a man about town, if you didn’t know.”
“I didn’t. Are his interests in matters anthropophagic purely scholarly?”
“I’m not sure. He’s the kind of person who talks but doesn’t say much.”
We left it at that. I felt I had learned something valuable, but I wasn’t sure what. I also remained under the distinct impression that Raul Brauer was holding something back. What else did he know about Freddie Bain and what the man was up to? How did he get the kind of throwaway wealth to fund an expedition like Corny’s? Not from a restaurant, surely. What, if anything, were his connections with Ms. Celeste Tangent? Why was the FBI interested in him?
Not that it matters. Not that anything matters. I continue this weird, bifurcated existence. I fill my life with this stuff only to find it empty at the end of the day. I suppose the only thing to do in these situations is to invent another life for yourself. But I don’t want another life. I want what I had and what now exists only in the sunshine of memory.
But what memories! Into little more than two years we packed a lifetime. We had the most marvelous little wedding at the Miranda Hotel overflowing with friends and champagne. We honeymooned for three glorious weeks in France. (Izzy has remarked that people in relationships go to therapists; people in love go to Paris.) Elsbeth, I have come to realize, was like a magnifying lens, shaping, brightening, and intensifying my life.
No more. No more! It is like the sad old days again. I think I’ll make my way over to the Club. There are people there. Someone might ask me to join their table. If nothing else, the waiters talk to you, they smile, they bring you things.
31
Diantha, dressed alluringly in slacks, a clinging jersey, and a tailored jacket, came in to see me at the museum this afternoon. My delight at her appearance vanished when I learned she wanted to borrow the car to drive out to Eigermount, Mr. Bain’s country place. I was perfectly willing to let her take the old thing, but then she had another idea. “Why don’t you drive me out instead? That way you can see Freddie in his natural habitat. It’s surreal, to use one of your words.”
When I declined, she persisted. “Oh, come on, Dad, you need an outing.”
I couldn’t really refuse, even though I was busy with year-end budget matters. Dealing with surpluses, I’ve found, is quite as tiresome as dealing with deficits. So we took a cab home, where Diantha packed an overnight bag.
We then drove northwest out of Seaboard to the Balerville Road and the picturesque little town of Tinkerton. Where the road forks just beyond a bridge that crosses Alkins Creek, we went right. The route climbed for several miles through gloomy stands of pine and hemlock and brought us eventually to a turnoff that would have been easy to miss. We drove into it and made our way along a narrow paved drive.
Well, Diantha was right about one thing. Seemingly out of nowhere, like a castle conjured in a tale about sinister fairies, rose a great round structure of cut granite. Nestled in a rug of evergreens,