The Love Potion Murders In The Museum Of Man Part 18

Korky appears to be doing well, considering what he's been through. We had a drink at my house before setting out. Elsbeth's absence shouted at us from every cornice and corner. We clung together for a small tearful moment. But said nothing. One word and neither of us would have shut up for the evening. Which might have been cathartic in its own way.

As we drove over together, he confessed he suffers bouts of acute depression. He said he is still very interested in what he calls "the marvelous world of fine food," but that he can no longer tolerate the thought of anyone going hungry in the world. "I'm torn, Norman, about what to do with my life. I feel like volunteering for an international relief agency, you know, where you fly to one of those wretched villages in Africa to hand out food to the starving. But it wouldn't be me."

"A man doesn't live by bread alone," I murmured inanely.

Which made him laugh. "No, he needs, baguettes, bagels, boules, franchese, focaccia. It's the difference between feeding and eating. But I still can't write about it. I don't know what I'm going to do."

The Curatorial Ball wouldn't have been the same anyway. Rather than dismantle the Diorama of Paleolithic Life in Neanderthal Hall, as we've done for the past couple of years, we decided to hold the party in one of the function halls of the Miranda Hotel. We decorated it ourselves with streamers and those collapsible ornaments. We had a papier-mache menorah, some Kwanzaa symbols, and a pagan display provided by a local coven. We moved Herman the Neanderthal into the foyer and decked him out in his traditional Santa suit. And the Warblers, getting just a bit creaky, sang all the old favorites. But it wasn't the same.

Korky, I was glad to see, met a friend and left the party early. I lingered and drank too much, turning wine into water at a miraculous rate. Rather than drive, I left the car in the parking lot, declined several offers of a lift, and walked home under a cold clear night, looking up at the heavens, a speck on a speck, and remembering Elsbeth.

33.

I have been made privy to some disturbing information regarding Freddie Bain, information that makes me more anxious than ever for the safety and well-being of Diantha. As I was sitting in my office this morning in a practically deserted museum - everyone who can has already officially or unofficially taken holiday leave - Lieutenant Tracy called and said he wanted to drop by with Sergeant Lemure and Agent Jack Johnson of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

I said certainly, and not long afterward they arrived. Dressed in a plain but sharply pressed dark blue suit, Agent Johnson evinced the practiced no-nonsense demeanor of a veteran law enforcement officer. He took in, I noticed, some of the more outre outre items decorating the office but said nothing. He gave my hand a short, brisk shake and sat down in one of the three chairs I had pulled up before my desk for the meeting. items decorating the office but said nothing. He gave my hand a short, brisk shake and sat down in one of the three chairs I had pulled up before my desk for the meeting.

Flanked by Sergeant Lemure in rumpled suit and Lieutenant Tracy in tweed jacket and holiday tie, Agent Johnson started right in. "Mr. de Ratour," he said, getting my name right, "I hope you understand that the Bureau seldom shares information with a private citizen regarding an ongoing criminal investigation..."

"Or even with local police departments," Sergeant Lemure put in.

"That's right. But it seems the Bureau, the Seaboard Police Department, and you have a keen common interest in the activities of one Freddie Bain."

"That's right."

"Could you tell me why?"

"For several reasons. But one of them involves confidentiality and the others remain conjectural."

"If it involves criminal activity, Mr. de Ratour, I'm afraid I won't be able to comply with any request for confidentiality."

I nodded. "I don't believe it is criminal. But I will leave it to your judgment." I waited for him to nod and then continued. "A couple of months back one of our professors - or, I should say, one of Wainscott's professors who was affiliated with the museum - undertook a highly dangerous expedition to South America. Given the nature of the trip, we here at the museum refused to fund any substantial part of it. We did underwrite his medical supplies and his insurance for medical evacuation."

"How was it dangerous?" Agent Johnson, a man in his forties, regarded me steadily with cool hazel eyes.

"It was very remote to begin with. A lot of outsiders have disappeared while exploring the territory. The situation, apparently, has been exacerbated recently by road-building and logging activities near the tribal lands. The Yomamas are reputed to be cannibals as well as very fierce. Indeed, Professor Chard went there with the express purpose of witnessing an anthropophagic ritual."

"That's cannibalism," Sergeant Lemure put in.

Agent Johnson ignored the sergeant. "And he got eaten instead?" There might have been the slightest touch of ironic humor in his tone.

"Yes."

"How do you know?"

"We have it on tape."

"I see. And how does Freddie Bain fit in to all this?"

"Mr. Bain funded most of the expedition."

The agent nodded. "Well, there's nothing illegal in that, is there? At least on the surface." He paused for a moment as though considering. He shifted in his seat. "And your other conjectures?"

I must say I felt a bit self-conscious detailing for this experienced FBI agent what amounted to little more than hunches. I had a sense as I reviewed my suspicions regarding the "love potion" deaths and Korky's kidnapping that Lieutenant Tracy and Sergeant Lemure wanted me, for professional reasons, to do the speculating for them.

Whatever the case, Agent Johnson listened with unnerving attention. When I finished, he said, "First off, Mr. de Ratour, I would advise you to be very careful in any dealings you have with Freddie Bain."

"Yeah, he ain't called 'the Bear' for nothing," Sergeant Lemure put in.

Agent Johnson betrayed only an instant's irritation with the interruption. "It may help you if I fill you in on some of his background."

I nodded, waiting.

He glanced down at a notebook. "Freddie Bain was born Manfred Bannerhoff in the city of Omsk in the former Soviet Union. According to Interpol, Israeli police intelligence, and other sources, his father, Gerhardt Bannerhoff, was an officer in the Wehrmacht in World War Two. He was taken prisoner when von Paulus surrendered at Stalingrad. He survived the gulag, stayed in Russia, and married a Russian woman by whom, though well into his forties, he fathered Manfred. When he came of age, Manfred Bannerhoff changed his last name to Bannerovich. Then came glasnost glasnost. When Gorbachev opened the Soviet borders during the eighties to Jewish emigration, Bannerovich had himself circ.u.mcised, changed his name to Moshe ben Rovich, pa.s.sed for a Jew, and made his way to Tel Aviv. Apparently a good number of Gentile Russians found themselves to be the sons and daughters of Israel during that time."

"Yeah, a lot of Aryan-looking guys were walking around with sore d.i.c.ks right around then," Sergeant Lemure said, as though this time to deliberately irk the agent.

"History," I murmured, "is full of ironies."

Agent Johnson went on. "What Russia also exported to Israel was a criminal culture so cynical and cold-blooded in its operations it makes the Cosa Nostra look like a gentlemen's club. Anyway, Moshe wanted bigger fish to fry than what was available in Tel Aviv. And besides, the Israelis are not that easy to exploit."

"Yeah, they've all got guns and know to use them," Sergeant Lemure said.

"So he emigrated to America?" I asked.

"Exactly."

"How could he do that? I mean if he was a criminal."

"He's also a businessman. He had acc.u.mulated substantial capital, enough to make himself respectable. His papers were in order. He didn't have a record. He landed in New York, eventually morphing into Freddie Bain, all-American boy. Along the way, incidentally, he picked up fluent German, Hebrew, French, English, and some Nepali, along with his native Russian, of course."

"He still has no record, officially," Lieutenant Tracy put in.

Agent Johnson leaned back as though to give the floor to Sergeant Lemure.

"Right," the sergeant said, "no priors, but he's got a rap sheet as long as your arm. Extortion, armed robbery, prost.i.tution, drug dealing, murder. But no convictions and no outstanding warrants."

"Amazing," I said.

The sergeant shrugged. "He has good Ivy League lawyers working for him. Anyway, he got in thick with the Russian mob in Brooklyn. Got right in up to his neck. The word on the street is that he crossed Victor 'Dead Meat' Karnivorsky on a million-dollar drug deal. Karnivorsky put out a contract on him. He's called Dead Meat because once he says you're dead meat, you're dead meat."

"But he's still alive," I put in, stating the obvious.

"Right. Freddie made a deal from what we've heard. He was allowed to live once he paid Karnivorsky twice what he owed him and agreed to disappear."

"So he came up here."

"Eventually. First he took off for Nepal for a couple of years. I mean he disappeared."

Agent Johnson had the floor again. "Right. Then he landed here and quickly took over the Seaboard mob."

"Seaboard has a mob?" I asked with some amazement.

"Every place has some kind of mob," the agent said with weary cynicism. "Anyway, we can't pin anything on him, but we think he's mixed up in narcotics, prost.i.tution, extortion, and probably quite a few legitimate businesses. He's a very shrewd operator. He knows who to pay off and who to scare off. We suspect he may run a major pipeline for drugs moved around here and all up and down the East Coast. We think he uses the spices as a cover, but we haven't been able to prove anything."

"But why would he bother with Corny's expedition?"

"He's that kind of guy, Mr. de Ratour. He likes getting involved with things, weird things."

"He certainly has n.a.z.i leanings," I said.

Agent Johnson nodded. "That's been noted. But he's also been a rabid Buddhist, an advocate for alien abductions, and a devotee of astral travel."

"And now cannibalism," Sergeant Lemure said.

"One other thing, Mr. de Ratour. Would you mind telling me how you know for sure that your professor is dead?"

"I was sent a tape. It's quite graphic."

The agent nodded. "I figured as much. And given that Freddie Bain paid for the expedition, don't be surprised if he doesn't come looking for that tape if he gets wind of it."

"He already has," I said. I hesitated and then said, "I know him personally. I've even been out to his place. It's in the Hays Mountains, west of here."

"The Eigermount." Agent Johnson nodded, very interested in what I had to say. "Could you describe the interior for me?"

I did so in some detail. I also told him about the shady characters and how there seemed a lot of coming and going for an ordinary household. I admitted that my stepdaughter, Diantha Lowe, was out there with him as we spoke.

Agent Johnson nodded as though he already knew. Of a sudden I realized why he was here, why he was telling me all this, and what he wanted. "Is there any way you could get in touch with her?" he asked.

"She has one of those pocket phones," I said. "Why do you ask?"

The agent appeared to muse to himself. "Perhaps she could look around for us."

"That could be very dangerous," Lieutenant Tracy put in.

"Too dangerous," I said. "I don't want her exposing herself like that. I want her home."

The FBI man nodded, not at all rebuffed. "When she comes home, I would like to talk to her if that's possible. She might have learned something. She might be able to provide us with a pretext for a search warrant." He took out a card and put it on the desk.

They left a short while later, the federal agent mixing ba.n.a.lities of caution with those of rea.s.surance. I wasn't rea.s.sured in the least. To me it seemed a sump hole of evil had opened right up under my feet. I wouldn't have been surprised if Freddie Bain had had something to do with Elsbeth's death.

So I sit here now, in my own little eyrie, on the longest night of the year, resisting an overwhelming urge to take my father's gun, drive out to that ridiculous stone bastion, make that gangster listen to my reb.u.t.tals, and rescue my stepdaughter. But I fear that, upon arrival, Diantha would answer the door, laugh at my intentions, and invite me in for a drink.

34.

It is Christmas morning, the wee hours, and I have received the best present imaginable under the circ.u.mstances. Diantha has returned home. Late yesterday afternoon, as I was fidgeting around this big empty house feeling mocked by the glitter of the little tree I managed to set up, as I mourned as never before Elsbeth's absence, as I thought of ginning myself into oblivion, Diantha came through the front door. She threw herself into my arms, she pulled me to her, and she wept hot tears on my neck. "Oh, Norman, Norman, I am so glad to see you. I will never leave you again. You are like...civilization."

I was nearly at a loss for words. I couldn't exactly chastise her for being away so long. Yet I felt constrained in returning her effusions, as for me there is a very thin line between certain kinds of affection and darker, richer, more palpable feelings. I did manage to gaze smilingly into her eyes and express both great joy and great relief that she had returned safely.

"Let's have a cup of tea," she said, "and I'll tell you all about it. I want one of your English cups of tea, real tea out of a pot with milk and sugar. You know, the way you learned to drink it when you were in..."

"Jesus," I said, "Jesus College, Oxford."

So we retired to the kitchen while Diantha, perched on a stool, looking the worse for wear, to judge from the dark circles under her eyes, told me what she had been doing.

"Well, you were there..."

"Yes. It was like a fortress of sorts," I said, keeping my remarks neutral as I got the electric kettle going. "Eccentric, to say the least."

"You don't know the half of it, Dad. I mean he's got these killer guard dogs and some really creepy-looking guys around. And these secret rooms."

"I see." Though it was Diantha, my stepdaughter, I had already started taking mental notes. "But what happened? I mean to send you home like this?"

"Well, at first Freddie was all sweetness and light. Walks in the woods and philosophizing. He said you need to lead the Nietzschean life or none at all. You heard him go on about Hitler. I mean the guy is obsessed. He talks about how you have to live life on the edge, all that sort of stuff. He's into filmmaking. He kept bugging me about that Corny Chard tape. He said he'd use muscle if he had to in order to get it. He says he paid big time for it."

I poured hot water into the pot to scald it. Then I ladled in two heaping teaspoons of loose tea before filling it with more water, which I had brought to a boil. I sighed, shook my head. "You really shouldn't have told him."

"I know. Yeah, but at first, he comes on like a regular guy. He wanted to know all about you. Then, you know, like, you have a joint and start talking. I was just kind of bragging. About you."

I smiled, flattered in an odd way. "Does he use drugs?"

"Is the pope Catholic? I mean, he's into it...big time."

"Do you think he sells drugs as well as uses them?"

"I couldn't swear, but I think he does. One night, when I couldn't sleep, I wandered into this place that leads off from a bookcase that's really a door on the second floor behind where the fireplace goes up. It was like something out of a movie. I was looking for something to read. I pulled out Northanger Abbey Northanger Abbey, you know, I've always liked Jane Austen, and the bookcase kind of went in. Then it just opened, right into a dark pa.s.sage. It was really creepy with no lights. I went down to the kitchen and got a flashlight. I went in, I don't know how far, maybe fifteen feet, and just as I got to this big vault-like door cut into solid rock, lights started flashing. Freddie and two of his creeps showed up with guns and dogs. I couldn't believe it. Freddie was really p.i.s.sed. He accused me of snooping. I told him that was bulls.h.i.t. I told him I went up to the bookcase to look for a book because I couldn't sleep. I said when I pulled out a book the bookcase started to swing open."

"Did he believe you?"

"He didn't have any choice. Besides I was telling the truth. But I think he deals and I think that's where he keeps his stash."

"On a large scale?"

"Yeah. Now that I think of it. He was always getting beeped on his cell phone, then he'd go and use a special phone that probably had some kind of scrambler on it. Then some creepy-looking type would show up and they'd go upstairs."

"And he uses it himself?"