The Counterfeit Murder in the Museum of Man (35 page)

“So you think de Buitliér …?”

“There’s more.” But I made it brief. The fact that the curator frequents the Pink Shamrock, indicating that he could have been in the neighborhood at the time. The fact that there was a back door to the museum that didn’t record swipes. And, finally, the results of the Alphus test I put de Buitliér through.

It surprised me to find the lieutenant skeptical. “So what do you suggest we do?” he asked.

“At the very least we should search his office.”

“What do you think you’ll find there?”

“My gun.”

“You’ll need a warrant to do that.”

“Why? It’s museum property.”

“Because you need a warrant these days to look in your own refrigerator.”

“Then let’s get one.”

“On what grounds? No judge is going to grant one on the basis of what a chimpanzee thinks.”

For a moment I was stymied. Then I said, fishing in the folder I had on the case, “These are the phone records for the Greco-Roman Collection. They indicate that someone in that office of one employee called LeBlanc several times in March and April.”

The lieutenant glanced at it for a moment. He took out and snapped open a cell phone. I produced the documentation as he required it, exact name and location of office, Chief Ballard’s name and phone number, and other details.

“Tell Lemure to get it here as quickly as possible,” he said into the phone. He snapped it shut. “Let’s go down and talk to Mr. de Buitliér.”

I pushed open the door to de Buitliér’s office without knocking and walked in, the lieutenant just behind me. I hadn’t quite expected to find the curator so obviously covering his tracks, but there were two cardboard packing cases on his desk and files and drawers opened up.

“Are you leaving us?” I asked him. We had caught him off guard and he looked vulnerable without the carapace of his tweed jacket, which hung on the back of a chair.

“As a matter of fact, here is my letter of resignation.” The man made a visible effort to muster some dignity, but I could tell he was nervous if not scared.

I took the envelope he proffered and pocketed it. I picked up the phone on his desk and dialed Security. “Mort,” I said, “don’t let de Buitliér or his intern leave the building with any boxes or items until I’ve inspected them.”

De Buitliér looked aggrieved. “I am not taking anything that isn’t personal property.”

“Of course,” I said. “This is Lieutenant Tracy of the Seaboard Police Department. He would like to ask you some questions.”

“About what?”

“About the night of Heinrich von Grümh’s murder,” the lieutenant said. He kept his voice equable, almost friendly. “We can do it here, or we can go down to headquarters.”

It may have been the sound of a distant siren that made the curator say, “I think I would like to call a lawyer.”

The lieutenant inclined his head. “As you wish.”

De Buitliér hemmed and hawed. “What exactly do you want to know?”

I could tell the lieutenant was stalling for time. He said, “Where were you the night von Grümh was murdered?”

“I’ve decided to wait until I have a lawyer before answering anything.”

The lieutenant’s phone buzzed. He snapped it open. “Upstairs. Third floor. The corridor right behind the Greco-Roman exhibit.”

He looked at me. “That was Lemure. He’s coming up with the search warrant.”

De Buitliér paled visibly. The lieutenant said, “You want to talk about it.”

“I’m not saying anything without a lawyer …”

“Then we’ll just wait.”

The sergeant showed up a moment later. He took in de Buitliér and nodded to me. He handed an envelope to the lieutenant, who showed it to the curator.

The lieutenant said, “Mr. de Buitliér, please wait outside with Sergeant Lemure.”

“Are you arresting me?”

“Not yet. We’re detaining you temporarily.”

He was halfway out the door when he turned to come back. “Sorry,” the lieutenant said. “Outside.”

“But …”

“Outside.”

We gave the office a thorough going-over. There were lots of nooks and crannies, though not as many as on the boat. Nothing. No gun. No incriminating documents.

“We’ll have to search his home,” the lieutenant said at length.
“Getting a warrant for that will be tougher. The probable cause is already weak.”

We were about to go outside when I noticed the jacket hanging on the chair. I took it by the collar and lifted it, surprised by its weight. I felt along the side over the pocket and smiled. Sure enough, there it was, my Smith & Wesson .38-caliber revolver.

The lieutenant put on a pair of latex gloves. He picked up the weapon carefully and delicately and put it in a plastic bag, which he sealed.

He opened the door, “Sergeant, bring Mr. de Buitliér in.”

The curator came in with a resentful, hangdog look on his face. The lieutenant launched right into a Miranda warning. Then, “You’ll have to come with us to police headquarters, Mr. de Buitliér. You can phone an attorney from here if you wish.”

De Buitliér shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. I mean we don’t have to go to police headquarters. I can explain everything.”

The lieutenant glanced at the sergeant, who shrugged. He said, “Let’s get some chairs in here.”

We settled around a small, rectangular table that was off to one side.

“Let’s start at the beginning,” the lieutenant said. “The sergeant will take notes. Mr. de Ratour will be a witness.”

“Fine with me,” said the suspect, who seemed relieved, even jaunty.

“How did you find out about LeBlanc?” I asked to get things started.

He pondered for a moment. “When the collection first arrived here, there was something about it that made me suspicious. It had been packed and repacked, but not very professionally. There were balled-up pieces of wastepaper mixed in with plastic
pellets. Anyway, I noticed a piece of billing stationery with LeBlanc’s name and address on it.”

“Maybe he sent them there just to get framed.” the lieutenant said.

“There’s a much better place in Boston. And it’s closer.”

“What about the night von Grümh got murdered?” Lemure said, using his voice like a hammer.

De Buitliér nodded. “On that night I was in the Pink Shamrock when I noticed Mr. de Ratour come in with Mr. von Grümh. I stayed in the background, out of sight, and watched them as they talked and drank. I noticed that Heinie, Mr. von Grümh, seemed very agitated. After a while, I left the pub by a rear entrance and came over to the museum. I let myself in the back way because, well, it’s handier.”

I noticed his accent had reverted to something from the Lower Midwest.

His phone rang and we ignored it.

“Go on,” the lieutenant prompted.

“I happened to glance out the window just when von Grümh’s car came swerving into the road between the lots. I recognized it right away. I watched it for a while. Then I noticed Mr. Ratour. He was walking toward the main entrance. He seemed to notice the car and turn toward it for a few steps. He stopped and began to walk again toward the main entrance when I heard von Grümh call to him. Then Mr. Ratour went over to the car and got in.”

“How long was he there?”

“I don’t know. Maybe ten, fifteen minutes.”

“And you watched the car all the time?”

“Yes.”

“What happened then?”

“Mr. Ratour opened the door and got out.”

“And during that time you didn’t hear a shot or anything?” Lieutenant Tracy asked.

“No.”

My heart lifted. It wasn’t me. Unless …

“Then what happened?”

“The car just stayed there. I watched it, wondering what was happening. Or what had happened. A little while later, Professor Saunders came along walking his dog.”

“And during that time, no one else either got into or out of the car?”

“No.”

“What did Saunders do?”

“He wasn’t far from the car when the door opened and I think von Grümh called to him. Saunders went over. His dog got in the car and then Saunders himself.”

“How long was Saunders there?”

“I don’t really know. Ten, fifteen minutes.”

I started to relax. Von Grümh had been alive when Saunders talked to him. Which meant that I had not murdered the man. Until that instant, I had not realized how much the possibility had weighed on me.

Still, we were all on the edge of our seats, waiting for the curator to continue. He appeared to be enjoying his moment in the dim limelight of our attention. After a moment he said, “I was watching the car when my phone rang. I knew it was him. He had probably seen me in the window.”

“What did he say?”

“He insulted me. He said I was a creep. He told me to come down and talk to him.”

“And you did?”

“I did.”

“And at that time, did he know that you knew the coins were fakes or suspected them of being fakes?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Were you blackmailing him?”

“No.”

I’m not sure any of us believed him, but right then it didn’t make a whole lot of difference.

“Go on,” the lieutenant said gently.

“I really didn’t want to go down. He had been acting really strange lately. I didn’t mind if he made a scene, I just didn’t want any violence.”

“Unless you initiated it yourself?” Lemure asked in his inimitable way.

De Buitliér kept his silence. Until, in a low voice, he said, “I can show you what happened next.”

We all looked at him and at each other. Really?

“Proceed,” said the lieutenant.

He got up and went over to a flat television screen hanging on the wall and turned it on. Then he took out what looked like a cell phone and plugged it into the television using a slender cable.

Standing to one side of the blank screen like someone about to give a presentation, he said, “Before I went down, I rigged up my cell phone camera. It allows me to put a small lens in my lapel and transmit the sound and video back to my computer. But I’ll let the results speak for themselves.” He touched a button on his phone.

There is the jerky movement of walking as he goes down the hall, down two flights of the fire escape stairs and out the back door next to the loading dock. The car comes into sight. The window rolls down. Heinie is heard saying, “Get in,” just as
the door opens and he comes into view. The sound is raspy but clear enough so that what’s said is intelligible. Most of the time the lens, which is wide-angle, includes the driver in its field of view. Heinie says, his gloved hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead as though driving, “You’ve really messed things up, you know that, Butler.”

“My name is de Buitliér.” The voice is closer, muddied, but still distinct enough.

“Whatever. You had to go messing with my coins, didn’t you. You had to make a fool of me …”

“They’re fakes. It was my responsibility …”

“Bullshit. You were doing anything you could to make me look bad.”

“So what? That doesn’t change the facts.”

“Even if it destroyed me in the process.”

“I was only doing my job.”

There’s a silence in which von Grümh reaches down beside him and comes up with the revolver. “And I’m about to do mine, damn you.”

De Buitliér’s voice is shaky. Whose wouldn’t be? “You should know that this whole thing is being taped. I have a setup through my cell phone.”

Von Grümh laughs. “You always were a sly one. Phony as a …”

“You should talk.”

“You little …”

“Heinie … give me the gun and we’ll pretend this never happened.”

“I’ll give it to you if you’ll shoot me in the heart with it.” He lapses into a mutter. “Everyone’s been screwing me. Or my wife.”

There’s a silence. In the distance, through the front window, a dim figure can be seen walking a small dog on a leash.

“I can’t do that.”

Von Grümh laughs. “Because you think I’m not worth shooting?”

De Buitliér says, reverting to his ersatz brogue, “You’re right enough there …” He trails off.

Heinie says, “You don’t think I have the balls to shoot myself, do you?”

De Buitliér is silent for what seems a long time. Then, in an accent that is neither here nor there, he speaks. “Why would I think that? All you have to do is put the gun to your head and pull the trigger. All of your misery will be ended. Nothing could be simpler.”

A mad hope sounds in Heinie’s voice. “I don’t want it to look like a suicide.”

“Why not?”

“Because people who commit suicide are losers.”

“There’s something to that.”

“Look, if I do it … will you take the gun?”

“I should take it anyway. To keep someone else from getting it. It would be the responsible thing to do.”

Heinie snorts at that. “God, you’re a coldhearted little bastard.”

“He’s right there,” the sergeant interjected.

There’s another long silence. As though impatient, de Buitliér says, “Heinie, just give me the damn thing. You don’t have what it takes to shoot me or yourself.”

In the silence that follows, von Grümh nods slowly, the gun still pointing firmly at the curator. When his voice is heard again, it’s as though from a distance. “You may be right.” He turns to de Buitliér. “But if I kill you first, then I won’t have a choice, will I? And this whole dirty nightmare will be over. I mean, I won’t
have a choice. Not if this is all being recorded … for posterity. Posterity. What the hell does that word mean?”

Von Grümh, gripping the steering wheel with his free hand, stifles a sob and keeps talking. “With my net worth, I could buy and sell this whole miserable town. Did you know there have been some very important people, I mean, A-list movers and shakers, who wanted me to run for governor. I could have done that. Then senator. And then, who knows … Because I know how things work. I know … Instead, all I did was write checks. All my life, I’ve been trying to make other people happy. God knows I’ve tried. All I’ve done is give, give, give. And at every turn I’ve been betrayed. Betrayed …”

He sounds like a man trying to bare his soul only to find that he doesn’t have one.

He says, “So you’ll take the gun after I’ve …”

“I’ve said I would.”