Relic

Once before, hot on the trail of an issue of Science long overdue from the periodical library, Margo had penetrated Smithback’s messy lair. It was as she remembered it: his desk a riot of photocopied articles, half-finished letters, Chinese take-out menus, and numerous books and journals the Museum’s libraries were no doubt very eager to find.

“Have a seat,” Smithback said, pushing a two-foot stack of paper brusquely off a chair. He closed the door, then walked around his desk to an ancient bentwood rocker. Paper crackled beneath his feet.

“Okay,” he said in a low tone. “Now, you’re sure the journal wasn’t there?”

“I told you, the only crate I had a chance to look at was the one Whittlesey packed himself. But it wouldn’t have been in the others.”

Smithback examined the letter again. “Who’s this Montague the thing’s addressed to?” he asked.

“Don’t know,” Margo replied.

“How about Jörgensen?”

“Haven’t heard of him, either.”

Smithback pulled down the Museum’s telephone listing from a shelf. “No Montague here,” he murmured, flipping pages. “Aha! Here’s Jörgensen. Botany. Says he’s retired. How come he still has an office?”

“Not unusual in this place,” Margo replied. “Independently wealthy people with little else to fill up their time. Where’s his office?”

“Section forty-one, fourth floor,” Smithback said, [225] closing the book and dropping it on his desk. “Near the herbarium.” He stood up. “Let’s go.”

“Wait a minute, Smithback. It’s almost four o’clock. I should call Frock and let him know what ...”

“Later,” Smithback said, making for the door. “Come on, Lotus Blossom. My journalist’s nose hasn’t picked up a decent scent all afternoon.”

Jörgensen’s office was a small, windowless laboratory with a high ceiling. It held none of the plants or floral specimens Margo expected to see in a botanist’s lab. In fact, the room was empty except for a large workbench, a chair, and a coat rack. A drawer of the workbench was open, exposing a variety of worn tools. Jörgensen was bending over the workbench, fiddling with a small motor.

“Dr. Jörgensen?” Smithback asked.

The old man turned and gazed at Smithback. He was almost completely bald, with bushy white eyebrows overhanging intense eyes the color of bleached denim. He was bony and stooped but Margo thought he must be at least six feet four.

“Yes?” he said in a quiet voice.

Before Margo could stop him, Smithback handed Jörgensen the letter.

The man began reading, then started visibly. Without taking his eyes from the letter, he reached around for the battered chair and carefully eased himself into it.

“Where did you get this?” he demanded when he had finished.

Margo and Smithback looked at each other.

“It’s genuine,” Smithback said.

Jörgensen stared at them. Then he handed the letter back to Smithback. “I don’t know anything about this,” he said.

There was a silence. “It came from the crate John Whittlesey sent back from the Amazon expedition seven years ago,” Smithback prompted hopefully.

[226] Jörgensen continued to stare at them. After a few moments, he returned to his motor.

The two watched him tinker for a moment. “I’m sorry we interrupted your work,” Margo said at last. “Perhaps this isn’t a good time.”

“What work?” asked Jörgensen, without turning around.

“Whatever that is you’re doing,” Margo replied.

Jörgensen suddenly barked out a laugh. “This?” he said, turning to face them again. “This isn’t work. This is just a broken vacuum cleaner. Since my wife died, I’ve had to do the housework myself. Darn thing blew up on me the other day. I only brought it in here because this is where all my tools are. I don’t have much work to do anymore.”

“About that letter, sir—” Margo pressed.

Jörgensen shifted in the creaky chair and leaned back, looking at the ceiling. “I hadn’t known it existed. The double-arrow motif served as the Whittlesey family crest. And that’s Whittlesey’s handwriting, all right. It brings back memories.”

“What kind?” asked Smithback eagerly.

Jörgensen looked over at him, his brows contracting with irritation. “Nothing that’s any of your business,” he said tartly. “Or at least, I haven’t heard just why it might be your business.”

Margo shot Smithback a shut-up look. “Dr. Jörgensen,” she began, “I’m a graduate student working with Dr. Frock. My colleague here is a journalist. Dr. Frock believes that the Whittlesey expedition, and the crates that were sent back, have a link to the Museum murders.”

“A curse?” said Jörgensen, raising his eyebrows theatrically.

“No, not a curse,” said Margo.

“I’m glad you haven’t bought into that one. There’s no curse. Unless you define a curse as a mixture of [227] greed, human folly, and scientific jealousy. You don’t need Mbwun to explain ...”

He stopped. “Why are you so interested?” he asked suspiciously.

“To explain what?” Smithback interjected.

Jörgensen looked at him with distaste. “Young man, if you open your mouth one more time I’m going to ask you to leave.”

Smithback narrowed his eyes but remained silent. Margo wondered if she should go into detail about Frock’s theories, the claw marks, the damaged crate, but decided not to. “We’re interested because we feel that there’s a co

Jörgensen held out a gnarled hand. “May I see that again?”

Reluctantly, Smithback complied.

Jörgensen’s eyes passed over the letter again, hungrily, as if sucking in memories. “There was a time,” he murmured, “I would have been reluctant to talk about this. Maybe afraid would be a better word. Certain parties might have sought to fire me.” He shrugged. “But when you get as old as I am, you don’t have much to be afraid of. Except maybe being alone.”

He nodded slowly to Margo, clutching the letter. “I would have been on that expedition, if it hadn’t been for Maxwell.”

“Maxwell? Who’s he?” asked Smithback.

Jörgensen shot him a look. “I’ve knocked down bigger journalists than you,” he snapped. “Now I said, be quiet. I’m talking to the lady.”

He turned to Margo again.

“Maxwell was one of the leaders of the expedition. Maxwell and Whittlesey. That was the first mistake, letting Maxwell muscle his way in, making the two of them [228] coleaders. They were at odds right from the begi

“What was that?” Margo asked.

“To find the Kothoga tribe. There were rumors of an undiscovered tribe living on a tepui, a vast tableland above the rain forest. Although the area had not been scientifically explored, the consensus was that the tribe was extinct, that only relics remained. Whittlesey didn’t believe this. He wanted to be their discoverer. The only problem was, the local government denied him a permit to study on the tepui. Said it was reserved for their own scientists. Yankee go home.”

Jörgensen snorted, shook his head.

“Well, what it was really being reserved for was depredation, land rape. Of course, the local government had heard the same rumors Whittlesey had. If there were Indians up there, the government didn’t want them in the way of timbering and mining. So anyway, the expedition had to approach from the north. A much less convenient route, but away from the restricted area. And they were forbidden to ascend the tepui itself.”

“Did the Kothoga still exist?” Margo asked.

Jörgensen slowly shook his head. “We’ll never know. The government found something on top of that tepui. Maybe gold, platinum, placer deposits. You can detect lots of things with satellites these days. Anyway, the tepui was fired from the air in the spring of ‘88.”