Reliquary

The sudden fussy clearing of a throat brought Margo back to the present. She looked up to see a short man standing before her, wearing a worn tweed suit, his leathery face lined with i

“I thought I heard somebody wandering around my skeletons,” Hagedorn said, frowning, tiny arms crossed in front of his chest. “Well?”

Despite herself, Margo felt a

He sca

Up yours, Stumpy. “It’s important we get these right away,” she said. “If there’s a problem, I’m sure Dr. Merriam will give whatever authorization you need.”

Mentioning the Director’s name had the desired effect. “Oh, very well. But it’s still irregular. Come with me.”

He led her back toward an ancient wooden desk, heavily scarred and pitted from years of neglect. Behind the desk—in rows of tiny drawers—was Hagedorn’s filing system. He checked the first number on Frock’s list, then ran a thin yellow finger down drawers. Stopping at last, he pulled out a drawer, rifled through the cards within, and plucked one out, harrumphing in displeasure. “1930-262,” he read. “Just my luck. On the very top tier. I’m not as young as I used to be, you know. Heights bother me.”

Suddenly he stopped. “This is a medical skeleton,” he said, pointing to a red dot in the upper right-hand corner of the card.

“All of the requests are,” Margo replied. Though it was clear Hagedorn wanted an explanation, she fell into a stubborn silence. At last the administrator cleared his throat again, his eyebrows contracting at the irregularity of the request. “If you insist,” he said, sliding the card across the desk toward her. “Sign this, add your extension and department, and don’t forget to place Frock’s name in the Supervisor column.”

Margo looked at the grimy paper, its edges soft with wear and age. It’s a library card, she thought. How quaint. The skeleton’s name was printed neatly at the top: Homer Maclean. That was one of Frock’s requests, all right: a victim of neurofibromatosis, if she remembered correctly.

She bent forward to scrawl her name in the first blank row, then stopped abruptly. There, three or four names up the list of previous researchers, was the jagged scrawl she remembered so well: G. S. Kawakita, Anthropology. He’d taken this very skeleton out for research five years earlier. Not surprising, she supposed: Greg had always been fascinated by the unusual, the abnormal, the exception to the rule. Perhaps that’s why he’d been attracted to Dr. Frock and his theory of fractal evolution.

She remembered how Greg had been notorious for using this very storage room for fly-casting practice, snapping nymphs down the narrow rows during practically every coffee break. When Hagedorn was not around, of course. She suppressed a grin.

That does it, she thought. I’ll look up Greg’s number in the phone book this evening. Better late than never.

There was a high-pitched, rattling wheeze, and she looked up from the card into the small impatient eyes of Hagedorn. “It’s just your name I want,” he said waspishly. “Not a line of lyric poetry. So stop thinking so hard and let’s get on with it, shall we?”

= 10 =

THE BROAD ORNATE front of the Polyhymnia Club squatted on West 45th Street, its marble and sandstone bulk heaving outward like the stern of some Spanish galleon. Above its awning, a gilt statue of the club’s namesake, the muse of rhetoric, stood on one foot as if poised to take flight. Beneath it, the club’s revolving door did a brisk Saturday evening business; although patronage was limited to members of the New York press, that still let in, as Horace Greeley once complained, “half the unemployed young dogs south of Fourteenth Street.”

Deep within its oak fastness, Bill Smithback stepped up to the bar and ordered a Caol Ila without ice. Though he was for the most part uninterested in the club’s pedigree, he was very interested in its unique collection of specially imported scotch whisky. The single malt filled his mouth with the sensation of peat smoke and Loch nam Ban water. He savored it for a long moment, then glanced around, ready to drink in the congratulating nods and admiring glances of his fellow pressmen.

Getting the Wisher assignment had been one of the biggest breaks of his life. Already, it had netted him three front-page stories in less than a week. He’d even been able to make the ramblings and vague threats of the homeless leader, Mephisto, seem incisive and pertinent. Just that afternoon, as Smithback was leaving the office, Murray had thumped him heartily on the back. Murray, the editor who never had a word of praise for anyone.

His survey of the clientele unsuccessful, Smithback turned toward the bar and took another sip. It was extraordinary, he thought, the power of a journalist. A whole city was now up in arms because of him. Gi

A vague thought that somehow Mrs. Wisher had deliberately manipulated him flitted across his field of consciousness and was quickly pushed aside. He took another sip of scotch, closing his eyes as it trickled down his gullet like a dream of a finer world.

A hand gripped his shoulder, and he turned eagerly. It was Bryce Harriman, the Times crime reporter who was also covering the Wisher case.

“Oh,” Smithback said, his face falling.

“Way to go, Bill,” said Bryce, his hand still on Smithback’s shoulder as he elbowed up to the bar and rapped a coin on the zinc. “Killians,” he said to the bartender.

Smithback nodded. Christ, he thought, of all the people to run into.

“Yup,” said Harriman. “Pretty clever. I bet they loved it over at the Post.” He paused slightly before uttering the final word.

“They did, as a matter of fact,” Smithback said.

“Actually, I ought to thank you.” Harriman picked up his mug and sipped daintily. “It gave me a good angle for a story.”

“Really?” said Smithback, without interest.

“Really. How the whole investigation’s ground to a halt. Paralyzed.”

Smithback looked up, and the Times reporter nodded smugly. “With this reward posted, too many crazy calls have been flooding in. The police have no choice but to take every last one seriously. Now they’re chasing after a thousand bullshit tips, wasting time. A bit of friendly advice, Bill: I wouldn’t show your face around One Police Plaza for a while, like maybe ten years.”

“Don’t give me that,” Smithback said irritably. “We’ve done the police a big favor.”

“Not the ones I talked to.”

Smithback turned away and took another sip of his drink. He was used to being needled by Harriman. Bryce Harriman, the Columbia J-School grad who thought he was God’s gift to journalism. In any case, Smithback still had a good relationship with Lieutenant D’Agosta. That’s what really mattered. Harriman was full of shit.

“So tell me, Bryce, how did the Times do on the newsstand this morning?” he asked. “We’re up forty percent at the Post since last week.”

“I wouldn’t know and I wouldn’t care. Sales shouldn’t be of concern to a real journalist.”

Smithback pressed his advantage. “Face it, Bryce, you got scooped. I got the interview with Mrs. Wisher and you didn’t.”

Harriman’s face darkened: He’d hit a nerve there. The guy had probably been scolded by his editor.