Dance Of Death

"About the killing at the museum," Smithback said again. "Who was it?"

"Like I said, nobody important. A new hire named Green. Margo Green."

"What?" Smithback found himself gripping the seat, reeling. It was impossible. Impossible.

Davies gazed at Smithback with alarm. "Are you all right?"

Smithback rose on shaking legs. "Margo Green… murdered?"

"Do you know her?"

"Yes." Smithback barely got the word out.

"Well, better that you're not handling the story, then," said Davies briskly. "Reporting on a subject too close to you, my old editor used to say, is like trying to be your own lawyer: you've got a fool for a lawyer and a fool for a-hey! Where're you going?"

FIFTY-SEVEN

AS Nora turned the corner from Columbus Avenue onto West 77th Street, she immediately realized something big had happened at the museum. Museum Drive was packed with police vehicles, unmarked cars, and scene-of-crime vans, these in turn surrounded by television vans and a seething crowd of reporters.

She checked her watch-it was quarter to ten, usually a time when the museum was still waking up. Her heart quickened: had there been another killing?

She walked briskly down the service drive to the employee entrance. The police had already cleared a path for arriving museum employees and were pushing back an increasingly unruly crowd of rubberneckers. Apparently, whatever happened had already been reported on the morning news, as the crowds were swelling even as she watched. But because of the opening the night before, she'd overslept and hadn't had time to listen to the radio.

"Museum employee?" one cop asked.

She nodded, pulling out her badge. "What's going on?"

"Museum's closed. Go over there."

"But what-?"

The cop was already shouting at someone else, and she found herself propelled toward the security entrance, which seemed to be mobbed with museum security. Manetti, the security director, was there, gesturing frantically at a pair of hapless guards.

"All arriving staff to the roped area on the right!" one of the guards shouted. "Have your badges ready!"

Nora saw George Ashton in the milling crowd of arriving employees and grabbed his arm. "What's happened?"

He stared at her. "You must be the only one in the city who doesn't know."

"I overslept," she said testily.

"This way!" a policeman bawled. "Museum employees this way!"

The velvet ropes that had blocked off the gawkers and press from the gala the night before were now being put to a second use, this time to fu

"Someone hit the Astor Hall last night," said Ashton breathlessly. "Cleaned it out. Right in the middle of the party."

"Cleaned it out? Even Lucifer's Heart?"

"Especially Lucifer's Heart."

"How?"

"Nobody knows."

"I thought the Astor Hall was impregnable."

"So they said."

"Move back and stay to the right!" a cop yelled. "We'll have you inside in a moment!"

Ashton grimaced. "Just what I need the morning after five glasses of champagne."

More like ten, Nora thought wryly as she recalled Ashton's slurred ramblings of the previous evening.

Police and museum guards were checking IDs, questioning each employee, then moving them to a second pe

"Any suspects?" Nora asked.

"None. Except that they're convinced the burglars had inside help."

"IDs!" a cop bawled in her ear.

She fished in her purse again and showed her ID. Ashton did the same.

"Dr. Kelly?" The cop had a clipboard. Another pulled Ashton aside.

"May I ask a few quick questions?"

"Fire away," Nora said.

"Were you at the museum last night?"

"Yes."

He marked something down.

"What time did you leave?"

"About midnight."

"That's all. Step over there and, as soon as we can, we'll open the museum and you can go to work. We'll be in touch with you later to schedule an interview."

Nora was shunted to the second holding area. She could hear Ash-ton's raised voice behind her, demanding to know why he hadn't been read his rights. The curators and staff waiting around her beat their hands in the cold, their breath filling the air. It was a gray day and the temperature hovered just below freezing. Voices were raised in complaint all around.

Nora heard a commotion from the street and looked. The press had suddenly surged forward, cameras juggling on shoulders, boom mikes swinging. Then she saw the reason: the museum doors had swung open. The museum's director, Frederick Watson Collopy, appeared, flanked by Rocker, the police commissioner. A phalanx of uniformed policemen stood behind them.

Immediately, the press erupted in a clamor of shouted questions and waved hands. It was the start, it seemed, of a press conference.

At that same moment, she saw a frantic movement off to one side. She turned toward it. It was her husband, fighting through the crowd, shouting frantically and trying to reach her.

"Bill!" She rushed forward.

"Nora!" Smithback plowed through a milling crowd of hangers-on, sent a beefy museum security guard sprawling, hopped the velvet ropes, and muscled his way through the museum employees. "Nora!"

"Hey, where's that guy going?" A policeman struggled to intercept him.

Smithback cut through the last of the crowd and almost ran into Nora, enveloping her in a bear hug and lifting her bodily off the ground.

"Nora! God, did I miss you!"

They hugged, kissed, hugged again.

"Bill, what happened to you? What's that bruise on the side of your head?"

"Never mind about that," Smithback replied. "I just heard about Margo. Was she really killed?"

Nora nodded. "I went to her funeral yesterday."

"Oh my God. I can't believe it's true." He wiped savagely at his face, and Nora saw that his eyes were leaking tears. "I can't believe it."

"Where were you, Bill? I was so worried!"

"It's a long story. I was locked in an insane asylum."

"What?"

"I'll tell you about it later. I've been worried about you, too. Pendergast thinks there's a maniac killer wandering around, knocking off all his friends."

"I know. He warned me. But it was right before the opening- there was nothing I could-"

"This man's not supposed to be here," a museum guard interrupted, stepping between them. "This is for museum employees only-"

Smithback swung around to respond, but they were interrupted by the shriek of feedback on an improvised P.A. system. A moment later, Commissioner Rocker stepped up to the mike and asked for silence-and, miraculously, got it.

"I'm with the Times," said Smithback, scrounging some paper out of his pocket and fumbling for a pen.

"Here, use mine," Nora said, her arm still around his waist.

The crowd was silent as the police commissioner began to speak.

"Last night," Rocker began, "the Astor Hall of Diamonds was burglarized. At this point, the scene-of-crime teams are still on the site, along with some of the best forensic experts in the world. Everything that can be done is being done. It's too early for leads or suspects, but I promise you, as new developments arise, we will keep the press informed. I'm sorry I can't give you more, but it's still very early in the investigation. I will say this: it was an extremely professional job, obviously pla