Blue Labyrinth

“Long ago. I was a mere child.”

“Oh.” Margo paused. “And what branch of chemistry interested this Dr. Enoch?”

“Acids.” And Constance smiled faintly: a faraway, almost nostalgic smile.

55

For as long as Margo had been associated with the New York Museum of Natural History, Jörgensen had been “retired.” And yet every day he continued to occupy the corner office where he had always been, seeming never to go home — if he even had a home — and grumbling at anyone who disturbed him. Margo paused at his half-open door, hesitating to knock. She could see the old man bent over some seedpods, studying them under a glass, his head entirely bald, his bushy eyebrows bristling from his face.

She knocked. “Dr. Jörgensen?” she ventured.

The head rotated and a pair of bleached-blue eyes turned on her. He said nothing but the expression in the eyes was one of a

“Sorry to bother you.”

This was met with a noncommittal grunt. Since no offer to enter seemed forthcoming, Margo went in uninvited.

“I’m Margo Green,” she said, offering her hand. “I used to work here.”

Another grunt and a withered hand met hers. The eyebrows knitted up. “Margo Green… Ah, yes. You were around during the time of those awful killings.” He shook his head. “I was a friend of Whittlesey, poor old soul—”

Margo swallowed and hastened to change the subject. “That was a long time ago, I hardly remember the killings,” she lied. “I was wondering—”

“But I remember,” said Jörgensen. “And I remember you. Fu

He cast about with his eyes but, finding nothing, looked back at her. “What happened to that tall fellow with the cowlick you used to go around with? You know, the one who loved the sound of his own voice?”

Margo hesitated. “He died.”

Jörgensen seemed to contemplate this for a moment. “Died? Those were dark days. So many died. So, you moved on to greener pastures?”

“I did.” She hesitated. “There were too many bad memories here. I work for a medical foundation now.”

A nod. Margo felt encouraged. “I’m looking for help. Some botanical advice.”

“Very well.”

“Are you familiar with the mycoheterotrophs?”

“Yes.”

“Great. Well, I’m interested in a plant called Thismia americana.”

“It’s extinct.”

Margo took a deep breath. “I know. I was hoping… wondering… if there might be a specimen of a similar mycoheterotroph in the Museum’s collection.”

Jörgensen leaned back in his chair and made a tent with his fingers. Margo could see she was in for a lecture. “Thismia americana,” he intoned, as if not having heard her last sentence, “was a rather celebrated plant in botanical circles. It’s not only extinct, but when it was alive it was one of the rarest plants known. Only one botanist ever saw it and took samples. The plant disappeared around 1916, thanks to the expansion of Chicago. It vanished without a trace.”

Margo pretended to be interested in this mini-lecture, even though she already knew every detail. Jörgensen stopped without having answered her question.

“So,” she said, “only one botanist took specimens?”

“That is correct.”

“And what happened to those samples?”

At this, Jörgensen’s ancient face creased into an unusual smile. “They’re right here, naturally.”

“Here? In the Museum’s collection?”

A nod.

“Why isn’t it listed in the online catalog?”

Jörgensen waved his hand dismissively. “That’s because it’s in the Herbarium Vault. There’s a separate catalog for those specimens.”

Margo was speechless at her good luck. “Um, how can I gain access to it?”

“You can’t.”

“But I need it for my research.”

Jörgensen’s face began to take on a pinched look. “My dear girl,” he began, “access to the Herbarium Vault is strictly limited to Museum curators, and then only with the written permission of the director himself.” His voice took on a schoolmaster’s tone. “Those extinct plant specimens are very fragile, and simply can’t stand handling by inexperienced laypersons.”

“But I’m not an inexperienced layperson. I’m an ethnopharmacologist and I have a good reason, a very good reason, to study that specimen.”

The bushy eyebrows raised. “Which is?”

“I’m, ah, doing a study of nineteenth-century medicine—”

“Just a minute,” said Jörgensen, interrupting, “now I recollect where your name came up!” A withered hand snaked out and extracted a document from atop a pile of paper. “I recently received a memo regarding your status here at the Museum.”

Margo was brought up short. “What?”

Jörgensen glanced at it, and then proffered it to her. “See for yourself.”

It was a memo from Frisby to all staff in the Department of Botany. It was short.

Please be advised of a status change regarding outside researcher Dr. Margo Green, an ethnopharmacologist employed by the Pearson Institute. Her access privileges to the collections have been downgraded from Level 1 to Level 5, effective immediately.

Margo was well aware how this little bit of bureaucratese translated: “Level 5” access meant no access at all. “When did you get that?”

“This morning.”

“Why didn’t you mention it before?”

“I don’t pay much attention to Museum missives these days. It’s a miracle I remembered it at all. At eighty-five, my memory isn’t what it used to be.”

Margo sat in the seat, trying to get her temper under control. It would do no good to get mad in front of Jörgensen. Best to be straight, she thought.

“Dr. Jörgensen, I have a friend who is gravely ill. In fact, he’s dying.”

A slow nod.

“The only thing that can save him is an extraction from this plant—Thismia americana.”

Jörgensen frowned. “My dear girl…”

Margo swallowed hard. She was getting awfully tired of this “dear girl” business.

“… You can’t be serious. If this plant would truly save his life, may I see a medical statement to that effect, signed by his doctor?”

“Let me explain. My friend was poisoned, and this extract must be part of the antidote. No doctor knows anything about this.”

“This sounds like quackery to me.”

“I promise you—”

“But even if it were legitimate,” he went on, overriding her, “I would never allow the destruction of an extinct plant specimen, the last of its kind, for a one-off medicinal treatment. What is the value of an ordinary human life in the face of the last specimen of an extinct plant in existence?”

“You…” Margo looked at his face, creased with lines of extreme disapproval. She was flabbergasted by the sentiment he had just expressed: that a scientific specimen was worth more than a human life. She was never going to get through to this man.

She thought fast. She had seen the Herbarium Vault years ago, and recalled that it was essentially a walk-in safe with a keypad lock. The combinations to such locks, for security purposes, were changed on a regular basis. She looked at Jörgensen, who was frowning at her, his arms crossed, waiting for her to finish what she had started to say.

He said his memory wasn’t so sharp these days. Now, that was an important fact. She glanced around the office. Where would he write down a combination? In a book? In his desk? She remembered the old Hitchcock film Marnie, where a businessman had kept the combination to his safe inside a locked drawer of his secretary’s desk. It could be in a thousand places, even in an office this small. Perhaps she could trick him into revealing the location.

“Dr. Green, is there anything else—?”

If she didn’t think of something fast, she’d never get in that vault… and Pendergast would die. The stakes were that high.

She looked directly at Jörgensen. “Where do you hide the combination to the vault?”