Skeleton Dance

'Yeah, okay, I understand that, but what happened, exactly? How did it start? You were there; did Ely bring everybody out to the site to see those four bones? Did he come running into the office one day waving them over his head and yelling? What?'

Pru took her hands from behind her head, crossed her arms on her chest and brooded silently for a few moments.

'It was a dark and stormy night,” she said.

Gideon sighed.

'No, really. Well, a dark and rainy late afternoon and we were all at the cafe—all of us but Ely—having one of those edifying, useful debates that we love so much over a carafe of vin de la maison. I think at the moment, appropriately enough, the issue of contention was our favorite: Neanderthal artistic behavior or the lack thereof. You know the drill, I think?'

Gideon nodded. “Did the Neanderthals ever produce anything that could reasonably be called ‘art'? And by extension, were they therefore capable of understanding and practicing symbolic behavior? Or did true symbolic behavior arise only with the coming of the Cro-Magnons? Or was there a more diffuse—'

'You got it,” Pru said. “So there we were, going at each other hot and heavy—we must have been on the second carafe by then—when in comes Ely, dripping wet. He walks up to us without a word and just stands there. He looks at us. We look at him. We all know something's up, but what?” She paused, seeing that Gideon had begun jotting notes.

'Would you rather I didn't write this down?” he asked.

She began to say something but changed her mind. “No, go ahead, I guess. It's not as if it's a secret. So where was I? Right, Ely stands there looking at us. He says exactly five words—this is a quote, not a paraphrase—'I've just come from Tayac.’ Then he puts this knotted bandana on the table in front of us and starts untying it, but it was soaked, so he has to get a knife and saw it open, which he does, while in the meantime we're dying of suspense because of this weird look on his face. And then he gets it open and there on the table are those four little bones with the little holes in them.” She slowly shook her head, remembering. “Knocked our knee socks off.'

'I can imagine,” Gideon said, and so he could. “But didn't anyone express any doubts? I mean, you must have wondered—'

'If only,” Pru said wistfully. “Maybe things wouldn't have turned out the way they did. But, you know, at the time nobody dreamt—I mean it never crossed our minds—I mean, now it's obvious, of course, but then even the suggestion that they were faked would have been so, so—'

'I know,” Gideon said. “I'm doing a whole book on the problem, and I'm not finding any shortage of material.” He finished making a notation, taking care to write legibly so that he'd be able to read his notes later, something that wasn't always doable. “So when did the first suspicions arise?'

'Pretty soon, actually, as soon as we got over the shock, but it was that letter that really brought the whole thing tumbling down. You know about the letter, don't you?'

'The anonymous letter to Paris-Match?'

'Yeah.” Pru took her feet off the drawer and rolled her chair back a few inches. “It said the bones actually came from this little museum, which was easy enough to check out. They did, all right, and that did it. Everybody in the world had to accept them as a fraud. Except Ely.'

'What did he do?'

'At first he wouldn't acknowledge the evidence, just kept defending his find, which really isolated him. And made him look more and more ridiculous, poor guy.'

'It must have been really hard on him. From what I've heard, he got a little paranoid.'

'More than a little. You know, even after it got through to him that he'd been had, he never really recovered. He got terribly suspicious of everyone— blamed everybody but himself for what'd happened to him. He spent all his time—twelve, fourteen hours a day—digging a couple of sites in the woods, working them all by himself or maybe with a single workman to help. The institute pretty much had to run itself for a while there.'

'What was he after?” Gideon asked. “Or was it just a kind of escape for him?'

Pru shook he head. “No, I think he still believed in his own theories and he was determined that if he just kept going he'd come up with something—anything—to confirm them. I guess that makes him obsessive as well as paranoid. Or is it compulsive?'

'Either way,” Gideon said with genuine sympathy, “it sounds as if he went over the edge.'

'I think that's fair to say, yes. He came up with nothing, of course.'

'And even if he had, who would have taken it seriously?'

'You got a point there, partner. And so in the end he pretty much self-destructed and had to resign.” Her gaze shifted over Gideon's shoulder to the cubicle's single, small window and for a few seconds she stared through it without speaking. “And then,” she said in a faraway voice, “he climbed into his little toy plane, pointed it toward Brittany, took off into the wild blue yonder . . . and thank you and goodbye, Ely Carpenter.'

Gideon looked hard at her. “You make it sound as if . . . do you think he committed suicide?'

'Do you happen to know what his last words were?” she asked him.

'No, of course not.” And then after a moment: “Does anybody?'

'Oh, yes. It was in the papers. He was on the radio to the local air traffic control when he went down, and the very last thing he said was ‘Dites-leur que je suis desole.’”

'Tell them I'm sorry,” Gideon murmured. “So you think it was suicide?'

'Sort of.'

'Sort of? How do you sort of commit suicide?'