But at five o’clock everyone had been asked to gather in the Isis Lounge, a handsome, vaguely nautical room outfitted with polished brass and old, oiled teak. There, a slender, softly smiling Nubian, as black as obsidian, stood behind the bar in white jacket and black tie, serving cocktails, sherry and soft drinks, all courtesy of the Gustafsons, while excerpts from the day’s takes were viewed on a television monitor set up on an overhead rack.
“Posh is right,” Gideon said to Julie, returning to a corner banquette with two glasses of single-malt Scotch on the rocks. He sank down into the chamois-soft leather and sipped gratefully. “You know, I could get used to this kind of life.”
“Don’t,” Julie said. “Not unless you’re expecting the next edition of A Structuro-Functional Approach to Pleistocene Hominid Phytogeny to make the best-seller lists.”
“You never know. I’ve been talking to my editor about retitling it. What do you think of Forbidden Lusts of the Cave People?”
As Gideon had expected, Haddon’s taped segment, shown last, was the hit of the cocktail hour, bringing great belly laughs from Bruno and Phil, and a smile or two even from TJ.
Ensconced in a big wing chair, still in his White Hunter’s bush jacket, Haddon preened happily. “So the old man still has it when he needs it, eh? Not quite ready to go tottering off to his well-earned rest, after all.”
He swirled his Manhattan while people smiled and murmured politely, and went on. “Oh, yes, that reminds me. I should also like to take this opportunity to reassure you, without qualification, that Clifford H. Haddon is not, after all, suffering from dementia praecox.”
“Do you know what he’s talking about?” Gideon heard Jerry, sitting on Julie’s other side, ask Arlo.
“I never know what he’s talking about,” Arlo said.
“Or non praecox either,” Haddon continued from his seat. “I am quite aware that the prime topic of conversation at Horizon House for the last two days has been the existence or nonexistence of a certain statue head. Was it there or was it not there? Was the esteemed director imagining things, or was he not?” He paused for some further complacent swirling and another sip.
People exchanged frowns and curious glances. TJ, who was drinking her third sherry and showed it in the red blotches on her cheeks, rolled her eyes but said nothing.
“Well,” Haddon continued, “I am happy to report that with the exception of one or two minor aspects, the enigma has been solved. The solution is quite simple. The fragment was there… and then it was not there.” He smiled.
People fidgeted some more. Gideon looked more closely at Haddon. How many Manhattans had he drunk?
“The fragment in question,” Haddon told his audience, “is from our own collection, a small, Amarna-style head of a young girl made of yellow jasper, approximately five inches from top of head to base of neck, attractive but not particularly distinguished-”
“Clifford,” Bea Gustafson interrupted with something like regal annoyance from the opposite corner of the room, “if you’re under the impression that all of us know what you’re talking about, you’re dead wrong.”
“Really? That surprises me,” Haddon said. “I would have thought people had been talking of nothing else.”
“Amazing,” Jerry murmured to Ado with something like wonder in his voice. “He really, truly thinks people spend all their time thinking about nothing but him. I mean, ”the prime topic of conversation‘? Give me a break.“
“The nub of the matter is this,” Haddon said. “The other night, when a skeleton appeared so unexpectedly in our storage enclosure-you do know about that amusing little contretemps, Mrs. Gustafson?”
“Yes,” Bea said patiently, “I know about that.”
“Very good. As it happened, I also observed, half-hidden by a rusting bed frame, a small Amarna head. Strangely enough, although there were four other people in the enclosure with me, no one else seemed to take notice of it.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Gideon saw TJ muttering into her sherry.
“The fragment, as I say, is from our own collection,” Haddon went smoothly on. “To be more precise, from the 1924 Western Valley excavations of Cordell Lambert. Apparently-”
“How do you know that?” TJ blurted. “Do you mean you’ve found it?”
“Oh, yes, I found it.” Haddon finished his Manhattan and smiled at her.
“But we looked all over the enclosure,” TJ said. “It wasn’t there.”
“No, Tiffany, it was not there. Why was it not there? It was not there because by then it was back where it belonged, back from whence it had been removed-presumably at the same time as our friend F4360 was so cruelly torn from his own humble abode.”
Gideon shifted his legs restlessly. He was starting to see what it was about Haddon that got on people’s nerves.
TJ put her sherry on a cocktail table and leaned forward over bony knees and gigantic sneakers. “You’re telling us you found it back inside-in the annex?”
“Exactly. The possibility of its being there occurred to me yesterday, belatedly, to be sure, and I went in search of it. And, lo, I did find it, reposing comfortably in a drawer, precisely where it belonged among its fellow sculptural oddments of the Amarna Period.”
It was sad, really. Haddon’s manner, his scholarship, his interests, were all relics of another age. He was a man who had overstayed his welcome, who hadn’t been perceptive enough or brave enough to get out when it was time, when his reputation was still intact. Don’t let it happen to me, Gideon thought. When the handwriting’s on the wall, let me recognize it.
TJ sank back in her chair, patently doubtful. “That I’d like to see,” she said under her breath, but in an otherwise silent moment it dropped into the void and Haddon picked it up.
“And so you shall,” he told her without apparent offense. “You and anyone else who cares to.” He raised his arms. “All are invited.”
Gideon was starting to get uncomfortable. Haddon was tight. TJ was getting there. The evening was unlikely to improve and it was only 6:30.
“Clifford,” said Bea, who wasn’t the least bit tight, “I’m still not sure I’m following you. Are you telling us that this fragment you saw outside with the bones the other night wasn’t there the next morning because someone took it away and put it back in a drawer? During the night? Secretly?”
“In a word,” said Haddon, “yes.”
Julie leaned toward Gideon. “The plot thickens.”
“Thickens?” he said. “It’s practically coagulated.”
“But-but who?” a frowning Arlo asked Haddon. “To what end?”
Haddon smiled brilliantly at him. “And there, my dear Arlo, with your usual ready acumen-”
Arlo’s vague mustache twitched. His expression turned opaque. He looked at the floor.
“-you have put your metaphorical finger on those resgestae of the case that are so extraordinarily intriguing.” He swirled his glass absently and drank down melted ice. “In fact, I do have some thoughts on the matter, some rather obvious thoughts, really, but I suspect it would be a bit premature to discuss them.”
At which convenient point one of the staff entered, smilingly raised a miniature xylophone to shoulder height, and beat a tattoo that made up in enthusiasm for what it lacked in musicality.
Dinner was served.
Bruno and Bea caught up with them on the way to the dining room. “Are things getting interesting or what?” Bruno asked. “What do you think is going on? I know the way I figure it-” He glanced around. Behind them, TJ and Jerry were deep in their own conversation, but he lowered his voice anyway.
“The way I figure it, only four people besides Haddon could have known that head was sitting there, right? Arlo, Jerry, TJ, and the Arab guy. So one of them must have snuck back and put it in the drawer. It has to be. The question is, why?”
“No, I don’t think that’s necessarily right,” Julie said. “Any of them could have told other people about it. So could Dr. Haddon, for that matter.”
Bruno considered this briefly. “True. But the question still remains: why? I mean, I could see if somebody came back and stole it, but what’s the point of putting it back in the drawer? That’s where it would have wound up the next morning anyway, right?”
