Albert kept his eyes open for any sign of Gary, then remembered his phone and cursed his stupidity. Taking it from his pocket, he cursed himself again: it was dead. Yet again he forgot to charge it last night. Remembering to do so was like a black hole in his memory and he could only ever remember to do it when he was nowhere near his charger. Angrily, he stuffed the worthless, yet expensive, piece of electronic hardware back into his pocket and pressed on.
It was well after noon now, and Albert’s stomach was beginning to protest its emptiness. He would get to it soon enough, perhaps on his way back through the marquee, Albert thought as he reached the far end where it entered from the museum.
There were still people arriving, doubtless timing their visit to see the conclusion of the record attempt and the competition. Albert was forced to wait with Rex until the press of people coming in died down a bit.
Back inside the museum, the constant babble of background conversation dropped sharply away, the visitors inside the building talking in the hushed tones one associates with such places. Albert made his way to the ticket office at the front where the morose, world-weary looking man was still silently handing out tickets.
Albert rapped smartly on the glass of his booth. ‘Hello, I’m looking for Alan Crystal’s office, can you help me?’ he enquired, fixing the man with what he hoped was an engaging smile.
The man didn’t even look his way, he just jerked a thumb. ‘Corridor on your left, third door on the left.’ Then he punched the button to produce another ticket for the next person in line and went back to contemplating suicide or whatever else might be going through his mind.
Albert found the office easily enough, but also found it to be locked. ‘Of course it’s locked,’ he said out loud to himself. The museum was full of people, anyone with an ounce of sense would lock their office door.
‘Mr Smith?’ Albert turned to see Chief Inspector Doyle approaching. On his shoulder was a taller and much younger man, his driver/assistant officer no doubt. ‘Is that the curator’s office?’ CI Doyle asked.
Albert showed his surprise. ‘Yes. I believe it is. Are you aware that he is missing?’
‘That’s one of the reasons I am here, Mr Smith,’ the chief inspector confided. ‘That, and because I am curious about this key. He held a mortice key aloft. A small tag hung from it, the type one might use at a business with a lot of keys if they were hung inside an organiser alongside each other. ‘It was in Brian Pumphrey’s personal effects taken from his body.’
Albert stood back as the chief inspector approached the door. One glance was all it took to confirm the lock was a mortice type - fitting for a building this old.
It slid in and turned with ease, begging someone explain what Brian was doing with a key. The door swung inward to reveal the office within, and the senior police officer wasted no time hanging around outside, striding directly through the door to stop in the middle of the room.
The younger police officer indicated Albert should go first, but Albert thrust out his hand, ‘Albert Smith,’ he introduced himself.
‘Constable Ferris,’ he replied, gripping Albert’s right hand firmly.
Inside the office, Albert looked around, letting his eyes take in as much as possible before moving to inspect an empty coat hanger clinging to the edge of a bookcase. Thinking aloud, he said, ‘I believe Alan Crystal is in some kind of trouble.’
‘Go on,’ replied the chief inspector who appeared to be doing much the same as Albert in that he was looking around the room.
Albert let his eyes track downward to the carpet, where he found a piece of black cotton. He could see it when standing but knew if he got down to the floor to pick it up, he would need his reading glasses just to find it. Instead, he motioned for PC Ferris to assist.
‘You’ve found something, sir?’ Ferris enquired.
‘I rather think I have,’ Albert replied. Thankful that the carpet was sky blue, which made the small piece of cotton easy to spot, he had the constable collect it with a pair of tweezers. Held up to the light, they could see that it was holding the shape it had been in; looped around and around on itself. It had relaxed slightly, but Albert knew what he was looking at. He shuffled his feet around until he was facing Alan’s desk. ‘Is there a pair of scissors on the desk?’
Curious, Chief Inspector Doyle looked himself, finding a pair with orange handles poking from an ornate pot of pens and other stationery paraphernalia. Reaching for them he asked, ‘You need to cut something?’
Albert barked a warning. ‘Don’t touch!’ It made the chief inspector freeze. ‘I believe you may find a set of fingerprints on them that ought not to be there,’ Albert advised. When CI Doyle pinched his eyebrows together, clearly wanting to hear more, Albert said, ‘The piece of cotton is from a button that came from the jacket Alan Crystal is wearing today. There is more than one crime taking place simultaneously and Mr Crystal is at the centre of them all. You may wish to bag both the cotton and the scissors as evidence.’
‘You are being cryptic, Mr Smith. Explain yourself, please,’ the chief inspector didn’t like being in the dark, and certainly hadn’t liked being caught in a schoolboy error in front of his constable when he almost touched the scissors.
Albert exhaled through his
