supposed motive for the killing being to increase the value of his secret, private collection of velvet portraits of The King. (I understand the We Tip Hotline, tiring of Pythag’s relentless pursuit of this idea, blocked calls from the Peabody home number.)
I’ll wager a tour with Pythag was much more interesting, if less enlightening, than one taken with the regular docents. The art museum, however, was unwilling to offer this alternative. It seemed a little harsh to tell him that he, and not the director, risked arrest if he returned. As Persephone argued when she came to fetch him home, how could anyone in his right mind fault a person for being creative in an art museum?
Please don’t bother to mention Pythag’s exile from the Museum of Transportation. Pythag would tell you that a velvet rope may be seen by a man with panache (and if he could have withstood one more p in his moniker, panache would have been Pythag’s middle name) as less a barrier than an invitation to step over it and into the past. He went into the past by way of an eighteenth-century carriage, as it happened, and ever seeking the most realistic experience possible, Pythag had to bounce in it a bit. “I promise you,” Pythag told the irate curator, “the King of Spain bounced when he rode in the dratted thing.”
Perhaps you have already seen from these examples that Pythag was the perfect man to consult on the matter of the missing carbuncle. Who was more qualified to determine what a clever boy, let loose in a museum, might do? Indeed, I readily admit that for all his genius, Pythag’s enthusiasm sometimes led him into rather childish behavior. I concede that he was subject to bouts of stubbornness over silly things, bouts that made him not much more than a child himself at times.
On the very afternoon the carbuncle was stolen, for example, he insisted on staring into the penguins’ eyes in the Antarctic exhibit, convinced that each penguin retained on his retina a memory of its last moments. If he could catch the reflection of this last recollection, he decided, he could experience the thing itself-it would be, he said, “Bird’s eye deja vu.” This was one of those times when, were I not courting Persephone, I would have been tempted to leave the exhibit without him. Nothing I said would convince him that memory resides in the brain rather than the eye. He utterly rejected my claim that these were not the penguins’ actual eyes, but glass reproductions, and rebuked me loudly and in horrified accents for suggesting such a thing.
But as Persephone was most appreciative of my willingness to watch over her brother and accompany him to public venues, I did my best to overlook his occasionally irritating behaviors. Persephone, brilliant and far less given to acting on impulse than her brother, told me that restraining orders were a small price for Pythag’s genius, but she’d just as soon not be asked to pay any larger prices for it.
Thus I made an effort to distract him from the penguins by mentioning his beloved mastodon. (Pythag had a fondness for all things the names of which begin with the letter “p.” His attachment to the mastodon puzzled me, and I wondered if he was taking on the letter “m” as well, until I noticed that he constantly referred to it as the “proboscidean mammal.”) Pretending to be struck by a sudden inspiration, I muttered something to the effect of, “an elephant’s ancestors might also ‘never forget,’” then asked Pythag if he thought there might be some memory retained in the eye socket of the mastodon. The ruse worked, and soon we were off to the Prehistoric Hall.
Here he was again distracted, this time by the sight of several policemen carefully searching for the carbuncle. Pythag managed, in his inimitable way, to quickly convince a detective that he was an official at the museum. He induced the fellow to follow him to the planetarium-not a bad notion, for the young thief had most certainly visited this facility during his flight.
The carbuncle being ruby in color, Pythag’s theory was based on meteorology. “Red sky at night is a young rogue’s delight!” he shouted as we ran after him. He believed the boy might have been planning to alter the color of the light in the planetarium projector. With the help of the policeman, he hastily disassembled the rather costly mechanism, but alas, it was not the hiding place.
At my suggestion that they both might want to quickly take themselves as far away from the results of their work as possible, Pythag made one of his lightening-like leaps of logic, and announced that “Polaris was beckoning.” We sped back to the polar exhibits.
Here Pythag had another brainstorm, saying that there was something not quite right about the Eskimos, and delved his hand into an Inuit mannequin’s hide game bag. In triumph, Pythag removed the carbuncle.
On that day, you will remember, he was the museum’s darling. Pythag’s new policeman friend, perhaps distracting his fellows from the disassembled projector, extolled Pythag’s genius in solving the mystery of the missing gem, and proclaimed him “Professor Peabody,” by which address the world would know him during the brief remaining span of his lifetime.
Not many days later, tragedy struck. Having dissuaded him from climbing atop the mastodon skeleton’s back, and seeing that he was again entranced by the penguins, I felt that it was reasonably safe for me to answer the call of nature at the Natural History Museum. But when I returned from the gents, Pythag was nowhere to be found.
I heard a commotion at the entrance to the exhibit, and rushed toward it, certain he would be at the center of any disturbance. But this hubbub was caused by the bright lights and cameras of a cable television crew from the Museum Channel. The crew was taping another fascinating episode of “Naturally, at the Natural.” This particular segment focused on a visit by the museum’s newest patron, Mrs. Ethylene Farthington. Mrs. Farthington was possessed of all the right extremes, as far as the museum was concerned: extremely elderly, extremely wealthy, and extremely generous. Add to this the fact that she did not choose to meddle in the specifics of how her donations would be spent, and you see why the director of the museum thought her to be perfection itself.
Her progress through the polar exhibits was regally (if not dodderingly) slow, but none dared complain. For reasons that do not concern us or any other right-thinking person, Mrs. Farthington was fond of places made of ice, and her sponsorship of this exhibit was but the beginning of the largesse she was to bestow on the museum. That day, she was on her way to sign papers which would finalize her gift of a staggering sum to the museum. She would also sign a new will, supplanting the one that currently left the remainder of her enormous estate to her pet tortoise, and establishing in its stead a bequest for the museum. Apparently, there had been a falling out with the tortoise.
So taken was I by the sight of the frail Mrs. Farthington gazing at the faux-glaciers, I nearly forgot to continue my search for Pythag. If I had not chanced to glance at the opposite display, where I saw a familiar face among the penguins, I might not have known where to look for him. The face was not Pythag’s, although the clothes were those of the man who now asked me to address him as “Professor.” No, the face was that of an Inuit mannequin. How careless of Pythag! Everyone knows Inuits and penguins do not belong in the same display!
I did not for a moment imagine that Pythag was cavorting about the museum in the all-together. He had decided, undoubtedly, to expand upon his experience with the hide bag, and be-deck himself in the clothing and gear of the Inuit.
I was a little frightened to realize that I knew his mind so well, even if gratified to see that there was one rather usual member of the Inuit family represented in the display. I had no difficulty in discerning which of the still figures was Pythag, and had I never met him before that day, I doubt I would have failed to notice the one apple which seemed to have fallen rather far from the Inuit family tree. There are, undoubtedly, few blond Inuits. Besides, none of the other mannequins blinked.
Otherwise, he was remarkably doll-like, clad in all his furs, and I was unable to fight a terribly strong urge to enjoy a few moments of seeing Pythag forced to be still and silent. How many times since that day have I told myself that had I foregone this bit of pleasure, disaster might have been avoided!
When I turned to see if anyone was watching before bidding him to hurry away, I was vexed to espy Mrs. Farthington and entourage approaching the display. There was nothing for it now but to wait until the group had passed on to the next display. But as if taking a page from her tortoise’s book, Mrs. Farthington was not to be hurried, and stood transfixed, perhaps on some subconscious level perceiving what Pythag had perceived so recently-that something was not quite right about the Eskimos.
Pythag was masterful. Even under this prolonged scrutiny, he-as the saying goes-kept his cool. Or would have, were it not for the television lights. The heat they generated would have made puddles of the exhibit if any of the ice and snow had been real. Instead, it made a puddle of Pythag. He began to perspire profusely.
I do believe he still might have carried it off, had not Mrs. Farthington chanced to look at him just when he felt forced to lift a finger to swipe a ticklish drop of moisture from the end of his nose.
Mrs. Farthington, startled to see a mannequin move, clutched at her bosom and fell down dead on the spot.
The tortoise inherited.
