Seventy-second Street from the Museum’s southern entrance. Unlike typical Upper West Side fern bars, the Blarney Stone did not serve hare pate or five flavors of mineral [142] water; but you could get homemade meatloaf and a pitcher of Harp for ten dollars.
Museum staffers called it The Bones because Boylan, the owner, had hammered and wired an amazing number of bones into every available flat surface. The walls were lined with countless femurs and tibias, arranged in neat ivory ranks like bamboo matting. Metatarsals, scapulas, and patellas traced bizarre mosaics across the ceiling. Craniums from strange mammals were lodged in every conceivable niche. Where he got the bones was a mystery, but some claimed he raided the Museum at night.
“People bring ‘em in,” is all Boylan would ever say, shrugging his shoulders. Naturally, the place was a favorite hangout among the Museum staff.
The Bones was doing brisk business, and Moriarty and Margo had to push their way back through the crowd to an empty booth. Looking around, Margo spotted several Museum staffers, including Bill Smithback. The writer was seated at the bar, talking animatedly to a slender blonde woman.
“Okay,” Moriarty said, raising his voice over the babble. “Now what were you saying over the phone? I’m not quite sure I caught it.”
Margo took a deep breath. “I went down to the exhibition to give you the copy. It was dark. Something was in there. Following me.
“There’s that word again,
Margo shook her head impatiently. “Don’t ask me to explain. There were these sounds, like padded steps. They were so stealthy, so deliberate, I—” she shrugged, at a loss. “And there was this strange smell, too. It was horrible.”
“Look, Margo—” Moriarty began, then paused while the waitress took their drink orders. “That exhibition was designed to be creepy. You told me yourself that Frock and others consider it too sensational. I can [143] imagine what it must have been like: being locked in there, alone in the dark ...”
“In other words, I just imagined it.” Margo laughed mirthlessly. “You don’t know how much I’d like to believe that.”
The drinks arrived: a light beer for Margo, and a pint of Guinness for Moriarty, topped with the requisite half- inch of creamy foam. Moriarty sipped it critically. “These killings, all the rumors that have been going around,” he said. “I probably would have reacted the same way.”
Margo, calmer now, spoke hesitantly. “George, that Kothoga figurine in the exhibition ... ?”
“Mbwun? What about it?”
“Its front legs have three claws.”
Moriarty was enjoying the Guinness. “I know. It’s a marvelous piece of sculpture, one of the highlights of the show. Of course, though I hate to admit it, I suppose its biggest attraction is the curse.”
Margo took an exploratory sip from her beer.
“George. I want you to tell me, in as much detail as you can, what you know about the Mbwun curse.”
A shout came bellowing over the din of conversation. Looking up, Margo saw Smithback appear out of the smoky gloom, carrying an armful of notebooks, his hair backlit and sticking out from his head at a variety of angles. The woman he’d been talking to at the bar was nowhere to be seen.
“A meeting of the shut-outs,” he said. “This curfew is a real pain. God save me from policemen and PR directors.” Uninvited, he dropped his notebooks on the table and slid in next to Margo.
“I’ve heard that the police are going to start interviewing those working in the vicinity of the murders,” he said. “Guess that means you, Margo.”
“Mine’s set for next week,” Margo replied.
“I haven’t heard anything about it,” said Moriarty. He didn’t look pleased at Smithback’s appearance.
[144] “Well, you don’t have much to worry about, perched up in that garret of yours,” Smithback told Moriarty. “The Museum Beast probably can’t climb stairs, anyway.”
“You’re in a foul mood this evening,” Margo said to Smithback. “Did Rickman perform another amputation on your manuscript?”
Smithback was still talking to Moriarty. “Actually, you’re just the man I wanted to see. I’ve got a question for you.” The waitress came by again, and Smithback waved his hand. “Macallan, straight up.”
“Okay,” Smithback went on. “What I wanted to know is, what’s the story behind this Mbwun figurine?”
There was a stunned silence.
Smithback looked from Moriarty to Margo. “What’d I say?”
“We were just talking about Mbwun,” Margo said uncertainly.
“Yeah?” Smithback said. “Small world. Anyway, that old Austrian in the Bug Room, Von Oster, told me he heard Rickman kicking up a fuss about Mbwun being put on display. Something about sensitive issues. So I did a little digging.”
The scotch arrived and Smithback held the glass high in a silent toast, then tossed it off.
“I’ve obtained a little background so far,” he continued. “It seems there was this tribe along the Upper Xingu river in the Amazon, the Kothoga. They’d apparently been a bad lot—supernatural-dabbling, human sacrifice, the whole bit. Since the old boys hadn’t left many traces around, anthropologists assumed they died out centuries ago. All that remained was a bunch of myths, circulated by local tribes.”
“I know something of this,” Moriarty began. “Margo and I were just discussing it. Except not everybody felt —”
“I know, I know. Hold your water.
