Relic

Reason:

Return Date:

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Removed By:                        Depardieu, B.       72412

Approval:                              Cuthbert, I.           40123

RemLW/@;oval Date:       10/1/90

Remov~DS*-~@2e34 5WIFU

=++ET2 34 h34!~

DB ERROR

=:?

“Hell!” Moriarty exclaimed. “I was afraid of that. It’s been partially overwritten, corrupted. See that? It just trails off into garbage.”

“Yes, but look!” Margo said excitedly.

Moriarty examined the screen. “The journal was removed by Mrs. Rickman two weeks ago, with Dr. Cuthbert’s permission. No return date.”

Margo snorted. “Cuthbert said the journal had been lost.”

“So why was this record deleted? And by whom?” Suddenly his eyes widened. “Oh, Lord, I have to release my lock on the tape before somebody notices us.” His fingers danced over the keys.

“George,” Margo said. “Do you know what this means? They took the journal out of the crates before [195] the killings started. Around the time Cuthbert had the crates put in the Secure Area. Now they’re concealing evidence from the police. Why?”

Moriarty frowned. “You’re starting to sound like Smithback,” he said. “There could be a thousand explanations.”

“Name one,” Margo challenged.

“The most obvious would be that somebody else deleted the detail record before Rickman could add a Lost Artifact notation.”

Margo shook her head. “I don’t believe it. There are just too many coincidences.”

“Margo—” Moriarty began. Then he sighed. “Listen,” he went on patiently, “this is a trying time for all of us, you especially. I know you’re trying to make a tough decision, and then with a crisis like this ... well ...”

“These murders weren’t committed by some garden-variety maniac,” Margo interrupted impatiently. “I’m not crazy.”

“I’m not saying that,” Moriarty continued. “I just think you ought to let the police handle this. It’s a very, very dangerous business. And you should be concentrating on your own life right now. Digging into this won’t help you make up your mind about your own future.” He swallowed. “And it won’t bring your father back.”

“Is that what you think?” Margo blazed. “You don’t—”

She broke off abruptly as her eye fell on the wall clock. “Jesus. I’m late for my meeting with Dr. Frock.” She grabbed her carryall and headed for the door. Halfway into the hall, she turned around. “I’ll speak to you later,” she said.

The door slammed.

God, Moriarty thought, sitting at the darkened [196] terminal and resting his chin in his hands. If a graduate student in plant genetics actually thinks Mbwun might be loose—if even Margo Green starts seeing conspiracies behind every door—what about the rest of the Museum?

= 29 =

Margo watched Frock spill his sherry down his shirtfront.

“Blast,” he said, dabbing with plump hands. He set the glass down on the desk with exaggerated care and looked up at Margo.

“Thank you for coming to me, my dear. It’s an extraordinary discovery. I’d say we should go down there this moment and take another look at the figurine, but that Pendergast fellow will be here shortly to make a further nuisance of himself.”

Bless You, Agent Pendergast, Margo thought. The last thing she felt like doing was going back down into the exhibition.

Frock sighed. “No matter, we’ll know soon enough. Once Pendergast leaves, we’ll learn the truth. This Mbwun figurine could be the additional proof I’ve been searching for. If, that is, you are correct about the claws matching the lacerations in the victim.”

[198] “But how could such a creature be loose in the Museum?” Margo asked.

“Ah!” Frock exclaimed, eyes shining. “That’s the question, is it not? And let me answer a question with a question. What thing, my dear Margo, is rugose?”