Treasure Hunt (Part III)

Not until our dessert, a steamed sponge cake, was served did I realize how deftly Andy had steered the conversation. Even my own rather prosaic adventures seemed to take on luster under his interest. Finally, a mention of a family Christmas, with Tom playing Santa Claus, brought me back to the present. My face must have registered the worry closing in again.
“Sorry to say, my checkered past doesn't include a stint as a private eye,” Andy offered lightly. “Of course, if we were tracking down an individual, all we'd have to do is ask ourselves, ‘if I were that person, where would I likely be?' I don't think that tactic will work with the Estatua. We'll have to use the old gumshoe method—talk to witnesses. I was away at a meeting the afternoon the statue was stolen, so suppose you tell me what you remember.”
“Well, it was shortly before closing time. I wanted to go over the tour route I'd planned for Society members, to satisfy myself that all our best exhibits were highlighted. The Estatua, as our newest acquisition, was the final stop. When I reached the Aztec gallery, it was empty, and the Estatua was missing.
“Tom returned almost immediately. He was so upset, I was afraid to leave him. He looked as though he were about to collapse. I made him sit on one of the benches, although it's against the rules. After a few minutes, he seemed better. I ran back to the office then, to find Bruce.”
“And by that time, the museum had closed and all the visitors were gone.”
“I know,” I said, thinking of Bruce's explosion. “I guess I should have reported the theft immediately, but Tom was in no condition to be left just then.”
“So the theory is that whoever stole the statue just tucked it under his arm and walked out with it.”
“It sounds impossible, doesn't it? Especially when the volunteers at the museum's gift shop near the entrance swear they saw no one with a strange package.”
“Could it have been carried out in a briefcase or a large handbag?”
“Perhaps. But the staff has been trained to notice, and no one remembers anything of that size.”
“Did Tom say why he had left his post?” Andy asked.
“He said he was just checking that the visitors in the next gallery had left.”
“That shouldn't have taken long.”
“He's very conscientious, you know. He walked all the way to the end of the room to be sure he hadn't missed someone hidden by a display.”
“How long was he gone?”
“The police asked the same question,” I said. “It could only have been a minute or two. He couldn't remember exactly.”
“I suppose, under the circumstances, being interrogated by the police could have that effect. The trouble is that the trauma could well have blotted out something important from his memory. What do you say the two of us pay Tom a visit? The same set of questions is a little less threatening coming from friends. A couple of sympathetic listeners might be just what's needed to jog his memory.”
I'd had little success on my own, but with the additional passage of time, Tom could be more relaxed and able to recall events more clearly. “Maybe between the two of us, we could trigger some answers.”
Andy grinned. “I thought you'd be game.”
Of course, if it would clear Tom's name.
We said goodbye to Jimmy and in a matter of minutes were at Tom's house, a near replica of the old-fashioned two-story frame I'd inherited from my parents. The old man's cheeks seemed even more sunken, I noticed, as he opened the door for us. Glazed eyes staring out of hollow sockets and hands that trembled on the doorjamb were sufficient evidence that he'd been drinking again.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Andy and I saw your light when we drove up next door, so we decided to pay you a visit,” I answered brightly. “Aren't you going to ask us in?” Almost grudgingly, he moved aside.
His living room was littered with newspapers. The air smelled of stale tobacco and cheap whisky. It was obvious he was heading toward a complete breakdown. If we were going to help him, we'd have to get him sober first. “Shall I put the coffee on, Tom?” I asked, snatching up the papers on the couch and heading for the kitchen. “Tom and I always share a cup when I come,” I explained to Andy.
Even in his present condition, Tom hazily remembered his duties as host. “There're still some of those cookies you brought over, Katie. Leastways, I think so. I don't remember eating them,” he confessed.
“We've just had dinner, Tom.” And cookies aren't what you need, I added silently. “Andy took me to a restaurant out by the butte called the House of Chen.”
By the time I returned bearing a tray of mugs and the coffeepot, Andy had steered Tom to the worn easy chair that was obviously his favorite. Thirty minutes later, with three cups of the extra strong brew I'd made inside him, Tom's pent-up feelings came pouring out.
Andy, with sympathetic patience, waited for the storm of remorse and self-recrimination to subside. Only then did his gentle questioning begin. He concentrated on observations rather than actions, taking the old man back through the events of that afternoon. Tom, apparently trying hard to remember anything that would help, was slow and deliberate in his answers, describing in some detail several visitors who had stopped to admire the Estatua. His memory, however, became less clear as Andy came to the crucial few minutes when the treasure disappeared.
“A couple of teen-agers had been horsin ' around when they came through the Aztec Room earlier, so when the warning bell sounded for closing, I decided I'd better make sure they were on their way out. There wasn't anybody near the statue when I went off to the next gallery to look for them.” His eyes flickered in confusion. “Leastways, I don't think so.”
“Could someone have entered and left the Aztec Room by the other exit in the time you were gone?” Andy questioned.
Tom pondered for several seconds before delivering his answer. “It's possible, I suppose, but it don't seem likely.” Elbows on his knees, his bony hands covering his tormented features, he leaned forward, defeated.
“Still, it's an avenue worth pursuing,” I offered, silently imploring Andy for encouragement.
“An excellent idea,” he agreed. “You'll see. The Estatua will soon be restored to its rightful place.” For the first time that evening, Tom's eyes lit with what seemed a glimmer of hope.
The old-fashioned mantel clock chimed the three-quarter hour. Andy looked up and smiled. “Nearly the witching hour. Time to leave, Cinderella, before your transportation turns into a pumpkin.”
“Oaf! You know I live just next door. I can walk.”
“Well, I'll come along, just in case you lose your glass slipper.”
Glancing at Tom, I judged him safe to leave. “Just let me stack these cups in the sink,” I said, picking up the tray. “Why don't you go on to bed, Tom? Andy and I can lock up.” With Andy's added persuasion, he headed off upstairs. I breathed a sigh of relief.
It was just midnight as Andy and I headed down the back stairs and into the darkness of the yard. “I realize that Cinderella was to lead the prince on a merry chase,” Andy sighed, “but this is ridiculous. Just where are we going?”
“Through these bushes,” I laughed, indicating a clump of sage to one side near the end of the lot. “It's a shortcut. When I was a child, Tom made this secret passage between my parents' house and his. He and I have always used it.”
As we neared the thick hedge, the narrow opening became visible. Reaching for Andy's hand, I pulled him through. When we stepped from the stygian cover of Tom's trees, my tiny garden seemed aglow in the silvery light of the half moon. Together we moved through the still night, past the silesia and the border of dianthus with its fragrant white blossoms. The sweet perfume added to the magic of the soft, velvet sky.
At the door, I turned, suddenly conscious of the fact that I hadn't released Andy's hand. His head was bent near mine, and the air seemed to shimmer between us. As if in a dream, his fingers slipped from mine and his hands moved gently to my shoulders. “Katie,” he whispered. For a mad moment the world held only the two of us, and I leaned toward Andy's warm, vibrant presence.
Then, shocked, I jolted myself back to reality. How could I have forgotten? Ducking my head and pretending to search for the ring of keys in my purse, I grappled with my guilty thoughts. “It's awfully late,” I said finally, “and Bruce is expecting me tomorrow morning by eight.”
His hands dropped. He nodded and turned to leave. “Andy!” I called. “I'll be finished by noon . Maybe then we can investigate the possibility that the thief made his escape out the side entrance.”
After a moment's hesitation, he answered. “Right. What say we meet at twelve-thirty? That should give me time to locate my magnifying glass and deerstalker cap.”
How typical of Andy to make light of his offer to help, I thought, smiling at his sally. “See you in the morning, then. And, Andy? Thanks. It means a great deal to Tom to have you on his side.”
He gave me a crooked grin and a salute, and disappeared around the house. It suddenly occurred to me that I was glad he was on my side, as well.
Getting to sleep had taken hours, and I was ten minutes late for my meeting with Bruce. Luckily, he was engrossed in reception plans and didn't notice. I joined him in his large, comfortable office, and together we verified the names and titles of the expected guests as they would appear in the souvenir brochure they were to receive.
He gave rapid agreement to the minor changes I'd made in the program. I basked in his smile of approval, once more marveling at his capacity for quickly assessing a situation and weighing its advantages. Over time I'd learned to predict his authoritative decisions, and reveled in my ability to anticipate his wishes. He had come to rely on me, and our smooth business relationship had grown into something more personal. It was now accepted that the two of us attended museum social events and charity functions together. And, while Bruce had so far only hinted, the success of the Southwestern Museum Society's meeting could well bring a more permanent, private commitment.
I held to that thought, pushing the loss of the Estatua and its possible effect on Bruce's career to the back of my mind. Surely this other triumph would be enough to override any damage caused by the theft.
Bruce's thoughts apparently had been running along the same lines. “Thank heaven the police are being most cooperative in keeping their investigation quiet,” he said. “And so far the staff has also been discreet. I think it might be well, however, to emphasize again the need for continued silence while our guests are here. Even though I'm not directly responsible for security, if our loss were to become generally known, it could reflect poorly on me as Administrator. That could well mean a delay in my plans.”
I understood. As long as the least question of blame stood to tarnish his career, a man of Bruce's sensibility wouldn't feel free to ask any woman to join her life to his. “They're only on hold,” I told him warmly. “You mustn't worry.”
Even though Bruce's tactful comments had eased my mind as to my own future, I couldn't ignore the terrible plight facing Tom. As soon as Bruce left for his luncheon meeting with members of the Budget Committee, I went looking for Andy.
“I did find time to talk to some of the staff,” he told me. “There's not much to report, though one of the volunteer guides did remember asking an elderly gentleman if he wouldn't like to check his raincoat.”
“But we haven't had rain in weeks!”
“He joked about that. He said in the Northwest, where he came from, a raincoat was standard equipment, and without it he'd feel undressed. He decided to carry it, instead.”
“With the coat over his arm, he could have hidden the Estatua in its folds.”
“I thought of that. But the guide says he bypassed the Estatua for a closer look at the Hohokam exhibit in the adjoining room.”
“That could have been to avoid suspicion.”
“True, but he would have had to double back to the Aztec display afterwards, and the guide says she's quite sure he left with the rest of the tour.”
“Well, that's that, then.” I managed a smile. “Thanks for trying.”
“Oh, I haven't given up yet. After all, even those TV detectives' leads don't always turn out. We'll come up with the answer. Of course, we're new at the game; it may take a bit longer than the sixty minutes they need each week.”
“You're right, except that we don't have a single clue. For that matter, we haven't even figured out how the thief got the statue out of the museum.”
“Suppose he didn't.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Think about it. Mr. ‘X' wants the Estatua. Naturally, he'd rather not get caught stealing it. Logic tells him he should make his attempt under cover of darkness, but there's a night alarm system which he can't risk setting off. He decides to make his move during the day, despite the chances of being seen.
“He checks the security screening. The practices are pretty routine . Even though the staff has been trained to be on the alert for suspicious actions, he needs only a modicum of luck to escape detection.”
“If that's so,” I said, “then he could merely walk in, take the statue, and calmly carry it out the front door.”
“The scheme is just simple and bold enough to succeed—except for some contingency that might prevent his carrying out his plan.”
“You mean something unforeseen. Like what?”
“Like you, Princess, when you went to check the tour route for next Friday's special visitors.
“Here's how I see it,” Andy continued. “The thief was waiting for closing time to make his move. When the warning bell sounded, he slipped back into the Aztec Room. By that time, it was empty. He had the Estatua and was preparing to leave with it hidden under a coat or jacket when he heard your approach. Even if you were merely another visitor, you couldn't fail to notice the missing exhibit.
“He realized that once the alarm was given, anyone trying to leave the building would be detained. What he didn't know was that you would stop to help Tom before reporting the statue's disappearance. He couldn't put it back. There wasn't time. He had only one other option.”
“To hide the statue in the museum!” I exclaimed. “With everyone's assuming it was gone, he could return for it later.” Another thought buzzed in my brain. “But gallery visitors weren't the only outside people here that day. The caterers' equipment was delivered that afternoon. Bruce was concerned about disturbing the patrons, but he finally agreed to let them through to the docents' meeting room to store their things.”
“Did anyone stay with them?”
I shook my head. “Bruce showed them the way. Then he had to leave to take a phone call. I stayed a few minutes, and then continued on my inspection tour.” I pondered for a moment. “Someone could have come in through the service entrance as one of the workmen, and then gone out with the statue the same way.”
“Maybe, Katie, but with you about to sound the alarm, the thief couldn't count on not also being stopped at the back door, so my theory still holds.”
“The police made an extensive search. Still,” I added, thinking, “ they don't know the museum all that well. They might have missed a cupboard in the storeroom where we keep items not on display. Or even one of the utility closets on the main floor.” The idea began to take hold. “And the receiving department is a veritable squirrel's nest of boxes and crates.”
Andy grinned. “That thought appeals to me somehow—hiding a treasure you want to sneak out among the incoming goods. Look,” he continued, “ it's Wednesday. The museum closes early. I realize breaking and entering might put a blot on my resume, but if we could get back in this evening…”
“I have a key,” I told him. Of course, Bruce had given it to me with the strict understanding that it was for use in dire circumstances only. He might not agree with me that saving Tom's reputation qualified as an emergency. But if the Estatua were found, I'd be forgiven.
“Good girl!” Andy approved. “You have no idea the price of professional burglar's tools these days.”
After work, I packed a supply of groceries from my kitchen and carried it over to Tom's. He obviously needed both the homemade chili and the encouragement I fed him, and I stayed longer than I'd intended. Andy was already waiting when I pulled my car into a parking space up the street from the Vista Linda at nine.
The front entrance of the museum was illuminated by a battery of incandescent lights. Elsewhere, however, the lamps were more widely spaced, leaving patches of eerie darkness. Small clumps of cactus growing near the building appeared as black blotches against the stark white structure, while the larger desert plantings, placed for security's sake at a greater distance, cast giant shadows across the grounds and up along the walls.
The sky, ordinarily a panoply of luminous stars, tonight was covered by clouds, and the museum's friendly daytime atmosphere was swallowed up in the darkness of the night.
“This way,” I whispered, turning from the walkway onto a bush-lined gravel patch that wound through the landscaping. “The key unlocks the side door nearest the offices.”
“Good,” Andy responded. “I wasn't really fancying waltzing up the front walk to break in full view of the world.”
A single lamp hung over the unobtrusive entrance, leaving all but the doorway itself in shadow. I moved cautiously into the circle of light, thankful for Andy's presence.
My mind had just conjured up a menacing figure lurking behind a nearby juniper tree when a terrible piercing shriek rent the air from that direction. Only at Andy's comforting touch did I manage to choke back my scream. He pulled me to him, the warmth of his fingers against my mouth urging me to silence. Weakly I leaned against him, gathering strength from the steadiness of his beating heart. Finally, his hand slid away from my lips to rest lightly on my cheek.
“Some poor bird who resented our disturbing his slumber, apparently,” he whispered, “for there doesn't seem to be another soul about. Here, shall I take the key?”
“Once the door is unlocked,” I cautioned, “we have just fifteen seconds to reach the switch in the hall and shut off the alarm.”
He nodded. “Ladies first, then. You know the location and the procedure.”
My eyes, accustomed to the darkness outside, had little difficulty adjusting to the hallway's dim night light. Quickly, I reached the alarm and flipped the switch. Andy was right behind me. “We really should bless the architect for insisting that the exhibits would be more impressive under controlled artificial light. With no windows in the galleries, we're not likely to be seen from outside.”
“What about the corridor skylights?” I asked.
“I thought of that. I've brought us each a flashlight. Even if the beam were accidentally trained upward, it would hardly reflect to the street.”
We had already decided we should separate to cover the ground more quickly, but as Andy moved off toward the Hopi exhibit, it was all I could do to keep from calling him back. His footsteps faded and the circle of light disappeared before I could bring myself to move.
Along with his inspired decision about the lighting, the architect had thoughtfully provided a small closet in each gallery for the storage of maintenance and cleaning equipment. While the casual visitor might well miss the discreet alcoves in which each was concealed, someone intent on theft would certainly have made himself aware of them. That, and the fact that they were easily accessible, put them first on the list of possible hiding places.
Hesitantly, I started forward. My heart skipped a beat before I realized the soft, sibilant whisper echoing through the shadows must be coming from the central air system. The quiet tread of my sneakers seemed to reverberate in the darkness, and twice I stopped, thinking another presence was stealthily following me through the empty rooms.
The museum's collection of Indian masks had always been a source of fascination. Now, their grinning faces leered at me from the walls. Tribal relics that I had admired for their symbolic colors and intricate designs loomed menacingly, their threat so real in my mind I found myself tiptoeing past each display as though to evade the wrath of ancient gods.
The storage cabinets were so well hidden it had not been considered necessary to provide them with locks. I approached the first hesitantly. Was the slight sound I heard coming from its black interior? Nonsense, I told myself firmly. Gathering courage, I pressed the opening mechanism.
Bruce, a stickler for order, had drilled into the staff his own compulsion for neatness. The tiny closet contained only the requisite equipment, with each box, broom, and bucket in its designated location.
It was the same with all the others. Disheartened, I turned to make my way to the Aztec Room, where Andy and I had agreed to meet. Still unable to free my thoughts of crouching figures following my every movement with watchful eyes, I forced myself to keep my light trained in front of me. I was a single room away from my destination, treading noiselessly, when a sharp movement broke the silence.
My heart in my mouth, I whirled toward the sound. A strangled scream escaped my lips as a huge, grotesque shape came flying at me from out of the darkness, knocking the flashlight from my hand with such force that I lost my balance. The side of my head struck the corner of an exhibit case, and I slid to the floor.
Half-conscious, I felt the figure standing over me, then kneeling down to touch my face. I lay completely at his mercy as his fingers moved across my forehead. Those strong hands, I realized, could soon be at my throat. I moaned as the insistent probing reached the tender spot at my temple, and then, mercifully, I knew no more.