The Counterfeit Murder in the Museum of Man by Alfred Alcorn Read Free Book Online

recitation.
    “I’m getting to it,” I said, worried now about his acerbity, wondering what it might signify. “The sticking point has been our Greco-Roman Collection. Saunders has been claiming that it belongs in the Frock because, in truth, the various bequests to the MOM that resulted in our very modest but excellent Greco-Roman inventory contain ambiguous language in which it would appear that the donors considered the university and the museum as part of the same entity.”
    “So?”
    “So Saunders, perhaps in league with this cabal in the university’s administration, has been insisting that the museum accede to the transfer of the items in that collection to the Frock.”
    “How might this tie in with von Grümh’s murder?”
    “Well, Heinie has been a significant contributor to the museum,and he’s been more than vociferous in his opposition to combining the two collections.” I paused. I lowered my voice. “Strictly off the record, Lieutenant, I should tell you that for ethical and professional reasons I am willing, with proper legal safeguards, to consider joint title to any item with ambiguous provenance. But not everything. We are, after all, the Museum of Man in His Many Manifestations.”
    “Did von Grümh know this?”
    I hesitated. “I don’t think so.” But what if Diantha, in their pillow talk, had mentioned it to him? I’m afraid I colored just a little. “I mean these things have a way of circulating.”
    The lieutenant gave me a keen, hard look. But he didn’t press me. He said, “What can you tell me about Merissa Bonne?”
    I shrugged, a little too theatrically perhaps. “Not a whole lot. She was Heinie’s third wife. A trophy wife, as they say.”
    “Did they get along?”
    “I wasn’t that privy to their relations …” I hesitated, letting my small truth cover a large omission as I recalled the evening before and what Diantha told me about Merissa and Max Shofar. The substance of which I should have disclosed to the lieutenant. But I was reluctant to venture into the entanglements in which I found myself snared. I told myself it wasn’t that important. I told myself I would tell him later if it became necessary.
    Keeping my expression neutral, I asked, “Was there any evidence of powder burns on von Grümh’s hands?”
    The lieutenant thought for a moment. “No. None whatsoever. The GSR was negative.”
    “GSR?”
    “Gunshot residue. Why do you ask?”
    “To rule out suicide.”
    “Was he suicidal?”
    “He should have been,” I said with a queasy laugh.
    “Why do you say that?” The lieutenant did not laugh.
    I sighed. “He was a very unhappy man. In my opinion.”
    “What made him unhappy? In your opinion.”
    I glanced sharply at the lieutenant to let him know I didn’t like his tone. I said drily, “He was one of those people who suffer the tragedy of getting everything they think they want.”
    “Anything else?” he asked, grim with suspicion.
    I shook my head outwardly and inwardly at myself. There was in fact much else to tell him about myself and Heinie and the night of his murder. About Merissa and Max and the motive they could have shared. I had even neglected to tell him about Col Saunders and the Dresden stater, one of the world’s most valuable coins. So I feigned thoughtfulness and lied. I said, “Not that I can think of.”
    He briskly folded up his notebook. He stood up. He said, “And you, Norman, what did you have against Heinrich von Grümh?”
    Again resorting to small truths, I said, “Oh, I thought the man a bore. But I’m sure I’d have been murdered myself long ago if that were a possible motive.”
    At the door he granted me one of his wry smiles. “Don’t leave town, Norman.”
    Which, though presumably meant as a jest, rattled me. I again cursed myself for not being candid with him. His questioning and especially his manner left me in a rare state of anxiety. How much did he already know? How much did he suspect? It is