The Counterfeit Murder in the Museum of Man Read Online Free PDF Page B

the man’s body. The fact is, I was not as frank with Lieutenant Tracy as I should have been. Had I been so, I would rightly be considered a prime suspect in the case.
    For one thing, I did not tell the lieutenant that I had been in the museum around the time the murder was committed. Let me explain. That evening, after a very early dinner, I had gone to my office to finish some paperwork dealing with the expatriation of specimens from the Skull Collection. A tribe in Arian Jaya have petitioned us to return about a dozen skulls collected there at the turn of the last century. The fact that most of the skulls are of European origin apparently has no bearing. They make up, we are told, “an integral part of the tribe’s cultural heritage.” The fact that they have no adequate facilities for preserving this heritage also has no bearing on the case.
    Second, I did not inform Lieutenant Tracy that my wife had had an affair with the victim. Indeed, my animus toward theman has remained sporadically murderous despite something Diantha told me in the wake of their affair. During one of our tender moments of reconciliation, the keener for being edged with the savor of jealousy and curiosity, I had asked her how Heinie had been in bed. She paused in her ministrations and a sly smile lit her face. “He was classy enough. But as Marilyn Monroe said about Frank Sinatra — he was no Joe DiMaggio.” Implying, I assumed, that I’m a real slugger in this regard.
    Still, I conceived a visceral hatred of Heinrich von Grümh. In the guise of worldliness, he deigned to patronize me, making what he probably thought were subtle allusions to having slept with my wife. But then, Heinie was a force of nature in the way of a big wind. He had to win or, rather, beat everyone else in the smallest things. At the same time, I pitied him. He was the echoing shell of a man who had everything and nothing. The more wealth and expensive toys he acquired and displayed, the less there seemed of him.
Is this all there is?
his expression seemed to say. As though all would never be enough. In the end, he had become the ultimate impostor, that is, someone posing as himself.
    Why then, one might ask, did I accept coins from him for the MOM’s collection? The fact is, a responsible museum director does not turn down objects worth hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of dollars, however many strings come attached. In fact, a conservative estimate of Heinie’s donation of coins to the museum amounts to well over two million dollars. It’s not a matter I would allow personal feelings to interfere with.
    The final reason I might be considered a suspect in the case is that I have a license to not only own but also to carry concealed the Smith & Wesson .38-caliber revolver I inherited from my father. Oiled but not loaded, it is locked in a chest in my study. Ballistics would easily prove that my gun had not been used as the murder weapon.
    Then why not tell Lieutenant Tracy? I submit that my motivation is nothing less than exemplary. As a suspect, I doubt my friend would consent to my help on the case, however distant and unofficial my involvement. It would be false modesty to deny that I played a key role in bringing to justice those responsible for past murders in the Museum of Man. At the same time, I relish the role of investigator, of participating in a direct way in what is nothing less than a manhunt.
    But I must also be candid. I confess that I did not want it known, especially by Lieutenant Tracy, that my wife had not only been unfaithful to me, but had been so with a man of Heinie von Grümh’s ilk.

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    Merissa Bonne does make a most fetching widow. She dropped by early last evening for a drink and to ask for a favor. I couldn’t tell whether she wore the black satin choker with its circle of small diamonds in celebration or in mourning. “I just hope he didn’t suffer,” she sniffled, wiping away a nonexistent tear and holding out her glass for a