Dead as a Dinosaur (21 page)

“Tell him he'd better close this damn place up if he expects to have the place,” the precinct captain told a lieutenant, who, in other words, passed the suggestion on to Dr. Agee. Dr. Agee went down to see for himself, was both astonished and alarmed, and gave the word. By a little after six o'clock, there were only a few policemen left in the building; an hour later, they were out. A patrol of two remained on the Fifth Avenue side to suggest that people move along there. Since it was too cold by that hour for out-of-door loitering, people did move along.

Dr. Paul Agee remained in his office, and so far as he knew he was alone in the building. The watchman was not due until ten, the normal Saturday closing hour. He remained there to think things over, and to look things over. The whole thing had turned out unexpectedly, and distressingly. It had even, Dr. Agee thought, turned out dangerously. He had not, he realized, entirely appreciated how one thing leads to another, how one action makes another obligatory and how this continues through a series of actions.

In this affair, Dr. Agee unhappily told himself, the chain of actions had begun quite simply, and, when one came to that, harmlessly. But the extraneous, the not to be anticipated, had become involved, so that now auditors in the employ of the police were going over the Institute's books. This, certainly, was not anything which he could have anticipated. He had not even expected it the day before when the official request came in a telephone call from the office of some inspector or other. He had acquiesced, of course; he had realized that he had no alternative. He had expressed surprise that the financial records of the Broadly Institute could be thought, by anyone, to be informative in relation to the death of Dr. Orpheus Preson, and had been informed—still very politely—that it was desired to investigate thoroughly the financial transactions of Dr. Preson, with which those of the Institute might be involved. “You've got me,” Dr. Agee had said, humorously, and then, “Of course.” So two men had arrived to go over the books.

Sitting at his desk in the big, deserted building, Dr. Agee wished, in passing, that he had not used the locution, “You've got me.” He sincerely hoped he had not been prophetic when he had meant only to say, in humorous idiom, that the workings of the official mind were, in this connection, beyond him.

He did not, for a long time, think of anything which he now could do. The series of actions appeared to have come to an end, and an uncomfortable one. Finally he went out of his office, and down in the staff elevator to the ground floor. He went briefly into the Great Hall, in which two widely separated lights burned dimly—which was a cavern of shadows, with the monstrous one of Teddy dominating the rest—and saw that nothing was amiss. (He was, he realized, like a fussy householder locking up for the night.) He went back through the entry to the staff door and opened it and went out, but just before it closed he checked the keys in his pocket, instinctively. The keys were not there, and he remembered that he had left them dangling from the keyhole of a desk drawer.

He caught the door, which was ponderously closing itself, and held it. He would have, before he left permanently, to retrieve his keys. But he might as well, first, go down to Madison and get the food he had started for. He pushed the button in the door which would render the snap lock inoperative, tried the outer knob to see whether it had, and let the door close. He walked, the wind behind him, down to Madison and to the restaurant he had in mind. He discovered that, once out in the biting wind, he was rather hungry.

to the restaurant he had in mind. He discovered that, once out in the biting wind, he was rather hungry.

Steck put his key in the lock of the staff door, turned it, pushed the door open. He stood aside, then, to let Emily Preson go in ahead of him.

“I didn't know they planned to close up,” Steck said. “However—” His hand directed the girl toward the automatic elevator, waiting for them. “I can't say I know what you expect to find,” Steck said.

“Something,” Emily said. “Anything. Don't you see yet?”

Steck shrugged heavily. He followed Emily into the elevator and closed the door after them.

The telephone rang in Bill Weigand's office.

“Yes?” Bill said into it.

“Oh,” the duty sergeant said, “didn't see you come in, captain. Got a couple of messages here. A Mrs.—wait a minute now—North? That sound right?”

“Right,” Bill said.

“O.K.,” the sergeant said. “This is what the first call says: ‘Steck's got Emily.'” The sergeant spoke doubtfully. “That's what it says,” the sergeant said. “I didn't take it personally.”

“That's all right,” Bill said. “It's unusually clear, as a matter of fact.”

“O.K.,” the sergeant said. “The second just says: ‘Gone to Broadly.'”

“Thanks,” Bill Weigand said. He hung up. He got up. It was unusually clear for Pamela North, certainly. In spite of that, it failed to add. Apparently, somebody had run up another barking tree.

He was at the door when the telephone rang again. This time it was a message from the auditors who had been comparing canceled checks drawn by Orpheus Preson in favor of the Broadly Institute of Paleontology with receipts noted on the Institute's books. The report was interim; the bookkeeping methods of the Institute were unorthodox. (The auditors were a little plaintive about this.) It did, however, appear that there was a discrepancy. It appeared that the discrepancy was of an even ten thousand dollars—ten thousand dollars which had departed Dr. Preson's bank but not reached the account of the Institute.

Acting Captain William Weigand expressed his appreciation and went again to the door of his office. Just before he opened the door, Bill barked softly.

12

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ATURDAY
, 8:40
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9:15
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The Norths' taxi driver progressed with supreme confidence. As a result, he was whistled down by a traffic policeman at Fifty-seventh Street and Fifth Avenue. He was directed to the curb; he was spoken to. Enquiry was made as to his destination; it was pointed out to him that traffic lights are, when red, to be stopped at, not halfway through. Pam North said, “Please, officer,” and the traffic man said, “Take it easy, lady. Don't want to get killed, do you?”

“Now, cowboy,” the traffic man said, returning to his prey. “Want a ticket, do you? That what you want?”

“It was that bus,” the driver said. “Between me and the light.”

“Yeah,” the traffic man said, “you're in the city now, cowboy. Buses and everything.”

The driver bowed his head to the storm, which continued to blow. When it ended, the end was abrupt.

“Get going, buster,” the traffic man said. “Watch it.”

The taxi driver got going. When he had gone a block, he turned to the Norths and said, “Give some of them a badge!” He turned into the right-hand lane and continued uptown, slowly. He said, “What'll it be, mister?”

It was difficult to say. The cab which was taking Wayne Preson wherever he was going had had ten minutes to take him there, and “there” might be any place. Wayne's cab had made the light at Fifty-seventh Street. That had been the trouble.

“He kept on going uptown as long as I could see,” said Pam, who had watched. “So I suppose—” She paused, not knowing quite what she did suppose. They continued north, Central Park on their left. They ought, Pam said, to let Bill know what they knew.

“Which is?” Jerry asked.

“About Steck and Emily,” Pam said. “And Wayne's following them, if he is. About her being the right size.”

“Turn over to Madison,” Jerry told the driver. “Find some place with a telephone. I suppose you mean the right size to impersonate her uncle?”

“In men's clothes,” Pam said. “She's built for it. She and Steck together. Only—”

“Precisely,” Jerry said. “You will have it Steck. Why should she?”

“He must have some hold,” Pam said. “Perhaps she's in love with him. I don't know.”

“You certainly don't,” Jerry agreed.

“This all right?” the taxi driver said, in Madison Avenue. It was. It was her theory, Jerry told Pam. She could pass it on. He waited in the cab while Pamela North, trim, quick, went across the sidewalk into a drug store.

“Sometimes they ain't there,” the taxi driver said. “I took a chance.”

“It's all right,” Jerry said. “Forget it. You still get the extra five.”

“That ain't what I mean,” the driver said. “I trust you, fella. I mean sometimes in the evening they ain't at Fifty-seventh.” He was earnest.

“I know what you meant,” Jerry said. Pam came across the side walk and he opened the door for her. She shook her head. She said, “Not there. I left a message. Just that Steck has Emily. I thought the rest would be confusing, except to Bill.”

Even that much might be, Jerry thought, and said. The cab remained motionless.

“The museum, of course!” Pam said. “Where else would Dr. Steck go?”

Jerry could think of a hundred places—of a thousand. However, Wayne Preson's cab had last been seen going up Fifth. If he was following Steck and Emily Preson, or knew where they were going, it could be presumed that their cab had gone up Fifth. The Broadly Institute was up Fifth.

“Wait, I'll leave Bill another message,” Pam said. She went; she returned.

“The Broadly Institute,” Jerry said to the taxi driver. “It's up Fifth about—”

“I know,” the driver said. “Where this guy gets killed with this stone axe. You read about that?”

They admitted they had read about that. The cab went on, as confidently as before. But this time nobody stopped it, until the driver stopped it in front of a large, square building which was forbiddingly dark.

“Here you are,” the driver said. “Looks like they all went home, don't it?”

It did. Nevertheless, Jerry paid the fare, plus a routine tip, plus five dollars for intentions, if not performance, over and above the call of duty.

“Well,” the hacker said, “hope you make out.” He departed, leaving the Norths on a cold sidewalk in front of a dark building. The west wind got a running start at them across the park. They went up the steps of the Broadly Institute and pushed without confidence against the big doors. They peered through them. The building was not entirely dark; there was a faint glimmer of light in the Great Hall.

“Somebody's there,” Pam said, and was told that that did not follow; that lights were undoubtedly left on every night.

“There'll be a back door,” Pam said. “Everything has a back door.”

They went down the steps again, the wind jostling them, and around the corner of the building. Halfway down the building's length, they found a door. It was a solid wooden door, firmly closed. They stopped and looked at it.

“No go,” Jerry said. “Anyway, we don't—”

But Pam had gone up the three steps to the door. She took the knob, turned, and pulled. She might have been pulling against the solid weight of the building. She considered. She pushed. The door began to open, heavy and reluctant. But by then Jerry was beside her, and then it was easy.

They were, after going up two more steps, in a small foyer. There was a door directly in front of them and there was a door on either side. The doors seemed, in the dim light from a small, high-hung bulb, identical; the call-button of the elevator, which was behind the door on their left, was easy to overlook. Pam and Jerry North overlooked it and, with nothing to guide them, went forward. They came out into shadowed immensity; into a cavern of shadows; into the Great Hall of the Broadly Institute of Paleontology.

Teddy the Tyrannosaurus was at his most formidable in the semi-darkness. He seemed much larger and, at the same time, more porous. One light was beyond him and visible through the great rib cage, where his no doubt tremendous heart once had beaten. The head, which had housed a minute brain, reared high in the gloom, the teeth baleful in the little light, grinning horribly out of the past. The remainder of Teddy seemed to continue indefinitely in the darkness.

“My,” Pam said, her voice low and without much confidence. “My!” She considered. “It must have taken him a long time to wag his tail,” she said.

Although Pam had spoken softly, her voice seemed to echo in the great room, among the shadows. From some place far away it came back to them. “Wag his tail,” the echo said. “—his tail.”

“I'm afraid,” Pam said, even more softly, “that it doesn't gain by repetition. It was only whistling in the dark.”

“As a matter of fact,” Jerry said, “it probably did. Took a second or two for the impulse to travel the nerves. He was a little sluggish, they think. What next?”

It was her party, his tone implied. He was along for the ride.

“I don't know,” Pam said. “It feels terribly empty, doesn't it?”

It did feel empty; the whole building felt empty. Only the past lived there—the incredibly distant past; only Teddy and creatures like Teddy; only bones dead for times beyond imagination, years beyond counting. Things long dead.

“It was over there,” Pam said. “Remember? We looked at it. I said you used to be more shaggy.”

It drew them. The light seemed less dim than it had, as their eyes grew accustomed to dimness. As hundreds had done earlier in the day, Pam and Jerry North went to stand in front of the exhibit of Neanderthal man. But now, for some reason, the curtains had been parted and they could look into the cubicle in which Jesse Landcraft had died; in which now the shaggy man of half a million years ago stood by the cave entrance, towering above the crouched figure of his almost equally shaggy wife. But he was defenseless now; the weapon he had seemed to hold, axe head on ground, shaft in hand, was gone. The thing which was almost man looked out at them, looked through them. The past stared at them, through eyes simulated from plastic.