Dance Of Death

FIFTY-NINE

Smithback slowly SHUT his cell phone, stunned by the bizarre call he had just received. He found Nora looking at him curiously. They had finally opened the museum's staff entrance and employees were streaming past them, rushing to gain the warmth of indoors.

"What is it, Bill?" she asked. "Who was that?"

"Special Agent Pendergast. He managed to track me down on this loaner cell phone I picked up at the Times."

"What'd he want?"

"I'm sorry?" He felt dazed.

"I said, what did he want? You look shell-shocked."

"I've just had a most, um, extraordinary proposal put to me."

"Proposal? What are you talking about?"

Smithback roused himself and grasped Nora's shoulder. "I'll tell you about it later. Look, are you going to be okay here? I'm worried about your safety, with Margo dead and all these warnings of Pendergast's."

"The safest place in New York City is inside that museum right now. There must be a thousand cops in there."

Smithback nodded slowly, thinking. "True."

"Listen, I do have to go to work."

"I'm coming in with you. I've got to talk to Dr. Collopy."

"Collopy? Good luck."

Smithback could already see a large, angry crowd of reporters being kept from the museum by a string of policemen and guards. No one was getting in but employees. And Smithback was well known-all too well known-to the guards.

He felt Nora put an arm around his shoulder. "What are you going to do?"

"I've got to get inside."

Nora frowned. "Does this have to do with that call of Pendergast's?"

"It sure does." He looked into her green eyes, his gaze wandering over her copper hair and freckled nose. "You know what I'd really like to do…"

"Don't tempt me. I have a ton of work to do. Today's the public opening of the exhibition-assuming we ever open again."

Smithback gave her a kiss and a hug. He started to break away but found that Nora wouldn't release him.

"Bill," she murmured in his ear, "thank God you're back."

They held each other a few moments more, then Nora slowly let her arms fall away. She smiled, winked, then turned and walked into the museum.

Smithback watched her disappearing form. Then he shouldered his way into the crowd of employees lined up outside the door, bypassing the thicket of reporters who had been shunted off to one side. All the employees had their IDs out, and the crowd was thick. Police and museum guards were checking everybody's identification: it was going to be a bitch getting in. Smithback thought a moment, then pulled out his business card and scribbled a short note on the back.

When his turn came to pass through the security barrier, a guard barred his way. "ID?"

"I'm Smithback of the Times."

"You're in the wrong place, pal. Press is over there."

"Listen to me. I have a very urgent and private message for Dr. Collopy. It must be delivered to him immediately, or heads will roll. I'm not kidding. Yours, too"-Smithback glanced at the guard's name-plate- "Mr. Primus, if you don't deliver it."

The guard wavered, a look of fear in his eyes. The museum administration had not made life easy in recent years for those on the bottom, fostering a climate of fear more than family. Smithback had used this fact before, to good effect, and he hoped it would work again.

"What's it about?" the guard named Primus asked.

"The diamond theft. I have private information."

The guard seemed to waver. "I don't know…"

"I'm not asking you to let me in. I'm asking you to deliver this note directly to the director. Not to his secretary, not to anyone else-just to him. Look, I'm not some schmuck, okay? Here are my credentials."

The guard took the press pass, looking at it doubtfully.

Smithback pressed the message into his hand. "Don't read it. Put it in an envelope and deliver it personally. Trust me, you'll be glad you did."

The guard hesitated a moment. Then he took the card and retreated to the security office, reappearing a few moments later with an envelope. "I sealed it in here, never looked at it."

"Good man." Smithback scribbled on the envelope: "For Dr. Collopy, extremely important, to be opened immediately. From William Smithback Jr. of the New York Times."

The guard nodded. "I'll see it's delivered."

Smithback leaned forward. "You don't understand. I want you to deliver it personally." He glanced around. "I don't trust any of these other bozos."

The guard flushed, nodded. "All right." Envelope in hand, he disappeared down the hall.

Smithback waited, cell phone in hand. Five minutes passed. Ten.

Fifteen.

Smithback paced in frustration. This was not looking good.

Then his phone gave a shrill ring. He opened it quickly.

"This is Collopy," came the patrician voice. "Is this Smithback?"

"Yes, it is."

"One of the guards will escort you to my office immediately."

A scene of controlled chaos greeted Smithback as he approached the grand, carved oaken doors of the director's office. Outside was a confabulation of New York City police, detectives, and museum officials. The door was shut, but as soon as Smithback's escort announced him, he was shown inside.

Collopy stood pacing before a great row of curved windows, hands clasped behind his back. Beyond the windows lay the wintry fastness of Central Park. Smithback recognized the security director, Manetti, along with several other museum officials standing before Collopy's desk.

The museum director noticed him, stopped pacing. "Mr. Smithback?"

"That's me."

Collopy turned to Manetti and the other officials. "Five minutes."

He watched them leave, then turned to Smithback. He was gripping the card in one hand, his face slightly flushed. "Who's behind this outrageous rumor, Mr. Smithback?"

Smithback swallowed. He had to make this sound good. "It's not exactly a rumor, sir. It came from a confidential source which I can't reveal. But I made a few calls, checked it out. It seems there might be something to it."

"This is intolerable. I've got enough to worry about without this. It's just some crank speculation, best ignored."

"I'm not sure that would be wise."

"Why? You're not going to publish unsubstantiated calumnies like this in the Times, are you? My assertion that the diamond is safe at our insurance company ought to be enough."

"It's true the Times doesn't publish rumors. But as I said, I've got a reliable source that claims it's true. I can't ignore that."

"Bloody hell."

"Let me pose a question to you," Smithback said, keeping his voice the soul of reasonableness. "When was the last time you personally saw Lucifer's Heart?"

Collopy shot him a glance. "It would have been four years ago, when we renewed the policy."

"Did a certified gemologist examine it at the time?"

"No. Why, it's an unmistakable gemstone…" Collopy's voice trailed off as he realized the weakness of his remark.

"How do you know it was the genuine article, Dr. Collopy?"

"I made a perfectly reasonable assumption."

"That's the crux of it, isn't it, Dr. Collopy? The truth is," Smithback continued gently, "you don't know for a fact that Lucifer's Heart is still in the insurance company vault. Or, if a gemstone is there, whether it's the real one."

"This is an absurd spinning of a conspiracy theory!" The director set off pacing again, hands balled up behind his back. "I don't have time for this!"

"You wouldn't want to let a story like this get out of control. You know how these things tend to assume a life of their own. And I do have to file my article by this evening."

"Your article? What article?"

"About the allegations."

"You publish that and my lawyers will eat you for breakfast!"

"Take on the Times? I don't think so." Smithback spoke mildly and waited, giving Collopy plenty of time to think things out to the inevitable, preordained conclusion.

"Damn it!" Collopy said, spinning on his heel. "I suppose we'll just have to bring it out and have it certified."

"An interesting suggestion," said Smithback.

Collopy paced. "It'll need to be done publicly, but under tight security, of course. We can't just invite every Tom, Dick, and Harry in to watch."

"May I suggest that all you really need is the Times'? The others will follow our lead. They always do. We're the paper of record."

Another turn. "Perhaps you're right."

Another pace across the room, another turn. "Here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to get a gemologist to certify that the stone held by our insurance company is, in fact, Lucifer's Heart. We'll do it right there, at Affiliated Transglobal Insurance headquarters, under the tightest security. You'll be the only journalist there and, damn it, you'd better write an article that will scotch those rumors once and for all."

"If it's genuine."

"It'll be genuine or the museum will end up owning Affiliated Transglobal Insurance, so help me God."

"What about the gemologist? He'd have to be independent, for credibility."

Collopy paused. "It's true we can't use one of our own curators."

"And his reputation will obviously need to be unimpeachable."

"I'll contact the American Council of Gemologists. They could send one of their experts." Collopy walked to the desk, picked up the phone, and made several calls in rapid succession. Then he turned back to Smithback.

"It's all arranged. We'll meet at the Affiliated Transglobal headquarters, 1271 Avenue of the Americas, forty-second floor, at one o'clock precisely."

"And the gemologist?"

"A fellow named George Kaplan. Said to be one of the best." He glanced at Smithback. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a lot to do. See you at one." He hesitated. "And thank you for your discretion."

"Thank you, Dr. Collopy."