The Cabinet of Curiosities (Pendergast #3)(127)

“I bought it… I can’t remember. I’m always buying and losing umbrellas.” Brisbane shrugged casually, but his shoulders were stiff.

“And the rest of your costume?”

“In the closet. Go ahead, take a look.”

Custer had no doubt the rest of the costume would match the description of a black, old-fashioned coat. He ignored the attempted distraction. “Where did you buy it?”

“I think I found the pants and coat at that used formalwear shop near Bloomingdale’s. I just can’t think of the name.”

“No doubt.” Custer glanced searchingly at Brisbane. “Odd choice for a costume party, don’t you think? English banker, I mean.”

“I dislike looking ridiculous. I’ve worn that costume half a dozen times to Museum parties, you can check with anyone. I put that costume to good use.”

“Oh, I have no doubt you put it to good use. Good use indeed.” Custer glanced over at Noyes. The man was excited, a kind of hungry, almost slavering look on his face. He, at least, realized what was coming.

“Where were you, Mr. Brisbane, on October 12, between eleven o’clock in the evening and four o’clock the following morning?” This was the time bracket the coroner had determined during which Puck had been killed.

Brisbane seemed to think. “Let’s see… It’s hard to remember.” He laughed again.

Custer laughed, too.

“I can’t remember what I did that night. Not precisely. After twelve or one, I would have been in bed, of course. But before then… Yes, I remember now. I was at home that night. Catching up on my reading.”

“And you live alone, Mr. Brisbane?”

“Yes.”

“So you have no one who can vouch for you being at home? A landlady, perhaps? Girlfriend? Boyfriend?”

Brisbane frowned. “No. No, nothing like that. So, if it’s all the same to you—”

“One moment, Mr. Brisbane. And where did you say you live?”

“I didn’t say. Ninth Street, near University Place.”

“Hmmm. No more than a dozen blocks from Tompkins Square Park. Where the second murder took place.”

“That’s a very interesting coincidence, no doubt.”

“It is.”Custer glanced out the windows, where Central Park lay beneath a mantle of darkness. “And no doubt it’s a coincidence that the first murder took place right out there, in the Ramble.”

Brisbane’s frown deepened. “Really, Detective, I think we’ve reached the point where questions end and speculation begins.”He pushed back his chair, prepared to stand up. “And now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get on with the business of clearing your men out of this Museum.”

Custer made a suppressing motion with one hand, glanced again at Noyes. Get ready. “There’s just one other thing. The third murder.” He slid a piece of paper out of his notebook with a nonchalant motion. “Do you know an Oscar Gibbs?”

“Yes, I believe so. Mr. Puck’s assistant.”

“Exactly. According to the testimony of Mr. Gibbs, on the afternoon of October 12, you and Mr. Puck had a little, ah, discussion in the Archives. This was after you found out that Human Resources had not supported your recommendation to fire Puck.”

Brisbane colored slightly. “I wouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

Custer smiled. “I don’t, Mr. Brisbane. Believe me, I don’t.”He followed this with a long, delicious pause. “Now, this Mr. Oscar Gibbs said that you and Puck were yelling at each other. Or rather, you were yelling at Puck. Care to tell me, in your words, what that was about?”

“I was reprimanding Mr. Puck.”

“What for?”

“Neglecting my instructions.”

“Which were?”

“To stick to his job.”

“To stick to his job. How had he been deviating from his job?”

“He was doing outside work, helping Nora Kelly with her external projects, when I had specifically—”

It was time. Custer pounced.

“According to Mr. Oscar Gibbs, you were (and I will read): screaming and yelling and threatening to bury Mr. Puck. He (that’s you, Mr. Brisbane) said he wasn’t through by a long shot.” Custer lowered the paper, glanced at Brisbane. “That’s the word you used: ‘bury. ’”

“It’s a common figure of speech.”

“And then, not twenty-four hours later, Puck’s body was found, gored on a dinosaur in the Archives. After having been butchered, most likely in those very same Archives. An operation like that takes time, Mr. Brisbane. Clearly, it was done by somebody who knew the Museum’s ways very well. Someone with a security clearance. Someone who could move around the Museum without exciting notice. An insider, if you will. And then, Nora Kelly gets a phony note, typed on Puck’s typewriter, asking her to come down—and she herself is attacked, pursued with deadly intent. Nora Kelly. The other thorn in your side. The third thorn, the FBI agent, was in the hospital at this point, having been attacked by someone wearing a derby hat.”

Brisbane stared at him in disbelief.

“Why didn’t you want Puck to help Nora Kelly in her—what did you call them—external projects?”