Chapter 8 Section VII

When she came outside, she almost collided with Smithback.He moved closer to Margo, winking mischievously. "Lunch?" "No," said Margo, "very busy." Twice a day—she might not be able to take such a large dose of Smithback. "Come on," he pleaded, "I have new details of the murder, more gruesome." "I can tell." She quickened her pace, exasperated at being aroused by her curiosity. Smithback took her arm. "I heard that the lasagne served in the restaurant today is delicious, it's old and dry." He dragged Margo towards the elevator.

The restaurant was the same as usual, full of researchers, robust security guards talking loudly, various technicians and taxidermists in white coats.A researcher asked fellow scientists at the table to pass on some specimens, and the others murmured with admiration and interest.Margot took a closer look: the specimens were several soaked parasites, curled up in a muddy formalin jar. The two found seats and Margot tried to saw through the crust of the lasagna. "As I predicted," said Smithback, picking up a small piece and biting off a corner with a snap, "it's been on the steamer since at least nine o'clock this morning."

He crunched and chewed. "Well, the police finally issued an official statement. There were two homicides in the museum last night. They are able to investigate this result, they are capable! Remember those questions about wild animals that the reporter asked? Ha, the victim did It is possible that he was killed by a wild animal attack." "Don't you see I'm eating?" said Margo. "That's right. From what I heard, it was really torn to pieces." Margo raised her eyes: "Please." "No kidding," Smithback continued, "there's a lot of pressure to solve the case, especially with the opening of the big exhibition coming up. It is said that the police have recruited a special coroner. The ability to identify claw wounds is no less than that of Helen Keller." Read Braille."

"Damn it, Smithback," said Margo, throwing down her fork, "I can't stand your heartless attitude, the gory details you describe, and I'm having my lunch! I can't finish it first , and then listen to you say these?" "I just wanted to say Smith," Buck said, ignoring Margot's exasperation, "that she's an expert on big cats. Matilda Zhnevich. Queer name, isn't it? Listen. I feel fat." Although Margot was annoyed, she could barely hold back her smile.Smithback may be an asshole, but he's an interesting asshole anyway.She pushes away the tray. "Where did you hear that?" she asked.

Smithback grinned. "I have my sources." He stuffed another lasagna into his mouth. "Actually, I just happened to run into a friend who writes for Newsweek. Someone got the tip from some NYPD insider." The newspapers in the afternoon must be full of this news. Can you imagine Wright's expression when he sees it? Oh, my God." Smithback laughed a few times before filling his mouth again.He finished his portion and was ready to attack Margot's portion.He is thin, but eats like a beast. "How can there be wild animals running around in museums?" Margo asked. "It's ridiculous."

"Really? Well, listen: the police sent someone to the museum with the hounds, looking for any sign of the ugly grandson." "Are you kidding me?" "Not at all. Just ask any security guard. There's a million square feet of the hell out there for big cats and the like, including five miles of air ducts big enough to crawl through. There's also a A labyrinthine network of abandoned tunnels. The police are serious." "tunnel?" "Yeah. Didn't you read my article in the magazine last month? The first generation of museums was built on gushing swamps that couldn't be drained once and for all, so a network of tunnels was built to drain the groundwater. The original museum opened in 1911 Destroyed by fire, they built the current museum on top of the basement of the old museum. The lower basement is huge, with several floors, and most of it doesn’t even have electricity. Anyone who knew how to get down is probably dead.”

Smithback munches the last piece of lasagna and pushes his plate aside: "And, of course, the most common legend: the museum monster." Anyone who has worked in a museum must have heard this story.The maintenance man on the night shift caught a glimpse of the monster out of the corner of his eye.Walking through the dimly lit hallway to the specimen storage room, the assistant researcher had seen the monster walking in the shadows.No one knows what it is or where it came from, but some claim the monster killed someone years ago. Margo decided to change the subject. "Is Rickman still bugging you?" she asked.

Hearing her mention the name, Smithback grimaced.Margo knew that Lavinia Rickman, the museum's head of public relations, had hired Smithbacker to write the book in exchange for an advance and royalties from the museum.Although Smithback was less than happy with the details of the contract, the big show made the book a bright future, and if the show was a success, sales could easily reach six figures.Margo didn't think the deal was a bad deal for Smithbacks, especially considering his previous book on the Boston Aquarium sold poorly. "Rickman? Trouble?" sniffed Smithback. "Oh, my God. She's the word trouble personified. Let me read you a passage." He pulled a page out of his notebook.

"Dr. Cuthbert sold the idea of ​​the Global Aboriginal Culture Exhibition to the curator, and Wright was moved by it. The Superstition Exhibition has all the elements of a blockbuster, comparable to the Tutankhamen Treasure Exhibition and the Seven-story Exhibition of Troy City. It’s a huge amount of money for museums, and a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to raise funds from society and government agencies. But some older researchers dismissed it and felt that the exhibition was tainted with sensationalism.” Smithback paused: "Look at Rickman's work." He pushed the paper in front of Margot.This passage is crossed out with a thick line, and there are two large red characters in the margin next to it: Remove!

Margo giggled. "Is it funny?" Smithback pressed. "She's castrating my manuscript. Look here." He pointed to another page. Margot shook her head and said, "Rickman just wants to give money to the museum. You two must have lacked in-depth communication." "She's driving me nuts. She cuts out everything that's even slightly controversial and tells me to spend all my energy talking to the freak who's running the show. She knows what his boss Cuthbert told that guy to say , he’ll just say something.” He leaned closer to Margot and said slyly, “You’ll never see such a sycophant in your life.” He raised his head and moaned, “My God, here he is.”

A young man, slightly overweight, wearing horn-rimmed glasses and carrying a shiny leather suitcase with dinner plates on it, suddenly appears at the table. "Can I sit down?" he asked sheepishly, "I'm sorry, but this is the only seat left in the room." "Does that matter?" Smithback replied. "Sit down, please. We're just talking about you. Margo, this is George Moriarty. He's the one who puts on the Global Indigenous Culture Show." Smithback waved the pages at Moriarty: "Look at what Rickman did to my manuscript. Only the quotations escaped her." Moriarty glanced at the manuscript, and looked at Smithback with simple and solemn eyes. "I'm not surprised," he said. "Why make the museum's family ugly?" "Come on, George. Otherwise what's the fun in the story?" Moriarty turned to Margo. "You're the graduate student working on ancient ethnopharmacology, aren't you?" he asked. "Yes," she was flattered, "how do you know?" "I'm very interested in this topic." He smiled and looked at Margot. "There are several showcases in the exhibition dedicated to pharmacology and medicine. Speaking of which, I just wanted to talk to you about one of the showcases." "No problem. Is there anything you want to know?" She studied Moriarty more closely.Moriarty was in every way your standard museum person: average height, slightly stout, with brown hair that was neither red nor black.The tweed jacket was crumpled and museum-purple in color.There are only two things about him that are different, one is the huge watch that looks like a sun crown, and the other is his eyes: the hazel brown pupils are very clear, shining with the light of wisdom behind the horn-rimmed glasses. Smithback leaned forward, shifting impatiently, staring at Moriarty and Margot. "Okay," he said, "I'd love to stay and watch this fascinating scene, but I'm going to the beetle room for an interview on Wednesday, and the chapter at hand has to be finished. , remember to talk to me first." He snorted coldly, got up and walked around the dining table, walking towards the door.