Taco Noir (17 page)

              “Dashed good to see you again, old boy,” said March in an affected English accent. From what I remembered of the man, he was born and raised in Flatbush, but perhaps that had changed over the years.

              “You asked me to stop by, but you weren’t exactly clear to as to what you needed.”

              March looked over his shoulder before speaking, to the security guard who was about to give me the bum’s rush a moment earlier. With a raise of March’s eyebrow the guard flat-footed it back to his post, and March and I retired to the smaller hall, away from the hustle and bustle at the main exhibit.

              “I’m told,” March whispered, “that you are a detective.”

              “I’m a detective for hire,” I replied, with an emphasis on hire. If March heard the emphasis, he did a good job of not showing it.

              “We here at the Museum Society are in a bit of a jam, old boy, and we could use someone of your…..”

              “Expertise?” I suggested.

              “Quite,” dismissed March. He walked over to the main hall and expected me to follow, as if I were his underling. It bothered me that I followed.

              “Three months ago Professor Martin Plath made the discovery of a lifetime in Egypt,” Marsh told me, strolling toward the glass display cases.

              “A kosher deli?”

              “An intact king’s tomb!” snapped Marsh. “Plath made the extremely rare discovery of a tomb untouched by looters. The crypt overflowed with riches, jewels, artifacts….”

              “Mummies,” I sighed, looking around at the wrapped cadavers. “Lots and lots of mummies.”

              “Exactly! And each of them worth a king’s ransom!” I looked over at the dead bodies wrapped like Christmas presents and wondered which one was the king. I doubted the distinction did him much good now.

              “And old Professor Plath got King Whatizwhosits…”

              “Cheoptu,” snapped March. It’s always tough when the help is dim-witted. “King Cheoptu of the third dynasty.”

              “Fine,” I said. “So Plath digs up old man Cheoptu and finds his savings account. How did you end up with the goods only a few months later?”

              “Professor Plath was an employee of the Museum, and an employee of mine. We took over custody of the find as soon as news of the discovery reached us and arranged for transfer to the museum.”

              “And Professor Plath?”

              “The unfortunate Professor fell victim to the hydrogen sulfide gas that escaped from the tomb upon opening. Tragic, just tragic. The professor’s assistant obtained the proper permits and we were fortunate enough to have the artifacts transported post-haste.”

              I read between the lines close enough to substitute “hydrogen sulfide” for a blade in the back, “assistant” for paid cut-throat, and “permits” for bribery. Professor Plath never stood a chance.

              “Well, that’s a lovely tale, but what’s it got to do with me?”

              March again looked over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “The museum has spared no expense in making this the most publicized event of the year. Anyone who is anyone will be at the opening tonight, and everything must go seamlessly.”

              “Well, March, it looks like you have all the seams accounted for,” I said as I watched the caterers put the finishing touches on the spread. Guys like me don’t get a chance to partake of canapés and caviar, so I was hoping to stick around for a while.

              “Not quite,” said March as he stepped closer and spoke in a hushed whisper. “The Dagger of Cheoptu is missing.”

              “And I’m guessing that the Dagger of Cheoptu isn’t exactly a knife of the Swiss variety…?”

              “The Dagger of Cheoptu,” said March with an indulgent sigh, “is a priceless artifact that is the crown jewel of this exhibit.” I would have thought that the crown jewel would have been an actual crown jewel, but I wasn’t the archeologist here.

              “So what does the dingus look like?”

              “The ‘dingus’ is a gold dagger approximately twelve inches long with a wavy blade, and three large rubies imbedded in its handle.”

              “Could you use the thing as a weapon?” I asked, going to the places my mind usually took me.

              “Good heavens no!” gasped March.” Despite the fact that the dagger is made of very malleable metal, it is worth more than some of the lives in this very room!” I had no doubt that mine was one of the lives it was worth more than and his was one of the exceptions. It was that kind of thinking that made March so popular with his men during our army days.

              “All right, when did you notice the dagger was missing?” I asked.

              “I noticed it was missing when I made my final inspection this morning. We will be opening the exhibit at six o’clock this evening. The dagger was there last night and this morning as well. I’ve been just about bloody sleeping in this place since the artifacts arrived.” He said this as if it explained his surly disposition, but the same smooth operator that ran the Museum of Natural History today was the guy who routinely had me digging trenches during the war. He noticed everything, but cared about damn little.

              “Have there been any unusual visitors to the museum this morning?” I asked.

              “Just the usual faces,” he said. “The handymen who assemble the displays, the cleaning staff, the caterers, and Professor Trainer, the archeologist who took over after Plath’s unfortunate demise.”

              “And has anyone left the museum?”

              “No one has left the building since I got here this morning. The guards have set up a perimeter, none have been in the room since this morning, and no one goes in or out of this place without my say so.” If he expected me to salute, he would be disappointed.

              “Well, it looks like you have everything in hand,” I said, tipping up the brim of my hat and heading towards the caterers table. “Let me know how everything turns out.”

              “Not so fast,” he said, ever the commanding officer. “I still don’t have the bloody thief.”

              “Didn’t you have everyone here frisked?” I asked.

              “I did,” he said. “And everyone was clean. There is no way that the dagger left his room.”

              “Well, then, what could we possibly have to worry about?” I said as I made my way to the display cases. “Maybe we should just check the silverware drawer.”

              I poked my way through the display area, carefully focusing on the glass case that once held the Dagger of Cheoptu. I noticed the red velvet pillow still bore the faint outline of the blade. I also noticed that the glass case had recently been cleaned of all fingerprints, stray hair, and smudges. Jeeves the butler would be proud.

              “I don’t suppose you mopped up any bloody footprints this morning?” I asked the young man from the cleaning crew following the construction guys around, preparing for the grand opening. He gave me the same look my butcher gives me when I try to be witty. If there was anything to be learned, it wasn’t here.

I put a hand on the top of the display and tilted it back, lifting the edge away. I clenched my jaw and waited for the alarms to go off.

              I got nothing.

              I looked over at March and saw that his eyes had bugged out like those Argentinian frogs that always look so cute on the cover of National Geographic.

              The expression didn’t look so cute on March

              “How is this possible?” stammered March as he ran towards the display. He gaped and gasped at the display before grabbing one of the construction goons and pulling him towards the exhibit.

              “There’s no alarm on this display case!” screamed March. The worker looked as if March told him that there were clouds in the sky.

              “Don’t worry about it, Mac,” said the worker calmly. “We’ll get it all done before you put anything in there. Just relax.” March blinked dumbly at the crew as they went back to work. I backed up a few steps in case March’s head exploded.

              “So the dagger could have walked out of here at any time during the last day or night?” I asked.

              Silence.

              “And it might have even made its way out of the museum by now.”

More silence.

              I thought of mentioning that one of the school children on a field trip might have made off with the dagger, but that might have pushed him over the edge. Instead I made my way over to the buffet line to see how the better half lived. Apparently they lived on shrimp cocktails.

              “We is just getting everything put,” said the small, gnome-like woman who managed the group of gnome-like women who set up the food. I did my best to keep my eye on the woman who spoke, but as she mixed into the group, I found it hard to tell them apart. So instead, I turned my attention back to the spread that the old women were “just getting put,” and was truly impressed. Everything from champagne and foie gras to Crème Brule and chocolate truffles made up this cornucopia of excess. I rolled up my sleeves and dove in while March increased his blood pressure and questioned the staff.  Since there was still a bit of mystery in the air I thought I would pace myself. I planned on working my way from asparagus to zeppoles. I only got as far as the letter B before I hit a snag.

              “Pardon me,” I said to one of the women who were floating about the chow line moving things here and there. “The grub here seems first rate, but do you happen to have a spoon or something for the Baba Ghanouj here?”

              The lady sighed and disappeared into the gaggle of women. When she reappeared, she tossed a utensil into the chafing dish without breaking stride. Guessing that I had ‘unimportant guest’ scribbled on my forehead in indelible ink, I picked up the handle of the utensil and started to load up my dish. It was only after my plate bowed did I notice the utensil I was holding.

              “Oh March,” I called over my shoulder. From the amount of time March spent yelling at his underlings, you would have thought he’d be out of breath. You would be wrong.

              “Don’t say another word,” barked March, turning his wrath to me. “If you were half the detective you’re supposed yourself to be, you would have been able to turn up some clue to the dagger’s whereabouts.”

              “But I think….”

              “No, I don’t believe that you do,” snapped March. “Consider yourself fired. I’ll expect you off the grounds in the next five minutes.”

              March turned on his heel and sped off into one of the smaller galleries in search of someone else’s life in which to spread a little sunshine. Since I was not only fired, but never hired in the first place, I loaded up my plate for a nice long lunch at home. Before I left, I wiped the eggplant from the Dagger of Cheoptu and left it neatly in the bussing tray.

BABA GHANOUJ

2 1-pound eggplants, halved lengthwise

1/4 cup olive oil

1/4 cup tahini (sesame paste)

3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice

½ teaspoon of cracked black pepper

½ teaspoon salt

1 garlic clove, chopped

Pita bread wedges

• Crank up the heat in the oven to about 375 degrees F and slice  the eggplant in half while you wait for the oven to do its thing. Put the halves face-down on a baking sheet and throw it in the oven for about 45 minutes, or until the fight is gone from them. Using a spoon, scoop out the guts of the eggplants and sweat them out in a strainer, until they’ve lost most of their liquid.
  

• Throw the eggplant guts into a processor and add the olive oil, tahini, lemon juice, salt, black pepper, and garlic. Give it a spin and serve it up with the pita bread.
  

            Suitable for any museum heist.

THE BIG SHOULDERS

A Special Agent Hugh W. Cranston Adventure

I walked past the stone lions that stood guard over Chicago’s Federal building, giving the boys a snappy salute as I did so. I had spent the last three weeks in Mr. Hoover’s employ as a recent graduate of the FBI training academy, and felt it was my duty to start each day off right by giving the lads a hearty good morning from Hugh W. Cranston.

              The ‘W’ stood for patriotic!

              I made short work of my first assignment of the morning by wearing out a little of the old shoe leather. As the newest agent in the Chicago office, I had to start on the bottom rung of the investigation ladder but, a little elbow grease and my nose to the magnifying glass, and I had already earned the trust of the Bureau Chief, Special Agent Stanton. My only concern thus far was that my meteoric rise might generate the envy of my fellow agents, but such is the life of a civil servant.