th.red dragon-第48部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　Only　an　hour　left　before　closing　time。　He　crossed　the　street　and　went　inside。　The　checkroom　attendant　took　his　valise。
　〃Will　the　checkroom　be　open　tomorrow？〃　he　asked。　
　〃The　museum's　closed　tomorrow。〃　The　attendant　was　a　wizened　woman　in　a　blue　smock。　She　turned　away　from　him。
　〃The　people　who　e　in　tomorrow；　do　they　use　the　checkroom？〃
　〃No。　The　museum's　closed；　the　checkroom's　closed。〃
　Good。　〃Thank　you。〃
　〃Don't　mention　it。〃
　Dolarhyde　cruised　among　the　great　glass　cases　in　the　Oceanic　Hall　and　the　Hall　of　the　Americas　on　the　ground　floor　…　Andes　pottery；　primitive　edged　weapons；　artifacts　and　powerful　masks　ftom　the　Indians　of　the　Northwest　coast。
　Now　there　were　only　forty　minutes　left　before　the　museum　closed。　There　was　no　more　time　to　learn　the　ground　floor。　He　knew　where　the　exits　and　the　public　elevators　were。
　He　rode　up　to　the　fifth　floor。　He　could　feel　that　he　was　closer　to　the　Dragon　now；　but　it　was　all　right　…　he　wouldn't　turn　a　corner　and　run　into　Him。
　The　Dragon　was　not　on　public　display；　the　painting　had　been　locked　away　in　the　dark　since　its　return　from　the　Tate　Gallery　in　London。
　Dolarhyde　had　learned　on　the　telephone　that　The　Great　Red　Dragon　and　the　Woman　Clothed　with　the　Sun　was　rarely　displayed。　It　was　almost　two　hundred　years　old　and　a　watercolor　…　light　would　fade　it。
　Dolarhyde　stopped　in　front　of　Albert　Bierstadt's　A　Storm　in　the　Rocky　Mountains　…　Mt。　Rosalie　1866。　From　there　he　could　see　the　locked　doors　of　the　Painting　Study　and　Storage　Department。　That's　where　the　Dragon　was。　Not　a　copy；　not　a　photograph：　the　Dragon。　This　is　where　he　would　e　tomorrow　when　he　had　his　appointment。
　He　walked　around　the　perimeter　of　the　fifth　floor；　past　the　corridor　of　portraits；　seeing　nothing　of　the　paintings。　The　exits　were　what　interested　him。　He　found　the　fire　exits　and　the　main　stairs；　and　marked　the　location　of　the　public　elevators。
　The　guards　were　polite　middle…aged　men　in　thick…soled　shoes；　years　of　standing　in　the　set　of　their　legs。　None　was　armed；　Dolarhyde　noted；　one　of　the　guards　in　the　lobby　was　armed。　Maybe　he　was　a　moonlighting　cop。
　The　announcement　of　closing　time　came　over　the　public…address　system。
　Dolarhyde　stood　on　the　pavement　under　the　allegorical　figure　of　Brooklyn　and　watched　the　crowd　e　out　into　the　pleasant　summer　evening。
　Joggers　ran　in　place；　waiting　while　the　stream　of　people　crossed　the　sidewalk　toward　the　subway。
　Dolarhyde　spent　a　few　minutes　in　the　botanical　gardens。　Then　he　flagged　a　taxi　and　gave　the　driver　the　address　of　a　store　he　had　found　in　the　Yellow　Pages。
　
　
　CHAPTER　40
　
　At　nine　P。M。　Monday　Graham　set　his　briefcase　on　the　floor　outside　the　Chicago　apartment　he　was　using　and　rooted　in　his　pocket　for　the　keys。
　He　had　spent　a　long　day　in　Detroit　interviewing　staff　and　checking　employment　records　at　a　hospital　where　Mrs。　Jacobi　did　volunteer　work　before　the　family　moved　to　Birmingham。　He　was　looking　for　a　drifter；　someone　who　might　have　worked　in　both　Detroit　and　Atlanta　or　in　Birmingham　and　Atlanta；　someone　with　access　to　a　van　and　a　wheelchair　who　saw　Mrs。　Jacobi　and　Mrs。　Leeds　before　he　broke　into　their　houses。
　Crawford　thought　the　trip　was　a　waste　of　time；　but　humored　him。　Crawford　had　been　right。　Damn　Crawford。　He　was　right　too　much。
　Graham　could　hear　the　telephone　ringing　in　the　apartment。　The　keys　caught　in　the　lining　of　his　pocket。　When　he　jerked　them　out；　a　long　thread　came　with　them。　Change　spilled　down　the　inside　of　the　trouser　leg　and　scattered　on　the　floor。
　〃Son　of　a　bitch。〃
　He　made　it　halfway　across　the　room　before　the　phone　stopped　ringing。　Maybe　that　was　Molly　trying　to　reach　him。
　He　called　her　in　Oregon。
　Willy's　grandfather　answered　the　telephone　with　his　mouth　full。　It　was　suppertime　in　Oregon。
　〃Just　ask　Molly　to　call　me　when　she's　finished；〃　Graham　told　him。　He　was　in　the　shower　with　shampoo　in　his　eyes　when　the　telephone　rang　again。　He　sluiced　his　head　and　went　dripping　to　grab　the　receiver。　〃Hello；　Hotlips。〃
　〃You　silver…tongued　devil；　this　is　Byron　Metcalf　in　Birmingham。〃
　〃Sorry。〃
　〃I've　got　good　news　and　bad　news。　You　were　right　about　Niles　Jacobi。　He　took　the　stuff　out　of　the　house。　He'd　gotten　rid　of　it；　but　I　squeezed　him　with　some　hash　that　was　in　his　room　and　he　owned　up。　That's　the　bad　news　…　I　know　you　hoped　the　Tooth　Fairy　stole　it　and　fenced　it。
　〃The　good　news　is　there's　some　film。　I　don't　have　it　yet。　Niles　says　there　are　two　reels　stuffed　under　the　seat　in　his　car。　You　still　want　it；　right？〃
　〃Sure；　sure　I　do。〃
　〃Well；　his　intimate　friend　Randy's　using　the　car　and　we　haven't　caught　up　with　him　yet；　but　it　won't　be　long。　Want　me　to　put　the　film　on　the　first　plane　to　Chicago　and　call　you　when　it's　ing？〃
　〃Please　do。　That's　good；　Byron；　thanks。〃
　〃Nothing　to　it。〃
　Molly　called　just　as　Graham　was　drifting　off　to　sleep。　After　they　assured　each　other　that　they　were　all　right；　there　didn't　seem　to　be　much　to　say。
　Willy　was　having　a　real　good　time；　Molly　said。　She　let　Willy　say　good　night。
　Willy　had　plenty　more　to　say　than　just　good　night　…　he　told　Will　the　exciting　news：　Grandpa　bought　him　a　pony。
　Molly　hadn't　mentioned　it。
　
　
　CHAPTER　41
　
　The　Brooklyn　Museum　is　closed　to　the　general　public　on　Tuesdays；　but　art　classes　and　researchers　are　admitted。
　The　museum　is　an　excellent　facility　for　serious　scholarship。　The　staff　members　are　knowledgeable　and　acmodating；　often　they　allow　researchers　to　e　by　appointment　on　Tuesdays　to　see　items　not　on　public　display。
　Francis　Dolarhyde　came　out　of　the　IRT　subway　station　shortly　after　2　P。M。　on　Tuesday　carrying　his　scholarly　materials。　He　had　a　notebook；　a　Tate　Gallery　catalog；　and　a　biography　of　William　Blake　under　his　arm。
　He　had　a　flat　9…mm　pistol；　a　leather　sap　and　his　razor…edged　fileting　knife　under　his　shirt。　An　elastic　bandage　held　the　weapons　against　his　flat　belly。　His　sport　coat　would　button　over　them。　A　cloth　soaked　in　chloroform　and　sealed　in　a　plastic　bag　was　in　his　coat　pocket。
　In　his　hand　he　carried　a　new　guitar　case。
　Three　pay　telephones　stand　near　the　subway　exit　in　the　center　of　Eastern　Parkway。　One　of　the　telephones　has　been　ripped　out。　One　of　the　others　works。
　Dolarhyde　fed　it　quarters　until　Reba　said；　〃Hello。〃
　He　could　hear　darkroom　noises　over　her　voice。
　〃Hello；　Reba；〃　he　said。
　〃Hey；　D。　How're　you　feeling？〃
　Traffic　passing　on　both　sides　made　it　hard　for　him　to　hear。　〃Okay。〃
　〃Sounds　like　you're　at　a　pay　phone。　I　thought　you　were　home　sick。〃
　〃I　want　to　talk　to　you　later。〃
　〃Okay。　Call　me　late；　all　right？〃
　〃I　need　to　。　。　。　see　you。〃
　〃I　want　you　to　see　me；　but　I　can't　tonight。　I　have　to　work。　Will　you　call　me？〃
　〃Yeah。　If　nothing　。　。　。〃
　〃Excuse　me？〃
　〃I'll　call。〃
　〃I　do　want　you　to　e　soon；　D。〃
　〃Yeah。　Good…bye　。　。　。　Reba。〃
　All　right。　Fear　trickled　from　his　breastbone　to　his　belly。　He　squeezed　it　and　crossed　the　street。
　Entrance　to　the　Brooklyn　Museum　on　Tuesdays　is　through　a　single　door　on　the　extreme　right。　Dolarhyde　went　in　behind　four　art　students。　The　students　piled　their　knapsacks　and　satchels　against　the　wall　and　got　out　their　passes。　The　guard　behind　the　desk　checked　them。
　He　came　to　Dolarhyde。
　〃Do　you　have　an　appointment？〃
　Dolarhyde　nodded。　〃Painting　Study；　Miss　Harper。〃
　〃Sign　the　register；　please。〃　The　guard　offered　a　pen。　Dolarhyde　had　his　own　pen　ready。　He　sigued　〃Paul　Crane。〃　The　guard　dialed　an　upstairs　extension。　Dolarhyde　turned　his　back　to　the　desk　and　studied　Robert　Blum's　Vintage　Festival　over　the　entrance　while　the　guard　confirmed　his　appointment。　From　the　er　of　his　eye　he　could　see　one　more　security　guard　in　the　lobby。　Yes；　that　was　the　one　with　the　gun。
　〃Back　of　the　lobby　by　the　shop　there's　a　bench　next　to　the　main　elevators；〃　the　desk　officer　said。　〃Wait　there。　Miss　Harper's　ing　down　for　you。〃　He　handed　Dolarhyde　a　pink…on…white　plastic　badge。
　〃Okay　if　I　leave　my　guitar　here？〃
　〃I'll　keep　an　eye　on　it。〃
　The　museum　was　different　with　the　lights　turned　down。　There　was　twilight　among　the　great　glass　cases。
　Dolarhyde　waited　on　the　bench　for　three　minutes　before　Miss　Harper　got　off　the　public　elevator。
　〃Mr。　Crane？　I'm　Paula　Harper。〃
　She　was　younger　than　she　had　sounded　on　the　telephone　when　he　called　from　St。　Louis；　a　sensible…looking　woman；　severely　pretty。　She　wore　her　blouse　and　skirt　like　a　uniform。
　〃You　called　about　the　Blake　watercolor；〃　she　said。　〃Let's　go　upstairs　and　I'll　show　it　to　you。　We'll　take　the　staff　elevator　…　this　way。〃
　She　led　him　past　the　dark　museum　shop　and　through　a　small　room　lined　with　primitive　weapons。　He　looked　around　fast　to　keep　his　bearings。　In　the　corner　of　the　Americas　section　was　a　corridor　which　led　to　the　small　elevator。
　Miss　Harper　pushed　the　button。　She　hugged　her　elbows　and　waited。　The　clear　blue　eyes　fell　on　the　pass；　pink　on　white；　clipped　to　Dolarhyde's　lapel。
　〃That's　a　sixth…floor　pass　he　gave　you；〃　she　said。　〃It　doesn't　matter　…　there　aren't　any　guards　on　five　today。　What　kind　of　research　are　you　doing？〃
　Dolarhyde　had　made　it　on　smiles　and　nods　until　now。　〃A　paper　on　Butts；〃　he　said。
　〃On　William　Butts？〃
　He　nodded。
　〃I've　never　read　much　on　him。　You　only　see　him　in　footnotes　as　a　patron　of　Blake's。　Is　he　interesting？〃
　〃I'm　just　beginning。　I'll　have　to　go　to　England。〃
　〃I　think　the　National　Gallery　has　two　watercolors　he　did　for　Butts。　Have　you　seen　them　yet？〃
　〃Not　yet。〃
　〃Better　write　ahead　of　time。〃
　He　nodded。　The　elevator　came。
　Fifth　floor。　He　was　tingling　a　little；　but　he　had　blood　in　his　arms　and　legs。　Soon　it　would　be　just　yes　or　no。　If　it　went　wrong；　he　wouldn't　let　them　take　him。
　She　led　him　down　the　corridor　of　American　portraits。　This　wasn't　the　way　he　came　before。　He　could　tell　where　he　was。　It　was　all　right。
　But　something　waited　in　the　corridor　for　him；　and　when　he　saw　it　he　stopped　dead　still。
　Paula　Harper　realized　he　wasn't　following　and　turned　around。　He　was　rigid　before　a　niche　in　the　wall　of　portraits。　She　came　back　to　him　and　saw　what　he　was　staring　at。　〃That's　a　Gilbert　Stuart　portrait　of　George　Washington；〃　she　said。　
　No　it　wasn't。
　〃You　see　a　similar　one　on　the　dollar　bill。　They　call　it　a　Lansdowne　portrait　because　Stuart　did　one　for　the　Marquis　of　Lansdowne　to　thank