Free The Hours of the Virgin by Loren D. Estleman Page B

he used both eyes, turning his head this way and that to focus one of them on me at a time, like a bird. “If you were employed by his attorney, you’d know the answer to that question.”
    â€œProbably. If I were working for Frankie Lymon I’d know why fools fall in love, but like I said I’m working for Boyette and right now I don’t even know where the hell he is. A situation which if it goes on long enough and if I get tired enough of these here verbal gymnastics I will take to the cops. Hell, I’m tired enough now. Stand aside.”
    He took in air through his thin pale nose. When it came back out it made a noise like a teakettle.
    â€œThis institution contracted with Mr. Boyette for his services as a consultant on historical manuscripts,” he said. “It came to our attention that he had authenticated certain items which he knew to be forgeries. The inference was that he had conspired with the forgers to defraud the museum.”
    â€œCame to your attention how?”
    â€œMr. Boyette was not the only expert we consulted. The number of counterfeit manuscripts was too great to be a coincidence. In two cases particularly they were too obvious—crude, really—not to have been identified as false by a scholar of his experience. The conclusion, that he was an accomplice in the fraud, was no less obvious.”
    â€œWas the Hours of the Virgin one of the fakes?”
    A crease appeared in the bleach-bottle forehead. “Which one? There are many books of hours.”
    â€œPlymouth. The duke’s wedding present.”
    The crease went away. “Balderdash.”
    â€œDid you say balderdash?”
    â€œI did. Poppycock.”
    â€œBalderdash is plenty rich enough for me. What’s wrong with Plymouth?”
    â€œThis institution has never been in possession of the Plymouth Virgin. If anyone were to offer it to us we should certainly denounce it and them. That manuscript was destroyed during the Reformation.”
    â€œNot the Blitz?”
    â€œIt hasn’t existed for four hundred years.”
    â€œWhat I saw looked real.”
    â€œHow much do you know about illuminated manuscripts?”
    â€œMy recent education has improved more than a hundred percent. Two days ago I didn’t know one from Billy Graham.” I told him about the crab louse stuck in the ink.
    â€œThat would be a matter for an entomologist to determine. As a layman I’d guess the species hasn’t changed much in four centuries.” He glowered at his wristwatch. He’d been away from the cash register ten minutes. “Is there anything else?”
    â€œJust one thing. When did you can Boyette, yesterday or today?”
    â€œNeither. He hasn’t worked here for well over six months.”

9
    I smoked my cigarette down to the filter, regarding Mr. Ruddy’s long pallid exterior. He was wearing one of those toy ties that are supposed to make wearing them fun, all primary colors and whimsical patterns. This one had Egyptian pyramids. I ground out the butt against the side of a steel wastebasket and dropped it inside. It hadn’t done anything for my congestion.
    â€œHarold Boyette,” I said. “Thirty, middle height, about twenty pounds over. Receding hair. Kissable lips.”
    â€œThat’s an adequate description. I couldn’t say about the lips.”
    â€œI met him here in one of the galleries forty-eight hours ago. He said his office was being renovated and let us into a storeroom in the south wing. He had a key.”
    The institutional mouth bent down at the corners. It was as kissable as a paper cut. “That’s distressing. He was forced to surrender his keys before he left. He must have made copies. Dr. Angelo has his office now, his area is Chinese porcelains. I believe he had the lock changed when he moved in. That office has not been renovated in years.”
    â€œOf course not. It was a dodge.” I recited