walk in the arboretum.”
“So how long did you walk in the arboretum?” the sergeant asked.
“Ten, fifteen minutes.”
“And then?”
“When I came back, I started for my car in the parking lot. I hadn’t gone very far when it occurred to me that I needed to close up the office. It was then that I noticed Heinie’s car. I didn’t recognize it and wouldn’t have given it much thought, but the interior light went on and I saw who it was. I would have avoided him except that he saw me and called for me to come over to him.”
“That must have been what, eight thirty?” the lieutenant said.
“I would think so.”
“What happened at that point?”
“He opened the door for me to get in and began apologizing for burdening me with his problems. Which he continued to do, going on and on about Merissa Bonne and her affair with Max Shofar. But then he did say something that didn’t make sense until later on.”
“We’re listening.”
“He said that de Buitliér, you know, the curator of our Greco-Roman Collection, had been messing with him.”
“Messing with him? What did he mean by that?”
“I don’t know. I asked him, but he wouldn’t tell me.”
“Go on.”
“When I began to open the door, he said he had something to show me. I watched as he reached over to the glove compartment. I was naturally alarmed to see that he had a revolver in his hand and was pointing it at my heart. ‘I could shoot you, Norman,’ he said. ‘I could make it look like a suicide. No one would know.’
“I was amazed and scared, of course. ‘Whatever for?’ I asked. ‘What have I ever done to you?’ His face had a wild expression. He cocked the gun and said, ‘You’re out to ruin me. You and all the rest of them.’ I was afraid he really would shoot me. I said tohim, ‘Heinie, I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.’ Then he brought up de Buitliér again. ‘Sure you do. You and de Buitliér are in on this together.’ I shook my head. ‘Heinie,’ I said, ‘don’t do anything foolish.’ Or words to that effect. ‘Don’t destroy everything you have.’ ” I paused then in my narrative, trying to recall anything else that happened.
“So he obviously didn’t shoot you,” the sergeant remarked as though it were some kind of quip.
I ignored him and kept my eyes on the lieutenant. “Right then he just laughed. He said, ‘You don’t know, do you?’ And I said, ‘Don’t know what?’ But he just laughed again. I think I know now what he was referring to.”
“What’s that?”
“The fact he had my gun.”
“You didn’t recognize it?”
“No. One revolver of that type looks pretty much like every other.” I paused. “Or, he could have been referring to the coins, the fact that they were forgeries.”
“Yeah,” the sergeant said dismissively. “Then what happened?”
I took a sip of coffee. “He grew even more … deranged. He told me he wanted to murder someone. When I asked him whom he wanted to murder, he interrupted me and said he wanted someone to murder him. He pushed the cocked weapon right into my ribs and, really, I thought that was it. I wouldn’t even hear the shot.”
“But obviously he didn’t?” The sergeant again sounded snide.
I gave him as dismissive a glance as I could muster and said to the lieutenant, “He then turned the gun on himself, first at his heart and then at the side of his head. He said, ‘Please help me do this.’ ”
“But you didn’t?”
My face froze in a frown of confusion. Of course I didn’t. But a venomous vapor of self-doubt clouded my mind. I couldn’t tell them the truth: I had wanted, in my fear and loathing of the man — he had just threatened my life, after all — to hold the revolver to his head and fire it. “I couldn’t have,” I said weakly.
“But you’re not sure?”
“You shot him because he was doing your wife,” the sergeant snarled.
I looked beseechingly at the lieutenant. He shrugged.
“So how long did you walk in the arboretum?” the sergeant asked.
“Ten, fifteen minutes.”
“And then?”
“When I came back, I started for my car in the parking lot. I hadn’t gone very far when it occurred to me that I needed to close up the office. It was then that I noticed Heinie’s car. I didn’t recognize it and wouldn’t have given it much thought, but the interior light went on and I saw who it was. I would have avoided him except that he saw me and called for me to come over to him.”
“That must have been what, eight thirty?” the lieutenant said.
“I would think so.”
“What happened at that point?”
“He opened the door for me to get in and began apologizing for burdening me with his problems. Which he continued to do, going on and on about Merissa Bonne and her affair with Max Shofar. But then he did say something that didn’t make sense until later on.”
“We’re listening.”
“He said that de Buitliér, you know, the curator of our Greco-Roman Collection, had been messing with him.”
“Messing with him? What did he mean by that?”
“I don’t know. I asked him, but he wouldn’t tell me.”
“Go on.”
“When I began to open the door, he said he had something to show me. I watched as he reached over to the glove compartment. I was naturally alarmed to see that he had a revolver in his hand and was pointing it at my heart. ‘I could shoot you, Norman,’ he said. ‘I could make it look like a suicide. No one would know.’
“I was amazed and scared, of course. ‘Whatever for?’ I asked. ‘What have I ever done to you?’ His face had a wild expression. He cocked the gun and said, ‘You’re out to ruin me. You and all the rest of them.’ I was afraid he really would shoot me. I said tohim, ‘Heinie, I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.’ Then he brought up de Buitliér again. ‘Sure you do. You and de Buitliér are in on this together.’ I shook my head. ‘Heinie,’ I said, ‘don’t do anything foolish.’ Or words to that effect. ‘Don’t destroy everything you have.’ ” I paused then in my narrative, trying to recall anything else that happened.
“So he obviously didn’t shoot you,” the sergeant remarked as though it were some kind of quip.
I ignored him and kept my eyes on the lieutenant. “Right then he just laughed. He said, ‘You don’t know, do you?’ And I said, ‘Don’t know what?’ But he just laughed again. I think I know now what he was referring to.”
“What’s that?”
“The fact he had my gun.”
“You didn’t recognize it?”
“No. One revolver of that type looks pretty much like every other.” I paused. “Or, he could have been referring to the coins, the fact that they were forgeries.”
“Yeah,” the sergeant said dismissively. “Then what happened?”
I took a sip of coffee. “He grew even more … deranged. He told me he wanted to murder someone. When I asked him whom he wanted to murder, he interrupted me and said he wanted someone to murder him. He pushed the cocked weapon right into my ribs and, really, I thought that was it. I wouldn’t even hear the shot.”
“But obviously he didn’t?” The sergeant again sounded snide.
I gave him as dismissive a glance as I could muster and said to the lieutenant, “He then turned the gun on himself, first at his heart and then at the side of his head. He said, ‘Please help me do this.’ ”
“But you didn’t?”
My face froze in a frown of confusion. Of course I didn’t. But a venomous vapor of self-doubt clouded my mind. I couldn’t tell them the truth: I had wanted, in my fear and loathing of the man — he had just threatened my life, after all — to hold the revolver to his head and fire it. “I couldn’t have,” I said weakly.
“But you’re not sure?”
“You shot him because he was doing your wife,” the sergeant snarled.
I looked beseechingly at the lieutenant. He shrugged.
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