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“But I do.”
“Please tell.”
“He’s highly esteemed and of good character. Not only is he a skilled surgeon, but he also treats waifs and orphans at the Five Points Mission and the House of Industrypro bono publico. I understand he comes from an ancient and distinguished family of the Deep South. He’s become well known in Heidelberg for curing madness with surgery.” And here she gave Mrs. Cabot-Flint a knowing look guaranteed to provoke another small fit of delicious shuddering.
“Do tell me his name. Oh,do.” She clasped her hands together.
“Dr. Enoch Leng.”
41
SINCE THE DOOR WASalready partway open, Coldmoon didn’t bother to knock. He entered Britley’s office unannounced, D’Agosta and Archer following. They found the chairman of the Anthropology Department at his desk, a strikingly elegant man in a beautiful suit, one leg thrown over the other, dictating something to a very attractive woman who was transcribing in shorthand on an old-fashioned steno pad. It was a scene, Coldmoon thought, straight out of the sixties. All that was missing was the beehive hairdo.
Britley eyed them coldly. “What’s all this, then?” he asked in an upper-class English drawl.
“So sorry to interrupt,” said Archer, “but these gentlemen—”
Coldmoon removed his FBI wallet and let it fall open to display his shield. “Special Agent Coldmoon, and Lieutenant Commander D’Agosta, Borough Homicide. We’re investigating the Mancow murder.”
“I see,” said Britley. He turned to the secretary. “That’s all for now, Tenny.”
“Yes, Dr. Britley.” She gathered up her steno pad, pencil, and portfolio and left.
“They’re here to ask you some questions,” said Archer.
“Mr. Archer,” said Britley, “thank you for bringing these chaps in. I don’t think you are needed anymore—I’ll take it from here.”
As Archer left, Coldmoon said: “We won’t take up too much of your time.”
Britley looked at them, leaning back his head. “I’m so sorry, gentlemen, but now’s not convenient.” He rose. “You can make an appointment with my secretary on your way out. Next week should have an opening or two.”
“I’m very sorry, Dr. Britley,” said Coldmoon, “but we need your time right now.”
“Is this in the way of a voluntary interview?”
“Yes.”
“Well then, my answer is that I decline to volunteer at the present moment.”
“Do you really prefer that we obtain a warrant?” asked Coldmoon.
“That’s what will be required to interrupt my busy schedule.”
“The interview will be at Federal Plaza.”
“You mean, you’re going to ‘take me downtown’? Ah, that wonderful old B-movie line. Fine: if you can get a warrant, which I doubt, I shall gladly meet you downtown. Now, however, I’m late for an appointment.” Britley grabbed his coat and threw it over his arm. “Excuse me, please, gentlemen?”
He began to walk between them, but D’Agosta blocked the exit to the office.
“You, sir, are in my way.”
“Who the hell do you think you are, asshole, disrespecting an FBI agent and a lieutenant commander of the NYPD?”
At this outburst, Britley looked at D’Agosta in surprise.
“We’re trying to solve a homicide,” D’Agosta went on, “in which one of your own people was locked in a freezer and left to die a slow, painful, terrifying death. Can you imagine what the man went through? Right here, inyourmuseum. And here you are, Sir Chauncey Dirtbag, on your high horse telling us you’re too busy to answer questions? Well, fuck that.”
Britley, recovering from his shock, drew himself up in outrage. “I will not tolerate such abusive language from an officer of the law. I feel positively assaulted by it. In fact, this warrants a complaint. You said my cooperation was voluntary.”