His expression changed. “That’s odd.” The message on the screen read:
INVALID RECORD OR RELATION
PROCESS HALTED
Moriarty frowned. “There’s nothing attached to this record for the Whittlesey journal.” He cleared the screen [188] and started typing again. “Nothing wrong with the others. See? Here’s the detail record for the figurine.”
Margo examined the screen.
**DETAIL LISTING**
Item: 1989-2006.4
###################################
Removed By: Cuthbert, I. 40123
Approvaclass="underline" Cuthbert, I. 40123
Removal Date: 3/17/95
Removal To: Superstition Exhibition
Case 415, Item 1004
Reason: Display
Return Date:
###################################
Removed By: Depardieu, B. 72412
Approvaclass="underline" Cuthbert, I. 40123
Removal Date: 10/1/90
Removal To: Anthropology Lab 2
Reason: Initial curating
Return Date: 10/5/90
###################################
END LISTING
=:?
“So what does that mean? We know the journal’s lost,” Margo said.
“Even if it’s lost, there should still be a detail record for it,” Moriarty said.
“Is there a restricted flag on the record?”
Moriarty shook his head and hit a few more keys.
“Here’s why,” he said at length, pointing at the screen. “The detail record’s been erased.”
“You mean the information about the journal’s [189] location has been deleted?” Smithback asked. “Can they do that?”
Moriarty shrugged. “It takes a high-security ID.”
“More importantly, why should somebody do that?” Margo asked. “Did the mainframe problem this morning have anything to do with it?”
“No.” Moriarty said. “This file compare dump I’ve just done implies the file was deleted sometime before last night’s backup. I can’t be more specific than that.”
“Deleted, eh?” Smithback said. “Gone forever. How clean, how neat. How coincidental. I’m beginning to see a pattern here—a nasty one.”
Moriarty switched off the terminal and pushed himself back from the desk. “I’m not interested in your conspiracy theories,” he said.
“Could it have been an accident? Or a malfunction?” Margo asked.
“Doubtful. The database has all sorts of referential integrity checks built-in. I’d see an error message.”
“So what, then?” Smithback pressed.
“I haven’t a clue.” Moriarty shrugged. “But it’s a trivial issue, at best.”
“Is that the best you can do?” Smithback snorted. “Some computer genius.”
Moriarty, offended, pushed his glasses up his nose and stood up. “I really don’t need this,” he said. “I think I’ll get some lunch.” He headed for the door. “Margo, I’ll take a rain check on that crossword puzzle.”
“Nice going,” Margo said as the door closed. “You’ve got a really subtle touch, you know that, Smithback? George was good enough to get us into the database.”
“Yeah, and what did we learn from it?” Smithback asked. “Diddly-squat. Only one of the crates was ever accessioned. Whittlesey’s journal is still missing.” He looked at her smugly. “I, on the other hand, have struck oil.”
[190] “Put it in your book,” Margo yawned. “I’ll read it then. Assuming I can find a copy in the library.”
“Et tu, Brute?” Smithback grinned and handed her a folded sheet of paper. “Well, take a look at this.”
The sheet was a photocopy reproduction of an article from the New Orleans Times-Picayune dated October 17, 1988.
GHOST FREIGHTER FOUND BEACHED
NEAR NEW ORLEANS
By Antony Anastasia
Special to the Times-Picayune
BAYOU GROVE, October 16 (AP)-A small freighter bound for New Orleans ran aground last night near this small coastal town. Details remain sketchy, but preliminary reports indicate that all crew members had been brutally slain while at sea. The Coast Guard first reported the grounding at 11:45 Monday night.
The ship, the Strella de Venezuela, was an 18,000-ton freighter, currently of Haitian registry, that plied the waters of the Caribbean and the main trade routes between South America and the United States. Damage was limited, and the vessel’s cargo appeared to be intact.
It is not presently known how the crew members met their deaths, or whether any of the crew were able to escape the ship. Henry La Plage, a private helicopter pilot who observed the beached vessel, reported that “corpses were strewn across the foredeck like some wild animal had gotten at them. I seen one guy hanging out a bridge porthole, his head all smashed up. It was like a slaughterhouse, ain’t never seen nothing like it.”
Local and federal authorities are cooperating [191] in an attempt to understand the slayings, easily one of the most brutal massacres in recent maritime history. “We are currently looking into several theories, but we’ve come to no conclusions as of yet,” said Nick Lea, a police spokesman. Although there was no official comment, federal sources said that mutiny, vengeance killings by rival Caribbean shippers, and sea piracy were all being considered as possible motives.
“Jesus,” Margo breathed. “The wounds described here—”
“—sound just like those on the three bodies found here this week,” Smithback nodded grimly.
Margo frowned. “This happened almost seven years ago. It has to be coincidental.”
“Does it?” Smithback asked. “I might be forced to agree with you—if it wasn’t for the fact that the Whittlesey crates were on board that ship.”
“What?”
“It’s true. I tracked down the bills of lading. The crates were shipped from Brazil in August of 1988—almost a year after the expedition broke up, as I understand it. After this business in New Orleans, the crates sat in customs while the investigation was being conducted. It took them almost a year and a half to reach the Museum.”
“The ritualized murders have followed the crates all the way from the Amazon!” Margo said. “But that means—”
“It means,” Smithback said grimly, “that I’m going to stop laughing now when I hear talk about a curse on that expedition. And it means you should keep locking this door.”
The phone rang, startling them both.
“Margo, my dear.” Frock’s voice rumbled to her. “What news?”
[192] “Dr. Frock! I wonder if I could come by your office for a few minutes. At your earliest convenience.”
“Splendid!” Frock said. “Give me a little time to shuffle some of this paper off my desk and into the wastebasket. Shall we say one o’clock?”
“Thank you,” Margo said. “Smithback,” she said, turning around, “we’ve got to—”
But the writer was gone.
At ten minutes to one, another knock sounded.
“Who’s there?” Margo said through the locked door.
“It’s me, Moriarty. Can I come in, Margo?”
“I just wanted to apologize for walking out earlier,” Moriarty said, declining a chair. “It’s just that Bill wears on me sometimes. He never seems to let up.”