6
The Etruscan Treasure
Verna left for Boston the next morning. There had been some discussion as to whether Andrew and Sara should go up there with her. But since she was certain to be very busy for at least several days, it was decided—much to the young people’s relief—that it would be best if they stayed in New York where Wyatt could keep an eye on them. Then, if all was going well, perhaps the three of them could go up to Boston for the weekend.
The doorman had a hack waiting for them when they came out of the hotel after lunch, and they had the driver stop at Twenty-Third Street to pick up Mark Russell, then went on again up to the Metropolitan Museum. Russell had received a note from his friend, the curator, reminding him of the private viewing and telling him where it was to take place. And so, instead of going in the main entrance, Russell took them to the small, ground-floor entrance. A uniformed guard just inside the door asked their names, checked them off on a list, and then turned them over to another guard who led them past the staff offices into a large hall that was empty except for a plaster cast of one of the friezes of the Parthenon and some Roman statues.
Russell’s friend, Holland, was there. He was clearly having difficulty restraining his excitement, but he greeted them all warmly, introduced them to some of the other invited guests: the art critics of the New York Times and the World and several of the museum’s trustees and their wives. The hall they were in, he explained, was intended for large-scale industrial exhibits. The Etruscan statues were in a small special exhibition room at the far end of the hall.
“Mowbray’s not here yet, is he?” asked Russell, looking around.
“No,” said Holland, frowning. “I don’t know what’s happened to him. I told him we’d like to begin at two thirty promptly, and …” He glanced at his watch, “here it is twenty of three. What do you think we should do?”
“Don’t wait for him,” said Wyatt.
“You don’t think we should?”
“No. He always comes late because he likes to make an entrance. I think he’d prefer it if you went ahead.”
“In that case, I think we will,” said Holland, somewhat relieved. “We do have some quite important people here. Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, raising his voice, “will you come this way?”
He walked to the door at the far end of the hall, opened it, then stood aside while the invited guests filed in. Andrew was not sure what he expected to see, but when Sara, who was standing next to him, gasped, he knew exactly how she felt.
On a platform in the center of the room was the statue of a warrior that was at least eight feel tall. Wearing a breastplate, greaves and a crested helmet, he stood with his shield raised, brandishing a spear. The statue was made of painted terra cotta and, though the colors were somewhat faded, they were still vivid enough to give the statue special vitality. The dark, white-rimmed eyes glared from the round openings in the helmet, and the lips were clamped into a grim line.
There were two other artifacts in the room: a man’s head, also larger than life size—possibly a priest since he wore an elaborate headdress—and a smaller, woman’s head, her hair held in by an embroidered band, smiling a cryptic smile. These were both interesting, but inevitably everyone’s attention came back to the giant statue on the central platform, which dominated the room.
There was a buzz of talk, exclamations of surprise and admiration, and then a spontaneous burst of applause. Pleased, but accepting it as his due, Holland bowed and smiled. He was about to say something when there were footsteps in the large hall and they heard a man’s voice that seemed to be expostulating. Everyone turned to look at the open door, and in walked a very striking man, followed by a younger man and a museum guard. The man in the lead was in his early forties and, while of no more than average height, because of his manner and the way he carried himself, he was almost as imposing as the Etruscan warrior. When Andrew and Sara had first seen Dandy Dan Cady, they had felt that there was something extreme and self-conscious about the way he was dressed. But while this man wore a morning coat and striped trousers too, everything about him was relaxed and seemed exactly right. He wore a glossy top hat, tipped well back, and carried a silver-headed cane. A slim, blond young man, dressed as formally as he was, walked a step or two behind him and hurrying after them was a museum guard who seemed very agitated about something.
“Please, sir,” he was saying. “Your stick!”
The man with the top hat—unquestionably Alec Bowen Mowbray—finally deigned to notice him. He paused and turned.
“What about my stick?”
“They’re not permitted in the museum. May I have it, please?”
“What?” Mowbray looked at him in astonishment. “But if I give you my stick how can I poke holes in all the paintings?”
His mouth open, the guard looked at Mowbray and then at Holland. The curator laughed feebly, then said, “It’s all right, James,” to the guard.
“Yes, sir,” said the guard retreating.
“I’m delighted that you could make it, Mr. Mowbray,” said Holland.
“I told you I would, didn’t I?” He looked coolly around, and his expression did not change until he saw Wyatt. “Oh, Wyatt. Didn’t realize you were in the States. How long have you been here?”
“About a week.”
“Good show! Come and see me at the gallery.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Splendid.” Now, at last, Mowbray turned his attention to the artifacts. “These your Etruscans?”
“Yes. What do you think of them?”
Taking a monocle from his waistcoat pocket, Mowbray put it in his right eye, studied the warrior, walked completely around it, glancing at the man’s and woman’s head in passing, then paused, leaning on his stick.
“What do you think they are?” he asked.
“Think? I know what they are! They’re sixth century B.C.”
“Provenance?”
“Orvieto. They were dug up at Chiusi, the old Clusium.”
“Who sold them to you?”
“Why, Bernardi. We only buy from the most reputable dealers. I asked you what you think of them.”
“I heard you.” Suddenly lifting his stick, he placed it under the giant warrior’s raised right arm and pushed. The statue swayed, teetered, then as everyone gasped in horror, it crashed to the floor, smashing into a dozen pieces.
One of the trustees swore, his wife shrieked, and for a moment Holland stared, his mouth open in shocked incredulity.
“Merciful heavens, Mr. Mowbray,” he finally whispered. “Why did you do that?”
“Because it’s a fake,” said Mowbray.
“What did you say?”
“I said it’s a fake.”
“But that’s ridiculous, impossible!”
Russell had moved closer to the shattered statue and was looking down.
“No, it’s not, Ralph. I think he may be right.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, it’s your field, not mine, but it’s my impression that terra cotta statues were always cast in sections and then cemented together, so they didn’t need an armature. But this one does have an armature.”
“It may have needed one because it was so big.”
Russell shook his head. “I doubt it,” he said. He bent down closer to the metal skeleton that had been inside the statue. “Besides, this looks like steel rather than iron, and.…” He glanced up at Mowbray. “Could I borrow your glass, sir?”
Without changing his expression, Mowbray opened his eye wide. As the monocle fell from it, he caught it and held it out to Russell.
“Thank you.” Again Russell bent down, using the monocle as a magnifying glass through which he studied the metal framework. “Look at this. This rod is stamped Torino—Turin—and of course Turin didn’t exist in the sixth century B.C.”
“Oh.” Holland looked at Mowbray as Russell returned his monocle with a bow. “What about the other two heads?”
“Are you sure?”
“My dear fellow!” said Mowbray with infinite weariness.
“All right. All right. If you say.…”
“What are you going to do with them?”
“The two heads? Nothing. The museum can’t show fakes.”
“I can—if they’re clearly labeled as such. As a matter of fact, I think it’s amusing. I’ll give you five hundred dollars for the two of them.”
“Done!”
“Good. Roger,” he said to the young man who had accompanied him, “give Mr. Holland a check and make arrangements to have them sent to the gallery.” Glancing around at the assembled guests, he nodded to Wyatt. Then, swinging his stick, he walked out of the room, across the large hall and out of the museum.
7
The African Stars
They were having lunch the next day—Sara, Andrew and Wyatt—sitting at a corner table in the Brevoort dining room when Inspector Decker appeared at the entrance, looked around and then came over.
“I thought I might find you here,” he said.
“One usually can,” said Wyatt. “Join us?”
“I’ve had lunch, but I’ll have some coffee,” said Decker, sitting.
Wyatt signalled their waiter, ordered a café filtre, then said, “All right. Tell us.”
“Tell you what?”
“I don’t know, but you seem pleased about something.”
“Pleased? Well, after the way things have been going with me it’s made me feel a little better to learn that Scotland Yard isn’t infallible.”
Wyatt sighed. “Et tu, Brute?”
“Who else has kidded you about it?”
“Sara and Andrew are the only two other members of the genus homo sapiens that I’ve talked to so far this morning. And while as loyal and law-abiding Britons they did not, as you put it, kid me about it, they gave me the New York Times with as much interest as reticence and distress.”
“You’ve seen it then?”
“The Times? Yes, of course.”
“How much of the story is true?”
“The Times is your paper, not ours.”
“I know. And it’s usually quite accurate. But I couldn’t help wondering. For instance—” he took the paper out of his jacket pocket, opened it to the story that was captioned Lloyd’s Settles Jewel Robbery Claim— “it says here that it was one of the largest settlements they ever made. True?”
“Lloyd’s has an office here. I imagine the Times checked with them.”
“Probably. They paid out a hundred thousand pounds. That’s about five hundred thousand bucks, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“What I don’t get is why Lloyd’s is so nasty about the Yard. I mean, things get stolen and sometimes you get the thief and sometimes you don’t. If you don’t, the insurance company pays up. But they seemed to imply that the Yard had a special responsibility here.”
“We did have. Because we were supposed to be watching the jewels at the time that they were stolen.”
“How come?”
“It’s a complicated story.”
He glanced at Sara and Andrew as if asking permission to go over it again and they nodded, glad he was going to. For, when they had first read about it, it occurred to them that it was exactly the kind of case Wyatt might be involved in. Except, as Andrew had pointed out, it seemed to be all over since Lloyd’s was paying up. And besides, neither of them could see how it could have brought Wyatt to New York.
“Do you know who Sir Harry Bachofer is?” Wyatt asked.
“Of course,” said Decker. “He’s the South African who owned the African Stars, the diamonds that were stolen, and is, I gather, rich.”
“Yes. Except that you left out an adjective, the one that modifies rich. We usually say filthy.”
“As in filthy rich? I thought that was understood. Even an averagely rich man doesn’t ordinarily own three diamonds like that. Where did he get them, by the way?”
“From a mine that he found, developed and later sold. That, of course, is how he became so rich.”
“And the Sir bit? How did he get to be a lord?”
“He’s not a lord. He moved to London and a year or so after that he was knighted for ‘services to the Crown.’”
“In the US that would mean he’d made a hefty contribution to the right political party.”
“I’m afraid the same thing is true in England.”
“How about the rest of the story—how the Yard got involved?”
“In gratitude for having been knighted, he gave the diamonds to the Crown. Not right away—they were to go to Her Majesty on her birthday. But since they were going to be Crown property, when Sir Harry and Lady Bachofer took the Stars to Italy to wear at the wedding of the Princess of Piedmont, Scotland Yard sent along a man to keep an eye on them.”
“And is that where they were stolen, in Italy?”
“We don’t know. The sergeant, a very reliable man, carried the diamonds from London, gave them to Lady Bachofer himself, accompanied her and Sir Harry to the wedding and the reception that followed, was given the diamonds afterwards by Sir Harry’s valet and returned with them to London where they were put in a bank vault. The loss was only discovered a month later when Lady Bachofer decided to wear them one last time before they went to the Crown. The bank manager himself brought them to her. When the case was opened, it was found to contain a paste copy of the Stars—such a good copy that only an expert would have known it, but a copy all the same.”
Decker whistled. “So there’s no telling when they were stolen. You say the sergeant was a very reliable man. Did anyone else get near them?”
“Only Sir Harry’s valet, who took them from Lady Bachofer and gave them to the sergeant. And if we thought the seregant was reliable, Sir Harry swore by the valet. He’d only been with him a year, but he’d been valet to the Duke of Denham for fourteen years before that. Naturally we talked to him and he told a very straight story. The poor fellow was so upset at what had happened that, shortly after he left the Yard, he walked in front of an omnibus, was run down and killed.”
“Rough luck.”
“Yes. And that, I think, is enough of that. Anything new on your case?”
“The missing file? No. That’s why I selfishly said I was glad to hear that you people don’t always come through. I’ve gotten absolutely nowhere with it—no new leads, nothing. I’m about ready to give up.”
“There are cases like that—more than the public realizes. On the other hand—” He broke off as their waiter came to the table with a yellow envelope in his hand.
“A telegram for you, sir,” he said.
“Oh, thank you.” Wyatt ripped open the envelope, took out the message and read it. “Well, this in interesting.”
“What is it?” asked Decker.
“It’s from Daniel Cady.”
“Dandy Dan?”
“Yes. And it says, ‘Urgent that I see you as soon as possible. Let me know where and when by return message.’”
“Well, well. Do you know what it’s about?”
“I think so.”
“Will you see him?” asked Sara.
“I suppose I should. And since he says it’s urgent, I’m afraid we’ll have to put off our trip to the Statue of Liberty,” he said to the two young people.
“That’s all right,” said Andrew.
Wyatt beckoned to the Western Union messenger, a boy of about fourteen, who was waiting just outside the dining room. “Do you have a reply form?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” said the boy, taking a pad and pencil out of his pocket.
Wyatt thought a minute, wrote a note on the yellow form, folded it and gave it to him.
“What’s the charge on that?” he asked.
“No charge,” said the boy. “The sender will pay.” Then when Wyatt tipped him. “Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you very much.” And saluting, he hurried out of the dining room.
“When did you make it for?” asked Sara.
“An hour from now. Two thirty.”
“He couldn’t ask for anything sooner than that,” said Decker, getting up. “I’ll, run along. I’m assuming you’ll let me know if it’s anything I should know.”
“Of course,” said Wyatt.
Cady must have been fairly close by and as anxious to see Wyatt as the telegram suggested, for at exactly two thirty, there was a knock at the door of Wyatt’s room, and when he opened it, Cady came in, followed by his unobtrusive companion, Biggs.
“Afternoon, Inspector,” he said. “It was good of you to—” He paused, staring at Sara and Andrew.
“You met my young friends, Sara Wiggins and Andrew Tillett, didn’t you?”
“Yes, at Guido’s. I’m a little surprised to find them here.”
“Well, we are friends. And we had a date. We were going out to the Statue of Liberty. Have you ever been there?”
“No. Somehow New Yorkers never get around to seeing any of the sights tourists do. Well, I don’t suppose it matters. I thought we should have a little talk.”
“‘The time has come, the Walrus said, to talk of many things.’”
“What?”
“It’s from Alice in Wonderland,” said Biggs. “A children’s book by a chap named Lewis Carroll.”
“It’s true that it’s generally considered a children’s book,” said Wyatt. “But I’ve found that the older I get, the more I get out of it.”
“I’m not much of a reader so I wouldn’t know about that,” said Cady. “All right if I sit down?”
“Please do.”
“Thanks.” Adjusting the crease in his trousers, he seated himself near the window. “I’m sure you know why I wanted to see you.”
“Why should I know that?”
“I just think you do. Didn’t you have a visitor the other day who talked to you about me?”
“Who was that?”
“I must say you play it pretty close to your vest,” said Cady, smiling. “But that’s all right. I’m talking about Al Manion.”
The Case of the Etruscan Treasure (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 5) Page 6
