Claudia and Jamie did not think that there was anything unusual about the size of the crowd. This was New York. Crowded was part of the definition of New York. (To many art experts, Saxonberg, crowded is part of the definition of the Italian Renaissance, too. It was a time much like this: artistic activity was everywhere. Keeping track of the artists of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries in Italy is as difficult as keeping track of the tax laws in the nineteen fifties and sixties in the United States. And almost as complicated.)
As they reached the top of the stairs, a guard said, “Line forms to the right. Single file, please.” They did as they were told, partly because they didn’t want to offend any guard or even attract his attention and partly because the crowd made them. Ladies’ arms draped with pocketbooks and men’s arms draped with coats formed a barrier as difficult to get through as barbed wire. Claudia and Jamie stood in the manner of all children who are standing in line. They stood leaning back with their necks stretched and their heads tilted away, way back, making a vain effort to see over the shoulders of the tall adult who always appears in front of them. Jamie could see nothing but the coat of the man in front of him. Claudia could see nothing but a piece of Jamie’s head plus the coat of the man in front of Jamie.
They realized that they were approaching something out of the ordinary when they saw a newspaper cameraman walking along the edge of the crowd. The newsman carried a large, black, flash camera which had TIMES stencilled in white on its case. Jamie tried to slow down to the pace of the photographer. He didn’t know what he was having his picture taken for, but he liked getting his picture taken—especially for a newspaper. Once when his class had visited the fire department, his picture had been in the paper at home. He had bought seven copies of the paper and used that page for bookcovers. When the bookcovers began to tear, he covered the covers with Saran wrap. They were still in his bookcase at home.
Claudia sensed danger. At least she remembered that they had run away from home, and she didn’t want any New York paper advertising her whereabouts. Or Jamie’s either. Especially if her parents happened to be looking for her. Someone in Greenwich was bound to read the New York Times and tell her folks. It would be more than a clue; it would be like booking anyone looking for them on a chartered bus ride straight to the hideaway. Wouldn’t her brother ever learn inconspicuous? She shoved him.
He almost fell into the man in the coat. Jamie turned to Claudia and gave her an awful look. Claudia paid no attention, for now they reached what everyone was standing in line to see. A statue of an angel; her arms were folded, and she was looking holy. As Claudia passed by, she thought that that angel was the most beautiful, most graceful little statue she had ever seen; she wanted to stop and stare; she almost did, but the crowd wouldn’t let her. As Jamie passed by, he thought that he would get even with Claudia for shoving him.
They followed the line to the end of the Renaissance Hall. When the velvet ropes that had guided the crowd by creating a narrow street within the room ended, they found themselves going down a staircase to the main floor. Claudia was lost in remembrance of the beautiful angel she had seen. Why did she seem so important; and why was she so special? Of course, she was beautiful. Graceful. Polished. But so were many other things at the museum. Her sarcophagus, for example, the one in which her violin case was hidden. And why was there all that commotion about her? The man had come to take pictures. There would be something about it in tomorrow’s paper. They could find out from the newspapers.
She spoke to Jamie, “We’ll have to buy a New York Times tomorrow to see the picture.”
Jamie was still mad about that shove. Why would he want to buy the paper? He wouldn’t be in the picture. He chose to fight Claudia with the one weapon he had—the power of the purse. He answered, “We can’t afford a New York Times. It costs a dime.”
“We’ve got to get one, Jamie. Don’t you want to know what’s so important about that statue? Why everyone is standing in line to see it?”
Jamie felt that letting Claudia know that she couldn’t get away with shoving him in public was more important than his curiosity. “Well, perhaps, tomorrow you can push someone down and grab his paper while he’s trying to get up. I’m afraid, though, that our budget won’t allow this expense.”
They walked for a short while before Claudia said, “I’ll find out some way.” She was determined about that.
She was also determined about learning; they wouldn’t skip a lesson so easily. “Since we can’t learn everything about the Italian Renaissance today, let’s learn everything about the Egyptian rooms. That will be our lesson instead.”
Jamie liked the mummies even if he didn’t like lessons, so they walked together to the Egyptian wing. There they encountered a class that was also touring the halls. Each child in the class wore a round circle of blue construction paper on which was written in magic marker: Gr. 6, W.P.S. The class was seated on little rubber mats around a glass case within which was a mummy case within which was the mummy they were talking about. The teacher sat on a folding stool. Both Claudia and Jamie wandered over toward the class and soon became part of it—almost. They listened to the guide, a very pretty young lady who worked for the museum, and they learned a lot. They didn’t even mind. They were surprised that they could actually learn something when they weren’t in class. The guide told them how mummies were prepared and how Egypt’s dry climate helped to preserve them. She told them about digging for tombs, and she told them about the beautiful princess Sit Hat-Hor Yunet whose jewelry they would see in another room. Before they left this room, however, she wanted to know if there were any questions. Since I’m sure this group was typical of all the school groups that I’ve observed at the museum, I can tell you what they were doing. At least twelve members of Gr. 6, W.P.S. were busy poking at each other. Twelve were wondering when they would eat; four were worried about how long it would be before they could get a drink of water.
Only Jamie had a question: “How much did it cost to become a mummy?”
The pretty guide thought he was part of the class; the teacher thought that he was planted in the audience to pep up the discussion; the class knew that he was an imposter. When they bothered to notice Claudia, they knew that she was one, also. But the class had the good manners that come with not caring; they would leave the imposters alone. The question, however, would have caused at least ten of them to stop poking at each other; six to forget about eating and three others to find the need for drink suddenly less urgent. It caused Claudia to want to embalm Jamie in a vat of mummy fluid right that minute. That would teach him inconspicuous.
The guide told Jamie that some people saved all their lives so that they could become mummies; it was indeed expensive.
One of the students called out, “You might even say it costs him his life.”
Everyone laughed. Then they picked up their rubber mats and walked to the next room. Claudia was ready to pull Jamie out of line and make him learn another part of the museum today, but she got a glimpse of the room they were to go to next. It was filled with jewelry: case after case of it. So they followed the class into that hall. After a short talk there, the guide bid them good-bye and mentioned that they might enjoy buying some of the museum pamphlets on Egypt. Jamie asked if they were expensive.
The guide answered, “Some are as inexpensive as a copy of the Sunday New York Times. Others cost much more.”
Jamie looked over at Claudia; he shouldn’t have. Claudia looked as satisfied as the bronze statue of the Egyptian cat she was standing near. The only real difference between them was that the cat wore tiny golden earrings and looked a trifle less smug.
They got the New York Times the next day. Neither Claudia nor Jamie bought it. The man who left it on the counter while he was looking at the reproductions of antique jewelry bought it. The Kincaids stole it from him. They left the museum immediately thereafter.
Claudia read the paper while they ate breakfast at Horn and Hardart’s. That mor
ning she didn’t eat breakfast food for breakfast. Crackers and roasted chestnuts in bed at night satisfied only a small corner of her hunger. Being hungry was the most inconvenient part of running away. She meant to eat heartily for every cent Jamie gave her. She bought macaroni and cheese casserole, baked beans, and coffee that morning. Jamie got the same.
The information they wanted was on the first page of the second section of the Times. The headline said: RECORD CROWD VIEWS MUSEUM “BARGAIN.” There were three pictures: one of the record crowd standing in line; one of the statue itself; and one of the director of the museum with an assistant. The article was as follows: (Saxonberg you can find an original of the newspaper in my files. It’s in one of the seventeen cabinets that line the north wall of my office.)
Officials of the Metropolitan Museum of Art report that 100,000 people climbed the great stairway to catch a glimpse of one of its newest acquisitions, a twenty-four-inch statue called “Angel.” Interest in the marble piece arises from the unusual circumstances attending its acquisition by the museum and from the belief that it may be the work of the Italian Renaissance master, Michelangelo. If proof is found that it is an early work of Michelangelo, the museum will have purchased the greatest bargain in art history; it was purchased at an auction last year for $225.00. Considering that recently Prince Franz Josef II accepted an offer of $5 million for a small painting by Leonardo da Vinci, an artist of the same period and of similar merit, will give some idea of how great a bargain this is.
The museum purchased the statue last year when one of its curators spotted it during a preview showing of works to be auctioned by the Parke-Bernet Galleries. His initial suspicion that it might be the work of Michelangelo was confirmed by several other museum officials, all of whom kept their thoughts quiet in a successful effort to keep the bidding from being driven higher. The statue has been the subject of exhaustive tests and study by the museum staff as well as art experts from abroad. Most believe it to have been done about 470 years ago when Michelangelo was in his early twenties.
The statue was acquired by the Parke-Bernet Galleries from the collection of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. She claims to have purchased it from a dealer in Bologna, Italy before World War II. Mrs. Frankweiler’s residence on East 63rd Street was long a Manhattan showplace for what many considered one of the finest private collections of art in the Western Hemisphere. Others considered it a gigantic hodgepodge of the great and the mediocre. Mrs. Frankweiler closed her Manhattan residence three years ago; important pieces from its contents have found their way to various auctions and galleries since that time.
Mr. Frankweiler amassed a fortune from the corn oil industry and from developing many corn products. He died in 1947. Mrs. Frankweiler now lives on her country estate in Farmington, Connecticut. Her home, which at one time was open to the greats in the worlds of art, business, and politics, is now closed to all but her staff, her advisors, and a few close friends. The Frankweilers had no children.
A museum spokesman said yesterday, “Whether or not conclusive proof will be found that this was the work of Michelangelo, we are pleased with our purchase.” Although Michelangelo Buonarroti is perhaps best known for his paintings of the Sistine Chapel in Rome, he always considered himself a sculptor, and primarily a sculptor of marble. The question of whether the museum has acquired one of his lesser known masterpieces still awaits a final answer.”
If Claudia’s interests had been a little broader, if she had started with the national news on page one and had then read the continuations on page twenty-eight, she might have noticed a small article on that page, one column wide, that would have interested her. The date line was Greenwich, Connecticut, and it stated that two children of Mr. and Mrs. Steven C. Kincaid, Sr. had been missing since Wednesday. The article didn’t mention any clues like Claudia’s letter. It said that the children were last seen wearing nylon quilted ski jackets. Small help. Fourteen out of fifteen kids in the U.S.A. wear those. It went on to describe Claudia as brunette and pretty and Jamie as brunette and brown eyed. Police in the neighboring towns of Darien and Stamford in Connecticut and Port Chester, New York, had been alerted. (You see, Saxonberg, Claudia had found the article about the statue too easily. She didn’t even look at the first section of the paper. I keep telling you that often the search proves more profitable than the goal. Keep that in mind when you’re looking for something in my files.)
Claudia and Jamie read about the statue with great interest. Claudia read the article twice so that she could memorize it all. She decided that the statue was not only the most beautiful in the world but also the most mysterious.
Jamie said, “I don’t think $225 is cheap. I’ve never had that much money in my whole life. Totaling up all my birthday and Christmas presents since I was born nine long years ago wouldn’t make $225.
Claudia said, “You wouldn’t consider two and a quarter cents very much, would you?”
Jamie answered, “I might.”
“That’s right. You might, but most people wouldn’t. Well, if this statue is by Michelangelo, it’s worth about $2,250,000 instead of $225. That’s the same as saying that suddenly two and a quarter cents is worth $225.”
Jamie thought this over a minute. He was impressed. “When I grow up, I’m going to find a way to know for certain who did a statue.”
This was all Claudia needed. Something that had been smoldering inside her since she first saw the statue, that had been fed by the Times article, now flared into an idea.
“Jamie, let’s do it now. Let’s skip learning everything about everything in the museum. Let’s concentrate on the statue.”
“Can we still take class tours as we did yesterday?”
Claudia answered, “Of course. We don’t have to skip learning something about everything. We just won’t learn everything about everything. We’ll concentrate on Michelangelo.”
Jamie snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it!” he exclaimed. He held up his hands for Claudia to see.
“What does that mean?”
“Fingerprints, silly. If Michelangelo worked on that statue, his fingerprints would be on it.”
“Fingerprints? Almost five-hundred-year-old fingerprints? How would you know that they belonged to Michelangelo? He didn’t have a police record. I don’t suppose he did. As a matter of fact, I’m not sure people were fingerprinted in those days even if they did.”
“But what if we were to find identical fingerprints on something they knew that he did? We could compare them.”
Claudia kept looking at the picture of the statue as she finished eating her baked beans.
“Jamie,” she said, “do you think the statue looks like anyone special?” She folded her arms and gazed into the distance.
“No one I know looks like an angel.”
“Think a minute.” She cleared her throat and lifted her chin slightly and gazed into the distance. “Don’t think about the hair style or the clothes or anything. Just think about the face.” She nudged the page of the New York Times closer under Jamie’s nose and resumed her pose. Jamie looked at the picture.
“Nope,” he said looking up.
“Can’t you see any resemblance?”
“Nope.” He looked at the picture again. “Who do you think it looks like?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she stammered.
Jamie noticed Claudia blushing. “What’s the matter? You getting a fever?”
“Don’t be silly. I just feel that the statue looks like someone in our family.”
“You sure you don’t have a fever? You’re talking out of your head.”
Claudia unfolded her arms and lowered her distant gaze. “I wonder who posed for it,” she said half aloud.
“Probably some fat old lady. Then the chisel slipped, so he made a skinny angel instead.
“Jamie, you have as much romance in you as the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood.”
“Romance! Boloney! But I do like the mystery part.”
“So do I
!” Claudia answered. “But I like more than that about Angel.”
“We going to look for fingerprints then?”
Claudia reconsidered, “Well, we might look for fingerprints. That’s one way. For a start.” She looked at Jamie and sniffed, “But I’m sure it won’t work. We’ll look tomorrow. Even though it won’t work.” And she looked some more at the picture.
On the second day the crowd going up the broad staircase to see the little Angel was even greater. The newspaper article had made people curious. Besides, it was a cloudy day, and museum attendance always improves in bad weather. Some people who had not been to the Metropolitan Museum for years came. Some people who had never been there ever, came; they got directions from maps, subway conductors, and police. (I’m surprised, Saxonberg, that seeing my name in the paper in connection with Michelangelo didn’t bring even you to the museum. You would have profited more than you would have thought by that trip. Are photo albums of your grandchildren the only pictures you look at? Are you altogether unconscious of the magic of the name of Michelangelo? I truly believe that his name has magic even now; the best kind of magic because it comes from true greatness. Claudia sensed it as she again stood in line. The mystery only intrigued her; the magic trapped her.)
Both children were annoyed when the guards plus the push of the crowd hurried them past the Angel. How could they possibly look for fingerprints when they were so rushed? After this hurried visit to the statue, they decided to do their research when they had the statue and the museum to themselves. Claudia especially wanted to make herself important to the statue. She would solve its mystery; and it, in turn, would do something important to her, though what this was, she didn’t quite know.
As they once again reached the back stairs, Claudia asked Jamie, “With whom shall we dine today, Sir James?”
Jamie answered, “Oh, I don’t know, dear Lady Claudia. Shall we find a good and proper group?”
From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler Page 4