Black Sand

by William Caunitz

  “I do,” Lucas said, shuffling through the sheets, pulling out Denny McKay’s folder.

  An unasked question formed on Vassos’s lips.

  Lucas said, “McKay is fifty-six years old; he’s taken two collars. His first one when he was twenty-one, right after the Korean War.” He pulled out McKay’s nineteens. “On his first arrest he presented his army separation papers as identification.” He read from the report, “U.S. Army, serial number, served active duty May nine, 1950, to January fourteen, 1953. First Cavalry Division.

  “Strange. He gets out of the army and takes his first fall for a burglary when he stole quote, ‘a seventeenth-century medallion pendant studded with rubies and inlaid with cloisonné enamel.’ Appears McKay acquired an interest in art soon after he got out of the army.” Lucas wrote something on a piece of paper and turned his back to Vassos. He took out his roll of expense money, palmed two tens and a five, and left the room. He found the computer man having a private conversation with a female computer person near the water cooler. Interrupting, Lucas slid his arm around the computer man’s shoulder and steered him away from the woman. “I’d like the sixty-ones on these arrests.” He handed the man a sheet of paper listing the arrests of McKay, Simmons, Cuttler, and their associates.

  “You want the Complaint Reports on all of these?” the technician asked with typical civil service reluctance to do any more work than the rules required. Lucas discreetly slipped the expense money into the waiting palm. “Here, let me buy you lunch.”

  Closing his fingers around the money, the technician said, “And then you’ll be wanting the sixty-ones on the associates of the associates.”

  “Exactly. Send them to me through department mail.” Lucas gave the clerk one of his cards and then stuck his head back in the room. “Andreas, let’s you and me go see our scroll expert, and after that, we’ll pay Denny McKay a visit.”

  Her white linen suit had padded shoulders, a V neckline, and hidden buttons. Her honey-coloured hair was pulled back to form a single braid that started near the crown of her head. She wore long black-and-white summer earrings. Her sleek hairstyle, high cheekbones, piercing green eyes, and exquisite mouth gave her face a classic look. She was quite tall and had a striking figure.

  “Andreas Vassos?” she asked, extending her hand. She had been waiting for them near the coatroom of the Morgan Library.

  “Yes,” Vassos said, taking her extended hand and introducing his partner. “This is my colleague, Lieutenant Teddy Lucas.”

  “Hello to both of you,” she said. “I’m Dr. Katina Wright, the Morgan’s manuscript conservator.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Lucas said, guessing that she was in her late thirties.

  “Shall we go downstairs?” She made a sign to the security guard, who opened the door directly in front of the coatroom. Her basement office was a glass cubicle filled with books and rolling tray cabinets. Two small plants and a stuffed panda adorned her desk.

  Lowering herself into her chair, she motioned them into seats and said, “Dr. Levi’s telephone call and letter intrigued me. I gather you gentlemen are on the trail of the casket-copy.”

  “Yes,” Vassos said, asking, “Didn’t Dr. Levi explain everything to you?”

  “He did, but I’d prefer to hear it again from you two. Professor Levi has a tendency to speak and write in rather oblique terms.”

  Vassos got up from his seat and closed her office door. He returned and told her the story of Voúla and about their search for Alexander’s Iliad.

  “Matrazzo’s famous telegram was the last hint that the casket-copy might have been found,” she said.

  “Could it have survived all those centuries?” Lucas asked.

  She looked at the New York City detective. “Of course it could have survived. The Dead Sea scrolls survived, and they were written between the first century B.C. and the first half of the first century A.D. An entire library of scrolls was unearthed in Herculaneum in 1754.”

  “How many scrolls made up the casket-copy?” Lucas asked.

  “We have no way of knowing for sure. They only wrote on one side of the papyrus and the scrolls were not very long. Maybe fifteen scrolls, who knows? Maybe one for each book.” She looked at Vassos. “Did you see the amphora that was found in Orhan Iskur’s shop?”

  “Yes, Professor Levi insisted that I examine it,” Vassos said.

  A slight smile crossed her face. “Yes, he would. Tell me about it, everything that you can remember.”

  Vassos described the tall storage jar in detail. “It was half-filled with black sand, and the inside was lined with some kind of thick materials.”

  “Cartonnage,” she said to herself.

  “What is that?” Lucas asked.

  “Papyrus paper,” she said, looking up at them. “It’s made from layers of papyrus that have been stuck together, sort of a papier-mâché. The Egyptians used it as mummy casing. They would take it from the garbage dumps. Cartonnage is a wonderful preservative because it is airtight and therefore makes the contents immune to the effects of moisture. The ancients went to great lengths to preserve their scrolls. They were aware that papyrus was vunerable to insects and moisture, so they used cylindrical containers of wood and ivory to store their scrolls. They treated papyrus with cedarwood oil as a preservative and insecticide.” She again turned her attention to Vassos. “Did Professor Levi conduct tests on the black sand?”

  “Yes. He told me that the sand definitely came from the island of Thíra,” Vassos said.

  Lucas sat forward with his hands clasped between his legs. “Katina, I’m a cop and I think like a cop, so please bear with me.”

  “I shall forbear, Teddy,” she said with a pleasant smile.

  “If we should get lucky and get our hands on the casket-copy, how can we be sure that it’s not a forgery? I read where the Egyptians used to make phony trinkets to sell to the Greeks and Romans.”

  “There have always been dishonest antiques dealers. Tomb robbery is the world’s second oldest profession, and forging antiques is the third,” she said, “but today we have many different techniques to establish provenance. Alexander’s Iliad would almost certainly have a colophon, an inscription at the end that identified the scribe and the date and place where it was written. And, more than likely, it would also have a sentence or two stating that it was prepared for Alexander, son of Philip, King of Macedonia.”

  “Are there samples of Aristotle’s andwriting that we can use for comparison?” Lucas asked.

  “Unfortunately, none of the originals of his works are extant,” she said.

  “Then we still cannot be sure it is not a forgery, can we?” Lucas asked.

  “The critical principle when establishing the provenance of a writing is to compare the rhythmical patterns of the meter to the corpus of the author’s work.”

  “What about carbon dating?” Vassos asked.

  “It is not precise enough,” she answered. “Carbon dating can only place a thing within a few hundred years. There are more exact techniques.”

  Lucas glanced at his Greek partner. “If someone did come into possession of the scrolls, how would he go about getting them unrolled?”

  “Any major museum or library. And there are private laboratories.”

  “But he would want to have the job done without anyone knowing about it, wouldn’t he?” Lucas said. “If he went to a museum or a library, the word would be out that he had the casket-copy.”

  “You keep saying ‘he,’ Teddy. A woman might have them, did you ever think of that? And yes, I suppose that the person who did have the scrolls would want to be discreet.”

  “Is there some special machine that is used to unroll them?” Lucas asked.

  She smiled. “Yes. Would you like to see what it looks like?”

  “Very much,” Vassos answered.

  She led them from her office along the aisle that ran between the high workbenches. Four young women sat on stools peering through large magnifying
glasses, laboriously restoring ancient parchments and codices. The policemen paused to watch them. One woman was gingerly brushing flaking vegetable pigments off a papyrus. Another was restoring the ink of an ancient script. Katina looked over the policemen’s shoulders. “Martha is working on a manuscript by Poggio that was written in 1425.”

  Martha looked up from her work and smiled.

  “Hello,” Lucas said.

  “Hello,” Martha replied, looking back down through the glass at her work.

  Katina led them to the end of the restoration area and stopped before a bench crammed with the tools of her trade. “Here is our scroll unroller,” she announced, placing her hand on the machine.

  “A humidifier?” Lucas said, unable to hide his surprise.

  “A superhumidifier,” she corrected. “We added a hose so that we can direct the vapor into the scroll.”

  “How does it work?” Lucas asked.

  She thought for a moment and answered, “When papyrus is kept dry it has remarkable powers of survival. But it becomes brittle when desiccated, and then it has to be moistened in order to regain its flexibility so that it may be safely handled, flattened, and mounted in permanent form.

  “Since it is so brittle in the dry state, the first thing that we have to do is to relax it by moisture before any attempt is made to unroll it; otherwise the scroll would break into many pieces. We start the relaxing process by wrapping the roll loosely in several layers of damp blotting paper and then setting it aside for an hour or so on a sheet of glass. By that time the outside of the scroll has become sufficiently limp so that we can manipulate it without having it crack; then the unrolling can begin. We then put them on blotting paper to absorb excess moisture. There’s a lot more to it, but those are the basics.” She shrugged her shoulders and smiled. “This process is very, very slow and it must be done with the utmost care. But, after umpty-ump centuries, what’s a little more time?”

  “Wouldn’t the water run the ink or get absorbed in the blotting paper?” Lucas asked, unable to conceal his fascination.

  “Not at all,” she said. “We immerse manuscripts completely without that happening. Carbon inks present no complications and even the fugitive iron inks leave a tracing of rust when they decompose that is unaffected by a slight degree of moisture.” She studied the policemen. “Any more questions?”

  Shaking his head no, Lucas thought: beautiful and smart.

  She continued: “Once the papyrus is flat it must be dried without delay by changing the blotting paper several times in the course of a few hours. As a protection against molds we sterilize the papyrus by pressing it with thymol-impregnated blotting paper for several days. After that is done it may be mounted passe-partout between two sheets of glass.”

  “Does it have to be glass?” Lucas asked.

  “Absolutely,” she said. “Acrylic gives off static electricity. Papyrus is composed of cellulose and under magnification looks a little like shredded wheat. The electricity in acrylic compounds would pull the fibers apart and destroy the document.”

  “If I had the casket-copy,” Lucas asked, “and I wanted to sell it secretly, how would I go about doing it?”

  “Well, since you obviously would not have the necessary export papers, that would eliminate the auction houses, museums, and important libraries; you would be left with a handful of rare book dealers accustomed to dealing with pieces of such magnitude. And, of course, private collectors.”

  “How many dealers?” Lucas asked.

  “In New York, five or six, and an equal number in London and Rome.”

  “Would you be able to provide us with their names?” Vassos asked.

  “Of course,” she said.

  Lucas leaned against the workbench, watching the restorers peering through their portable glasses. “Katina? How much would the casket-copy be worth in dollars and cents?”

  She shook her head in dismay, studying the policemen. “You both have no idea what it is that you’re looking for, do you?” She turned and hurried back to her office.

  The policemen looked at each other, turned abruptly, and followed her.

  Her back was against a tray cabinet, her hands out at her sides tucked into the tray’s thin handles. One leg was crossed over the other, the linen outlining her shapely legs, molding her ample breasts into the white material. “Please sit, gentlemen.”

  She reminded Lucas of a teacher about to lose her patience, but her calm voice reflected her easygoing logic. “Teddy. Andreas. Alexander’s Iliad would be the greatest archaeological find ever unearthed. It would be worth more than all the treasures dug out of Egypt; worth more than all the property looted from Etruscan tombs; worth more than all the booty stolen from the Americas.” Her hands came out of the handles.

  “Why would it be so valuable?” Lucas asked quietly, taken aback by the force of her beauty.

  “Several reasons,” she said, sitting down. “Anything connected with Alexander and Aristotle would inflame people’s imaginations and give the item great intrinsic value. But the main reason would be the ancients’ tradition of oral history.” She crossed one leg over the other.

  “I don’t understand,” Lucas said.

  “The concept of silent reading was unknown during classical times. Everyone read aloud.”

  “You’re telling me that when Alexander read his Iliad to himself, he read aloud?”

  “That is exactly what I’m telling you. Silent reading was an invention of Christian monasticism in the fifth century A.D. Homeric poems were handed down orally through several centuries. The first written text of the Iliad was made in Athens in the middle of the sixth century B.C. And copies were not duplicated or circulated, they were used only for references.” The phone on her desk gave out a muted ring but she ignored it and continued.

  “In ancient times there was little if any punctuation or word division. Texts were read aloud and often did not indicate a change of speaker. This meant that the reader had a difficult time and in many cases made up characters or changed lines as he went along. The first formal Greek grammar was prepared around 130 B.C., and Latin did not begin as a written language until the third century B.C. Formal grammar throughout the rest of Europe did not come about until the Middle Ages.”

  “Katina,” Lucas pleaded, “what has grammar got to do with the value of the casket-copy?”

  “Don’t you see?” she asked impatiently. “We know that Aristotle tutored Alexander between 343 and 336 B.C. Which would mean that the casket-copy would have to have been copied down during those seven years.”

  “So?” Vassos asked.

  “It is believed that the Iliad that has come down to us today is not the same one that Homer wrote, or even the same one that Aristotle copied for Alexander. What we have today is a corrupted version of Homer.”

  Lucas looked puzzled. “And why is that?”

  “Texts copied by hand are prone to corruption. If four policemen were to copy your police regulations from memory, not one of them would be correct; each copy would be slightly different. It’s the same with the Iliad. Storytellers would add their own words and thoughts, scribes who did not like a passage would make up their own; if an ancient reader found a passage difficult to understand, he’d change it. Every time the Iliad was told, it came out differently.” She took in a deep breath. “All scholars consider the Iliad to be one of the most important works ever written. It is, without question, one of the essential underpinnings of our literary tradition. To have a copy, or even a portion of a copy, that dates from the fourth century B.C. would be a priceless find.”

  Vassos cast his eyes downward. “Katina, you understand we intend to return the casket-copy to Greece?”

  “Yes, I know that,” she said.

  “Will you help us?” Lucas asked.

  “Help you,” she echoed. “That was decided before you arrived here. You see, gentlemen, Professor Levi is my father.” She stood up, the look on her face saying no further glimpses into her pri
vate life would be allowed. “Would you like me to go with you when you visit the book dealers?”

  “Yes,” Lucas said, “you could be of help. Most of the dealers know you, don’t they?”

  “Yes, they do,” she said, paging through her appointment book. “I have nothing I can’t change scheduled for the remainder of this week. When would you like to start?”

  “As soon as possible,” Lucas said.

  “I’ll prepare a list of the dealers and telephone for appointments,” she said.

  “Will they see us?” Lucas asked.

  She smiled. “It would be most unusual for any of them to decline to see the Curator of Ancient and Medieval Manuscripts of the Morgan Library.”

  The Den was located on the west side of Ninth Avenue, between Forty-eighth and Forty-ninth streets. It was on a dilapidated block of abandoned tenements and boardedup storefronts. Lucas parked the Buick three blocks away on the east side of Ninth Avenue.

  McKay’s hangout was a dingy West Side saloon on the ground floor of an abandoned four-story tenement with boarded-up windows. A pizzeria was one door uptown from the bar. Two derelicts shared a pint of muscatel in a nearby doorway. Cars continuously pulled up in front of the bar and double-parked; men rushed into the bar, stayed some minutes, and rushed back out to their cars.

  “A lot of activity,” Lucas observed, slumped down behind the wheel. He slid his arm over the back of the velour-covered seat, observing the foreign cut of Vassos’s suit. “How’d you like to take a look inside that bar, let me know what’s happening. If any of them so much as got a whiff of me, they’d make me for a cop.”

  Vassos reached inside his jacket and unsnapped his holster and ammo pouch. He stuffed them under the passenger seat. “I’ll see you soon, partner.”

  Lucas grabbed his arm. “Andreas, observe and report, nothing more, okay?”

  “You have it, Lou.”

  “You got it, Lou,” Lucas corrected him, smiling.

  Vassos reflexively shuddered at the artificial cold of the air conditioning as he entered the darkened bar. The smell of beer mixed with a thick fog of cigarette smoke. Music blared from a jukebox. To the left of the entrance was a long bar; on the right, six leatherette booths.