She looked around the room, her eye quickly jumping the blank space where Gregor had sat the day before, her cheeks red. What was she doing here, anyway? Why had she come? Why had she ever suggested this silly conference to begin with? Bob Keller was right; Gregor was right. The entire conference was pointless, useless. In fact, the entire Schliemann collection was a pointless thing. Who cared who had it, who was selling it, or who bought it? Let them all fight over it, the Germans, the Greeks, the Russians, the Turks, all of them. Let them have their next war over the silly collection. It made as much sense as any of the other things they fought about. Not more sense, but as much. She suddenly shook her head. Was this she, Ruth McVeigh, director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and avid collector, thinking this way? The Schliemann treasure was extremely important, and no thoughts of a mere man should or would be allowed to obscure that fact!
Where was he?
She became aware that the elderly stocky man with the pure-white crew-cut hair had taken his chair next to the empty one Gregor had occupied the day before, and her eyes instantly went to the door to see if Gregor might have followed, but the doorman was already closing the door in a manner that indicated the meeting was closed, ready to begin. The white-haired man seemed to be considering her with a faint air of commiseration, and her cheeks felt on fire. Had Gregor discussed her with this unknown? He was a friend of Gregor’s, that much she knew. Had they talked about her last night when Gregor returned from leaving her at her door? Had they discussed her girlishness, her gaucherie, and laughed together over it? Had Gregor mentioned that low-cut gown and thought of her as a bit pitiable, throwing herself at a man? She felt flushed. The room and all the people in it were suddenly intolerable. She became aware that Tim Rubin had leaned over and was speaking to her. She turned. “What did you say?”
“I said, what’s the matter with you? You look like three days in the city morgue,” Tim said cheerfully. “My old grandmother, a hundred and six the day she was run over by her father on a motorbike, and two weeks after she was buried, looked better than you do right now.” He studied her with concern. “Why don’t you go up to your room and lie down? Let me handle the feeding of the animals? I’ve always wanted to rise to an occasion.”
Ruth shook her head a bit stubbornly. It was her meeting and she was going to conduct it! She just wished that Gregor Kovpak had not chosen to avoid the meeting. “I’ll be all right.” She looked at her wristwatch and came to her feet, rapping the gavel. Slowly the room calmed down. She pulled the microphone toward her and began, looking about the room and trying to avoid the empty chair where Gregor had sat the day before.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I see that no names have been put into the fishbowl as I suggested yesterday. I can only assume that means that none of you wish to speak. Or am I incorrect in that?”
In answer to her question there was a rush of hands held high, a growing murmur of indistinguishable voices. She looked at the delegates, making no attempt to use diplomacy with her words. She felt in the mood to speak a few truths to them.
“I see. In that case I can only assume that you all want to speak, but you do not wish to do so democratically. You all wish to be first. The fishbowl was too chancy for you. Is that the case?” The hands wavered and slowly dropped, although several remained half-raised, as if to get a head start when the chance came. “Well,” Ruth went on, making no attempt to disguise her dislike of them all, although she realized she was being a bit unfair, taking out on the delegates her irritation with Gregor Kovpak, “in that case I shall take advantage of being the chairperson here, and I shall speak first. After that I shall select the speakers as I wish, and if there are any objections to that procedure, those present have only themselves to blame.”
The room had grown quiet under her scathing tones. For a moment she wished Gregor were there, not to see him, but for him to see her and realize she was not a person to tolerate poor manners from anyone, even good-looking archaeologists from the Hermitage! Then she put Gregor from her mind, or, rather, tucked him into a corner temporarily out of sight, and got on with her statement.
“Let me tell you all what was in my mind when I first asked you to attend this meeting. It was something I suggested to my board of directors and which they agreed should be presented to the leading museums of the world. We have already seen, in the discussions of yesterday, the diversity of opinion as to the proper ownership of the Schliemann treasure. I am sure that others here are probably prepared to offer similar arguments, and if we allow this meeting to dissolve into this type of controversy, we will be passing up a great opportunity. And that opportunity? To see that the treasure is purchased at a reasonable price from whoever is offering it for auction, and that this contention among ourselves is eliminated.”
She paused. Her audience was watching her suspiciously. Well, she thought, here’s where we discover if Gregor and Bob Keller were right or wrong. She sipped a bit of water to calm her a trifle before making her statement, and then went on.
“My suggestion is simplicity itself. All the museums who are interested would share the cost of the purchase price, and would also share the exhibition privileges on a basis to be determined. To begin with, this method would reduce the financial burden to each museum, and in the second—”
“No!” It was Dr. Wilhelm Kloster of the Museum Dahlen. He was on his feet, his face red as he screamed into the console. One fleshy fist was pounding on the top of the console. “It cannot be! You are very generous with something that belongs—”
Ruth rapped her gavel for order. The response was quite the opposite. The bedlam seemed to increase with everyone wanting to speak at once, some into their consoles, others on their feet merely shouting toward the head of the table. Ruth fumbled for her purse and her whistle only to remember she had left her purse in her room, bringing only the room key. She looked at Tim Rubin helplessly. He grinned, brought his microphone closer, put a finger bent at the knuckle into his mouth, and produced a whistle fully as loud and sharp as Ruth’s police whistle. “Champ of the block,” he murmured as the noise from the surprised delegates slowly abated to a point where the hammer of Ruth’s gavel could be heard. Slowly the meeting came to order. Ruth stood and waited until the silence was complete.
“There seems to be some objection to my suggestion,” she said with a faint smile. “Let’s take them in order. Dr. Kloster, you can be first. And,” she added warningly, “if there is another outbreak such as we just heard, the meeting will be adjourned permanently. All right, Dr. Kloster.”
Kloster came to his feet, no longer attempting the suavity of the previous day.
“As I said,” Kloster said heavily into the microphone, “our chairperson seems to be extremely generous in giving away something she does not own. The Museum Dahlen has no intention of permitting such misplaced generosity. When we wish to give something that rightfully belongs to us, we shall make that decision, not a bunch of—of—” He threw up his hands in disgust and sat down again. From his chair he said, “If this is what we shall be discussing, there is no sense in the Museum Dahlen even remaining here!”
“So go! Who wants you?” It was Elsa Dornbusch, glaring at him from across the table. She turned to face the chair. “The fascist is right, though! Your suggestion is ridiculous! Do you expect—”
That was as far as she got. The bedlam began again. Tim Rubin put his bent finger in his mouth, preparatory to whistling again, and then removed it. He leaned over, shouting in Ruth’s ear. “It’s hopeless!” An idea suddenly came. He leaned over, searching beneath the table for something and then grinned as he found the electrical outlet connecting the consoles. He pulled it from its socket, and suddenly the booming sounds from the ceiling speakers disappeared. The noise that a moment before had seemed threatening, now merely seemed foolish. The delegates stopped to look at one another, and then with what seemed to be a sudden accord, picked up their papers and briefcases and began to file from the room.
Tim
and Ruth watched them go. “Well,” Tim said philosophically, “I suppose it’s what one should expect from museum personnel. Individualists, to the bitter end.”
Ruth took a deep breath. “I should have worded it differently, perhaps. Led up to it more gradually, perhaps …”
“Led up to what more gradually?” Tim snorted. “You said what had to be said. The fact that there wasn’t a wet eye in the crowd wasn’t your fault. Really,” Tim said, a bit chidingly, “you should have anticipated exactly what happened. Those who feel they have legitimate claims see it as a scheme to rob them of their pottage. If the meeting had gone on a little longer I was prepared to enter my claim on the basis that Schliemann changed his name from Heinrich to Henry, and Henry Ford invented the Model-T less than a hundred miles from the Cleveland Museum. But I was afraid our British colleagues might recall that they had Henrys over here in England a bit before Mr. Ford.”
Ruth looked at him. “And what were the motives of the others?”
Tim shrugged. “Most are simply piggish. They want the treasure all for their lonesomes. Sharing is a dirty word. Oh, they’ll loan you one of their exhibits, all right, but they want you to know that it’s Theirs, do you hear, Theirs! And then, of course, there are those—there are always some—who probably thought the suggestion was a gimmick of some sort on the part of the Metropolitan, and since they couldn’t figure out what that gimmick was, it made them all the more suspicious. And that’s why your idea died like a dog, march on, he said.”
Ruth sighed. “Well, at least it’s over.”
“And the Auction Stakes are back in the running.” Tim changed the subject to one that was closer to his interests. “What flight are you taking back? Maybe we can travel together.”
“I’m not going back for a while,” Ruth heard herself say to her own complete amazement. “I—I have some work to do here. I may even take my vacation over here.”
“Oh.” The disappointment in Tim’s voice was evident, instantly replaced by his normal cheerfulness. “Oh, well! We’ll undoubtedly see you when you visit the Cleveland Museum to see the Schliemann collection on exhibit. Assuming,” he added doubtfully, “that the Rockefellers didn’t forget where their money came from. Or the Eatons.”
Ruth smiled.
“Well,” she said, “if you’ll forgive me, I won’t wish you luck on that. But it was good seeing you, and thanks for that finger whistle. It’s something I should have learned when I was younger. And drop in and see me the next time you’re in New York.”
“It’s the only reason I’d come in the first place,” Tim said, trying to sound arch but merely sounding sincere. “You don’t imagine I’d come to see a mummy in your Egyptian Room, do you? I’ve got a mummy, you’ve got a mummy, all God’s chillun—well, enough of that.” He came to his feet. “So long, Ruth. Have fun. I don’t suppose that, well, on your vacation over here you’ll be visiting museums? Busman’s holiday sort of thing? Museums like—well—the Hermitage?”
Ruth felt herself go cold. “I’ve seen the Hermitage,” she said tightly, trying not to sound savage. Damn Tim for reminding her. “And I won’t be going there this trip, thank you.”
“It’s better that way,” Tim said quietly. He held out his hand; she took it. “God bless, Ruth.” He squeezed her hand once and turned, walking quickly away.
Ruth stared after him. Why get upset with Tim Rubin? He was a nice guy, a pal, a friend. One of the men who genuinely liked her. And a very fine curator. But he shouldn’t have mentioned the Hermitage. She looked around the deserted room and came to her feet. Well, Gregor and Bob Keller had been right. She had wasted her time and the time of many other museum notables. And what had she gotten out of it? She had met a man she had instantly felt a deep liking for, and he had not even bothered to try and see her a second time.
She rode the elevator to her floor, walked down to her room, opened the door, and walked in, going to the window to stare out. The meeting had been a disaster, but that was no longer important. What was important was that the Schliemann treasure was still someplace, held by someone. What could have happened to it after it had been taken from that railroad baggage car at that Bad something? According to Gregor—wasn’t it even possible to think of something else without bringing him into it? Still, according to Gregor, the Russian officials had done a poor investigation at the time the treasure was stolen from them because they had other more important things on their minds. Possibly today, someone with the time and effort could find out what had happened to it, now that the turmoil of the war was long past. Certainly the one who was offering the treasure for auction must have done exactly that. And that person, at least, should be able to be traced. He was in the present, not thirty-five years in the past.
How had this unknown been able to do it? He, undoubtedly, had started at the last known place the treasure had been seen, this place called Bad something—she was sure she would recognize the proper name if she saw it or heard it again—wherever that was. And what one person had been able to accomplish, another person should be able to duplicate. And facing this unknown with his illegal treasure, one could undoubtedly also make a deal that would bring one the treasure for a fraction of the fifteen million the unknown was so ridiculously asking for it. And what museum, faced with the treasure actually in their possession, would fail to come up with the required money, despite all the scruples they claimed to possess? Very few, without a doubt.
She stared down into Park Lane with its traffic and Hyde Park beyond, covered with lawn chairs and children playing, barely seeing them. If only Gregor were to help her, she was sure they could dig something up that would lead to some clues as to what had happened to the treasure thirty-five years before. If only Gregor could help her … Forget Gregor Kovpak, she told herself sternly, and if by some odd chance you happen to run into him on some distant day in some distant place, you will simply smile in a friendly manner and shake hands and hope the feeling you are feeling at the moment is dead by then.
That stupid feeling! Who in her right mind would feel this way about a man she met less than twenty-four hours before? It was ridiculous. Oh, admittedly, she thought, I’ve known a lot about him by reputation for a long time; the work he’s done, the papers he’s written, the excavations he’s been connected with, but still … And admittedly he’s attractive, but I’ve known many attractive men and none ever made me feel this way. Bob Keller’s attractive, and a fine man and I like him a lot, and moreover I know him well whereas I don’t know this Dr. Kovpak at all. But Bob Keller never made me feel this way, while Gregor does, and it’s pointless to deny it. Maybe it was the drinks, she thought, and then smiled wryly to herself. No, it hadn’t been the drinks.
This, obviously, was no way to forget Gregor Kovpak. She simply had to concentrate on something else, and the whereabouts of the Schliemann treasure was as good and puzzling a subject as any. I don’t know what made me tell Tim I wasn’t going home right away, she thought, but it appears my subconscious knows me better than I know myself. She picked up her key and marched purposefully toward the door. And my staying here in Europe is not just to delay paying Bob Keller his dinner. In fact, probably I’ve been wrong in not paying more attention to Bob Keller. I’m beginning to realize for the first time how lonely I’ve been, whether I knew it or not. Although with something to occupy my mind I’m sure I’ll get over it. And over Gregor—damn him!
Sir Mortimer Edgerton came from his chair with a bound and hurried across the room, his hands outstretched, a smile of sincere pleasure on his full face.
“Ruth, my dear! What a pleasant surprise.” He took her hands in both of his and then released one in order to put an arm around her shoulders to lead her to a sofa along one wall of his large office overlooking Great Russell Street. He waited until she was seated and then sat beside her, reaching for her hand again. “I was afraid you’d be off to home without dropping by to see us.” His smile faded. “I couldn’t attend the meetings, but Harold Gordon told
me what happened. Animals! I’m truly sorry, for your sake.”
Ruth smiled. “Don’t be. I must have been dreaming when I even proposed such a silly idea. But I didn’t come here to be commiserated with, Sir Mortimer. I came here because I want a favor of you.”
“Anything in my power, my dear.” Sir Mortimer made it sound as though he would be greatly disappointed if the favor entailed anything less than slaying dragons. “What can I do for you?”
“My reader’s card has expired and I want another, but I’d just as soon not have to go through the catechism they give you downstairs as to why I don’t get my information some other place.”
Edgerton laughed. “We have to do it, Ruth, or we’d be pushed out of the walls. The reading room of the British library here in the museum is simply too small for all the students or other people who wish to use it. Or even for all the books we have; a goodly number of them are scattered half across England.” He came to his feet and walked to his desk, leaned over and scribbled something on a card. He came back, handing it over. “Here. This will do, and you won’t even have to sit and submit to the terrible photography that goes on downstairs. What subject do you wish to research? We can be having tea while they dig up the books. It takes time, you know, even if they’re here in the building.”
Ruth took the card, tucking it into her purse. She came to her feet.
“Thank you very much, Sir Mortimer,” she said with a smile that thanked him more than her words had. “But I really don’t have time for tea. And I don’t want to use the library, but the map room. But I do appreciate your kindness.”
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