Bruno and Evangeline hurried across the street to the apartment building. Once inside the entryway, Bruno and Evangeline found the name CARROLL written on a brass mailbox: apartment nine, floor five. They called a rickety elevator, the wooden cab filled with a floral powder essence, as if it had recently released old ladies on their way to church. Evangeline pressed a black knob stamped with a white 5. The elevator door creaked closed as the car lurched, grinding slowly upward. Bruno took Abigail Rockefeller’s card from his pocket and held it.
On the fifth floor, there were two apartments, both equally quiet. Bruno checked the number and, finding the correct door-a brass number 9 screwed on it-he knocked.
The door opened a crack, and an old man peered at them, his large blue eyes glistening with curiosity. “Yes?” the man whispered, his voice barely audible. “Who is it?”
“Mr. Carroll?” Bruno said, personable and polite, as if he had knocked on a hundred such doors. “Very sorry to disturb you, but we have been given your name and address by-”
“Abby,” he said, his eyes fixed on the card in Bruno’s hand. He opened the door wide and waved them inside. “Please, come in. I have been expecting you.”
A pair of Yorkshire terriers with red ribbons tied into the fur over their eyes jumped off a couch and bounded to the door as Bruno and Evangeline stepped into the apartment, barking as if to frighten away intruders.
“Oh, you silly girls,” Alistair Carroll said. He swooped them up, tucking one dog under each arm, and carried them down a hallway.
The apartment was spacious, the antique furniture simple. Each object appeared both treasured and neglected, as if the decor had been painstakingly chosen with the intent that it would be ignored. Evangeline sat on the couch, its cushions still warm from the dogs. A marble fireplace held a small, intense fire that sent heat through the room. A polished Chippendale coffee table sat before her, a crystal bowl of hard candies at its center. Except for a Sunday Times folded discreetly on an end table, it appeared as though nothing had been touched in fifty years. A framed color lithograph sat upon the mantel of the fireplace, a portrait of a woman, stout and pink, with the features of a wary bird. Evangeline had never had reason or desire to seek out a likeness of Mrs. Abigail Rockefeller, but she knew in an instant that this was the woman herself.
Alistair Carroll returned without the dogs. He had short, precisely clipped gray hair. He wore brown corduroy trousers, a tweed jacket, and had a comforting manner that put Evangeline at ease. “You must forgive my girls,” he said, sitting in an armchair near the fire. “They are unused to company. We have very few guests these days. They were simply overjoyed to see you.” He clasped his hands in his lap. “But enough of that,” he said. “You haven’t come here for pleasantries.”
“Maybe you can tell us why we are here,” Bruno said, joining Evangeline on the couch and placing the Rockefeller card on the table. “There was no explanation-only your name and the Museum of Modern Art.”
Alistair Carroll unfolded a pair of spectacles and put them on. Picking up the envelope, he examined it closely. “Abby wrote out that card in my presence,” he said. “But you have only one card. Where are the others?”
“There are six of us working together,” Evangeline said. “We split into groups, to save time. My grandmother has two envelopes.”
“Tell me,” Alistair said, “is your grandmother named Celestine Clochette?”
Evangeline was surprised to here Celestine’s name, especially from a man who could not possibly have known her. “No,” she said. “Celestine Clochette is dead.”
“I am very sorry to hear that,” Alistair said, shaking his head in dismay. “And I am also sorry to hear that the recovery effort is being done in a piecemeal fashion. Abby made specific requirements that the recovery would be accomplished by one person, either Mother Innocenta or, if time went by, as it most certainly has, a woman named Celestine Clochette. I remember the conditions very welclass="underline" I was Mrs. Rockefeller’s assistant in this matter, and it was I who hand-delivered this card to St. Rose Convent.”
“But I thought that Mrs. Rockefeller had taken permanent possession of the lyre,” Bruno said.
“Oh, my, no,” Alistair said. “Mrs. Rockefeller and Mother Innocenta had agreed upon a set time to return the objects under our care-Abby didn’t expect to be responsible for these items forever. She intended to return them as soon as she felt that it was safe to do so-namely, at the end of the war. It was our understanding that Innocenta, or Celestine Clochette if need be, would care for the envelopes and, when the time came, follow their instructions in a particular order. The requirements were made to ensure both the safety of the objects and the safety of the person engaged in recovery.”
Bruno and Evangeline exchanged glances. Evangeline was certain that Sister Celestine had not known anything about these instructions.
“We didn’t get specific directions,” Bruno said. “Only a card that led us here.”
“Perhaps Innocenta didn’t relate the information before her death,” Evangeline said. “I’m sure that Celestine would have made certain that Mrs. Rockefeller’s wishes were followed, had she known.”
“Ah, well,” Alistair said, “I see that there is some confusion. Mrs. Rockefeller was under the impression that Celestine Clochette would be leaving the convent to return to Europe. It is my recollection that Miss Clochette was a temporary guest.”
“It didn’t work out that way,” Evangeline said, remembering how frail and sickly Celestine had become in the last days of her life.
Alistair Carroll closed his eyes, as if pondering the correct path to take in the completion of the matter at hand. Standing abruptly, he said, “Well, there is nothing to do but continue. Please join me-I would like to show you my extraordinary view.”
They followed Alistair Carroll to a wall of large porthole windows, the very ones Evangeline had noticed from the street below. At their vantage, the Museum of Modern Art spread before them. Evangeline pressed her hands upon the copper frame of the porthole window and peered down. Directly below them, contained and orderly, lay the famous Sculpture Garden, its rectangular floor plated in gray marble. A narrow pool of water shimmered at the center of the garden, creating an obsidian darkness. Through wisps of snow, slabs of gray marble wept purple.
“From here I can watch the garden night and day,” Alistair Carroll said quietly. “Mrs. Rockefeller bought this apartment for that very purpose-I am the guardian of the garden. I have watched many changes take place in the years since her death. The garden has been torn up and redesigned; the collection of statuary has grown.” He turned to Evangeline and Verlaine. “We could not have foreseen that the trustees would find it necessary to change things so drastically over the years. Philip Johnson’s 1953 garden-the iconic modern garden that one thinks of when one imagines it-wiped out all traces of the original garden Abby had known. Then, for some bizarre reason, they decided to modernize Philip Johnson’s garden-a travesty, a terrible error in judgment. First they ripped up the marble-a lovely Vermont marble with a unique shade of blue-gray to it-and replaced it with an inferior variety. They later discovered that the original had been far superior, but that is another matter. Then they ripped the whole thing up again, replacing the new marble with one that was similar to the original. It would have been most distressing to watch, if I had not taken matters into my own hands.” Alistair Carroll crossed his arms over his chest, a look of satisfaction appearing upon his face. “The treasure, you see, was originally hidden in the garden.”