Some of this went through my mind as I stood at the bar between the Senator and the labor leader and half listened as they gossiped about the state of the union, and some of it I looked up later. Frances Wingo now stood at Spencer’s left, talking to him in a low voice while he continued his study of the labels on the bottles behind the bar. When the bartender slid my drink over to me I turned to Senator Kehoel.
“Good session?” I asked.
“Rotten,” he said. “But considering what we now have in the White House it was better than I expected.”
“Give him time,” Teague said.
“Why?”
Teague patted a stray lock of silvery hair into place while he thought up an answer. “He has good people around him,” he said.
“So did Caesar,” the senator said.
“Think I have time for one more of these?” Teague said, looking sadly into his empty martini glass.
“I don’t know,” the senator said. “You’ll have to ask God.”
As if on cue, God, or Winfield Spencer, turned from Frances Wingo and said, “I think we should start.” He walked slowly over to the carefully set table and took the chair at its head, not waiting for Frances Wingo. I noticed that Spencer moved with a slight limp. Lawrence Teague bustled over to Mrs. Wingo and held her chair which was on Spencer’s left. I sat next to her and the senator and Teague sat across from us.
Lunch, for four of us at least, was ordinary but eatable: grilled double-cut lamb chops, fresh peas, new potatoes, and salad. The bartender, who doubled as waiter, served it skillfully enough, but seemed to wince when he got around to Spencer whose plate contained two hard-boiled eggs and six soda crackers which he grimly washed down with a glass of buttermilk.
There was little conversation during the meal. Spencer ate slowly and when finished he brushed a few cracker crumbs from his vest and tapped a forefinger softly on the tablecloth. I assumed that he was calling the meeting to order. He was.
“When the coffee is served, we’ll begin,” he said, staring into his now empty plate. The dishes were cleared away, the coffee was promptly served, and I lit a cigarette. No one else smoked.
Spencer looked up from his plate and his green eyes seemed to fasten on some imaginary guest at the end of the table. From the tone of Spencer’s voice, the imaginary guest was apparently none too bright. “The museum suffered a theft on Friday night. That is the reason for this meeting. Mrs. Wingo will now give us a detailed report. Do not ask questions until she is finished.” With that he dropped his eyes back to the spot where his plate containing the two hard-boiled eggs and six soda crackers had rested. He didn’t look up until Frances Wingo stopped talking. She had quite a bit to say and she said it well.
“I’ll start at the beginning,” she said. “As all of you know, with the possible exception of Mr. St. Ives, we consider ourselves extremely fortunate to have secured what is known as the Pan-African collection. In truth it is somewhat misnamed because all of it comes from south of the Sahara, but even so it represents the finest collection of black African art ever assembled. Most of the pieces are considered national treasures and have never before been exhibited outside their respective countries. I will not attempt to catalogue all of the pieces that are of extreme value, or even priceless because of their historical worth, but only point out that none of them exceeds the shield of Komporeen in beauty, historical significance, value, and, unfortunately, political importance. The shield, of course, was stolen last Friday night.”
She paused for a sip of water. “The shield of Komporeen was first mentioned by an anonymous Portuguese pilot who wrote of it in his account of his explorations of the west coast of Africa in 1539. He described it as hanging behind the throne of the Odo, or natural ruler of Komporeen, and noted that it was, as he wrote, ‘the subject of much veneration.’ Komporeen, of course, is the former name for what is now known as the Republic of Jandola, which secured its independence from the British in 1958. It was not until the 1870’s that the shield of Komporeen was mentioned again. Sir William Cranville wrote a detailed description of it in what came to be known as the Cranville Report. He mistakenly described the shield as being of ‘obvious Portuguese derivation, but nevertheless of exquisite workmanship.’ Another near quote was when he wrote that ‘the native leaders insist that it portrays their history from ancient times, but I regard this as highly improbable.’”
Once again Frances Wingo sipped some water. “In 1910,” she went on, “the first detailed report on the shield was contained in a monograph privately published in London by Jonathon Twill, the archeologist. He described it as being cast by the ‘lost wax’ method which was first used by the people of the Nile. He measured and weighed the shield and found it to weigh 68 pounds and to measure 39 inches in diameter. He also noted that it was constantly guarded and for the first time reported its real significance.
“Winston wrote that the Komporeeneans believed that whoever possessed the shield was empowered to rule the nation. He also mentioned that possession of the shield had been the cause of what he described as ‘innumerable intertribal wars.’
“In the late 1940’s a special British commission was appointed to make a thorough investigation of the shield of Komporeen. Although it was unable to interpret the meaning of the bas-relief figures which stem from its center in a series of ever-widening concentric circles, it was able to establish the approximate age. The shield of Komporeen was judged to have been cast in the ninth century. As such, it is far older than the bronzes and brasses of Ife and Benin in Nigeria.
“The shield of Komporeen was on display in the Jandolaean National Museum in Brefu, the second-largest city in the republic. It was only with the greatest reluctance that the Jandolaean government agreed to permit the shield to become part of the Pan-African Exhibition. They did so, frankly, because of their intense feeling of nationalism which made them want to boast, understandably enough, I suppose, of their past civilization which was capable of producing such a magnificent work of art at a time when Europe was emerging from its dark ages.”
Again she paused, sipped some more water, and looked at Spencer. “I hope I’m not taking too much time,” she said.
“Go on,” Spencer said.
“The Pan-African Exhibit has now been on tour for nearly a year. During this time a revolution has broken out in Jandola, as I’m sure you know. Both the Federal government of Jandola and the breakaway province which has adopted the ancient name of Komporeen claim the shield as their own. Unfortunately, the shield has become a primary symbol in the civil war and both sides attach an extraordinary amount of significance to its possession. The U.S. has no diplomatic relations with the breakaway nation of Komporeen. Jandola, for the moment, is content to let the shield remain in the U.S. for obvious political and propaganda purposes. It was my unpleasant task to inform their embassy that it had been stolen. I might add that the reverberations from their embassy, as well as from our State Department, can only be described as severe.
“The theft of the shield was discovered at twelve twenty-five Friday morning. The Metropolitan Police were immediately notified as was I. Shortly thereafter I called Mr. Spencer and then the Jandolaean Embassy. Because of the shield’s unique political significance, it was agreed that news of the theft would not be released. After investigating, the police concluded that the theft was an inside job. You are aware that the museum contains the most sophisticated electronic warning and alarm devices available. Mr. Amos Coulter designed some of them himself. A theft by forced entry is virtually impossible. To bear out the inside-job theory one of the guards assigned to the Pan-African Exhibition failed to report to work the following afternoon. His name is John Sackett and police have been unable to locate him. He has been employed by the museum for nearly eight months.”