“Dr. McVeigh—”
She turned. “Yes?”
“There was a package for you, Doctor. It came yesterday, just at closing time. You had already left, and your secretary as well, so I kept it here for you.”
The woman reached under the counter of her station and came up with a flat package roughly five inches square and an inch or so in depth, handing it over. Ruth McVeigh took it, noting that the package had been carefully wrapped in brown paper, bound tightly with twine, and closed by two red seals. Her name appeared to have been machine printed, rather than handwritten or typed. Someone seems to have gone to a lot of trouble, she thought, and turned the package over. There was nothing on the back. She looked up, frowning.
“Did you happen to notice who left this for me?”
The woman looked a bit nonplussed. She shrugged.
“You know how it is at closing, Doctor. Everyone seems to be around here at once, asking questions, wanting folders, or programs. I—” She paused to think. “All I can remember is a hand reaching through the crowd and laying the package down in front of me. When I got a chance I called your office and nobody answered, so I just put it away and held it for you for today. Why? Is it important?”
Ruth McVeigh smiled. “No, of course not. I was just curious.” And any archaeologist who is not curious, she said to herself, ought to be in another profession. Still, sealing a simple package with sealing wax?
“I could ask the guards if they saw anything—” the receptionist said tentatively.
“No, that’s all right.” At closing time, Ruth knew, the guards’ attention was on arms and packages, not on clothing or faces. She smiled again to convince the woman no harm had been done. “Thank you.”
She walked along the corridor leading toward the staircase that led to her office, considering the package as she went. Behind her the museum was beginning to fill with the sounds of another busy day. The strange package, she noticed, was very light, and the outer wrapping appeared to have been carefully glued shut. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble, indeed. Could it be that the contents were so fragile — a rare manuscript, perhaps, a bit of ancient parchment — that prolonged contact with air could damage them? Or that the contents were so valuable that this extreme care in packaging was warranted? But valuable contents simply laid upon a desk with no message, and no address other than just a simple name? The detective in Ruth McVeigh wondered if possibly the watermark of the paper, or an analysis of the sealing wax could give some clue as to the identity of the sender. Then she smiled to herself. You’ve been reading too many mystery stories, my girl! she told herself sternly. Undoubtedly the contents of the package would resolve that problem.
Still, it was doubtful that the package contained anything intended for the museum. Such mail and packages were normally properly addressed and delivered to the museum’s mail room, not to the reception desk. And as for personal mail for her, or any unexpected gift, what could the occasion be? This was April and her birthday was in September, and what other occasion was there for a gift? Or from whom? Most of her friends were off in distant places around the globe, busy with their small hammers, scoops, and brushes. Many had not had a chance even to hear of her new position. And she knew she had not ordered anything from any store, and if she had she would have had it delivered to her home, not her place of work. Besides, no store she knew went in for sealing wax on the corners of their packages.
Of course, it was a puzzle easily enough resolved, and all her prior detective reasoning had probably been wasted. In all probability it was a new sales gimmick, offering her a free copy of a new woman’s magazine for a lifetime subscription or a Florida condominium at a reasonable price at her advanced age. She smiled at the thought as she reached her office. She nodded to Marge, her secretary, and went inside. She sat at her desk, pushed aside the pile of incoming mail awaiting her attention, studied the exterior of the package a few more seconds, and then reached for her letter opener, inserting it carefully at one corner, prying the wax seal loose. One would think I was opening a mummy’s tomb, she thought with an inner grin. The grin faded. Or a letter bomb. It was a disturbing thought and she put it away, instead slitting the paper neatly and folding it back. There was an inner wrapping which she removed with equal care; too many years of being taught to open all things with circumspection prevented her from tearing or even wrinkling the wrappings. She removed the cover.
Inside was another box. For a moment she wondered if possibly one of her practical-joking acquaintances had gone to all this trouble just to send her one of those sets of nesting boxes that ended up containing something quite minute and utterly useless. It would fit in with the type of mentality that would go to the trouble of machine printing her name and sealing the box with paraffin wax. With a sigh she removed the cover of the inner box, but inside, rather than any more boxes, was a translucent envelope through which she could see photographs, and on top of them, clipped to the envelope, was a letter. So at least it was no practical joke, she thought with a touch of relief, and then smiled; it also was no letter bomb. She took the envelope from the box and then noticed one further thing at the bottom of the package, in one corner. It was wrapped in cotton-batting and appeared lumpy. She picked away the cotton and stared at the small ring that was enclosed. With a frown she picked up the letter and read it.
When she was done she stared at the ring for a moment, a deep frown on her face. Then she reached for the telephone, pressing the button for her secretary.
“Marge, would you ask Dr. Keller to come in? And ask Jed Martin to come along, too.”
She replaced the telephone and leaned back in her chair, staring at the letter. Then she opened the envelope and removed the photographs, studying them intently. Could it be that, after all, she was still being the victim of a practical joke? Or of a bomb of a different type? Well, this day, at least, had not started off in its usual manner, and she had a feeling that many of her days would be changed as a result of the strange package; a feeling similar to the one you got when you dug carefully into the earth and encountered the resistance of something and knew, just knew, it was not a stone, but something that could lead to an exciting discovery — although this package with its letter most probably was just a stone. She looked up at a rap on the door; a moment later it opened to admit Dr. Robert Keller and Jed Martin.
Dr. Keller was the director in charge of special projects. He was a large, handsome man in his late forties whose rumpled clothes looked as if they had been slept in. He sat down, crossed his heavy legs carelessly, dug a pipe from one pocket and a sack of tobacco from another, and began filling his pipe with slow, methodical movements while he waited for the subject of the meeting to be broached. Jed Martin, in sharp contrast, was wearing a neat, spotless laboratory jacket over a conservative vest. Jed Martin was the curator of Greek and Roman antiquities. He was thin almost to a point of emaciation, and dapper to the point of being a dandy. He also chose a chair, looking almost as if he would have liked to dust it before offering it to the seat of his neatly pressed trousers. Ruth McVeigh looked at both men appreciatively. Although completely different in temperament as well as appearance, both men shared one faculty; they were both excellent in their fields.