Behind the Ivory Veil
6 Forging a Bond
Monday, 23 May 1955, Indianapolis, Indiana
THEY ARRIVED at The Seville promptly at 8:00, a little late to dine in Indiana, but about right for Doc and Margaret. Doc began the story of what had brought them to Wesley. He was careful to downplay the supernatural elements of the City of the Gods, though Rebecca seemed quickly to comprehend that aspect. They explained that Professor Wilton had disappeared after making the initial discovery and that Wesley’s key was a page from Wilton’s notes.
“We’ve been here interviewing you for one purpose, Wesley. We want you to join us on an expedition back to the City of the Gods this summer. To us, your services in translating or interpreting the stories and legends inscribed in the area would be invaluable. For yourself, it would give you the opportunity to gain a primary source for your study on communication and language. Imagine an entire city inscribed with the symbols you have used in your papers. What do you say?”
Everything fell into place in Wesley’s mind and he began to feel very foolish about suspecting Doc and Margaret. They were there for his benefit as well as their own. Still, he could not completely turn himself over without losing his pride. He hesitated for a moment.
“I am flattered, but you’re sure I’d have ample opportunity to conduct my own studies in communications and music and that I wouldn’t just be there to translate for you?” Doc nodded. “I don’t know. What do you think, Rebecca?”
“I think we should have a talk. Dr. Heinrich, Dr. Jacobsen. Would you excuse us for a moment?” Rebecca stood and walked away from the table up the steps to the front door. Wesley excused himself and followed.
Doc looked at Margaret questioningly.
“You can’t be serious, Phillip,” said Margaret. “There isn’t a shred of hard scientific evidence in all his work. They’re a charming couple, but why?”
“Because it works. I could feel the story he played for us more concretely than if I had been reading it. Tell me it didn’t work for you and I’ll call it off.”
“It worked,” answered Margaret, “but it’s not evidence we can produce for scientific purposes. I don’t know how he does it.”
“And if he knew, he would quit,” said Doc. “I look at it as a trance-medium state. There was once a balalaika player that I knew who did something quite similar. Wesley has built his pseudoscientific evidence structure around it because he could never accept himself as a medium. It’s a black art and he is a Christian. We can get a translator to work on the material when we get back but it could take years that you and I don’t have to construct the literal translation.”
“It’s really just for us, isn’t it, Phillip?”
“I suppose so. Margaret, my dear, Wilton told me in 1937 that when I found his sign, my doubts would disappear. I’ve looked for it for eighteen years. I’m not getting younger. I don’t need to vindicate Wilton or prove his thesis. I simply need to know what he knew.”
“I see. What next?”
“Champagne?”
Once outside the restaurant, Rebecca began walking around Monument Circle at the center of town. Wesley caught up with her and began to chastise her for leaving the table.
“It was far less rude than to let you sit there and insult people who have just made you the offer of a lifetime. Why can’t you just admit that you were wrong for a change and accept what comes your way? Wes, if you turn this down or insult them enough to make them withdraw the offer, you’re just a fool.”
Wesley stuck both hands in his pockets in a grown-up version of a pout. “Of course, you’re right. I’m an idiot.”
“You’re a good man, Wes. Just don’t try to push so hard and let things happen. Something good might turn up.”
She leaned toward Wesley to kiss him. He looked around nervously as if expecting the college president to be watching and then responded warmly—perhaps even passionately. They walked back to the restaurant where Doc and Margaret were patiently waiting with champagne glasses filled.
“Doctor Heinrich. Doctor Jacobsen. I hope I have not offended you with my lack of good manners. The truth is that I can’t think of anything I would rather do than join in your expedition. Especially… Well, it was going to be a long lonely summer with our marriage delayed by Rebecca’s study abroad. If you think you can put up with me, I accept your invitation.”
“Hear, hear! A toast to our new partnership,” Doc said, raising his glass.
“I… uh… don’t…” Wesley hesitated as he caught Rebecca’s eye. “Oh well,” he said, raising his glass. “To our partnership.”
Friday, 27 May 1955, Indianapolis, Indiana
Doc and Margaret stayed in Indianapolis for several days, planning the expedition and introducing Wesley to Wilton’s other writings. Friday morning, they drafted a list of equipment and supplies they would need. Wesley needed a musical instrument and experimented with a guitar. When he adjusted his notations and added his voice, it worked as well as the piano had.
Nor was Rebecca forgotten. Margaret was a veteran traveler and assisted Rebecca in planning every article she would take to Scotland. Rebecca stacked the folded clothing on her bureau.
“Well, it looks like you have everything you could possibly need except better walking shoes,” Margaret said.
“I don’t know how I’d have done it without your help. I can hardly believe it’s only a week until I leave.”
“I shan’t be much longer, myself. I’m going to Athens by way of Sweden. The three of us will arrive in Greece at different times and from different places.”
“Is it really that dangerous? I worry about Wesley.”
“Not so much danger as simply not wanting to draw attention.” Margaret looked at Rebecca’s bags distractedly. “Rebecca, do you have a walking stick?”
“No. Why?”
“Oh, I just knew something was missing. You can go almost any place in the world on a dollar a day, but you can’t walk the hills of Scotland and Northern England without a walking stick.”
“Where would I buy one?”
“I recommend you ask Phillip. He hardly goes anywhere without his.”
They found the men in Wesley’s study and once Margaret explained the situation, Doc suggested a drive in the country. It was just what was needed to conclude the visit in Indiana. Wesley volunteered a location and they packed a lunch.
“We have decided to go by air tomorrow instead of by train, Wesley,” Margaret said as they sat watching Doc and Rebecca choosing the right piece of wood a few yards away. Once on the subject, Doc had taken Rebecca aside to explain everything there was to know about choosing a walking stick. He talked about weight, wood, length and thickness, how well seasoned the wood should be and the various benefits of stripping off the bark versus leaving it on.
“It’s really no problem to drive you back up to Fort Wayne,” Wesley said to Margaret. “Or even Chicago if you’d like.”
“It’s not a matter of convenience, really. Phillip gets nervous when he’s planning an expedition. Without his library and maps he’s an absolute child,” Margaret laughed.
“I guess that’s a side I haven’t seen.”
“Nor are you likely to when we are in the field. It’s a secret between him and me. But he is anxious to get back and finalize things. I leave in just over a week. Flying will cut a day off our time away. And that meant spending today with you and Rebecca instead of trying to get today’s train.”
“She’s sure something special, isn’t she?” Wesley smiled. Rebecca turned to come back holding her stick up for them to see.
“Yes, indeed,” Margaret agreed.
“Look!” shouted Rebecca. “Isn’t she wonderful?”
“She? Is it alive?” asked Wesley.
“Doc says all walking sticks are alive and take on a personality of their own,” answered Rebecca. “This is definitely a she.”
“Well, you are right. She is beautiful. And so are you.”
“Ahem,” coughed Doc, breaking up Rebecca and Wesley’s spontaneous embrace. Wesley could only think how amazingly free and relaxed he felt when away from campus, even in the presence of the two distinguished professors. This summer would be more fun if he were going to Scotland with Rebecca, but he was more relaxed now that he was going to have his own adventure.
“If I could interrupt for just a moment,” Doc continued, “there is still one small item of business that we need to take care of. I think it is appropriate to do so out here in the open where we can’t be overheard without knowing it.”
“What?” asked Wesley.
“Well, because of the history of the people we are going to see and because of my own history, I believe that we need to consider our expedition confidential.”
“Of course. We talked about that,” Wesley said.
“No, not about this part. Archaeological sciences have changed a lot in the past twenty-odd years. For the better, I might add. But there are still a few of the old type around. Adventurers, fortune seekers. You never know when they will pop up. Wilton’s lost City of the Gods and the missing goddess would be just the kind of thing that would bring them flocking. Especially with me connected with it.”
“What are you saying?” asked Rebecca.
“Just this: that the less said the better. Rebecca, that goes even in Scotland. And Wesley, frankly I wish I was taking you with me tomorrow. You must have all the information I can give you and I trust your discretion. I’m just saying,” Doc stammered on. “Just be careful. They’re a rough lot if they think there could be riches to be had.”
“Are there riches to be had?” Wesley asked.
“I don’t think so. Not of that sort at least. But it would be hard to explain that without showing it and there is too much at stake academically to risk public knowledge in advance. Do you both understand?”
They did, but the announcement took some of the edge off their excitement and the ride back to Indianapolis was a quiet one.
Tuesday, 31 May 1955, Indianapolis, Indiana
After Doc and Margaret flew home, Wesley spent all of his free hours in the library stacks cataloging Wilton’s papers. The field was new to Wesley, but he found that he could date the progression of thought from topic to topic through the papers by changing characteristics in the handwriting. Only in the instance of the page on his office shelf and the two pages preceding it in the file, however, was there anything particularly unusual. Wilton was a concise and accurate writer of both fact and fiction. His journey to Metéora was chronicled only in the papers in the satchel Doc brought from Greece. To Wesley, those writings had been like the work of a lunatic. Even the use of symbology Wesley had adapted for his translations made no sense.
On Tuesday, Wesley made his way to the stacks again.
“Lots of traffic today, Professor Allen,” said the student librarian looking at him adoringly. “You must be doing something really important. A man came in from Chicago and asked to see the same file you’ve been cataloging. He said he’s a biographer doing research on the life of Benjamin Wilton. I said I’d never heard of him until your friends came last week. That box has been open every day since then. Hope you don’t mind. I gave him your name and telephone number so he could contact you. I figured if you already had the file cataloged there was no sense in him doing it over. That’s okay, isn’t it Mr. Allen?”
“Yes, of course, Doris,” Wesley answered a little absently. “Did he give a name? I’d like to know who it is when he calls me.”
“Oh, I don’t remember. I’ll go look it up for you if you’d like. It’s on the sign-in sheet for the stacks. He had an accent. English.”
“I’ll check it when I’m through. Is he still here?”
“No, he left a little after noon. Said he’d be back. He wanted to know if you’d be in today. I didn’t know for sure, of course, but you have been coming in around three o’clock each day, so I told him to check in about then. Do you want me to show him up if he comes back, Mr. Allen?”
Wesley thought for a moment. There really wasn’t much he could do if the man wanted to come around. But at the same time, he didn’t relish meeting someone whose name he didn’t even know. And why on earth would anyone be interested in Wilton’s life?
“Would you mind giving me a call on the system before you show him up, Doris?” He said at last. “And tell me his name.”
“Okay. Let me know when you are ready to leave so I can lock up.”
Wesley shivered as his imagination took hold. He just didn’t like being surprised. He turned back to find Doris still in the doorway watching him. She turned at once to leave.
“Doris.”
“Yes, Mr. Allen?”
“I wonder if you would mind locking the door.”
She stammered a moment, visibly blushing.
“It’s all right, Doris,” Wesley said, trying to make sense of the situation.
“Oh, Mr. Allen,” she burst out. “They’d miss me downstairs in no time.”
Wesley blushed.
“Doris. With me on the inside and you on the outside. Just lock me in.”
Doris caught her breath, stammered again, then slammed the door shut behind her. Wesley stayed by the door until he heard her fleeing footsteps and checked to be sure the door was locked. He felt more secure.
Wesley stood looking at the door. He had to admit that it was a strange request. It almost made more sense the way Doris had taken it. God forbid! If there was a fire, though, he wouldn’t stand a chance. For a moment, he considered calling down to the desk immediately and having her come back to unlock the door. Then he would feel both strange and foolish. And compromised beyond belief. He was glad she was not one of his students.
At the foot of the stairs, Doris leaned against the railing with her hand held against her beating heart. That dreamy Mr. Allen. Next term she was definitely taking piano lessons.
Wesley looked around and noticed the high door that led to the roof. It, too, was locked. But it was not considered a high security access as the stairway door was. His master key might fit that one. He tried it and found to his relief that it did unlock to let in a bit of afternoon sun and breeze. He carefully blocked it open a crack with a wooden block that looked as though it had been used for the purpose many times. That would be better.
He retrieved the box that held Wilton’s notes and set about organizing himself. Yes, someone else had been through it. It did not seem damaged, nor should he have expected that, but the papers were not in the same meticulous order that he had disciplined himself to return them to each time he opened the box. His was, after all, an official scientific endeavor. He prided himself on that.
As he scanned the page of his own familiar handwriting and read his notes on each entry, he eventually reached the entry “Music of the Gods,” the document that had been his initial contact with Wilton through the page stuck to a shelf in his office. It was neatly scratched off the list with two thin lines as if he had himself edited the catalog.
He quickly checked through the piles of papers for the remaining two pages of the document. They were not there. In their place was a folded piece of notebook paper with Wesley’s name written on it in a controlled, crisp handwriting. He unfolded the paper to read the message written on it.
“Dear Professor Allen,” began the formal, though hastily written letter.
Yes, two pages of Wilton’s work are presently missing. Perhaps I should say two more pages for, as I know you are aware, at least one additional page was missing already. After I have completed my research, of course, I will return the pages I have taken, so there is no sense in raising an alarm about it—least of all to Dr. Heinrich. He is quite aware of my interest in the matter. It might even be more beneficial to you if we were to strike a business deal ourselves.
I want the missing page or pages, Professor. You have created a pleasant if trivial adaptation of Wilton’s work relating the concepts to a universal language. A bit far-fetched, if I may say. It is evident that you are not thoroughly enlightened on the true significance of Wilton’s material. Render this task to one who truly understands the mind of the author. There may be a discovery surpassing your imagination awaiting us, Prof. Allen. I have an uncanny ability to find lost idols.
If, by the time you have finished reading this letter, I do not already have the missing pages in my hands, I will expect you to deliver them here in the near future.
Yours sincerely,
The Blade
Wesley’s hands were shaking by the time he finished reading the letter. How dare anyone steal manuscript pages from the library and accuse him of doing the same? And virtually threaten him if he did not turn over his part. He reread the closing of the letter.
… If, by the time you have finished reading this letter, I do not already have the missing pages…
Wesley ran to the door of the stacks and swore at his stupidity in having himself locked in. He turned to the phone system and dialed the desk. It rang. Eight times it rang and no one picked it up. Wesley slammed down the receiver in half a panic. Then he remembered the roof access door.
He pushed it outward and boosted himself up to the sill. This time, he would take a precaution. He carefully wedged the block back into the sill to keep the door from latching behind him. Just to his left, a library box was tucked into a corner of the roof structure. It was too out of place to be overlooked. He pulled it from its hiding place and opened it. A blanket and pillow were neatly folded in it. No wonder Doris misunderstood his request. If students were using the roof as a hideaway, there must be other access routes to it. He would take care of that matter later.
He looked across the roof toward his office a block away. He could see the office window from where he stood. It appeared dark. There was not much he could see from here, or do if something was going on. His task now was to get down off the roof.
Modern buildings, he muttered, were not equipped with ladders to the roof. He searched around for other accesses. Forty feet away, he identified the painted black glass of the fire windows above the fly space in the school auditorium. He pulled on the window frame and it reluctantly inched open enough for him to slip through. He searched for footing beneath him and found a beam. Balancing himself as the window slid noiselessly shut and his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he began to identify his surroundings. A series of steel beams three inches wide and six inches apart ran the length of the space around him. Pulley blocks were attached to these at regular intervals with cable stretching in a hazardous pattern across the grid. Some forty-five feet below, the school thespians were rehearsing a playlet. He looked back up to catch his breath and calm his vertigo. He picked his way to the access ladder about fifteen feet away across the obstacle course. As soon as he was off the ladder from the grid, Wesley ran for his office and the precious shelf.
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