The customs inspector gave a hopeless shrug.
"We'd have labeled it a mummy case," he said, "coming in from Egypt, the
way it did. Only, it's made of metal -"
"Of metal?"
"Yes. That's why we tagged it as a casket. Maybe you'd better take a look
at the thing, Mr. Newboldt."
The curator's interest was aroused. His stride became rapid, as he led the
way from the office, through a gallery of mummy cases that loomed like sentinels
in the dark, to a stairway illuminated by a single light. The steps went
downward; at the bottom was an open door, where a drab man in grayish uniform
stood waiting.
The drab man was Kent, the museum's chief attendant. He announced that the
truckmen were waiting in the alley. At Newboldt's order, Kent stepped outside.
There were scraping sounds from the truck; six men appeared, lugging a burden
that was actually too heavy for them.
Though the long box was crated, Newboldt could see the dull glimmer of
metal, which he took for lead. Kent was pointing the truckmen up to the mummy
room, but Newboldt shook his head.
"Have them put it in the little exhibit room," ordered the curator. "The
one we are reserving for the Polynesian collection. This is not a mummy case,
Kent."
Then, turning to Matthew, Newboldt added:
"There is a mystery about this matter. I expected a mummy case, not a
leaden casket."
"Maybe the mummy case is inside," suggested Matthew. "The lead box may be
a" - he hesitated - "a sar - a sar what do you call the thing?"
"A sarcophagus," replied Newboldt. "No. An Egyptian sarcophagus would be
made of stone, not of metal. Besides, this casket is longer than would be
required for a mummy case, and too flat to contain one. It may be a wrong
shipment."
"Then I'd better keep the truck around?"
"Yes," decided Newboldt. "Until we have solved the riddle."
THEY went up to the little exhibit room, where the truckers had set the
crated casket on the floor. Newboldt ordered the men to remove the crating,
which they did, except for the cross braces on which the casket rested.
All the while, Newboldt's eyes were becoming wider, rounder. Plucking at
Matthew's sleeve, the curator whispered tensely:
"Send them downstairs."
The customs man dismissed the truckers, telling them to wait out back.
Turning about, he saw Newboldt making the rounds of the room, testing its
barred windows. Newboldt's actions seemed jerky; his hand trembled as he
pointed to the door; his voice was hoarse as he ordered Kent to stand guard
there.
Then, stepping to the low, flattish casket, Newboldt shakily drew a
handkerchief from his pocket and massaged the dark metal. Under the rubbing
process, the metal took on a luster which brought a surprised exclamation from
Matthew:
"Silver!"
