The Mystery of the Pilfered Papyrus
by Ron Katz
“What’s with the wing corkscrew? inquired Barb Silver of her husband and business partner, Bernie. “I thought we were having Champagne to celebrate my new lenses.” They were sitting in their Palo Alto living room, looking through their large bay window at the leafy cul-de-sac where they lived. She added, “Why don’t you just twist the cork out with your hand, like everybody else does?”
“Everybody under 70, perhaps,” responded Bernie. “Before cataract surgery made your vision so sharp, I used to be able to finesse my use of this wing thing, so you wouldn’t see it. The sad truth is that my grip alone is no longer strong enough to twist the Champagne cork out. Even a regular corkscrew is inadequate; I need these levers to do the trick.”
“Now that’s a first-world problem,” she said. “The wing corkscrew doesn’t even properly fit over the Champagne bottle cork.”
“Not only that” he added. “The problem seems to be worse with the more expensive varieties, like this Veuve Cliquot Brut Yellow Label that I chose especially for this occasion.”
Her newly refurbished gaze moved from the Champagne bottle to the bay window. She saw a slender, bearded figure, with shoulder-length black hair covered by a beret, approaching their home from a distance of about 50 yards.
“Looks like Ozzie,” she said, referring to Professor Vladimir Osofsky, the chair of Stanford’s art history department. He had teamed up with their firm, Silver Investigations, to solve some art-related mysteries. He was carrying what also looked like a bottle of Champagne.
“Hey, great!” exclaimed Bernie. “You could not have seen him at that distance as recently as one week ago. Truth be told, I’m not clearly seeing him now.”
“You should sign up for the surgery, Bernie,” she said. “It’s all the rage among our friends.”
“I’m seeing most of our friends as clearly as I want to right now, thank you,” he responded.
“I see your point,” she said, rising to answer the door. “When I see a really accurate close-up of myself, like when I’m FaceTiming on an iPhone, it is a little depressing.”
“That’s the reason for younger friends like Ozzie,” he said. “His visage can still withstand 20/20 vision.”
***
“Ozzie,” Barb greeted, with an enthusiastic hug, “you look great!”
“Coming from someone like Barb, who’s just had eye surgery,” Bernie chimed in, “that’s a real compliment. It’s been too long, Ozzie; sometimes I think you hang out with us just for the cheap thrills of detective work.”
“I wouldn’t call them cheap,” Ozzie said. “My share of the fee from the van Gogh case actually enabled me to buy an etching by him. But I’m here today for another happy reason--to celebrate my appointment to an endowed professorship. I am now the Florence Cavendish Professor of Art History.”
“Florence Cavendish?” questioned Barb. “Didn’t we first get to know you when you were mistakenly a suspect in her murder during the fake Jackson Pollock case?”
“She’s the one,” answered Ozzie. “Fortunately, the provision in her will establishing this professorship wasn’t generally known at that time. Otherwise, the police might have paid more attention to me. For today, I’m just celebrating, which is why I brought this lovely bottle of Veuve Cliquot Brut Yellow Label.”
“Great minds think alike,” said Bernie, lifting his identical bottle. “We’re celebrating Barb’s successful cataract surgery.”
“With all that we have to celebrate, I don’t think making a dent in two bottles will be a problem,” said Ozzie. “Which bottle should start the festivities?”
Surreptitiously moving the wing corkscrew behind his back, Bernie flushed and replied, “You first.”
***
Having relaxed over a few glasses of Champagne, Ozzie said, “I also have an admission to make. I’m here to talk about a problematic new investigation.”
“Why would that be a problem?” asked Barb.
“Investigations are what we do,” added Bernie, as he cast his eyes around the expansive living room, with its exposed beams. “As my father would have said, ‘It’s a living.’”
“That might be part of the problem here,” responded Ozzie. “This one comes from a former star student of mine, who cannot afford your rates.”
“Why don’t you tell us about it?” asked Barb. “If it’s interesting enough, the fee isn’t important. Also, Bernie has a way of finding sources of funding.”
“Yes,” Bernie observed. “’Follow the money’ is not just a way of solving the case.”
“Great,” said Ozzie, brightening. “The upside is you’ll get to visit the City of Dreaming Spires.”
“Not Moscow again, I hope,” groaned Barb, remembering her trip there, under what seemed like pounds of make-up, disguised as an elderly invalid.
“Much more pleasant,” said Ozzie. “The nickname for your investigation destination comes from a famous poem by Matthew Arnold:
‘And that sweet city with her dreaming spires,
She needs not June for beauty’s heightening.’”
“Oxford!” said Bernie.
“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Matthew Arnold scholar, Bernie,” said Ozzie. “Well done.”
“More detective than poetry scholar,” said Bernie. “Deducing from 1) this involves a star student and 2) that Matthew Arnold is English, it had to be Oxford or Cambridge, so I had a 50% chance of being right.”
“50 is a failing grade in school,” said Ozzie, “but, as I’ve found out, it’s a solid B in detective work. Go to the head of the class, Sherlock.”
“I’ve always wanted to visit Oxford,” said Bernie. “And the case should be relatively easy. After all, how much trouble could a low-level researcher get into in the groves of academe?”
“She’s not the one in trouble,” Ozzie continued. “Her name is Eleni Anogia. She’s doing post-doctoral research and trying to help her former boss out of a jam. His name is Dirk Obbink, Dr. Dirk Obbink. He was Oxford’s most famous professor of papyrology and was the Director of something called the Imaging Papyri Project there.”
“Is papyrology really a subject?” asked Bernie.
“It’s the study of ancient texts from Egypt written on papyrus,” responded Ozzie.
“What did he allegedly do?” inquired Bernie. “Steal a scroll of King Tut’s exercise program?”
“You’re close,” responded Ozzie. “He’s suspected of stealing a portion of the oldest surviving manuscript of the New Testament, dating from the first century.
“As for papyrology, it’s obviously a pretty obscure subject, but one that was interesting enough to attract my star student, Eleni, away from the mainstream of art history. Also, her family originates from Greece and she speaks that language. That is important in papyrology, because many of the documents are written in Greek.
“Since there are not many papyrology-related jobs, she had to go to Oxford to find one, and not a very good one at that, a small grant. Although her supervisor, Obbink, is a superstar papyrologist, she basically just gets room and board in a place where most of the rooms are hundreds of years old and the dining hall food tastes like it’s not much younger.”
“Why would she take such a job?” asked Barb.
“It’s very prestigious,” responded Ozzie, “and therefore may lead to a real job.”
“Sounds great,” said Bernie, “if only you could eat prestige.”
She can scrape by in a college town, with help from a little family money. As you will see from these articles I’m handing you, her mentor, Obbink, for whom she has great respect, is in a pickle. Please take a look at the articles in the next few days and let me know if you’re interested.”
Barb glanced at them and said “Will do. A quick scan of the first article tells me that papyrus doesn’t come cheap, especially if it’s pickled.”
***
“I thought the missing van Gogh we recovered was a big deal,” said Barb as she, Bernie and their dog, Snowball, were walking on the Stanford campus two days later. “But it’s nothing compared to this.”
“Yeah,” agreed Bernie. “That was just worth tens of millions, but these missing manuscripts exceed that by so much that they are classified as priceless: the oldest record of the New Testament, probably from the first century. And, unlike a van Gogh, which is beautiful, these old manuscripts are in bad shape, torn up, with many fragments as small as a piece of popcorn.
“Obbink’s claim to fame was that he could re-assemble these puzzles better than anyone else. He won a so-called MacArthur ‘Genius’ Grant. The announcement of that grant cited his expertise in ‘rescuing damaged ancient manuscripts from the ravages of nature and time.’
“The announcement goes on to say that his work with ancient, crumbling fragments of parchment and papyrus ‘requires diligence, knowledge of different dialects of ancient Greek, and the ability to decipher cursive abbreviations scrawled in margins.’”
“Judging from his picture,” added Barb, “Obbink does not look like your typical thief. More like a well-educated homeless person.”
“Very well educated,” said Bernie. “Got his Ph.D. about ten minutes from here, at Stanford. I suspect that his sense of style may be typical among eccentric Oxford dons. So, there’s a lot more here than meets the eye, even the private eye.”
“Especially the unpaid private eye,” noted Barb.
“Ah,” Bernie said, “the hideous subject of money. Let me call Al”--Al Jordan, their supervisor when they were investigators at the Alpha Insurance Company. “Alpha knows how to charge big bucks for insurance, so insuring a priceless manuscript might just be something their British subsidiary would have covered.”
“How do you pay off the claim for a priceless object?” asked Barb.
“As slowly as possible,” Bernie responded.
***
“Oxyrhynchus!” exclaimed Al Jordan, with whom Barb and Bernie were meeting in his office at the Alpha Insurance Company. “I had to spell it four times before the admin at our British subsidiary could look it up. But, you’re right: Alpha Britain does insure the—let me say it slowly—Oxyrhynchus Collection of ancient papyrus, owned by the Egypt Exploration Society and housed at Oxford University’s Sackler Library.”
“Oxyrhynchus is actually the ancient city in Egypt where a massive trove of ancient documents, written in Greek, was found,” said Barb.
“I can understand why Oxyrhynchus disappeared,” responded Jordan: “too costly to create signage.”
“Speaking of costs, Al,” said Bernie, “how much did you insure this priceless stuff for?”
“Our definition of priceless is $100 million,” answered Jordan.
“Is there a deductible?” joked Bernie. “That $5000 deductible on our auto insurance gets us every time.”
“Those who need to buy $100 million of insurance aren’t interested in saving money by having a deductible,” responded Jordan. "As you might imagine, the premiums on $100 million are pretty high. Luckily, Alpha Britain didn’t have to pay a cent, or, more accurately, a pence, on this claim.”
“Why’s that?” asked Barb.
“Long story short, Obbink sold certain stuff to the Museum of the Bible in Washington, D.C. Apparently that Museum had too much faith in shady sellers. Later, those responsible for making purchases for that museum got suspicious and revealed to Oxford the museum’s contract with Obbink to buy the papyrus for $7 million.
“Oxford then took away all of Obbink’s privileges, he’s being investigated by the Oxford police, and The Museum of the Bible has sued him in New York. Obbink denies everything, and he says the contract was fabricated. He has not been charged yet in England and has not responded to the civil complaint in New York, which made him subject to a default judgment.”
“Doesn’t this all strike you as a little odd, Al?” inquired Bernie.
“Odd, schmod,” said Al. “Oxford got the papyrus back and Alpha didn’t have to pay anything. That’s my kind of oddity.”
“Odd things can come back to bite you, Al,” said Barb. “You should send us over there to make sure that everything is really--dare I say--kosher. We have information from someone at Oxford that Obbink is being framed.”
“No go, guys,” Jordan replied. “I hope to get a nice bonus this year. Call me old-fashioned, but something tells me that re-opening a case where my employer did not have to pay out $100 million is not bonus material.”
***
Cubberley Auditorium, on the Stanford campus, was filled with students, faculty and administrators anxious to hear Professor Vladimir Osofsky’s speech accepting the Florence Cavendish Endowed Professorship of Art History. Barb and Bernie were surprised when, upon entering the auditorium, they were escorted to the VIP first row.
The conclusion of Ozzie’s remarks made it clear why they were given a place of honor: “Of course, the essence of scholarship is the search for truth, but, in our ivory tower, we also have to keep in mind that truth comes out in non-academic pursuits as well.”
Nodding toward Barb and Bernie, he continued, “I was fortunate to be asked by some non-academic friends to use my scholarly skills to help them investigate the circumstances of van Gogh’s death, which led to the discovery of a very valuable lost van Gogh painting.
“Finding that painting enabled me to do well by doing good, and I am going to share that wealth today by creating a scholarship fund for aspiring art historians. Hopefully, that gift will help to maintain a humanistic balance in our increasingly technological society.”
At the reception after the speech, Barb and Bernie thanked Ozzie for the recognition. “I meant it,” he said. “We need more communication between high-tech and the humanities. I didn’t mention it, but we also need more communication between different generations, which I think has helped us to work together so successfully.”
“Yes,” agreed Barb. “Bernie and I are definitely Baby Boomer detectives in a Millennial world.”
“On another subject,” asked Ozzie, “how did the meeting with Al Jordan go?”
Barb and Bernie exchanged a quick glance. Bernie said, “Let’s just say it became clear to us from our conversation with Al, combined with your speech, that we should help your former star student untangle this mess on a pro bono basis.”
Barb added, “We are heading to the City of Dreaming Spires, all expenses paid, by us.”
***
“This story just gets more unbelievable at every turn,” said Bernie, as he and Barb were driving from London’s Heathrow Airport to Oxford. “Did you read these articles about the huge mistakes made by the Museum of the Bible.”
“Yes,” said Barb, “aside from the 13 papyrus fragments that they’ve now returned to Oxford, there was another scandal, in which the museum was required by the U.S. government to return 11,500 artifacts to the government of Iraq.”
“Exactly, plus the statement by the museum’s founder.”
“I have it right here,” Barb said, rustling some papers. “He says ‘I trusted the wrong people to guide me, and unwittingly dealt with unscrupulous dealers in those early years…If I learn of other items in the collection for which another person or entity has a better claim, I will continue to do the right thing with those items.’”
“He might as well pin a sign on his chest saying ‘Defraud me,’” said Bernie. “There are a lot of sketchy middlemen in Middle East bazaars who would be glad to accommodate this fellow, who has spent tens of millions of dollars on ancient artifacts.”
“Perhaps,” responded Barb. “but Professor Obbink is scholarly, not sketchy. In this article, for example, he’s quoted describing what it’s like to work on these ancient papyrus texts: ‘like being shipwrecked on a desert island with Marilyn Monroe.’”
“We’ll soon probably be seeing some of that stimulating papyrus ourselves,” observed Bernie. “Unless I’m dreaming, I see some spires about a half mile over to the left. We’re supposed to meet Ozzie’s former star student, Eleni, at Christ Church College in 30 minutes.”
“I thought we were heading to a university, not a college,” said Barb.
“Oxford University is made up of 40 or so colleges,” replied Bernie. Christ Church—where Obbink resided--is one of the most scenic. Eleni has arranged for us to have a room there.”
“How much does this lodging cost?” asked Barb.
“Special rate for guests trying to clear up $100 million misunderstandings—zero.”
***
As they drove into Oxford, they moved slowly, partly because of the narrow streets and partly because, at every turn, they were met by arresting architecture spanning many centuries.
“Looks like a medieval Disneyland,” mused Bernie.
“Busloads of tourists,” added Barb, “and students wearing academic gowns everywhere. I read a book about Oxford once called These Ruins Are Inhabited. Now I get it.”
They continued gawking as they arrived at perhaps the most magnificent college of them all, Christ Church. Entering the grounds was somewhat like entering a cathedral, and, in fact, one of the buildings of the college was a cathedral. The normally effusive Bernie was reduced to “Wow.”
“Looking at the guidebook in her hands, Barb rattled off some salient facts: “Founded in 1546 by King Henry VIII, main quad designed by Christopher Wren, seat of parliament during the English Civil War.
“Do you want to know the college’s real name?” she asked.
“Do I?”
“Perhaps not. It’s Aedes Christi/Ecclesia Christi Cathedralis Oxon: ex fundatione Regis Henrici Octavi, or, translating from the Latin, The Dean and Chapter of the Cathedral Church of Christ in Oxford of the Foundation of King Henry the Eighth.”
“So,” rejoined Bernie, Christ Church College is just its nickname.”
A very formal, bowler-hatted porter allowed them entry after they informed him that Eleni Anogia was expecting them. As they gazed upon a huge quad of perfectly manicured grass, they asked how big the college was.”
“175 acres,” the porter replied without looking up, “including part of the Thames and a meadow where you'd best mind the cow droppings.”
“How do you get the grass to be so green?” inquired Barb.
“That’s easy,” answered the porter, still looking down. “All that’s required is to water it regularly…for 500 years.”
***
Using the map the porter had given them, Barb and Bernie meandered through the stone arcades of the college until they got to a narrow, damp stairwell leading to the imposing wooden door of the room for which they were looking.
As they were about to knock, the door opened, revealing a slender, young woman with an olive complexion and curly, black hair, cut short. “Mr. and Mrs. Silver,” she said, with a wan smile, “thank you so much for coming.”
“We hope we can help, dear,” said Barb. “We’ve been at many crime scenes, but never one quite like this.”
“This is not a crime scene,” Eleni Anogia replied, “which is exactly the problem. These are the rooms of Professor Dirk Obbink, one of the world’s greatest papyrologists, who has been wrongfully accused of a horrendous theft. Please come in.”
***
They entered a high-ceilinged, drafty sitting room, about 30 feet square. It contained well-worn furniture—a couch, some chairs, a desk—that had probably been very expensive in the early 20th century. There were wall-to-wall bookshelves, completely full, and what appeared to be photocopies of papyrus fragments of various sizes strewn on every surface.
“I’ve never been to Christ Church College,” said Bernie, “but somehow it seems familiar.”
“It’s what they use to portray Hogwarts in the Harry Potter movies,” Anogia replied, “but you don’t look the Harry Potter type.”
“I’m not,” said Bernie, “but my grandson is. What about all these photocopies of what look like papyrus fragments.”
“That’s exactly what they are,” responded Anogia. “Before he was suspended in 2016, Professor Obbink was one of the few people privileged to bring the actual fragments here, not just photocopies. He thought that that was great at the time, but it has turned into a huge negative.”
“Are we staying in these rooms?” asked Barb, looking at a doorway that appeared to lead to a bedroom.”
“Yes,” said Anogia. “Since Professor Obbink was suspended, no one has wanted these rooms, so they were made available to me. I will be heading to Jerusalem the day after tomorrow in order to inspect some documents, and I am staying with a friend tonight and tomorrow, so the rooms are available to you. I thought that being in this environment might stimulate your detective work.”
“What would be more essential to our work is information from you,” said Bernie, “and we have no plans to head to Jerusalem.”
“I apologize that this Jerusalem opportunity came up suddenly, and the windows of time for access to these ancient documents close quickly. But I think what you need from me I can give you in the next 24 hours. Any follow-up can be done by Zoom.”
“Then let’s get started,” said Barb. “When it comes to ancient documents, there’s no time like the present.”
“Why don’t we start in the morning, when you’re fresh?” she replied. “I’ve arranged a tour of the Sackler Library, where the Oxyrhynchus papyri are stored.”
“That shouldn’t take too long,” said Barb.
“I don’t know about that,” Anogia replied. “500,000 documents were discovered by two Oxford professors in the late 19th century in an old garbage dump in the ancient Greek city of Oxyrhynchus, located in present-day Egypt. In the intervening 12 or so decades, the work to re-assemble and decipher these documents has been so painstaking that only 5000 have been published.”
“But only 120 documents are seemingly missing,” said Bernie. “Let’s focus on those.”
***
The Sackler Library was an imposing stone building with columns on either side of its entry. Because they were used to the modern buildings of Stanford University, near their hometown of Palo Alto, Barb and Bernie were somewhat taken aback when they were led to the area housing the Oxyrhynchus Collection.
It was in a back room on the first floor, a seemingly unorganized mass of books, microscopes, bright lights and documents. Tall, locked cupboards covered the walls, and these were filled with boxes full of brown papyrus. Many of these fragments—which range from 8"x 10" to 1/4" square—were still wrapped in newspapers from the early 20th century.
Anogia had arranged a meeting with the junior faculty member, Alistair Gibbins, who had replaced Obbink on an interim basis while a search ensued for a permanent replacement. Pale, with unkempt sandy hair, he wore threadbare corduroy pants and a worn tweed sports coat over a tattersall shirt that seemingly had never been ironed. He offered a weak handshake to Barb and Bernie.
“How do you keep track of all this material?” asked Barb.
“Somewhat imperfectly,” responded Gibbins, “which is what appears to have brought you here.”
“Touche’,” said Bernie. “Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”
“My humble hole-in-the-wall is down the hall,” said Gibbins, leading them to a 10x10 space, where he hurriedly moved stacks of papers off the two folding chairs wedged together. Barb and Bernie sat down, while Gibbins and Anogia stood, pressing their backs against the wall.
Barb was anxious to understand where Gibbins was coming from, so her opening gambit was “I guess Professor Obbink’s troubles have created a great opportunity for a young academic like yourself.”
“Far from it,” answered Gibbins. “Professor Obbink was my mentor—as he was for Eleni—and we are quite at sea without him. We both believe strongly he’s a victim in all this.”
“How is that?”
“One doesn’t become a papyrologist to get rich. The field requires great integrity in protecting and preserving these documents, and in re-assembling them in a credible way. Professor Obbink is number one in this field, to such an extent that I could not even identify for you who is number two.”
“But isn’t there some serious evidence,” Barb asked, “that he did take some very valuable fragments and sell them to the Museum of the Bible for $7 million?”
“I will choose integrity over evidence every time,” said Gibbins stiffly, as Anogia nodded vigorously. “Yes, Professor Obbink provided consulting services to the Museum, and he also sold them some fragments that he had obtained legitimately on his own. Some would say that that was a conflict of interest, but Professor Obbink was so far above that sort of thing that he would not have perceived that as a problem. He may have been naïve, but that is not a crime. Indeed, although he was arrested by the Oxford police over a year ago, no charges have been brought.”
“But isn’t there much more serious evidence than that—like a contract between Obbink and the Museum of the Bible?” continued Bernie.
Anogia picked up the story: “Two representatives of the Museum of the Bible—Scott Carroll and Jerry Pattengale—claim that Professor Obbink showed them these fragments in his rooms at Christ Church and offered them for sale. A contract allegedly was drawn up and signed, and money changed hands, but the contract supposedly was kept confidential. After it came out that some fragments were missing from the Oxyrhynchus Collection, the Museum of the Bible publicized the contract and sued Professor Obbink for $7 million.”
“Has that lawsuit been resolved?” asked Barb.
“It was really just for show,” said Gibbins. “Professor Obbink has no assets in the U.S., so he did not feel the need to defend himself. Therefore, a default judgment was entered. No money will ever be collected on that judgment, but the lawsuit helps to draw attention from the fact that the Museum of the Bible—during the time Carroll and Pattengale worked for it—purchased millions of dollars of fake or stolen artifacts.”
“How do you fake 2000-year-old papyrus?” asked Bernie.
“For an expert, it’s easier than you think,” said Anogia. “Some thousand-year-old shoe leather, a certain kind of oil, an easily formulated ink and an ancient writing style will fool most people, even some experts.”
“Counterfeit papyrus?” mused Bernie. “I’d have never thought of that. Getting back to Professor Obbink, however, although we appreciate your respect for him, what makes this a particularly difficult case is that he doesn’t appear to be defending himself. All we have found is a statement he made to a newspaper that the alleged contract and other documents supposedly proving his guilt were forgeries designed to damage his reputation and career.”
“Yes,” agreed Gibbins, exasperated. “Someone like Professor Obbink does not know how to defend himself in the non-scholarly world. He’s clueless, he lacks social graces. But he’s not a criminal, and, unlike Carroll and Pattengale, he was not responsible for the hapless and negligent purchases of millions of dollars of artifacts by the Museum of the Bible.”
“Putting aside the civil lawsuit and the arrest,” Barb inquired, “why was Professor Obbink fired by the Oxyrhynchus Collection and by Oxford?”
“Many reasons,” responded Anogia, “none of them very uplifting. Many academics around here were jealous of Professor Obbink, and they moved up in the world once he was out of the picture. The Oxford bureaucracy wants to avoid messy situations at all costs. The Egypt Exploration Society, which owns the Oxyrhynchus Collection, is well aware of the shady aspect of many transactions related to ancient documents. They do not want to draw attention to that, when they are sitting on top of 500,000 documents that came from another country during the era of colonialism. They want to cover their rump.”
“We’re not scholars,” said Bernie, “but even we have read in the general press that many museums are returning questionably obtained artifacts to their countries of origin. Let us digest what you’ve said and get back to you. It would help if we could meet with Professor Obbink.”
“All we know,” said Anogia, “is that he’s somewhere between here and Timbuktu.”
Gibbins added, “Eleni is heading to Jerusalem, but”-- motioning to various piles of documents--“I will be around here for a while.”
“Indeed” said Barb. “Because only 1% of the 500,000 Oxyrhynchus documents have been processed in the last 120 or so years, you have a guaranteed job for the next 12,000 years.”
***
The Kings Arms was an upscale pub in the middle of Oxford. Barb and Bernie stopped there after leaving Anogia and Gibbins at the Sackler Library.
Sitting at the bar, Bernie said to Barb, “I could use a beer, and not a warm one.”
“Lager, sir?” chimed in the bartender.
“That would be great,” responded Bernie.
“And a sherry for the lady?”
“That would also be great,” said Barb.
As they imbibed, Bernie said, “I had hoped we could help Ozzie and Eleni, but there are a lot of bad facts to deal with.”
“Too bad to really be believable, when you think of it,” observed Barb. “How many thefts have you dealt with where there was a written contract?”
Raising his eyebrows, Bernie answered after a moment, “None.”
“And there’s a reason for that,” noted Barb. “Lawbreakers don’t usually depend on the legalities of contracts to carry out their schemes.”
“So, your theory is that Obbink is right--someone at Oxford and someone at the Museum of the Bible forged these documents to ruin Obbink’s reputation.”
“And, not incidentally,” she responded, “to steal $7 million.”
***
At Christ Church College the next morning, Barb and Bernie were comparing notes on some internet research they’d agreed to split up.
“Not much on Jerry Pattengale,” Barb began. “Now retired from the Museum of the Bible, he definitely was involved in millions of dollars of purchases of artifacts for that institution that turned out to be stolen or fake. So, he’s guilty of incompetence, but that doesn’t help our current assignment.”
“Scott Carroll is much more interesting,” said Bernie. “According to a long article in The Atlantic, he’s been caught fabricating some things on his resume and some discoveries of papyrus.”
“That sounds promising,” said Barb.
“There’s more,” added Bernie, “stuff I’d characterize as very eccentric self-promotion.”
“Do tell.”
Picking up some papers, Bernie put on his reading glasses and said, “As The Atlantic article puts it, ‘His cellphone’s ringtone was the theme from Indiana Jones. A promotional photo, captioned GREAT SCOTT!, depicts him in shorts and a fedora, swinging through the jungle on a rope.’”
“That should definitely be illegal,” said Barb.
“Wait,” said Bernie, “for the clincher. According to another website, Carroll “currently holds a Distinguished Academic Post at Jos University in Nigeria…’”
“That’s even farther away than Timbuktu,” said Barb.
“A country with more than 200 million people,” responded Bernie, “and a history of lawlessness. There’s a solution to this mystery somewhere, but, thousands of years and miles may keep us from cracking it.”
***
Bernie was wrong, at least in part. The very next day, the Christ Church porter, politely removing his bowler hat, showed up at their door with a letter. Bernie tried to tip him, but the porter simply touched his forelock and glided away.
“What’s your name?” Bernie shouted out to him.’
“Reggie, sir,” came the reply.
“Who even knows we’re staying here?” asked Barb, when Bernie came back into their room.
“No return address,” answered Bernie, but, scanning to the bottom of the page, he said, “It’s from the one person who does know we’re staying here, Eleni. And, it looks like it might explain some things.
“’Dear Mr. and Mrs. Silver,’” he began reading. “’Thank you so much for helping me, although perhaps not in the way you imagined.
“’After you read this letter, you will have the information you need to clear Professor Obbink’s good name. Unlike most detectives, you don’t even have to deduce anything, because I admit that I stole the fragments and forged the documents that cast suspicion on Professor Obbink.
“’I can’t justify what I did, which resulted from my decision to pursue the very unremunerative field of papyrology. I’ve worked as hard as my peers in other fields, and I’ve done better than they did academically, but I had nothing—until now—to show for that monetarily. I can understand why computer science majors make more money, but I am far behind even lowly remunerated humanities Ph.D’s.
“’I foolishly thought that the theft would go unnoticed—120 out of 500,000 poorly organized fragments--and that the contract and other documents would not come to light. When that did not turn out to be the case, I looked on with horror as my mentor, one of the world’s most respected academics, was disgraced, sued and arrested.
“’I was racked with guilt. The only thing I could think to do was to contact Professor Osofsky, because I knew he had worked with you on some cases.
“’On the other hand, I felt no guilt taking money from the Museum of the Bible, because $7 million is not even a rounding error for them. Also, to soothe my conscience, nothing was ever transferred to the museum--what I sold to them was fake. I am the only person who knows where the genuine fragments are, and I will not release them until Professor Obbink’s good name is restored.
“’Also, I know that you have been working on a pro bono basis. Perhaps the insurance company that insured these fragments will now hire you.
“’With sincere apologies,
“’Eleni Anogia’”
As Bernie photographed the letter with his phone, Barb asked, “What are you doing?”
“Number 1, preserving the evidence. Number 2, sending an email attaching this picture to Al Jordan.”
“What will you say in the email?”
“Quoting a famous English author: ‘It is never too late to be who you might have been.'”
“Isn’t that a bit cryptic.”
“Not at all. There were so many red flags on this case, he should have had this investigated earlier, but he didn’t want to rock the boat. Now we know that the real papyrus fragments have not been returned to Oxford. Therefore, Al’s boat is about to spring a $100 million leak.”
***
“What’s next?” Barb asked the next day.
“The usual,” said Bernie. “Waiting. But, if I know my customers, I don’t think we’ll have to wait long.”
As he said that, there was a knock on the door. Bernie hustled there and partly saw what he expected: “Reggie, my man,” he said. “So good to see you.”
What Bernie didn’t expect was that, along with an envelope, Reggie was carrying a large plant, topped by a thick cluster of greenery resembling a feather duster.
“Right you are, sir,” said Reggie, handing the objects to Bernie.
“Thanks, Reggie,” said Bernie. “By the way, we’ll be leaving tomorrow. What should we do with the key?”
“Just drop it at the Porter’s Lodge,” said Reggie. “I reckon the police will be coming ‘round.”
Bernie went back into the room, opening the envelope.
“Who’s it from?” Barb asked.
“Al Jordan, of course,” responded Bernie. “No note. Just two plane tickets to Jerusalem…and a retainer check for $100,000.”
“And the plant?” she asked.
“If memory serves from my study of Egypt in fourth grade, this is a very fine specimen of papyrus.
***
TO BE CONTINUED
Copyright 2022, Ron Katz
