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ON THE MORNING FOLLOWING the unfortunate events described in the preceding chapter, a diminutive lady stepped off the Illinois Central commuter train at the Fifty-Seventh Street station. Dressed in an elegant rose silk duster over her shirtwaist and skirt, she descended the stairs to the street and made her way with great determination toward the colossal building that dominated the lakefront a few blocks away. It looked even more impressive by daylight than when bathed in moonbeams.
The structure had been given a name befitting its regal presence. During the World’s Columbian Exposition of 1893, it was called the Palace of Fine Arts. Its original purpose had been to house a global collection of precious works of art for the inspection and delight of the millions of visitors who came to Chicago for the World’s Fair. Unlike the other exposition buildings, it wasn’t built of wood framing and papier-mâché. Its brick construction allowed it to withstand the fire that consumed the rest of the fairgrounds in July 1894. Since that time, the Palace had been converted to a museum to hold exhibits from the fair as well as a growing collection of archaeological and paleontological finds from all parts of the planet. It was now known as the Field Columbian Museum, named after its principal benefactor—department store owner, Marshall Field.
Miss Evangeline LeClair didn’t pause to admire the immense Grecian columns as she made her way up the south court stairs. She had seen the building’s exterior and interior many times before. Instead, she marched up to a security guard hovering near the entrance. In a self-assured tone, she announced, “I have an appointment with Mr. Skiff at eleven o’clock. Would you be good enough to show me to his office?”
The security guard immediately straightened up and stood to attention. Evangeline generally had that effect on people. Though she only stood five feet tall, she possessed a natural air of authority that drew all eyes to her when she entered a room. Now in her late thirties, she was still considered a handsome woman, and, despite her repeated protests, several well-meaning friends still periodically attempted to match her up with wealthy widowers in the market for a new wife. Evangeline always graciously declined these offers.
The lady had inherited a considerable fortune after the decease of her parents. She had also been educated well beyond a level considered appropriate for a female. Her independent fortune and even more independent turn of mind made her regard spinsterhood as an attractive life choice rather than the social disgrace that most of her peers considered it to be. Unwilling to allow herself to become shackled to a husband, Evangeline devoted much of her time to charity work and taught English classes to immigrants at Hull House—a social settlement in the slums. Of late, she had branched out into an unexpected new endeavor. Her success in that line was the reason for her visit to the Field Columbian Museum on this sunny day in May.
“At once, Miss LeClair,” the guard said promptly, checking an urge to bow at the waist. “I was told to keep a sharp eye out for you. Please follow me.”
Evangeline nodded and followed the uniformed man into the interior of the building. When it had first opened a year earlier, the museum inherited many of the World’s Fair exhibits, including the exposition’s botany collection, geological specimens, and anthropological artifacts. In addition, the institution became the unfortunate recipient of a hodge-podge of curiosities that made it seem more like a P.T. Barnum sideshow attraction than a source of higher learning. This was an image that the director and curators were strenuously trying to avoid by making ground-breaking acquisitions that would elevate the museum’s reputation. Despite their energetic efforts, the exhibits remained a work in progress.
Evangeline passed a life-size display of two battling African elephants, immense dinosaur skeletons, Egyptian sarcophagi, stuffed birds of various exotic species, Polynesian tribal masks, and carved African sculptures. There were clay jars from Mesopotamia, Chinese jade figurines, and an entire room devoted to lapidary art.
After winding through a dizzying number of exhibits, the guard paused before a door bearing the inscription, “Frederick J. V. Skiff, Museum Director.” He knocked lightly before letting himself in.
“Sir, Miss LeClair has arrived.” He opened the door wider and gestured Evangeline inside before returning to his post.
A gentleman seated at a rolltop desk stood to greet her, as did a striking middle-aged lady.
The lady spoke first. Holding out both hands in welcome, she exclaimed, “Engie, dear! How good of you to come on such short notice.”
Evangeline stepped forward and took the woman’s hands in her own. “Anything to help a friend, Bertha.”
The woman thus addressed was the formidable Bertha Palmer, doyenne of Chicago society and wife of the well-known hotel owner, Potter Palmer. Aside from her social influence as the spouse of one of Chicago’s wealthiest tycoons, Bertha had made a name for herself as a philanthropist and the head of the Board of Lady Managers during the Columbian Exposition. She was an active force in municipal affairs and helped to establish the Chicago Civic Federation with the intention of reforming the city’s infamously corrupt political, economic, and moral climate.
Kissing Evangeline lightly on the cheek, she added, “You’re the very person we need to help us solve this problem. I’ve told Mr. Skiff all about you.”
The director stepped forward a few paces. Not bold enough to address his visitor as “Engie,” the nickname used by her closest friends, Mr. Skiff merely shook her hand and said, “Miss LeClair, a pleasure to meet you.”
“And you, as well, Mr. Skiff.” Evangeline stepped back a few paces to study the man. His square face, round eyes, and vaguely baffled expression reminded her of nothing so much as an owl. Of course, no owl ever had a mustache that could rival the bristling growth of hair on Mr. Skiff’s upper lip.
“I think Mrs. Palmer may have exaggerated my qualifications,” Evangeline demurred.
“Nonsense,” Bertha protested. “You’ve solved murders that confounded the police.”
“Only a few,” Evangeline objected.
Addressing Skiff, Bertha added, “Her reputation for exposing criminals has grown to such a degree that many of my acquaintances have sought her skills in untangling all sorts of personal difficulties. She has found missing persons, recovered stolen valuables, and overturned more than one blackmail scheme. I feel quite justified in referring to her as a consulting detective.”
“I’m sure the police wouldn’t thank you for bruiting my services about,” Evangeline countered.
“Oh, that’s precisely why we need you, Miss LeClair,” Skiff interjected.
Both ladies turned to the man in surprise, having forgotten his presence during their interchange.
He elaborated with a look of intense concern. “We don’t want the police involved in this matter at all.”
Evangeline raised her eyebrows quizzically.
“Allow me to explain. Won’t you have a seat?” Skiff gestured to both ladies, and they took chairs facing the side of his desk. He returned to his swivel chair and regarded them gravely. “Has Mrs. Palmer explained our little problem?”
“Only in the most general terms,” Evangeline replied. “We had a brief telephone conversation earlier this morning. Thank goodness I was staying at my townhouse, or she might not have been able to reach me at my country home. We still don’t have telephone service there. Why don’t you give me all the details?”
Skiff sighed despondently and then launched into his narrative. “Around ten o’clock last night, the museum was receiving a shipment of artifacts. Most were fossil specimens taken from the Upper Great Lakes region, but there was one singular exception.” He leaned forward intently in his chair. “It was a small golden statue of Hatshepsut. If you aren’t familiar with the name, she was a female pharaoh who ruled Egypt for two decades beginning in 1479 BC.”
“I should think you have any number of Egyptian statues in your collection,” Evangeline objected. “Why was this one unique?”
“Oh, we have a great quantity of Egyptian sculptures,” Skiff agreed. “But they all came from Egypt.”
Evangeline and Bertha exchanged puzzled looks.
“The sculpture is moderately valuable because of its precious metal content, but that doesn’t come close to its real worth,” the director explained. “It is a rare treasure because of where it was found.” He paused for effect. “On Isle Royale.”
“Isle Royale,” Evangeline echoed. “You mean the island in Lake Superior off the tip of Minnesota?”
“Well, technically, the island belongs to Michigan,” Skiff answered. “But yes. That Isle Royale.”
“Though it seems farfetched to assume a collector of Egyptian antiquities might have carelessly dropped the statue on an unpopulated island, I suppose that could have happened,” Evangeline speculated.
“It wasn’t found on the surface, Miss LeClair,” Skiff countered. “The museum has an archaeological team excavating copper mines on the island. We are investigating a theory that mining activity in that area goes back thousands of years. The team dug down within layers of strata that would roughly date from 1500 BC. Ten crew members were on hand to witness that statue being unearthed from a location that hadn’t been disturbed by the hand of man for more than three millennia. We also have no doubt regarding the subject of that figurine. Her inscription reads, ‘Foremost of Noble Women.’ That is the Egyptian meaning of the name ‘Hatshepsut.’”
Evangeline shook her head in disbelief. “But that’s impossible.”
Bertha laid a cautionary hand on Evangeline’s arm. “Hear him out, dear.”
Skiff continued. “There is documentation dating back centuries about ancient ore mines on Isle Royale and the Keweenaw Peninsula. Mining agents during the 1840s discovered multiple sites where copper had been extracted. Furthermore, we are now discovering proof that Michigan ore found its way to the Old World. We know this because most of the copper used in Bronze Age weaponry was smelted and contained impurities. Michigan holds the purest ore deposits found anywhere in the world. Weapons made from Michigan copper would be distinctly identifiable, and some of this ore magically found its way to Greece and Egypt. These facts would suggest that even if the Egyptians didn’t mine New World copper themselves, they certainly traded for it on these shores.”
Skiff grew more enthused as he warmed to his topic. He rose from his chair and began to pace around the room while continuing his explanation. “Copper isn’t the only evidence that the ancients were well aware of the Americas. Hatshepsut herself was responsible for launching extensive trade relations with the Land of Punt.” Skiff waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, there are those who insist that Punt was situated in Arabia or Africa, but I am fully convinced that its true location was Peru. Trade expeditions to Punt took three years to complete. There is no location in the Middle East that would require the extensive time, robust fleet size, and preparations that went into these journeys. Furthermore, the Egyptians were well aware of the lands that lay far to the east of Egypt since Australia appears on some of their maps.
Aside from other compelling evidence that time does not permit me to discuss fully, I am convinced of Punt’s American location because of New World exports that mysteriously found their way to ancient Egypt. Quite recently, a young archaeologist named Howard Carter has been hard at work restoring the wall reliefs in Hatshepsut’s tomb at Deir el-Bahari. Among the art depicted in the tomb are frescoes of corn. In other tombs, tobacco has been found embedded in mummy wrappings. Both tobacco and corn are indigenous to the Americas.”
“There’s that famous passage from the Bible,” Bertha interjected. “Didn’t Joseph’s brothers travel to Egypt to buy corn?”
“Hah!” Skiff barked out the word with contempt. “There are those who would insist that the biblical word ‘corn’ is a mistranslation. They also say that the corn murals in Egyptian art depict a native plant that happens to look like corn. I say bunk! As early as 1846, an article appeared in Sharpe’s London Magazine about corn kernels discovered deep within the wrappings of a mummy. Those kernels were planted. Do you know what they yielded?” He peered at the two women intently.
“Corn?” Evangeline suggested hesitantly.
“Corn!” Skiff punched the air for emphasis. He took out a pocket-handkerchief to dab at his forehead. Apparently realizing how vehement his oration had become, he sat down abruptly. In a chastened voice, he added, “Do forgive me, ladies. Archaeology is my passion, and I sometimes grow excitable when discussing the blind ignorance of my learned colleagues.”
“So, you believe that the statue from Isle Royale may offer proof of an Egyptian presence in the Americas,” Evangeline speculated.
“Yes. The statue is approximately nine inches high and contains an inscription that is incontrovertible. In addition to identifying Hatshepsut by name, the full message reads: “The foremost among noble ladies sends greetings to her sister, Queen Ati.” Queen Ati ruled Punt along with her husband, King Parihou. The phrasing of the message indicates that the statue was intended as a royal greeting gift. These were commonly sent from one monarch to another during Hatshepsut’s time. She addresses Ati as a sister ruler. This was also standard phrasing according to the rules of diplomacy of that era. To find such a statue hidden for three thousand years in North America would set the historical record on its ear and completely change our understanding of the ancient world,” Skiff agreed.
“And that particular statue was stolen last night,” Bertha added. “Right on the steps of the museum.”
“That’s right,” the director agreed. “The rest of the artifacts had been carried inside. Before my staff had time to fetch the last box from the delivery man, he was attacked. The poor fellow was knifed in the stomach. I’m happy to say he survived, though it will take him months to recover from his injuries.”
“And nothing else was taken?” Evangeline prompted.
“No,” Skiff confirmed. “Judged purely from the standpoint of material worth, there were other more valuable artifacts in that shipment, yet the thief bypassed all of them and went straight for the statue.”
“So, he knew its historical value. Evangeline tapped her chin. “It seems your most likely culprit would be a collector of ancient artifacts.”
Skiff nodded his head in agreement. “Collecting antiquities amounts to a mania among those who have the means to indulge their fancies. This object is unique, which makes it exceptionally valuable to a collector who knows its provenance.”
“That would certainly narrow the list of suspects.” Evangeline registered puzzlement. “But why don’t you want the police to handle this matter?”
Skiff rubbed his forehead distractedly. “There are two reasons. First, my staff and I are attempting to establish this museum as a serious institution. If the newspapers caught wind of a theft and attempted murder on our very doorstep, you can just imagine the lurid way they would tell the tale in print. The Field Museum would attract gawkers and sensation seekers. We would be reduced to the level of a sideshow attraction...again.”
“Yes, of course, we understand,” Bertha reassured him sympathetically.
“Second, we don’t want to alert the police and the general public to valuable cargo being transported to this location on a regular basis. What do you think would happen if the criminal element in this town were apprised of that fact?”
“You might attract a steady stream of bandits, like stagecoaches in the Old West,” Evangeline observed wryly.
“The bandits on the city council are quite enough to contend with,” Bertha added acerbically.
“Will you help us, Miss LeClair?” Skiff’s round eyes seemed on the verge of tears.
Evangeline smiled. “I’ll certainly do my best.”
“Excellent!” Skiff sprang out of his chair once again. “I’ll arrange to have you meet with the two museum employees who witnessed the theft. Won’t be a moment.” He hurriedly left the room.
“Thank you, Engie.” Bertha squeezed the lady detective’s hand for emphasis. “I knew we could count on you. Will you be bringing Mr. Simpson into your investigation?” Bertha was referring to Engie’s reporter friend, who had assisted her in solving several previous cases.
“Yes, I would imagine so, though he doesn’t know it yet.”
“Before Mr. Skiff returns and you delve into your detecting work, I wanted to ask you to attend a little party I’m throwing at the house.”
“Little party?” Evangeline asked suspiciously, knowing Bertha’s penchant for staging elaborate social events. Her reference to the Palmer mansion as “the house” was equally diminutive.
“Yes, next Saturday. It’s a charity ball for the Art Institute, but I have an ulterior motive for staging it. A Mrs. Vangilder has taken a suite at the Palmer House for several weeks. Her daughter is engaged to a British duke. I thought our local set might enjoy meeting a member of the English aristocracy in-the-making. What do you say? Will you attend?”
The lady detective hesitated. The event seemed entirely frivolous in her estimation, but she didn’t want to disappoint her friend. “Of course, I’ll come, Bertha.”
“Excellent. You may expect an invitation by tomorrow’s post and bring Mr. Simpson with you if you like.”
“It seems I’ll be staying at my townhouse for several weeks to come,” Evangeline added, ruefully imagining the pique of Delphine—the housekeeper at her residence in the far northern suburb of Lake Bluff.
“It will be delightful to have you in town for a while,” Bertha said merrily. “So much the worse for the criminals of Chicago.”
“I shall hunt them all down without mercy,” Evangeline joked back. “Of course, I will lower my guard long enough to attend your gala. It’s unlikely that I’ll encounter any of the city’s demi-monde in the Palmer mansion ballroom.”
In days to come, Evangeline would look back on that lighthearted comment with a grim sense of its irony.