somewhere, Ellery had the sacred building to himself.
He found himself squaring his shoulders. If the leader of this curious flock permitted him to set foot in their holy of holies, why should he hesitate? Yet hesitant he did feel, as if he were about to commit sacrilege—a “profanation of the mysterie.”
Still, it had to be done. He inserted the big key in the lock, felt the heavy tumblers turning over, pushed the door open, and stood on the threshold of the forbidden room.
It was really no larger than a large closet. There were no windows. The only light came from what he took to be an eternal lamp—an oddly shaped oil lamp of some time-crusted metal hanging from the precise center of the ceiling. The draft caused by the opening of the door had set the lamp in motion; it swung now, slightly, back and forth, like a censer, scattering shadows instead of smoke.
And in the shifting light Ellery saw:
To either side of him, each in a near corner, a very tall and slender jar of pottery, purple in color, resting on a wooden base and surmounted by a bowl-like cover. Jars, bases, bowls were identical.
Directly facing him: an old-fashioned walnut china closet, glass-fronted. On the bottom shelf lay a book, open. And on the upper shelf were two perfectly stacked columns of silver coins of equal height, in accordance with the fundamental principles of symmetry—“the purest of esthetic forms.”
Nothing else.
When the eternal lamp had come to rest and his eyes had grown accustomed to the light, Ellery removed one of the jar covers and looked in. It contained many rolled papers—scrolls—each secured with a bit of purple thread. He replaced the cover and looked into the other jar; it, too, was full of scrolls.
He turned his attention to the cabinet.
It reminded him so strongly of the china closet that had stood in his grandmother’s dining room during his childhood that he half expected to find the shelves filled with the same blue-and-white willow-pattern dishes. But this one contained nothing except the open book and the two columns of coins. Through the glass front he studied the book. It seemed printed in the black-letter type called Old English (the phrase “Cloister Black” flickered in Ellery’s memory), or at any rate in some font with a close resemblance to it. It was difficult to make out in the poor light, so Ellery put off for the moment the task of deciphering it and turned his attention to the two columns of coins. They were remarkably bright and shining.
He opened the china closet. Old silver dollars in mint condition!
He dipped into his store of numismatic knowledge. Some of the old “cartwheels,” he recalled, were quite rare.
Was this the reason for the duplicate key and someone’s plan to invade the sanctuary? Was the would-be thief concerned with the monetary value of the “treasure” of Quenan?
There was the almost legendary silver dollar minted in San Francisco in—when? yes!—1873, the same year the Quenanite sect had probably left that city in its quest for a new settlement. Only seven hundred had been minted, and all but the proof copies held by the mint had disappeared. Speculations about their fate had run from the theory that they had been buried somewhere and the secret of the hiding place lost through sudden death to the equally unprovable hypothesis that they had wound up in China as payment for lead-lined chests of green unfermented tea or even opium. But suppose everyone was wrong, and these—these two neat pillars of coins, as perfect as on the day they were minted—were the “lost” 1873 San Francisco dollars? A single specimen would be worth a fortune! And there were—how many?
With shaking fingers Ellery lifted one of the coins from the left-hand column and peered closely. The face of the coin depicted Liberty seated, and the date … 1873! He turned it over, holding his breath. The obverse showed the American eagle (“a verminous bird,” Ben Franklin had
He found himself squaring his shoulders. If the leader of this curious flock permitted him to set foot in their holy of holies, why should he hesitate? Yet hesitant he did feel, as if he were about to commit sacrilege—a “profanation of the mysterie.”
Still, it had to be done. He inserted the big key in the lock, felt the heavy tumblers turning over, pushed the door open, and stood on the threshold of the forbidden room.
It was really no larger than a large closet. There were no windows. The only light came from what he took to be an eternal lamp—an oddly shaped oil lamp of some time-crusted metal hanging from the precise center of the ceiling. The draft caused by the opening of the door had set the lamp in motion; it swung now, slightly, back and forth, like a censer, scattering shadows instead of smoke.
And in the shifting light Ellery saw:
To either side of him, each in a near corner, a very tall and slender jar of pottery, purple in color, resting on a wooden base and surmounted by a bowl-like cover. Jars, bases, bowls were identical.
Directly facing him: an old-fashioned walnut china closet, glass-fronted. On the bottom shelf lay a book, open. And on the upper shelf were two perfectly stacked columns of silver coins of equal height, in accordance with the fundamental principles of symmetry—“the purest of esthetic forms.”
Nothing else.
When the eternal lamp had come to rest and his eyes had grown accustomed to the light, Ellery removed one of the jar covers and looked in. It contained many rolled papers—scrolls—each secured with a bit of purple thread. He replaced the cover and looked into the other jar; it, too, was full of scrolls.
He turned his attention to the cabinet.
It reminded him so strongly of the china closet that had stood in his grandmother’s dining room during his childhood that he half expected to find the shelves filled with the same blue-and-white willow-pattern dishes. But this one contained nothing except the open book and the two columns of coins. Through the glass front he studied the book. It seemed printed in the black-letter type called Old English (the phrase “Cloister Black” flickered in Ellery’s memory), or at any rate in some font with a close resemblance to it. It was difficult to make out in the poor light, so Ellery put off for the moment the task of deciphering it and turned his attention to the two columns of coins. They were remarkably bright and shining.
He opened the china closet. Old silver dollars in mint condition!
He dipped into his store of numismatic knowledge. Some of the old “cartwheels,” he recalled, were quite rare.
Was this the reason for the duplicate key and someone’s plan to invade the sanctuary? Was the would-be thief concerned with the monetary value of the “treasure” of Quenan?
There was the almost legendary silver dollar minted in San Francisco in—when? yes!—1873, the same year the Quenanite sect had probably left that city in its quest for a new settlement. Only seven hundred had been minted, and all but the proof copies held by the mint had disappeared. Speculations about their fate had run from the theory that they had been buried somewhere and the secret of the hiding place lost through sudden death to the equally unprovable hypothesis that they had wound up in China as payment for lead-lined chests of green unfermented tea or even opium. But suppose everyone was wrong, and these—these two neat pillars of coins, as perfect as on the day they were minted—were the “lost” 1873 San Francisco dollars? A single specimen would be worth a fortune! And there were—how many?
With shaking fingers Ellery lifted one of the coins from the left-hand column and peered closely. The face of the coin depicted Liberty seated, and the date … 1873! He turned it over, holding his breath. The obverse showed the American eagle (“a verminous bird,” Ben Franklin had
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