as it most certainly has, a woman named Celestine Clochette. I remember the conditions very well: I
was Mrs. Rockefeller’s assistant in this matter, and it was I who hand-delivered this card to St. Rose
Convent.”
“But I thought that Mrs. Rockefeller had taken permanent possession of the lyre,” Bruno said.
“Oh, my, no,” Alistair said. “Mrs. Rockefeller and Mother Innocenta had agreed upon a set time to
return the objects under our care—Abby didn’t expect to be responsible for these items forever. She
intended to return them as soon as she felt that it was safe to do so—namely, at the end of the war. It
was our understanding that Innocenta, or Celestine Clochette if need be, would care for the envelopes
and, when the time came, follow their instructions in a particular order. The requirements were made
to ensure both the safety of the objects and the safety of the person engaged in recovery.”
Bruno and Evangeline exchanged glances. Evangeline was certain that Sister Celestine had not
known anything about these instructions.
“We didn’t get specific directions,” Bruno said. “Only a card that led us here.”
“Perhaps Innocenta didn’t relate the information before her death,” Evangeline said. “I’m sure that
Celestine would have made certain that Mrs. Rockefeller’s wishes were followed, had she known.”
“Ah, well,” Alistair said, “I see that there is some confusion. Mrs. Rockefeller was under the
impression that Celestine Clochette would be leaving the convent to return to Europe. It is my
recollection that Miss Clochette was a temporary guest.”
“It didn’t work out that way,” Evangeline said, remembering how frail and sickly Celestine had
become in the last days of her life.
Alistair Carroll closed his eyes, as if pondering the correct path to take in the completion of the
matter at hand. Standing abruptly, he said, “Well, there is nothing to do but continue. Please join me—
I would like to show you my extraordinary view.”
They followed Alistair Carroll to a wall of large porthole windows, the very ones Evangeline had
noticed from the street below. At their vantage, the Museum of Modern Art spread before them.
Evangeline pressed her hands upon the copper frame of the porthole window and peered down.
Directly below them, contained and orderly, lay the famous Sculpture Garden, its rectangular floor
plated in gray marble. A narrow pool of water shimmered at the center of the garden, creating an
obsidian darkness. Through wisps of snow, slabs of gray marble wept purple.
“From here I can watch the garden night and day,” Alistair Carroll said quietly. “Mrs. Rockefeller
bought this apartment for that very purpose—I am the guardian of the garden. I have watched many
changes take place in the years since her death. The garden has been torn up and redesigned; the
collection of statuary has grown.” He turned to Evangeline and Verlaine. “We could not have
foreseen that the trustees would find it necessary to change things so drastically over the years. Philip
Johnson’s 1953 garden—the iconic modern garden that one thinks of when one imagines it—wiped
out all traces of the original garden Abby had known. Then, for some bizarre reason, they decided to
modernize Philip Johnson’s garden—a travesty, a terrible error in judgment. First they ripped up the
marble—a lovely Vermont marble with a unique shade of blue-gray to it—and replaced it with an
inferior variety. They later discovered that the original had been far superior, but that is another
matter. Then they ripped the whole thing up again, replacing the new marble with one that was similar
to the original. It would have been most distressing to watch, if I had not taken matters into my own
hands.” Alistair Carroll crossed his arms over his chest, a look of satisfaction appearing upon his
face. “The treasure, you see, was originally hidden in the garden.”
“And now?” Evangeline asked, breathless. “It is no longer there?”
“Abby secured it in the hollow underside of one of the statues—Aristide Maillol’s The
Mediterranean, which has a great hollow space at its base. She believed that Celestine Clochette
would arrive within months, perhaps a year at the most. It would have been safe for a short amount of
time. But at the time of Abby’s death in 1948, Celestine had still not come. Soon after, plans were
made for Philip Johnson to create his modern Sculpture Garden. I took it upon myself to move it
before they tore the garden apart,” he said.
“That seems like a difficult procedure,” Bruno said. “Especially under the kind of security