Brass Go-Between Read Online Free PDF Page A

Kehoel.
    “Good session?” I asked.
    “Rotten,” he said. “But considering what we now have in the White House it was better than I expected.”
    “Give him time,” Teague said.
    “Why?”
    Teague patted a stray lock of silvery hair into place while he thought up an answer. “He has good people around him,” he said.
    “So did Caesar,” the senator said.
    “Think I have time for one more of these?” Teague said, looking sadly into his empty martini glass.
    “I don’t know,” the senator said. “You’ll have to ask God.”
    As if on cue, God, or Winfield Spencer, turned from Frances Wingo and said, “I think we should start.” He walked slowly over to the carefully set table and took the chair at its head, not waiting for Frances Wingo. I noticed that Spencer moved with a slight limp. Lawrence Teague bustled over to Mrs. Wingo and held her chair which was on Spencer’s left. I sat next to her and the senator and Teague sat across from us.
    Lunch, for four of us at least, was ordinary but eatable: grilled double-cut lamb chops, fresh peas, new potatoes, and salad. The bartender, who doubled as waiter, served it skillfully enough, but seemed to wince when he got around to Spencer whose plate contained two hard-boiled eggs and six soda crackers which he grimly washed down with a glass of buttermilk.
    There was little conversation during the meal. Spencer ate slowly and when finished he brushed a few cracker crumbs from his vest and tapped a forefinger softly on the tablecloth. I assumed that he was calling the meeting to order. He was.
    “When the coffee is served, we’ll begin,” he said, staring into his now empty plate. The dishes were cleared away, the coffee was promptly served, and I lit a cigarette. No one else smoked.
    Spencer looked up from his plate and his green eyes seemed to fasten on some imaginary guest at the end of the table. From the tone of Spencer’s voice, the imaginary guest was apparently none too bright. “The museum suffered a theft on Friday night. That is the reason for this meeting. Mrs. Wingo will now give us a detailed report. Do not ask questions until she is finished.” With that he dropped his eyes back to the spot where his plate containing the two hard-boiled eggs and six soda crackers had rested. He didn’t look up until Frances Wingo stopped talking. She had quite a bit to say and she said it well.
    “I’ll start at the beginning,” she said. “As all of you know, with the possible exception of Mr. St. Ives, we consider ourselves extremely fortunate to have secured what is known as the Pan-African collection. In truth it is somewhat misnamed because all of it comes from south of the Sahara, but even so it represents the finest collection of black African art ever assembled. Most of the pieces are considered national treasures and have never before been exhibited outside their respective countries. I will not attempt to catalogue all of the pieces that are of extreme value, or even priceless because of their historical worth, but only point out that none of them exceeds the shield of Komporeen in beauty, historical significance, value, and, unfortunately, political importance. The shield, of course, was stolen last Friday night.”
    She paused for a sip of water. “The shield of Komporeen was first mentioned by an anonymous Portuguese pilot who wrote of it in his account of his explorations of the west coast of Africa in 1539. He described it as hanging behind the throne of the Odo, or natural ruler of Komporeen, and noted that it was, as he wrote, ‘the subject of much veneration.’ Komporeen, of course, is the former name for what is now known as the Republic of Jandola, which secured its independence from the British in 1958. It was not until the 1870’s that the shield of Komporeen was mentioned again. Sir William Cranville wrote a detailed description of it in what came to be known as the Cranville Report. He mistakenly described the shield as being of