Schmidt’s pink forehead crumpled into rows of wrinkles. “Sehr interessant,” he muttered, worrying his mustache. “Now where have I seen this face before?”

“Something strikes a chord,” I agreed. “It looks like a theatrical costume. Hardly the sort of thing we’d want for the collection.”

“Nein, nein. And yet…What is it that strikes me?”

Gerda cleared her throat. “I recognized it at once, Herr Direktor. When I took the course at the university last spring—or perhaps it was summer—yes, it was the Herr Professor Doktor Eberhardt’s course in the minor arts of Asia Minor—”

I was tempted to lunge at her. She’d had hours to check on that photograph and make fools of her two educated bosses. Schmidt was just as infuriated. “Get to the point,” he shouted, glaring.

Gerda looked smug. “Surely the very-highly-expert doctors recognize the photograph. It is that of Frau Schliemann wearing the treasure of Troy. If you recall, it was in 1873 that the distinguished archaeologist found the mound of Hissarlik, in what is now Turkey, and identified it as—”

“You need not summarize the career of Heinrich Schliemann,” said Schmidt, with heavy sarcasm. “Hmm. Yes. Possibly you are correct. It is not, of course, my field.”

It wasn’t my field, either. All the same, I should have identified the photograph. Every art historian takes introductory courses, and every woman worthy of the name is fascinated by jewels. Gerda had one-upped me with consummate skill, and it was for that reason, I think, that I pursued the matter. On such low-down, petty motives does our fate depend. If Gerda had not tried to show off, and made me look stupid—if I hadn’t been suffering from a well-deserved hang-over—I would probably have returned to my office, tossed the photo into a “pending” file, and awaited the expected, irate inquiry from the sender. Which would not have come.

Instead, I said sharply, “What did you do with the outer envelope?”

Schmidt was still studying the photograph with a puzzled frown. Without looking up he asked, “How do you know there was another envelope?”

“Because this one is blank—no address, no stamps, no postmark. Come on, Gerda; there had to be an outer envelope. What happened to it?”

Gerda’s eyes shifted. Mine followed the direction of her gaze. Her wastebasket was not only empty, it was as clean as my kitchen floor. Cleaner—I have a dog. “You threw it away?” I yelled.

“It was covered with filth,” Gerda said, with a fastidious curl of her lip. “Stained and dirty—one could scarcely read the name.”

“Was there a return address?”

“None that I could read. The dirty stains—”

“Postmark?”

Gerda shrugged.

Schmidt followed me out of the office. I asked him where he was going, and he said simply, “With you.”

“Why?”

“You are going to look through the trash for the missing envelope.” Schmidt savored the phrase. “The missing envelope…A good title for a thriller, nicht?”

“It’s been used. Probably by Nancy Drew.”

Schmidt didn’t ask who Nancy Drew was. Maybe he knew. As I said, he has deplorable tastes in literature. “And,” he went on cheerfully, “a good beginning for an adventure.”