"Before it was opened it weighed an even 130 pounds," he said. "Now it only weighs 121. That proves that something came out of it."
Kennedy whistled. "Nine pounds of sudden death. Well, we don't need any proof to know that something came out of that box. We've got two dead men to prove it. Look," the detective finished, "I'm going back to McCumber's residence and see if I can locate that piece of glass. You keep trying to crack that language."
He went out of the room on the run. The motor of the squad car howled to sudden life outside as the detective left.
Rocks expected Kennedy to return. But he didn't come back that night. He called instead. "I'm at the undertaker's. They didn't find any piece of red glass. I've been over McCumber's house with a magnifying glass. It isn't there. Either the thing that killed him destroyed it, or somebody picked it up. You getting anywhere with that language?"
"No," Rocks groaned.
"Well, keep trying. My hunch is that everything depends on whether or not you solve those hieroglyphics. I've got some checking to do on this end. I'll call you if anything turns up." The detective hung up.
Rocks went back to the basement. His job was to crack the language. And what a job that was!
The night ended. Dawn came. The morning was passing. Rocks worked on.
The museum was closed that day. The police were not willing to take a chance on some visitor stumbling into a death that came in silence. Nor was the museum itself. Sharp called in and gave explicit orders on that point.
Rocks drank strong coffee, and worked, and failed. The language was not similar to cuneiform. It was not like any language he knew. Every time he realized that fact, he shivered. It had either been invented by a people so long lost in the past that history had no record of them, or it didn't belong on earth at all.