Solar Pons: The Final Cases

1

“Have you ever heard the name of Charles Brinsley LaFontaine, Parker?”

Solar Pons threw the newspaper over to me with a grunt.

“I believe I have heard you mention him. Pons. A clever forger and all-round- villain is he not?”

Solar Pons smiled approvingly at me as he sat opposite in his old grey dressing- gown in our comfortable sitting-room at 7B Praed Street.

You are constantly improving, my dear fellow. One of the most consummate scoundrels who ever lived yet his audacity is so unbounded and his villainies perpetrated with such style that one cannot help admiring him.”

Pons reached for his pipe and tamped tobacco into the bowl as I unfolded the paper.

“Nevertheless, I think he has overreached himself on this occasion. To commit a crime is one thing. To announce it beforehand is quite another.”

I gazed at my companion in astonishment as he sat looking into the flickering flames of our well-banked fire. It was a cold, dry day in October and we had just finished our lunch on this sunny Saturday afternoon.

“You do not mean to say so. Pons.”

“I was never more serious. Kindly peruse the news item I have ringed on the front page, if you would be so kind.”

I turned to the article he had mentioned. It was headed: THREAT TO MENTMORE MUSEUM. Precious Idols in Danger.

It began, “The Mentmore Museum in London, one of the depositories of the nation’s rarest art treasures, is threatened by a mysterious scoundrel who has indicated his intention of stealing the famous Baku Idols, a set of gold effigies, reputed to be worth a fortune.

“The Curator of the Museum, Colonel Francis Loder said last evening that a letter he had received indicated that an attempt would be made to steal the Idols within the next two or three weeks. The Colonel would not particularise on the text of the letter and said that he had been asked by Scotland Yard not to divulge the exact contents.

“The Museum staff is being strengthened, with double guards at night, and Superintendent Stanley Heathfield of Scotland Yard, who is in charge of the case, told this newspaper that the police authorities were taking the threats seriously. The letter received by the Museum Director was not signed but the distinctive handwriting, in copper-plate, ended with a question mark.”

There was much more in the same vein but very little additional information and I put down the journal with a puzzled expression.

“It says nothing here about LaFontaine, Pons.”

Solar Pons looked at me with a twinkle in his eyes.

“It says very little there about anything. Parker.”

“That is true,” I conceded, “but you must have good reason for your statement.”

“Indeed, Parker.” said my companion. “The item has all the hallmarks of LaFontaine. I have made some study of the man and the copper-plate writing is a speciality of his. He has never yet been convicted of anything.”

“Why is that, Pons?”

Solar Pons smiled thinly.

“Apart from the obvious fact that he has never been caught, the reason the police have never been able to secure a conviction is that he is a master of disguise. We have crossed swords only once and on that memorable occasion he escaped.”

“You astonish me, Pons.”

“I trust not, Parker. I am by no means infallible.”

Solar Pons leaned forward in his chair, tenting his fingers before him, the aromatic blue smoke from his pipe rising lazily to the ceiling.

“The conclusion arose quite simply because the man who laid the groundwork for the theft and forgeries was different from the man seen by witnesses, while the man held in the street by a policeman was different again. When questioned at the police station it was found that the third man was genuinely innocent and that the real miscreant had escaped.”

He smiled reminiscently and directed his gaze toward the newspaper.

“If you will kindly hand me that back, I will cut it out and add it to my file on Mr Charles Brinsley laFontaine. He is a considerable artist, seldom uses violence, robs only large institutions and organisations which can well afford it and I must confess I have a grudging admiration for him.”

“It is the first time I have heard you approve of a criminal. Pons.”

My companion looked at me sharply.

“I did not say that, Parker. Far from it. I am, as you know, implacably opposed to crime and its workings in any shape or form. But one cannot always withhold respect from an adversary, however misguided.”

“If this man has never been caught how do you know his name is LaFontaine?”

“A good question, Parker. I am sure it is not his real name but it was the nom-de-plume he used when writing letters of credit in the case I mentioned. They were also in copper-plate handwriting and the theft was extremely ingenious in its planning and execution. This affair of the Museum has the same stamp about it. Until we lay the man himself by the heels the nom-de-plume will have to do.”

I watched while Pons cut out the item and placed it in one of his neat box-files.

“You think we shall hear more of this, Pons?”

“I am convinced of it, my dear fellow.”

Solar Pons turned his deep-set eyes on me reflectively.

“Superintendent Stanley Heathfield is an extremely competent police officer and a gentleman who attained a high rank in the British Army in Flanders in the last war. He has a wide experience of life and we both respect each other.”

“You think he will consult you?”

Solar Pons shook his head.

“Not consult, Parker. He will confer with me. There is a deal of difference in the terms.”

“I do not quite follow, Pons.”

Solar Pons crossed his thin legs and sat back in his chair.

“Let me put it another way. Friend Jamison, though plodding and capable in his own way is extremely limited in imagination and the higher reaches of intelligence. As befits his rank, Heathfield is a man of deep education and culture with a wide grasp of both the world and human nature. Whereas Jamison would fumble about, well out of his depth, and only consult higher authority when the case was going badly, Heathfield is of a different school. He would sit down first, shrewdly assess all the factors and then, when he had made his decision, either bring in outside help or proceed on his own lines.”

I had never heard Pons so vociferous on this subject before and I stared at him in surprise until he eventually broke off his discourse with a dry chuckle.

“So you think Superintendent Heathfield will ask your advice, Pons?”

“It is entirely possible, Parker.”

He took the pipe from his mouth and stabbed the air with its stem to emphasise his point.

“Heathfield knows I have already had a run-in with LaFontaine and he is wise enough to realise that he will need specialist advice.”

“You mean the background of the Museum, Pons?”

“Exactly. Colonel Loder is, of course, one of the highest authorities in the land on Oriental art and artefacts. But he is a busy man and has many duties to occupy his time. He cannot spend every day trailing around with Heathfield and his officers.”

“Whereas you have a certain knowledge in this area and would like nothing better than to cross swords with LaFontaine again, Pons.”

“You have hit it exactly, Parker,” said Solar Pons good-humouredly, his alert figure jerking upright in his chair. A moment or two later I caught the soft footfall of our admirable landlady Mrs Johnson ascending to our quarters. The discreet tap on the door was followed by the motherly face of that good lady herself which insinuated itself somewhat nervously round the panel.

“I am sorry to disturb you, Mr Pons.”

“Not at all, Mrs Johnson,” said my companion, rising to his feet. “Come in by all means. Dr Parker and I were merely indulging in a little idle speculation.”

Mrs Johnson entered and closed the door behind her.

“I have just had a telephone call, Mr Pons. From Scotland yard.”

Solar Pons’ eyes were dancing with mischievous lights as he glanced across at me.

“Indeed?”

“I was asked to relay a message to you, Mr Pons. From Superintendent Heathfield.”

Pons’ eyes held an ironic expression as he continued to face in my direction.

“He wishes to consult you, Mr Pons. Something about a museum. I did not quite catch the name, I am afraid.”

“It does not matter. Mrs Johnson. It would be the Mentmore, would it not?”

“That was it, Mr Pons!” said our landlady, relief on her good-natured face. “He said if it was convenient he would like to call on you within the hour. Knowing you, Mr Pons, I took the liberty of saying it would be.”

“Certainly, Mrs Johnson. You were perfectly correct. It would be entirely convenient.”

And Solar Pons sat down at the fireside and smoked his pipe with great contentment until the arrival of our visitor.

2

Superintendent Heathfield looked at Pons with a quizzical expression. The trim military figure, the clipped grey moustache and the elegant suit and overcoat all bespoke of great energy and neatness of mind.

“You will find the sugar bowl at your elbow. Superintendent.”

“Thank you, Mr Pons.”

Heathfield dropped two cubes of sugar into his cup with the silver tongs and stirred thoughtfully, his twinkling brown eyes glancing first at Pons and then at me.

“You are not surprised to see me here?”

Pons shook his head.

“Parker and I were discussing you earlier on. I would have done exactly as you are doing had I been in your position.”

Heathfield smiled.

“I do not quite understand you.”

“I think you do. Superintendent.”

“Pons was expounding one of his favourite maxims,” I volunteered to the Scotland Yard official.

“When confronted by problems which call for specialist knowledge, first consult a specialist.”

The Superintendent shot me a shrewd glance.

“Unlike some of my official colleagues, eh. doctor?”

“Perhaps,” I said. “We did not get on to personalities.”

Pons gave me an approving glance from beneath his lowered lids.

Heathfield chuckled.

“Well, you are right again, Mr Pons. I have called about this Mentmore Museum business. As you have undoubtedly seen by this morning’s papers both the Museum authorities and the Yard are taking it seriously.”

“I am glad to hear you say so,” said Pons crisply. “And as I have already had some experience of Mr LaFontaine you seek my advice.”

The Superintendent inclined his head ironically, his eyes dancing.

“I immediately detected his handiwork, Mr Pons. As you know why I am here perhaps you know what I am about to show you.”

“Naturally. The letter this impudent scoundrel sent Colonel Loder.”

The Superintendent smiled and rummaged in a crocodile-skin briefcase he had put down on the table.

“You have no objection to lending your talents to this investigation, Mr Pons?”

My companion shook his head.

“Delighted. Superintendent. I could think of nothing that would give me more pleasure.”

He glanced across at me.

“Providing you have no objection to Parker?”

The Superintendent looked at me in surprise.

“Good heavens, no. An honour to have you both.”

Pons rubbed his thin fingers together in satisfaction.

“Excellent. And now to business.”

Heathfield had produced from his briefcase a large, buff-coloured envelope. It was addressed to Colonel Loder at the Museum and bore a London postmark I saw as Pons held it up toward me. The writing was in thick blue ink, the lettering exquisitely formed.

“First-rate,” said Pons, glancing casually at the superscription.

“And exactly the same as those messages sent during our last encounter.”

He bent over the envelope, his magnifying lens held closely over the paper.

“Expensive envelope, Glamis Bond, sold at high-class stationery shops throughout the land. Written with a quill, which he has cut himself. The pen-strokes are typical of the method and the handwriting is definitely the same as before, whether LaFontaine be a nom-de-plume or not.”

He frowned, holding up the envelope to the light.

“Posted at St John’s Wood, I see.”

“How do you know that, Mr Pons?”

There was sharp curiosity in the Superintendent’s voice. “I thought all these letters were stamped by the sorting office at St Martins-le-Grand.”

“So they are,” said Pons casually. “And here is their stamp. But this was handed in at the postal area covered by St John’s Wood, probably when our man bought the stamps. There is a disfigurement of the V in the 15th of the month. I have noticed this for some months. It is about time they changed the stamp but like most Government departments it denotes parsimoniousness.”

The Superintendent turned sharp eyes on my companion.

“You think our man lives in St John’s Wood?”

“It is possible.” said Pons lightly. “But I attach no importance to the fact. It signifies little and such an artist as LaFontaine would think nothing of going miles out of his way to post such a letter, to avoid being traced.”

The Superintendent blew out his breath with an audible hiss.

“If you think he is so careful why does he go to all this trouble to warn the authorities of an impending burglary?”

Pons smiled.

“Ah, you have noticed that, have you? It is of the greatest significance, is it not, Parker?”

“If you say so, Pons,” I mumbled.

“Let us just have a quick look at the contents,” Pons continued. “I think I have learned all that can usefully be gathered from the envelope.”

He carefully drew out from the enclosure a large sheet of blue-tinted paper which had been carefully folded down the middle. He spread it out in front of him on the lunch table and I went round to read it over his shoulder.

It was indeed a curious message, written in the same beautiful copper-plate handwriting, and with the same blue-ink pen used for the superscription.

Colonel Loder: I have a mind to add the Baku Idols to my collection. You may expect a visit from me in the near future. It is useless to take precautions. When I fancy something doors and locks mean nothing. Expect me!

Solar Pons smiled sardonically as he examined the sheet of paper carefully and then handed it back to the Superintendent.

“Just why are Scotland Yard and the Museum authorities taking this so seriously?” I asked.

“Because, Parker,” said Solar Pons, “there have been a number of thefts of irreplaceable objet d’art from Austrian and French museums over the past year or two. All were the work of the same man and though there was no warning as in this instance here in London, the method behind the burglaries; the disguises adopted; and the entire procedure in each case point indelibly to our Mr LaFontaine.”

I turned to Superintendent Heathfield, who nodded sombrely.

“That is perfectly correct, gentlemen. I see that you keep up to date with major crime on the Continent as well as this country, Mr Pons.”

“As always.” returned my companion. “Colonel Loder and yourself do well to take the threat seriously. I know the Museum authorities have strengthened the guards. What are your intentions in the matter?”

“Plain-clothes men mingling with the crowds in the Museum during the day, Mr Pons. A stiffening of armed detectives among the guards at night. I have set up my own Command Headquarters in an annexe adjoining the Museum Curator’s office. I am in wireless contact with Scotland Yard. Beyond that, there is little else I can do for the moment.”

Solar Pons sat quietly, pulling thoughtfully at the lobe of his left ear.

“You have done well, Superintendent,” he said at length. “As you rightly say, there is little else that can be managed for the moment. You have surveyed the terrain thoroughly, of course?”

Heathfield inclined his head.

“Of course. The Baku Idols are in a large locked glass case in one of the major galleries, situated in the West Wing of the Museum. There are the usual burglar alarms and an attendant sits on a chair at the side of the room throughout the day. These men are changed every two hours and are present at all times during the Museum’s opening hours to keep an eye on the visitors. I do not think we need worry very much about that.”

“Nevertheless, Superintendent, a bold man like our friend may choose the day as the perfect time to strike.”

“I have not overlooked that, Mr Pons, and I have our two plain-clothes detectives in that room at all times. Like the attendants they are changed, but in this case, four times a day. They filter in and out of the room, two at a time, like casual tourists.”

“Hmm.”

Solar Pons’ eyes were bright as he stared at the Superintendent.

“Excellent. There is nothing you have overlooked.”

“You flatter me, Mr Pons. You will help me, then?”

“There was never any doubt of it, Superintendent. What are your dispositions for the night?”

“I have a similar routine, only my men are kitted out as Museum attendants, in proper uniforms. They are armed with revolvers but will only shoot to wound in extreme circumstances. Needless to say, all are hand-picked, both for their fleetness of foot and boxing abilities.”

Pons smiled.

“Needless to say. I think I would like to have a look at the Museum before we take this any further. What about you, Parker?”

“I am at your disposal. Pons. I can be ready in a quarter of an hour.”

Solar Pons rubbed his hands together. Heathfield sat opposite him, finishing his tea, his penetrating eyes never leaving my companion’s face.

“Nevertheless, you have reservations, Mr Pons?”

Solar Pons burst into a short, barking laugh.

“It is a pleasure to work with you, Superintendent. It is just this. With all the treasures of the Museum to choose from, why would LaFontaine pick the Baku Idols? I commend that thought to you, my friend.”

3

The Mentmore Museum was a massive building with an overwhelming portico, situated near Bloomsbury and conveniently close to the British Museum. Within twenty minutes of our leaving Praed Street we were picking our way between the clustered groups of tourists of all nationalities which were ascending and descending the broad flights of steps which led to the main entrance turnstiles.

Once inside the vast entrance hall, a plain-clothes man, evidently on the look-out for the Superintendent, led us swiftly to the Curator’s quarters, a large, luxuriously- appointed suite of offices discreetly situated down a corridor whose entrance door bore no markings other than the word: Private.

Colonel Loder, a handsome, silver-haired man in a well-cut grey suit with a wine- red bow-tie hanging like a bright butterfly beneath his chin, rose from his desk to greet us. He was both courteous and brisk and I formed a very favourable first impression of him.

“This is very good of you, Mr Pons. Doctor Parker.”

“Not at all,” said Solar Pons affably. “It is a matter which must be taken seriously and as the Superintendent and I have worked together before and I have some small knowledge of Oriental artefacts…”

The Curator nodded approvingly.

“You are astonishingly knowledgeable, Mr Pons. I have read those of your monographs which have been re-printed in our learned journals.”

“You flatter me, sir,” said Solar Pons, but I could see that the expert’s praise had understandably pleased him.

“Will you not sit down, gentlemen?”

We sat in a wide horseshoe, facing the Colonel’s desk. It was quiet in here and the mellow sunshine fell slantwise across Loder’s cheerful quarters, which had huge oil paintings on loan from one of the national collections hanging on the far walls. Loder pierced a cigar with a silver instrument he took from his desk and handed his cigar box round. Heathfield took one and lit up with the Curator but both Pons and I declined, the latter producing his favourite pipe. The air was blue with fragrant smoke before Loder broke the silence.

“I am sorry this matter got to the press, gentlemen. I can only urge absolute discretion…”

“Naturally,” said Solar Pons, somewhat curtly. “How did this business become public?”

The Curator exchanged a glance with Heathfield.

“I thought you knew, Mr Pons. This impudent rascal sent a copy of his letter to all the leading London journals. My telephone has never stopped ringing until this morning. There are still a number of journalists and photographers in the building.”

Solar Pons pursed his lips. He glanced across at the Scotland Yard man who sat morosely furrowing his brow.

“That is your department. Superintendent. We cannot have any more out of the way publicity until we have brought this business to a successful conclusion.”

“That will be difficult, Mr Pons,” said Colonel Loder. “What if this man writes to them again?”

“That we cannot prevent, of course,” said Solar Pons. “But my main efforts and those of Superintendent Heathfield, I am sure, will be directed toward the prevention of this planned crime and the apprehension of the criminal.”

“Certainly, certainly,” said Loder in a placatory voice and held up his hand as if he would prevent the Superintendent from speaking.

“Naturally, I will do whatever I can to assist and my staff will back you to the limit. In addition all of you will have written carte blanche to go anywhere you wish on the Museum premises and within the grounds and will be free to come and go at any hour of the day and night. I have the necessary authority in front of me.”

He nodded toward a small sheaf of typewritten documents with pieces of white pasteboard attached, which stood in the middle of his desk. Solar Pons had a faint smile on his lips.

“You were certain I would accept the Superintendent’s invitation, then. Colonel?”

The savant inclined his head.

“Naturally, Mr Pons. And now, if you will follow me, my Head Keeper is waiting to show you the main galleries and, more specifically, that containing the Baku Idols.”

Outside the Curator’s office a tall, spare man with a black moustache dressed in a neat grey uniform with a peaked cap, was waiting for us. He saluted Colonel Loder and smiled at Heathfield as though he were an old friend.

“This is Cornish, my Head Attendant. Mr Solar Pons and Dr Lyndon Parker, who have come to give us their valuable assistance.”

The hand was at the peaked cap again.

“Delighted, gentlemen. Would you prefer to lead or shall I, sir?”

This last sentence was addressed to Loder, who smiled affably and said, “No, lead on, by all means.”

The tall attendant glided on down the corridor and led us through a series of huge galleries, lit directly from above, in which objects d’art, in all colours of the rainbow glinted beneath the shelter of the large plate-glass cases in which they were set. Persian rugs adorned the walls and the clear light shone on the pellucid glaze of Ming, T’ang and other dynasties represented in the priceless vases and ceramics so casually set about as though the supply were inexhaustible. In another gallery Benin bronzes vied with the sea-green shimmer of jade while squat and ugly idols frowned down from every niche and corner.

The Museum rooms were packed with visitors of many different nationalities and I looked at Pons worriedly. He had a sombre expression on his face and it was obvious his thoughts were moving on my own lines. The great difficulty of guarding and protecting such treasures when the man who threatened them might even now be standing in front of them in the guise of that benevolent curate; the tall, bearded Indian gentlemen; or the broad-chested, ascetic-looking man in the Harris tweed jacket.

Loder pursed his lips as though he had been party to my train of thought and shrugged expressively.

“You see what we are up against, Mr Pons?”

“Indeed. We must just make sure our own strategy is sharper and better thought- out than that of our enemy.”

Pons said nothing more until we came to the gallery we sought, a chamber smaller and more intimate than that of the others; lit by sky-lights and with delicate pastel-coloured walls. There were Assyrian friezes round the walls, a few rugs and some curiously striped shields but we had no eyes for them this afternoon. Cornish ignored the other glass cases in the room and led us to one which was set on a small dais in a corner.

Before he could open his mouth, however, Pons had his magnifying glass out; the room was empty of casual visitors for the moment, as a large party had just passed on, and there was only our small group clustered round the case. Pons paced restlessly across the dais, went round the walls, looked sharply up at the skylight and presently snapped his glass shut and returned it to its little leather pouch.

He went over the case, running his thin fingers across a partly concealed grey wire which led down the mahogany fitting and disappeared through a tiny hole drilled in the floor.

“Aha!”

He gave a sharp exclamation and we crowded round. Pons indicated where the wire had been expertly cut, just at the point where it entered the dais.

“The burglar alarm, is it not? I fancy it is useless for the moment.’’

“Good heavens, Mr Pons!”

Colonel Loder and the Head Attendant exchanged glances of dismay and Superintendent Heathfield bit his lip. Solar Pons stepped back, his eyes dancing over the misshapen gold idols that were set on plinths within the glass case.

“Do not distress yourselves, gentlemen. I expected no less. We are dealing with a high-class professional.”

He glanced at Heathfield.

“You have noted the significance of this, Superintendent, of course?”

I saw the surprise and confusion in the Scotland Yard man’s eyes.

“I am afraid you have taken me off-guard, Mr Pons.”

“Just think about it,” said Solar Pons enigmatically.

“We must get this seen to at once, Mr Pons,” said Cornish, a worried expression on his face.

“By all means,” said Solar Pons languidly. “But it will do little good, I am afraid.”

“Little good, Mr Pons!”

Colonel Loder’s features bore a mixed expression of bafflement and chagrin and I had to turn away briefly on pretext of examining the Baku Idols which were, to tell the truth, rather ugly and worthless-looking objects. It was odd to realise that they were worth as much as £50,000, but then that applied to so many objects in the Museum.

I raised my head as the tapping of a stick sounded along the gallery. A blind man. elegantly dressed, with a well-trimmed beard was tapping his way along toward us. We waited until he had moved away. He went across to one of the large stone idols set into a niche and moved one delicate hand across its features, almost caressingly.

“Professor Sanders,” whispered Colonel Loder softly to Pons.

“The man who carried out those brilliant Mesopotamian excavations?”

Loder nodded.

“The last thing of significance he achieved before his tragic accident. Now the poor fellow has to content himself with writing books for he can no longer carry out excavations in the field.”

“Tragic indeed,” said Pons sympathetically as the blind man moved confidently to the room entrance and then the tapping of his stick died out along the corridor.

We were moving out of the gallery now, back the way we had come.

“You said it was little good now, Mr Pons? You were referring to the burglar alarm?”

“I am sorry, Colonel Loder. It was not my intention to cause despondency. I was merely thinking aloud. By all means have that case reconnected to the alarm system. It was just that I did not think the danger was coming from that quarter.”

“I do not understand you, Mr Pons.”

“No matter, Colonel. I trust all will be made clear before many more days are past.”

Colonel Loder exchanged a gloomy expression with the Superintendent and then we were back in the corridor which led to his office.

“Now that we are here,” said Solar Pons, “I have a mind to see some of your favourite treasures. What would you say was the most valuable part of the collection?”

Colonel Loder wrinkled up his forehead.

“The Chinese ceramics, undoubtedly. They mean little to the public and truth to tell, they do not make a spectacular display. But they are certainly the most valuable and the closest to my heart.”

“Could we see them now?”

“By all means.”

The Colonel consulted his watch.

“It wants another hour to the Museum closing, but with the passes I have prepared you may come and go at any time of the day and night. The Hsui-Ching Collection is in the Scott-Green Gallery, quite close by.”

“If you’ll forgive me, Mr Pons, I have much to attend to.”

Superintendent Heathfield excused himself and marched down the corridor with a firm tread after my companion had arranged to meet him back in the Curator’s office within the hour. The Scott-Green Gallery, named after the archaeologist who had unearthed these early Chinese treasures, was a long, broad, parquet-floored room whose glass exhibition cases were set about under hanging lights and interspersed with chests of carved sandalwood and fragile silk banners housed in glass frames screwed to the walls.

A bored attendant with a white, sedentary face uncoiled himself from a chair and assumed an alert posture as he recognised the Curator. Colonel Loder smiled thinly. There was no-one else in the gallery. The man saluted as we came up.

“You may get yourself a cup of tea at the canteen and absent yourself for the next half-an-hour,” Loder said pleasantly.

The attendant smiled, revealing two gold teeth.

“Thank you, sir.”

He hurried off down the gallery as though eager to escape before the Curator changed his mind.

“I am afraid the job of Museum attendant is one of the most boring in the whole world, Mr Pons,” he observed. “Why they do it is beyond me, for the wages are small enough.”

“It appeals to a certain type of mind,” said Solar Pons equably. “And certainly it is clean, quite agreeable and not at all strenuous.”

His lean form strode unerringly to two large cases at the centre right of the long gallery.

“This is the Hsui-Ching porcelain?”

“Indeed, Mr Pons. Your reputation has not been exaggerated.”

Solar Pons smiled.

“I am an amateur only, but that particular dull shade of green is unmistakable to the trained eye.”

I stared in consternation at the dozen or so saucers of a browny-green shade which the first case contained. To me they looked so nondescript that I would not have given them house-room. Surely Pons and the Curator could not be serious when they referred to these objects as priceless treasures? But one look at their faces convinced me of their probity and their enthusiasm: for something like a quarter of an hour they spoke learnedly of the finer points of the firing and glazing.

“Perfect, absolutely perfect, Mr Pons,” Colonel Loder breathed, moving from one case to another in absolute delight. Pons caught a glimpse of my bored face and turned away, his handkerchief pressed in front of his nose. I made a serious effort.

“What value would you place upon the contents of these two cases, Colonel?”

“Oh, something in the region of a quarter of a million pounds,” he said casually. “These two sets are among the only half-dozen perfect ones extant in the world. There are another two in the Louvre which I would give the world to get my hands on; the Metropolitan in New York has another and there is one more in Italy. Of course, any number of museums scattered throughout the world have single specimens but complete, perfect sets like these are literally beyond price.”

I was absolutely stupefied and my features must have shown it clearly for Colonel Loder and Pons exchanged a conspiratorial glance.

“But would there be any point stealing such objects?” I asked, looking round at the grilles over the skylights and the thin wires which led to the burglar alarms.

“Good heavens, no,” said Colonel Loder, “though we must, of course, take the usual precautions. Hardly anyone in the world would handle them. And certainly few could afford to buy them.”

“Except for a mad collector. Pons?”

Solar Pons looked at me shrewdly, his eyes twinkling.

“You have a point, Parker,” he said mildly. “Thank you indeed for showing me such treasures, Colonel. I think we have seen enough for one afternoon. Tomorrow is Sunday. Will the Museum be open?”

Colonel Loder inclined his head.

“On Sundays in the season we open from 10 a.m. until four o’clock. My Deputy, Sir James Grieve will be in charge but I can be reached at my home by telephone if my services are required.”

“Thank you, but I fancy that will not be necessary,” said Solar Pons. “Now, Parker, if you are ready we will have a quick word with Superintendent Heathfield before returning to 7B for one of Mrs Johnson’s excellent high teas.”

4

I buttered a piece of toast and conveyed it to my mouth. Solar Pons sat opposite me silently drinking his tea, his deep-set eyes fixed somewhere far beyond me. I knew better than to interrupt him and it was not until Mrs Johnson had removed the clutter from the table and silently withdrawn that he at last relaxed, drew up his chair to the fire and lit his pipe.

When he had it drawing to his satisfaction he glanced out the window where the first street-lamps were beginning to prick out the dusk of this short October day and finally broke the silence.

“I have not yet had the benefit of your thoughts on this matter. Parker.”

“I, Pons?”

My friend nodded, blowing out clouds of aromatic blue smoke toward the ceiling of our sitting-room.

“You must have formed some impressions.”

“I have formed many impressions, Pons, but nothing very much to the point.”

Solar Pons shook his head slowly.

“That is because you have not given it your undivided attention, my dear fellow. When you have thought things out I am sure that light will begin to penetrate.”

I demurred.

“I am afraid I have not your ratiocinative gifts, Pons. For instance, all this business of Baku Idols and then Hsui-Ching saucers is merely confusing. And then you tell Colonel Loder that the cut burglar alarm does not matter. Apart from the fact that none of us know what this fellow LaFontaine looks like.”

Solar Pons chuckled.

“You are confused merely because you are not making the proper connections. Let us just take the points one at a time. We have a bold criminal, who has already netted thousands of pounds in thefts from museums and private collections on the Continent. But this is the first time he has ever announced his arrival in advance. What does that suggest to you?”

I thought for a moment.

“Over-confidence, Pons?”

My friend shook his head.

“There is a deeper and far more obvious reason than that. We know LaFontaine or rather the man behind the nom-de-plume is responsible, because of the copperplate writing; the hand itself; and the many details employed in the method. But why should he take such pains to draw attention to the Baku Idols?”

I stared at Pons for a whole minute before light broke in.

“It is a red herring, Pons? Because he has no intention of stealing them!”

Solar Pons tented his fingers before him.

“Exactly, Parker. You are constantly improving. He wishes to concentrate attention on the Gallery containing the Baku Idols because he intends to strike elsewhere in the Museum! That was why the burglar alarm wire was cut. It was intended to arrest Heathfield’s attention. I will bet any sum you care to name that he will strike again at that Gallery soon in order to concentrate all the available attendants and police officers there.”

“It is quite simple now that you have pointed it out, Pons,” I observed.

Solar Pons shot me an ironic glance.

“So I have heard you observe more than once, Parker,” he said languidly. “As soon as I heard the value of the Baku Idols mentioned — a mere £50,000 — it did not seem like my man’s style at all. He invariably goes for much higher figures.”

I stared at Pons again.

“But you surely do not believe that he will steal the porcelain? We both heard what Colonel Loder said.”

Solar Pons held up his hand.

“I cannot tell, of course, where LaFontaine will strike or in what form: as I have said, he is a master of disguise. But the Hsui-Ching Collection is the most valuable single item in the Museum and as you have already heard, our man might dispose of it in the manner mentioned. We must not overlook that.”

There was a silence between us for several minutes.

“This is a difficult situation, Pons,” I said eventually.

“I am glad that factor has not escaped you. What would you do in my position?”

I crossed my legs and sat back in my comfortable chair.

“There are so many possibilities. Pons,” I said rather helplessly. “This criminal has the entire treasures of the Museum from which to choose.”

“Exactly, Parker,” said Solar Pons in a gentle voice. “And now, if you will be so good as to immerse yourself in your newspaper, I will give the problem my considered attention.”

We arrived at the Museum the following day at about half-past ten and on our showing the cards Loder had given us to the man at the turnstile, we were swiftly ushered through. It was a cold, bright day, dry, with strong sunshine and the Museum was already crowded.

Pons led the way into the Scott-Green Gallery and gazed in silence as the Hsui-Ching Collection in its two massive glass cases. He went round the gallery with the air of a casual visitor but I could see that his keen eyes were stabbing sharply in every direction, noting the thin burglar alarm wires that led to the cases and then probing upward to the grilles which guarded the ceiling skylights.

Pons was apparently satisfied because presently he left the Gallery and he and I strolled down the broad marble-floored corridors and into the Oriental Gallery which housed the Baku Idols. As we came into it we could hear a hot altercation, noticeable even from the far distance. A fat, bearded man was talking heatedly to two uniformed attendants and once or twice he shook his fist while he shouted at them in some obscure language, in a high, piping voice. I looked at Pons quickly.

“Do you think, Pons…?”

“I do not know. Parker,” he said quietly.

We drew closer to the group and could now see that the attendants were considerably discomforted. One of them turned as we came up and recognised Pons.

“This gentleman was trying to take photographs! It is strictly forbidden.”

Pons turned to the fat man and said something to him in a tongue I could not place. The former’s attitude changed at one; he broke off his altercation with the two attendants and smiled, shaking Pons by the hand. He broke into a voluble flood of speech. Pons listened carefully, occasionally interjecting, “Da, da,” and nodding his head. He looked carefully at a typed document the bearded man thrust in front of his face.

He glanced at the attendants.

“It appears this gentleman is a Russian journalist. He has a permit, apparently approved by the Museum authorities, to photograph the Baku Idols. He has evidently gone the wrong way about it. I should take him to Sir James’ office and ask for a Russian-speaking member of the staff to interpret for him.”

The taller of the two attendants sighed with relief.

“Come this way, sir,” he added, seizing the fat man by the arm and leading him away, the latter still trying to express his thanks. We followed a few yards in their rear.

“What do you think, Pons?”

My companion shook his head.

“He is genuine enough, Parker. That permit was issued by the Soviet Minister of Culture. I have just enough Russian to make that out. But you see what we are up against.”

“It is good of you to include me. Pons.”

Solar Pons chuckled.

“I am afraid this is all rather boring for you, Parker.”

“On the contrary, Pons. What are we supposed to be doing today?”

Solar Pons’ keen eyes were still raking round the corridor with its milling groups of tourists.

“if I read my man’s mind aright, Parker, he has now to direct the Museum authority’s suspicions in the wrong direction altogether.”

“But how would he do that?”

“By some dramatic red herring. He has a wide choice here amid these somewhat esoteric surroundings.”

“Do you think he has helpers, Pons?”

My companion shook his head.

“So far as we know anything about him at all, he always works alone.”

“So if we lay our hands on someone it will be LaFontaine?”

Solar Pons nodded.

“Undoubtedly, Parker. That is why we must be so tremendously careful.”

We had turned as we were speaking and Pons was leading the way back toward the Oriental Gallery again. We had just got up close to the entrance when we heard the sound of breaking glass. Pons’ head went up as he seized my arm.

“Come, Parker! We have not a moment to lose!”

Quick as he was, I was only a few paces at his heels. Inside the gallery the scene was one of confusion. As first I thought it was empty but then both Pons and I were arrested by a low groaning noise. As we rounded one of the exhibition dais we came upon the recumbent figure of one of the gallery attendants. He was attempting to pull himself upright, a thin trickle of blood staining his temple. I quickly knelt by him, supporting him by the shoulders.

“He is all right, Pons,” I said after my initial examination. “He has been struck on the head and partly stunned.”

Pons had given a sharp exclamation and had run forward to the case containing the Baku Idols. The top had been smashed in and as I followed the thin electric wire down I saw that it again had been cut.

There was the sound of running footsteps and another attendant hurried into the gallery.

“Take care of him,” I said, hurriedly explaining the situation. I re-joined Pons, who was already at the entrance.

“There is one of the effigy missing, Parker! Ah!”

I followed his pointing finger and saw gold glinting at the side of the connecting corridor, nestling in the folds of tissue paper. Pons carefully picked the image up. his brow clearing.

“All well, Parker. Just return this to the attendant, will you?”

I quickly handed the precious object d’art to the man who was succouring his injured colleague, conscious that the gallery was beginning to fill up with people. I heard Pons’ footsteps pattering away down the corridor then and ran after him as rapidly as I was able. He was already on the big marble staircase leading to the ground floor, an alert, tense expression on his face. He put his hand on my arm as I came up and enjoined silence.

Then I heard what his keener ear had already caught: the thin, high tapping of a walking stick at the bottom of the stairs. As we hurried down, I caught a glimpse of the tall, slim figure crossing the main concourse. Pons followed with glittering eyes. We found ourselves beneath the massive portico; below us still was the figure with the cane, making its way across to the area where visitors’ motor-cars were parked.

Then I saw the white stick and recognised the figure.

“Professor Sanders, Pons.”

Pons shook his head, an ironic smile on his face. He gestured to where the Professor was fumbling with his keys as he stooped at the door of a maroon touring car.

“Have you ever seen a blind man drive, Parker? Quickly, or we have lost him!”

There was such urgency in his tone that I was up with him and we were across the broad gravelled expanse in an instant. The man in dark glasses turned like a snake as we came up, a snarl sounding from the depths of his beard. His stick came round so quickly it was a blur in the air. Pons pitched forward as the cane struck him somewhere in the upper part of the body. It swept back, striking me a painful blow across the shins. I stumbled, fought to prevent myself from going down, felt something soft in my hand. Then I tumbled in the dust with Pons, conscious of the roar of the engine. I rolled as the car backed savagely toward us, then it was a scarlet streak, heading for the wide-open iron entrance gate.

I turned Pons over, urgency in my voice.

“Are you all right, Pons?”

“Never better, my dear fellow,” he said with a wry laugh, dusting himself down. “A slightly damaged shoulder and badly dented pride. The first will clear itself in a day or so, the second may take a little longer to heal.”

We helped each other up; I brushed myself down, conscious of the bizarre object in my hand.

“Why, it’s a false beard, Pons! Professor Sanders was an imposter?”

Solar Pons shook his head, his eyes on the faint scarlet gleam that was disappearing among the distant traffic.

“I fear something may have happened to him, Parker.”

He kept his eyes fixed on the distance.

“A cool customer, Parker. A cool customer. An adversary altogether worthy of my steel.”

“At least we have given him a fright, Pons.”

My companion turned to me with a wry smile lurking at the corners of his mouth.

“I do believe you are right, my dear fellow.”

And he led the way back up into the interior of the Museum.

5

“This is a nasty business, Mr Pons! Thank God no-one was seriously hurt.”

Sir James Grieve, a tall, spare man in a black frock-coat with a gold eyeglass in his right eye looked shocked and serious at the same time. With his old-fashioned white stock: silk cravat: and red carnation in his button-hole he looked like a startled stork as he met us at the entrance to the gallery housing the Baku Idols.

“We have not yet finished, Sir James. The man who smashed this case and removed one of the gold images adopted the guise of Professor Sanders. I fear some harm may come to him unless we discover his whereabouts quickly.”

“But Professor Sanders is blind, Mr Pons!”

“Exactly. Which is why the matter is of some urgency.”

A plain-clothes police inspector who was known to Pons was quietly moving through the crowd now. He took my companion aside and informed him, sotto voce, “I have cordoned the building, Mr Pons.”

“Quite useless, Inspector. Our man has already flown. You had better telephone Superintendent Heathfield and ask him to come over without delay. We have much to discuss.”

“Very well, Mr Pons.”

“But before you go it would be best to clear this room.”

Plain-clothes police officers and uniformed attendants gradually eased back the crowd of chattering visitors and within another two minutes the long gallery with its shattered case and air of drama so at variance with its dignity was empty except for myself and Pons; Sir James Grieve; and another Museum official called Petter. The injured attendant, who had recovered consciousness, had already been removed to the Museum’s own first-aid room, where I had promised to look in within a few minutes.

Solar Pons went quietly round the room, as though deep in thought, watched intently by the three of us. By the orders of Sir James the two adjacent galleries had been sealed off from the public and notices forbidding access placed in position before the locked doors. Finally, Solar Pons came back to the Deputy Director.

“Tell me, Sir James, have you storage space in these galleries?”

Grieve looked puzzled.

“Of course, Mr Pons. There are doors concealed in the panelling. We need to keep exhibits stored and. of course, there are places where the staff need to keep buckets, cleaning materials and so forth.”

“I see. Can you show me, please?”

Sir James nodded. He led Pons over to a far corner of the gallery, at a point where two walls made an angle. He pointed to a small brass handle set into the moulding of the panel.

“Open it. if you please.”

A dark rectangle was disclosed until Sir James switched on the electric light. We eased into the dusty interior which was empty save for plinths: stone effigies: and other bric-a-brac numbered and stored in wooden stalls against the walls. Pons was already on his knees, examining the dust beyond the area where cleaning materials were kept.

“No, it is not this one,” he said, with a shake of his head. “We must try the next gallery.”

The process was repeated there but to Sir James’ chagrin he could not open the door.

“It appears to be stuck, Mr Pons.”

Solar Pons’ eyes flickered.

“We must break it in. Parker.”

Sir James looked shocked.

“Is it really necessary?”

“Vitally necessary, Sir James. We have not a moment to lose.”

Pons and I put our shoulders to the panel together, it gave with a splintering crash at the fourth attempt and we staggered through into the dust and darkness. Sir James was at the switch and as the shadows were dispelled by the single naked bulb in the ceiling he gave a cry of horror.

Pons was already by the side of the pitiful figure in shirt and trousers which lay trussed helplessly in the shadow. I tore the sticking plaster from the mouth. The face was already blue and cyanosed but the heart was still beating.

“We must get him to hospital, Pons,” I said. “Another twenty minutes and it would have been too late.”

“Your department, Parker,” said my companion. “Do whatever you think is necessary.”

The blind man groaned and started to regain consciousness as we carried his frail figure through the shattered door and into the brightness of the gallery.

“Professor Sanders!” said Sir James, who had obviously not realised the significance of the bound figure. “A thousand apologies, my dear sir.”

“He cannot hear you, Sir James,” I said. “Please get a stretcher and have the attendants carry him to the first-aid station, preferably by a side entrance.”

“Certainly. Dr Parker.”

Sir James hurried off and Pons and I, together with Petter, were left with the pathetic form of the blind man lying before us. I had already loosened his shirt and tie and now I busied myself in removing his bonds, massaging his hands to restore the circulation and making him as comfortable as possible. When I had finished I noticed Pons had a grim, not to say implacable expression on his face.

“Ruthless and cruel, your LaFontaine, Pons.”

Solar Pons nodded slowly.

“Ruthless and cruel indeed, Parker. I have altered my opinion of him. It was a mercy we were here.”

And he said not a word further until I had supervised the placing of the Professor in the ambulance.

I accompanied my patient to the hospital and when I had been assured by the responsible physician that Sanders was no longer in any danger I returned to the Museum where I re-examined the attendant I had seen earlier. As I had already diagnosed, his injury was quite superficial but he was now able to tell me that to the best of his knowledge another attendant, a stranger to him, with a heavy moustache, had struck him down when his back was turned.

“There are so many people in the Museum now, who are unknown to the regular staff members, Dr Parker,” he said helplessly.

I nodded and scribbled a note for him indicating to the Museum authorities that he should remain resting at home for the next three days. Then I hurried to Pons with my news. He was still in the Oriental gallery and he frowned, his eyes narrowing, when I acquainted him with this new information.

“It is all too easy, Parker,” he said bitterly. “LaFontaine might already have returned to the Museum for all we know. Nevertheless, I still incline to my theory that he will strike his main blow elsewhere and not during the day. How is Professor Sanders?”

“Shaken and badly shocked but he will recover, Pons,” I said.

He shook his head.

“No thanks to LaFontaine. It is easy enough to reconstruct what happened. He probably arrived at the Museum in his ordinary clothes, carrying his disguise in an attaché case. Once in the Museum he could change into his attendant’s uniform in the gentlemen’s lavatory. He struck down the real attendant but was then surprised by the arrival of Professor Sanders. He at once realised his man was blind, chloroformed and gagged him and secured him behind the panelling in the next gallery. He must have been lightning-swift, for adjacent galleries are empty for only a few minutes at a time.”

Solar Pons lit his pipe, the flame making little stipples of light on his thin, feral features.

“He quickly returned to the gallery housing the Baku Idols, smashed the glass with Sanders’ stick and made off with one of the gold effigies, carefully placing it in the tissue paper to make it look as though it had been accidentally dropped.”

“How do you deduce that, Pons?”

“Because LaFontaine, for all his villainy, is a connoisseur and lover of beautiful things, Parker. He could not bring himself, even while staging this elaborate red herring, to break something so rare and valuable.”

I stood looking at Pons in bafflement and admiration, mixed in equal measure.

“But how can you be so sure of this sequence of events. Pons, and that you are correct in your supposition that the danger to the Baku Idols is merely a feint?”

“I cannot be certain, Parker. Something here tells me.”

Pons stabbed the air with the stem of his pipe, indicating the region of his temples.

“My antennae. Parker. They are up and bristling and all my instincts and reasoning power tell me that the facts are so.”

“Why could not the Professor have been struck down first?”

Pons shook his head.

“Use your reasoning powers, Parker. If he had first attacked the Professor it would have meant some noise and the attendant would instantly have entered. I have ascertained that for a quarter of an hour the one attendant was left in charge of two galleries, while the other went for a cup of tea. The fact that the attendant was first struck down is further indicated by the fact that when LaFontaine smashed in the glass case the attendant had already partly regained consciousness. This is a clear and undeniable pointer to the fact that he was struck down first. If things had occurred otherwise there would have been no time to chloroform the Professor and assume his identity.”

“You are undoubtedly right, Pons,” I said.

“That is so. Parker,” he said gently. “I have already discovered the bogus attendant’s uniform, rolled up under one of the beams yonder, together with the cotton wool pad and the small bottle of chloroform that was used to induce unconsciousness in Sanders. It is my belief that he originally intended to use it on the attendant.”

“He is a bold and dangerous fellow, Pons.”

Solar Pons nodded reflectively.

“Ah, here is Superintendent Heathfield and unless I mistake not. Colonel Loder some yards behind him. It is time we called a council of war and planned out our future strategy.”

6

“Well. I will go along with you, Mr Pons. But woe betide us if anything goes wrong.”

Superintendent Heathfield looked grave. We three, together with Colonel Loder, sat in the Curator’s office. It was eight o’clock in the evening and the Museum had long been closed.

The discussion had been lengthy, sometimes acrid, the Superintendent and Curator often not seeing eye to eye, and the room was blue with smoke. It was dark now and the reflection of the floodlighting outside in the courtyard surrounding the handsome stone building of the Mentmore, gave a bloom to the night.

“As I understand it, Mr Pons, you are convinced that the attempt on the Baku Idols was a feint and that this man’s main attempt will be elsewhere.”

Solar Pons made an impatient movement in his chair.

“I thought I had made that plain long ago, Colonel Loder.”

The Colonel spread out his hands on his desk expressively.

“You forget that I am accountable to the public purse, Mr Pons.”

“I am not asking anything exceptional,” Solar Pons went on. “I appreciate that the Superintendent’s main effort must be concentrated on the Idols. It is possible that I may be wrong. But if Parker and I follow our own road it will not weaken your defences. And if I am right…”

He broke off. driving a blue plume of smoke to join the whirling eddies near the ceiling.

“But the idea is ridiculous, Mr Pons!” Loder objected. “Even if this man did succeed in stealing the Hsui-Ching ceramics, he would find it impossible to sell them.”

My companion looked gravely at the Curator and Heathfield, who sat opposite us on the other side of the desk.

“I am not saying I am right, Colonel. Only that I feel I am right. I never go against my instincts. The attempts on the Baku artefacts are too bungling and amateur to be genuine, though carried out with coolness and daring. In my experience LaFontaine never bungles. He goes straight to the heart of the matter and almost always has escaped cleanly with extremely valuable booty.”

Loder frowned at Pons.

“It is a great responsibility, Mr Pons. I am in two minds what to do. I have the reports from the other Continental museums, of course. There is much in what you say. What do you suggest?”

“Well, if friend Parker has no objections I would like to stay here tonight.”

“You do not expect him to come back again!”

Loder’s face was a mingled picture of anger and dismay. Solar Pons chuckled.

“My little brush with him this morning would not put such a bold fellow off. I expect him to be here now.”

“But how, Mr Pons?”

“Tut, Colonel, there is no great difficulty about that. He would have had hours before the Museum closed to return here as an ordinary visitor, probably disguised once again. There must be hundreds of places in such a museum where a daring criminal could secrete himself until closing time.”

Loder looked across at Heathfield.

“Well, subject to the Superintendent’s having no objection, I am in your hands, Mr Pons.”

Solar Pons gave Heathfield a steady glance. He cleared his throat, his features grave and sombre.

“Like the Curator, Mr Pons, I am also accountable to the Government. I must naturally concentrate my efforts in the sector which most appears to be threatened, in this instance the Baku Idols. But there is much in what you say and I will fall in with your wishes so far as they are compatible with our requirements. What do you wish us to do?”

“Carry on with your own preparations,” said Solar Pons calmly. “Let me have two young, strong attendants, Colonel. We will make our own dispositions and between us I am convinced we shall foil this fellow’s intentions.”

“Let us hope you are right, Mr Pons,” said the Colonel slowly. “I have arranged for food and hot coffee to be available for us all during the night. You seem so certain that something will happen that I will stay here also. I must just go round and make final preparations.”

Our conference then broke up and Pons and I were shown to a small annexe where refreshments had been placed upon a table. When we had eaten Heathfield excused himself and went off to make his own arrangements. Pons sat smoking quietly and I busied myself by catching up on the day’s news with the Sunday paper which was lying on the table with the refreshment tray. I had not been reading for more than ten minutes when a short item arrested my interest.

“I see that Count Ferzetti is in London, Pons. I recall that you had some dealings with him in that case of the Italian Fresco frauds.”

To my astonishment Pons sat up in his chair as though he had been struck by a thunderbolt.

“Say that again, Parker!”

“Count Ferzetti is in London. For the International Conference. It says here that he is leaving for Italy on the midday boat-train tomorrow.”

Pons got up excitedly and strode round the room, a thick swathe of blue smoke trailing behind him.

“My dear fellow, as my great predecessor once said, though you may not yourself transmit light you are a great conductor of it!”

“I do not follow you, Pons.”

“Really. Parker?”

Pons fixed me with a piercing eye.

“Concentrate, Parker. Ferzetti is the world’s greatest authority on the Hsui-Ching period. Did he read a paper on the subject?”

I again consulted the journal.

“This afternoon, Pons.”

“And where might he be staying?”

“At the Astor Towers.”

Solar Pons sat down again, puffed furiously at his pipe and struck his thigh a resounding blow with the flat of his hand.

“Everything fits, Parker! The attempt must be tonight. In the small hours. We must make our plans immediately. Our man will aim to strike ruthlessly and with precision. Listen carefully to what I am going to say because there will be no second chance.”

7

I shifted my cramped position on my chair in the shadow of the pillar. It was two a.m. and the clock in the belfry of a neighbouring church had just chimed the hour. I felt cold and sleepy but my nerves kept me alert and the butt of my old service revolver made a comforting pressure against my chest. Pons had given me precise instructions.

I was stationed in one of the Oriental galleries two rooms away from that in which the Hsui-Ching porcelain was kept. Contrary to the ordinary routine of the Museum, Pons had prevailed on Colonel Loder to suspend the normal rounds by the night staff in this section of the building.

Instead, he had placed his two attendants provided by the Curator in a careful manner. One of them sat in the shadow in the gallery next to the one where I was concealed. The other occupied a similar position in the gallery beyond the Hsui-Ching collection in the other direction. Only dim night lights burned here, throwing bizarre shadows of strange idols and prancing figurines on to the white walls.

I knew that Heathfield and his men were keeping their own surveillance on the Baku Idols and Loder sat in the H.Q. room the Superintendent had set up, which had a wireless link with Scotland Yard. Where Pons was I had no idea. He had disappeared hours before on some errand of his own, after giving me his carefully stressed instructions.

I was to stay where I was, unless I heard some out of the way noise from the Scott-Green Gallery we were keeping under observation. I was then to creep forward and use my own judgement as to what I saw. I was to ignore any other interruption emanating from any other part of the Museum. I had questioned Pons on this but he had remained reticent. I was also to use my revolver only in dire emergency and then only if anyone’s life was threatened.

In my present drowsy state these instructions had assumed exaggerated proportions and I felt that almost anything would have been preferable to intolerable waiting. I must have dozed for a few seconds and when I started awake was amazed to see by my watch that the time was past three a.m. A deep silence prevailed throughout the Museum. Once, hours earlier, I had heard the measured tread of some attendant on an unknown errand but nothing else had disturbed the heavy stillness which prevailed in here. The thickness of the walls and the height of the skylights muffled the noises of the great city beyond, and I might have been alone beyond the stars.

I stirred myself, rising cautiously from the chair, still in the deep shadow of the buttress which concealed me from all prying eyes, and stretched my cramped muscles. Then I became aware of something different in the atmosphere; something which had been vaguely penetrating my consciousness for the past few moments. I sniffed deeply and then realised what it was. Smoke!

At almost the same instant I heard a bell jangle from somewhere within the depths of the Museum and then the murmur of distant voices. One among them, louder than the rest, rang out like a clarion. “Fire! Fire!”

This is one the most dreaded of human cries and instinctively I started out of my corner. Then the stem admonition of Pons sprang to mind. On no account was I to stir from my place unless I heard some noise from the Scott-Green Gallery. All other interruptions I was to ignore. I immediately saw Pons’ reasoning and the training he had for so long tried to inculcate in me came to my rescue. I stayed where I was, though it took all my self-control to ignore the wild cries and all the other hubbub in the distant corridors of the Museum.

The smell of smoke was very strong now and I could even see some wisps of it curling along the floor at the far end of the gallery. At the same instant I heard the sound of heavy boots and one of the attendants requisitioned by Pons came running into the gallery in which I was concealed. I almost started out of my dark niche but held back. He looked around for a moment with a startled expression, then turned and I heard the beat of his footsteps dying out along the corridor which led to the region of the fire.

I remained where I was and not three minutes later the second attendant who was guarding the far side of the Scott-Green Gallery came running through. He hesitated a moment and then followed his colleague to the seat of the fire. I could hear more alarm bells ringing and soon saw Pons’ drift. Now I was the only person nearby should the Hsui-Ching porcelain be menaced.

Another ten minutes passed and still I remained where I was, standing within the dark shadow of the buttress. I made no noise and kept absolutely still and it was as well I did so as I shortly became aware of a presence: as though someone were watching me. It was an eerie experience, situated as I was, in this sombre and bizarre atmosphere of the Museum at the dead of night. The feeling persisted for some seconds and I dared not move, though I knew it was impossible for anyone to see me, the niche in which I stood being so deep and the shadow quite impenetrable with the lowered lighting.

Then the tension relaxed and I saw, from the corner of my eye, an elongated shadow move back in the direction of the Scott-Green gallery. I waited another five minutes and presently became aware of a low scratching noise. My nerves fretting I eventually crept from my place of concealment, removing my service revolver from my breast-pocket.

It took me several more minutes to tiptoe through the adjacent room to the Scott- Green Gallery. All this time I could hear the low, persistent noises, interspersed with an occasional chinking sound. There was no-one in the other gallery, which had a marble floor, so there were no creaking boards and I made good progress. But I was still some yards from the entrance to the dimly-lit Scott-Green Gallery when there was a loud shout and then a heavy blundering noise.

Caution was pointless now so I ran forward, throwing off the safety-catch of my revolver. The noise of a savage struggle was plainly audible and there came the sharp interruption of splintering glass. I paused at the entrance of the Scott-Green Gallery to take in the weird scene which was being enacted there. The first thing I noticed was that a great hole had been cut in the top of each of the cases containing the Hsui-Ching porcelain treasures. Both cases were now empty and lying on the floor near them was a large leather pouch bound with brass and with heavy brass protective corners. On the floor itself was scattered a number of tools, fragments of glass and other bric-a-brac.

I took all this in in an instant and all the while the panting sounds and the evidence of a heavy struggle continued. As I moved round the cases I saw that two men, dressed in the uniform of the Museum attendants were locked in lethal combat in the floor of the gallery. The uppermost, a sinister-looking fellow with a thick beard was throttling a tall, slim man with a heavy moustache who lay beneath him and who was attempting to gouge the aggressor’s eyes.

I flicked back the safety-catch of my revolver and ran forward, laying the barrel alongside the forehead of the sadistic brute who was choking the younger man. He sagged forward and released his hold. With a snake-like movement, the other attendant wriggled aside as his assailant fell sideways, half-stunned. To my astonishment and before I could make a move, he had scooped up the leather case on the floor and had quitted the gallery. In two more seconds his shadow on the ceiling, accompanied by his racing footsteps had died out along the corridor.

“You idiot, Parker!” said the voice of Solar Pons. “You have let him get away!”

The Museum attendant, one hand to his head, was kneeling and with the other peeling away his beard. In a moment more the lean, feral face of Solar Pons was revealed.

“My dear fellow!” I gasped. “I did not know it was you.”

I had seldom seen my companion so affected. He glanced at me ruefully, rubbing his forehead as I helped him up with many apologies. He sat down on a chair and within another three minutes was himself again.

“Say no more, Parker,” he admonished me, anticipating my remarks.

“It was my own fault for not warning you of my little subterfuge.”

I felt utterly miserable.

“What on earth are we going to say to Colonel Loder?” I asked, looking round at the shattered cases. “The Hsui-Ching treasures stolen and the Museum’s trust misplaced.”

To my astonishment Solar Pons gave a mischievous smile.

“Not at all. Parker. They have not gone far. They will be in our hands again before morning.”

“But how?” I began, when Pons interrupted me by shaking his head. He got up from the chair.

“No time now, Parker. That fire of oily waste started by LaFontaine was a master-stroke. Not only did it distract everyone’s attention as he intended but it gave him the open sesame. The Museum grounds are now full of fire engines and other equipment and the courtyard gates wide open. He would have found little difficulty in making his escape.”

He paced restlessly to the end of the corridor, listening to the uproar from the heart of the Museum.

“There is no time to explain to Loder. We must quickly see Heathfield and then lose no time in following one of the boldest criminals I have ever encountered.”

8

It was five in the morning and a grey dawn breaking before Pons, Heathfield and I found ourselves in a police-car heading down Regent Street. The Superintendent had a grey, drawn face and of we three only Pons had a calm, relaxed expression.

“I should have taken your advice. Mr Pons,” said the Scotland Yard man soberly.

Solar Pons shook his head.

“You did perfectly correctly, Superintendent. That I was right was merely a piece of inspired guesswork. The main threat appeared to be directed at the Baku Idols. Supposing I had been wrong? The result would have been the same.”

“But an immeasurably greater theft has taken place,” Heathfield continued. “Both yourself and Scotland Yard have lost all credibility in this affair once it gets out.”

“Tut, Superintendent,” said Solar Pons calmly. “The game is not yet over. Have no fear. Unless I miss my guess that porcelain will be restored to its rightful owners within the hour.”

“Let us hope you are right, Mr Pons,” said the Superintendent in a grave tone.

A heavy silence fell until we had reached our destination. The grey light had left the streets now and sunshine was gilding the roof-tops as we drew up in front of the hotel. Pons glanced at his watch.

“We are a little ahead of time. I think 6.30 a.m. would be more appropriate to our purposes. We must first seek out the night manager. That is your province, Superintendent. With his assistance it should not be too difficult to procure some coffee and a much-needed breakfast before we proceed to the last part of our business.”

Heathfield shrugged as we crossed the pavement into the warmth of the foyer of the Astor Towers.

“As you wish. Mr Pons.”

The intervening hour is a blur in my memory. I know we sat in a corner of the deserted dining-room and drank coffee and ate an excellent breakfast but its composition and taste are alike lost to my recollection, I was so absorbed with the drama of the night. The excitement of the hunt was upon Solar Pons too and I have seldom seen him so keen and alert as he sat across from us. the snow-white table cloth between.

The night manager himself took us up in the lift to Count Ferzetti’s suite on the third floor.

“The Count is up and about,” he whispered as though he could hear us through the thick walls. “His breakfast went up half-an-hour ago.”

Pons nodded and we waited while the manager tapped deferentially at the door. I thought I heard a scuffling noise beyond the panels but I may have been mistaken. The night manager turned to us.

“It is all right to go in, gentlemen,” he whispered.

Count Ferzetti, a broad, graceful-looking man with a well-trimmed black moustache was about fifty years of age. He was sitting at a small occasional table finishing off his breakfast; fully dressed except for his jacket, he wore a red-silk dressing gown and Oriental-style slippers. Though he must have been considerably surprised at our entrance he put down his coffee cup carefully and merely raised his eyebrows.

I could not forbear a glance of triumph at Pons as I took in the large, leather-bound pouch which stood on a corner of the table. The Count intercepted my glance and he had a regretful smile in his lips as he rose to greet us. His face cleared as we came closer.

“Mr Solar Pons! My dear sir. This is an honour and a pleasure!”

Pons shook hands with him and introduced myself and Heathfield.

“Perhaps you will not find it so when I explain the purpose of my errand,” he murmured deprecatingly.

“Do be seated. May I ring for breakfast?”

“We have already finished ours,” said Solar Pons. “I think you know why we are here.”

The Count inclined his head, his eyes carefully avoiding the leather pouch.

“Perhaps,” he said cautiously. “Perhaps not.”

He wiped his fleshy lips fastidiously with his napkin.

“I am rather busy, gentlemen. And I have a train to catch this morning.”

“We know all about that,” said Superintendent Heathfield. “I am afraid you will not catch it unless you comply with our demands.”

The Count’s brown eyes looked hurt and he glanced at each of us in turn, little spots of red appearing on his cheekbones.

“Demands, gentlemen?”

“You force us to be blunt. Count.” said Solar Pons crisply, his eyes dancing round the room. “You have been attending the great conference on ceramics. As is so often the way with collectors you have taken the opportunity to add to your collection. No doubt at the confidential invitation of our mutual friend LaFontaine.”

The Count opened his mouth to speak but my companion silenced him with a gesture of his hand.

“Not to put too fine a point on it, you are in process of adding the magnificent Hsui-Ching porcelain in that case on the table yonder to your own collection. And as one of the world’s leading collectors you must know that such a set can only come from a dubious source. Is it not so?”

The red on the Count’s cheeks had deepened.

“Gentlemen, I protest…” he began in a harsh voice.

Solar Pons shook his head.

“You will not want the porcelain when I tell you that it was stolen from the British national collection in the Mentmore Museum early this morning and that half the police of Europe will be searching for it before another hour has passed. To say nothing of an eminent Professor’s life being endangered by the criminal who perpetrated the crime.”

Ferzetti’s face was ashen-grey now and little beads of perspiration had started to his brow. He looked desperately at the case as if he would seize it and bear it rapidly away.

Solar Pons leaned over and picked up the leather pouch, hefting it in his hand. The Count made an agitated movement and a little globule of perspiration ran down his right cheek.

“There is nothing of value in that pouch, Mr Pons,” he said slowly. “You are entirely mistaken.”

“In that case you have no objection if I drop it to the floor?” said Solar Pons blandly, ignoring the alarmed expression on Superintendent Heathfield’s face.

Ferzetti was on his feet before my companion could move, cradling the leather with great gentleness. He sat down with rivulets of sweat cascading down his cheeks.

“You are right, gentlemen. This is the Hsui-Ching porcelain. I would have given my life for it. I only ask you to believe that I did not know its antecedents. I did not ask any questions.”

Solar Pons nodded, his eyes grim and uncompromising.

“You have already paid for it?”

The Count nodded.

“A down payment in cash.”

“That is your misfortune,” said Solar Pons. “Do not send the rest.”

Ferzetti looked up at the Superintendent.

“And my position?”

“Nothing will be said providing you catch that boat-train.” said Heathfield. “I guarantee that. But I should not return to this country for another year or two if I were you.”

Ferzetti nodded dully.

“How will we explain to the Museum, Pons?” I asked, looking over my friend’s shoulder as he opened the pouch and gently exposed one of the porcelain saucers, nestling in its cocoon of tissue paper.

“No not worry, Parker. I shall think of something before we return to Colonel Loder. Perhaps you had better take charge of this, Superintendent. Now, there remains only one thing more before we go…”

He said the words casually, crossing the room aimlessly as he did so. Only as he made a dive for the curtains did I see the pair of polished black shoes which protruded from beneath them. There was a howl of pain as Pons stamped on the nearest shoe. A tall, slim young man in a dark suit, wearing a frightened expression on his face, hopped out, to be seized by Pons.

“Good heavens!” I stammered. “Congratulations, Pons. You have caught LaFontaine at last.”

I leaned forward and caught at his moustache. To my stupefaction it held fast and the young man howled with pain again.

Solar Pons burst into laughter, releasing his captive, who stood blinking and trembling in front of us.

“I fear not, Parker,” he said. “LaFontaine is too clever for that. A messenger only if I mistake not.”

The young man swallowed and opened his mouth.

“My name is Gear. I am from the bankers, Dunlop and Flinton. I was asked to collect this pouch from one of our Swiss customers and deliver it to the Count.”

“Your credentials?” Heathfield ordered.

Gear passed over a leather wallet and the Superintendent studied its contents carefully.

“I am afraid he is right, Mr Pons. The bird has flown.”

My companion turned to the crestfallen figure of the Count.

“The address.”

Ferzetti shook his head.

“A Poste Restante in Geneva, gentlemen.”

Solar Pons turned back to Gear.

“Where did you hand over the money?”

“At Croydon Airport at four o’clock this morning, sir. To Mr Buckley himself.”

Solar Pons chuckled.

“You might try the Airport, Superintendent, but you can take it from me he will have left on the first available flight at daybreak.”

And so it proved. What Solar Pons told the Museum authorities I have no means of knowing but the story which eventually appeared in the world press bore little resemblance to the true state of affairs. My companion shrugged off the whole business.

“There was nothing very spectacular in the way of deduction involved, but it was nevertheless one of the most salutary examples of greed among that branch of the human species known as the specialist collector. I fancy that the Count will confine his activities to less dubious enterprises from now on.”

We were talking in our sitting-room at 7B a week later and the weather seemed to have broken, because a thin rain was falling mistily in the street outside.

“Could we not have intercepted LaFontaine at the Geneva Post Office, Pons?”

My companion shook his head.

“Worse than useless, Parker. He would only have sent an envoy for the rest of the money in any case. But I fancy we shall hear more of the gentleman from time to time.”

We heard the very next day when a brief note, post-marked Munich arrived for Pons in a blue envelope. He slit it open, perused it and passed it over to me. It was short, in copper-plate handwriting, and precise.

Solar Pons chuckled.

“I have hit him in his pocket, Parker. That is always a painful experience to gentlemen of that fraternity.”

And he turned to the busy life of the street beyond the window, contentedly puffing at his pipe.