The Blue Sphinx

CHAPTER VIII STRANGERS ARRIVE

AT ten o’clock the next morning, Clyde Burke entered the office of the Latuna Enterprise. He found it located above the press room that occupied the ground floor of a small building. Clyde tendered a Classic business card to a freckled office boy, who went through a door marked “Editor.” Returning, the boy nudged a thumb over his shoulder.

Clyde entered the inner office. A rangy, big-fisted man was seated at a battered desk. Long-faced, unshaven, this worthy was displaying shirt sleeves and half-buttoned vest. He wore a green celluloid visor upon his forehead and he was busily engaged in scrawling notations upon the top sheet of a sheaf of copy paper.

“Well?”

Harrison Knode put the question briskly, without looking up from his work Clyde strolled over to the desk.

“I’m after a job,” he informed.

“From New York, aren’t you?” quizzed Knode.

“Yes, sir,” replied Clyde.

“Too bad,” drawled Knode, still working. “Big-city ideas don’t go in a small town.”

The editor of the Enterprise seemed to think that the matter was settled. Clyde, however, stood by the desk. He paraphrased Knode’s statement.

“Small-town ideas,” stated Clyde, “don’t go in a big city.”

“That wasn’t what I said,” retorted Knode, looking up to study his visitor. “I said that big-city ideas don’t go in a small town. But you’re right, just the same, young fellow. Small-town ideas don’t go in a big city, either.”

“I know it,” chuckled Clyde. “That’s why I’m here.”

Knode looked interested. Clyde produced the envelope that Mann had given him. He brought out one of his column clippings and passed it to the editor of the Enterprise. Knode put on a pair of tortoise-shell spectacles and read the story. No flicker showed on his face; but when he had finished, he put the clipping in a drawer and studied Clyde narrowly.

“How much was the Classic paying you?” he questioned.

“Sixty a week,” returned Clyde.

“That would mean about thirty per, here in Latuna,” decided Knode. “I’ll make it thirty-five, Burke.”

“Where’s the hatrack, boss?”

“In the outer room. Go out there and holler for Bart Drury. Bring him back with you.”

Clyde went out and bellowed the name. A tall, pale-faced, young man turned in from a window, where he had been staring at passers on the street. He moved a dangling cigarette from his pasty lips and inquired:

“Yeah? Who wants me?”

Clyde caught the fellow’s eye and nudged toward Knode’s office. As Drury approached, Clyde preceded him. Knode, resting back in his swivel chair, made a terse introduction. Clyde shook hands with Drury.

“Read this, Bart,” suggested the editor, handing over Clyde’s clipping.

Drury complied. He chuckled; then handed the clipping back to Knode, who put it in the drawer.

“Reads like some of your stuff, boss,” was Drury’s comment. “Did Burke here write it?”

“Yes,” returned Knode, “and he’s on our staff. Your running-mate from now on, Bart. It will take two good men to cover this town. Team together. No jealousy.”

“All right, boss.”

“And for a starter, just so Burke can get a rough idea of this village, I’d suggest that you take him up to that museum shindig. Let him take a look at that Blue Sphinx that came in this morning. And point out a few of the local celebrities while you’re about it.”

AN hour later, Clyde and Drury strolled in through the open portals of the Latuna Museum. Planking had been laid up the steps. A squad of workmen were coming out from the anteroom beyond the front hall.

“Guess they’ve rolled the old blockhead into the main exhibit room,” decided Drury, in a casual tone. “It came in on a flat car early this morning. Over the siding that leads to the old quarry back of the hill. Well, Burke, let’s walk in and take a look at the Blue Sphinx.”

Clyde nodded and followed Drury toward the anteroom. Passage was suddenly blocked by a khaki-clad policeman who had been standing in the hall.

“Nobody goes in,” growled the cop. “Not until they hold the dedication. Chief’s orders.”

Another policeman appeared along the hall. Looking about, Drury noticed six in all. They were standing about the corridors, waiting for orders.

“Well, well!” jested Drury. “What’s this? A quarantine? Afraid somebody’s going to walk off with that five-ton sphinx? Say, you fellows — I’m a reporter for the Enterprise—”

“Which makes no difference,” put in the first cop. “Chief Grewling gave us orders to keep everybody out except the workmen and those connected with the museum.”

“A good idea,” returned Drury, sarcastically. “I’ll have to give the chief a write-up. He should have credit for this amazing foresight. I wonder if he’ll be kind enough to give me an interview—”

“Whenever you want one,” came a gruff interruption. “What’s on your mind, Drury?”

Turning, Clyde Burke saw Bart Drury wheel about to face a stocky, red-faced man who was attired in khaki uniform. Gold braid on shoulders and cap visor marked him as the police chief. Lawrence Grewling had entered while they were talking to the cops.

“Hello, chief!” grinned Drury. “You’re just the man I wanted to see. Tell these cowboys of yours to unbar the gates. Star reporter of the Enterprise wants an interview with the Blue Sphinx.”

“Yes?” quizzed Grewling, narrowly. “Maybe you mean that interview that your editor yapped about a few days ago. Is that it?”

“I don’t write the editorials, chief.”

“But you work on Knode’s sheet. Now you’re asking me for favors. Listen, Drury. If I had my say, I’d bounce you out of this museum. I don’t like you or anybody that works for Harrison Knode.”

“Meet another enemy, then, Clyde Burke, just in from New York. My teammate on the Enterprise.”

Chief Grewling gave Clyde a curt nod. It signified that as yet he had no personal grudge against the new reporter. Clyde nodded in return. Then Drury spoke again.

“All right, chief,” he said. “Bounce me out. Make a story for me.”

“I’m not having my way about it, Drury,” retorted Grewling.

“But you’re keeping me from seeing the Blue Sphinx, aren’t you?” quizzed Drury. “That’s having your way, isn’t it?”

“I’m taking orders from Mayor Rush,” stated Grewling. “I asked him about you, specifically. He said to let you or any other reporter have a free look in at this dedication. But he also said to keep everybody out of the Sphinx Room until he arrived. Everybody except the curator and the workmen. They have business in there.”

“The Sphinx Room, eh?” questioned Drury, in a meditative tone. “Say — that’s a tricky name. Who thought it up? Rubal?”

“I don’t know,” returned Grewling. He turned to the cops. “Keep this man out of the Sphinx Room until it is opened to the public.”

With that, Grewling turned on his heel and strode from the museum.

DRURY shrugged his shoulders. He beckoned to Clyde; they followed to the door and saw the police chief join another squad of officers.

“Half the force is here,” stated Drury. “They must expect a big crowd. But nobody’s showing up yet. Say! There’s an idea for Knode. Wait’ll I tell him.”

“What’s the angle?” questioned Clyde.

“You’ll get it later,” laughed Drury. “Well, the shindig won’t begin for a while yet. Come on — I’ll show you the rest of the museum. The chief didn’t say we couldn’t go in the other exhibit rooms.”

He led the way to the left. They came to the doorway of the large exhibit room in the left front corner. Drury waved his hand to indicate an array of statuary that was displayed on pedestals of uniform height. Replicas of Greek and Roman statues, these massive figures filled the room so completely that narrow aisles alone remained as a means of walking in and out.

“Old home week on Mount Olympus,” chuckled Drury. “Say — there’s more Greeks here than they packed in the wooden horse at Troy. Look at Kid Neptune over there, with his pitchfork. Mercury, bringing a message of the Laocoon group. They won’t have time to read it while they’re fighting that big snake.”

“What do they call this layout?” asked Clyde.

“The Antiquity Room,” replied Drury. “Well-meaning citizens chipped in to donate that swell lot of plaster of Paris. Come on, Burke, I’ll show you some more of the madhouse.”

He led Clyde along the corridor at the left side of the museum, pointing out small exhibit rooms where paintings, vases and Oriental curios were on display.

“Some of this stuff is pretty good,” admitted Drury, “but most of it’s junk. A rather nondescript bunch of collectors were responsible for purchases and donations. Not so bad, though. But say!” — he turned about near the end of the corridor — “come back while I show you the Medieval Room.”

They walked back to the front hallway of the museum and kept on until they reached the corridor on the right. Drury waved his hand toward the rooms on that side of the building.

“More paintings, some Chinese screens and idols,” he said. “That’s all you’ll find down there, except the curator’s office. But take a look at this place, Burke” — he beckoned Clyde toward the room at the front right — “and you’ll see some items that are worth looking at.”

They entered the Medieval Room. Clyde immediately caught Drury’s enthusiasm. This room, too, was well stocked; but instead of imitation statuary it was filled with genuine relics of the Middle Ages and early modern times.

“A genuine Moorish cannon,” affirmed Drury, pointing to a wide-mouthed mortar that stood in one corner. “Captured from Mediterranean pirates. Look at that suit of armor. Genuine Crusader mail. Here’s an Iron Maiden — spikes and all — that they used to execute prisoners.”

CLYDE paused to look at the last named curio. It was a gruesome object, with its spike-studded door opened as if to receive an expected victim. Shaped to a huge resemblance of a human form, the torture device was monstrous.

“Here’s a better-looking gal,” chuckled Drury, pointing out a massive wooden carving that apparently represented a mermaid. “Supposed to be a figurehead from one of the ships in the Spanish Armada. Over here is a slave block. See the chains on it?”

Clyde nodded. Then his attention was attracted to the most distant corner, where a cleverlike blade glistened at the top of a heavy wooden framework.

“A genuine guillotine,” informed Drury. “Ready for business. Actually used during the French Revolution.”

“So I thought,” nodded Clyde.

“And over here” — Drury stepped to the wall near the door — “is a nice display of cutthroat weapons. Daggers, dirks, poniards, bolos, stilettos, machetes — name them and take your pick. Nothing lacking but razors. They’re too modern.”

“Over by that wall: Swords, cutlasses, sabers, scimitars, battle-axes, halberds and other heavy cutting tools. Yonder we have first-class firearms from the age of the blunderbuss to the period of the fusil and the musket.”

“A valuable collection,” decided Clyde.

“Some of it,” agreed Drury. “But the real stuff is packed away until this edifice is finally completed. There’s going to be a Modern Room at the back. That will have some fair stuff. But the real bet will be the wings. They will house the Barnaby Soyer collection.

“It’s worth a million, Burke. I’ve seen some of the items. Statuettes of silver and gold. Beautiful sets of carved cameos and gems. Golden vessels, objects of jade—”

“Where is all this at present?”

“Down below. In a sealed vault underneath the Sphinx Room. That’s squarely beneath the dome. No one can get in there because they bricked up the rear of the vault. It won’t be opened until after the museum is completed. Which may be a long time from now, the way Rubal is stalling with the plans.”

“Rubal is the curator?”

“Yes. He ought to be a good one, too. Got a sour face that would look good on an Egyptian mummy. About as human as a jellyfish—”

“That’s enough, Mr. Drury,” came a protesting voice. “I wish that you would say nothing more of that sort.”

“Oh, hello, Hollis!” Drury smiled sheepishly as he saw the stolid, square-faced man who had entered unnoticed. “No harm meant. I was just kidding about your boss. Meet Mr. Burke.” Then, turning to Clyde, Drury added. “This is Hollis, the chief attendant.”

Clyde shook hands with the man. Then Hollis announced the reason for his arrival.

“I saw you gentlemen come in here,” he said. “I wanted to let you know that the dedication is about to begin. But before you go out, Mr. Drury, I should like to speak to you.”

“All right, Hollis,” agreed Drury, clapping the fellow on the back. “We’ll meet you in here after the shindig. Come on, Burke. We’ll get our first look at the Blue Sphinx.”

WAITING policemen made no objection when Clyde and Drury made their reappearance. There were officers in the big front hall; others could be seen outside the building. In the anteroom, the reporters found two more. Four cops were in the Sphinx Room.

But by that time, neither man was thinking of the police. Both were studying the Blue Sphinx which rested on a long pedestal in the center of the high domed room. Snugly nestled, the crouched figure measured some twenty feet in length, with width and height proportionate.

“They must have just about squeezed it through the doorways,” observed Drury, to Clyde. “Say — it looks pretty nifty. Limestone, I guess, with a bluish tinge—”

He broke off as a pompous man stepped up from a small group that was viewing the Blue Sphinx. This individual was attired in a frock coat. As he began to speak, Clyde decided that he was the mayor, Quirby Rush.

In oratorical fashion, the mayor waved his hand toward the solemn, staring face of the Blue Sphinx and began a brief address. He termed the Sphinx “a proud creature from an age long past” and added that its acquisition was “a boon to the enterprising city of Latuna.” Finally, he wound up with a reference to “the esteemed donor” who had contributed the Sphinx.

“Our fellow citizen,” announced Rush, “Mr. Strafford Malden!”

Eyes turned to a quiet-looking man who was standing near the mayor. Strafford Malden appeared slightly past middle age. He was smiling as he leaned upon a cane. He bowed a head that was partly gray-haired, as he acknowledged the mayor’s salutation.

Hand-clapping came from the dozen persons who composed the audience. Strafford Malden delivered another bow. The mayor spoke to him; Malden nodded and they walked forth together.

Police Chief Grewling waited until the tiny throng had departed; then he marshalled his forces and followed.

Clyde noted a dry-faced, long-browed man who also left the Sphinx Room. He nudged Drury, who was looking at the Blue Sphinx, tapping his knuckles against the weather-beaten stone sides of the statue.

“Is that the curator?” asked Clyde.

“Yes,” replied Drury. “I’m going to get a chance to talk to him, I think. Come along, Burke.”

Heading toward the Medieval Room, they encountered Hollis. Drury drew the chief attendant aside and talked with him in quiet fashion. Hollis became voluble in a whisper that Clyde could not catch. At last Drury nodded; then rejoined Clyde.

“Come on,” said Drury. “We’re going to see Rubal.”

“Remember,” warned Hollis, “don’t tell him that I spoke to you. Remember that, Mr. Drury.”

“I’ll remember.”

DRURY and Clyde reached the curator’s office. As they stepped in, unannounced, Joseph Rubal looked up from his desk. His face seemed haggard. He started to protest the intrusion. Drury waved him to be quiet.

“Listen, Rubal,” he said. “I hear you’re thinking about resigning. Is that right?”

“Why — why” — the curator stammered — “you weren’t around when I said—”

“Never mind where I was. Let’s get to facts. You want to quit this job, don’t you?”

“Yes,” admitted Rubal. “But I didn’t expect—”

“That’s all right.” Drury spoke soothingly. “I know how you feel. We’ve panned you pretty heavy, haven’t we? I mean Knode has, in his editorials.”

“Yes. His criticism was quite severe.”

“And you feel you can’t stand the gaff.”

“That is close to the truth.”

Drury eyed the curator and delivered a disarming grin. He came over beside the desk and parked himself on the edge. He spoke in a confidential tone.

“Don’t be too quick about it, Rubal,” he suggested. “If you’d acted human about the matter, Knode wouldn’t have kept on chucking the harpoon. He’ll give you a break. Knode’s a real guy.”

“He has been quite unfriendly,” objected Rubal. “My impression of him is—”

“You don’t know him,” interposed Drury. “Say — how late do you stay here at the museum?”

“Usually until nine o’clock,” responded Rubal.

“Knode will be here at eight,” assured Drury. “I’ll arrange that. Hold your decision until you talk with him. He’ll be friendly. Is that a bargain?”

Rubal considered. His forehead wrinkled; he clenched his hands nervously. At last he nodded.

Drury dropped from his perch on the desk, waved good-by and drew Clyde along with him. They left the curator’s office.

DRURY and Clyde headed straight for the Enterprise. There they barged into the old man’s office and Clyde sat by while Harrison Knode listened to Drury’s account of the Blue Sphinx dedication. By the time Drury was finished, Knode was scrawling notations on copy paper.

“Just one thing more, boss,” added Drury. “Rubal is going to resign his job as curator.”

“What?” inquired the editor, suddenly, looking up from his scrawling. “When?”

“Pronto!” replied Drury. “I got the dope from Hollis, the chief attendant. Then I blew in on Rubal. Told him to hold off until you saw him.”

“What did he say to that?”

“Said he’d be in his office at eight o’clock tonight. He’ll talk to you if you come there.”

“All right.”

Knode waved his hand as dismissal. Drury beckoned Clyde from the office. The star reporter chuckled as the door closed behind them.

“Wait’ll you see tonight’s paper,” promised Drury. “The old man’s started his editorial. I didn’t have to tell him the slant I had on that dedication. He got it himself. Come on. It’s time for lunch.”