The Recollections of Solar Pons

-1-

Of all the cases my friend Solar Pons was involved in, there was none more sombre or bizarre than that which began on a certain wet April evening. I had come in from my rounds shortly after six o’clock, to find Pons in conversation with a small, red-faced mild-looking man in a plaid check overcoat.

Our cosy sitting-room at 7B Praed Street was filled with blue smoke from Pons’ pipe and the dining table covered with documents and cups of tea brought up by our amiable landlady, Mrs. Johnson. Pons rose from the table with an apologetic smile.

“This is Mr. Horatio Biggs, Parker. Mr. Biggs has brought me a curious problem. My friend and colleague, Dr. Lyndon Parker.”

The little man bounced up like a rubber ball and shook my hand energetically.

“Delighted to meet you, doctor.”

He had a pronounced Welsh accent and went on pumping my hand as though oblivious of my discomfiture. I had studied him carefully on entering the room and soon came to the conclusion that he was suffering from stress. In truth it did not take very great medical knowledge to deduce that for his nerves were indeed in a shocking state; his eyelids were twitching, his eyes constantly on the move and he peered nervously about him all the time as though on the watch for something.

But he had a pleasant, cultured voice; was well-dressed and had a certain scholarly look about him so that I at once concluded that he was not normally in that condition and that something unusual must have occurred. Pons had been studying me himself with an amused look on his lean, feral features.

“Come, Parker. Here is a perfect opportunity for you to indulge your ratiocinative gifts.”

I took off my raincoat and laid it over the back of a chair. “What can you read from our visitor, pray?”

I looked at the little man earnestly, entering into the spirit of the thing.

“A Welshman.”

The little man beamed and resumed his seat.

“Of Welsh extraction, sir, despite my name.”

“Highly nervous and troubled. With a high complexion. Taking that with other symptoms I would say that Mr. Biggs has some little trouble with blood pressure and would be wise not to over-excite himself.”

Our visitor bit his lip and shot a swift glance at Pons who observed blandly, “I would not presume to quarrel with your medical diagnoses, Parker.”

I looked at the little man again.

“Scholarly, perhaps an academic, Pons.”

“Excellent!”

Solar Pons rubbed his thin fingers together with satisfaction and took a spill to light at the fire. The bowl of his pipe made little stipples of incandescence on the strong lines of his face as he held it to the tobacco.

“You have really excelled yourself, my dear fellow.”

“You do me too much honour, Pons.”

“Not at all, my dear Parker. You have come close to the truth.”

Pons went to stand by the fireplace and looked from me to our visitor reflectively.

“Mr. Biggs is the Curator of one of London’s foremost museums. It therefore follows that he is an academic. He is of Welsh extraction, as you correctly deduced from his accent. And he has been under some pressure as you shall learn in a moment.”

“Can you tell anything else, Pons? Something that I have overlooked, perhaps?”

“There may be one or two things still to read, Parker,” said my companion slowly.

“For example, he is a member of the Coronel Club, a bachelor, a keen enthusiast for the cinema, widely travelled, has recently returned from Egypt and is devoted to the music of Bach.”

Mr. Biggs blinked at Pons in astonishment. He rose to his feet again.

“This is absolutely incredible, Mr. Pons. It is more like magic than anything else!”

Solar Pons shook his head, smiling.

“It is hardly that, Mr. Biggs. It is elementary to the trained mind.”

“You will have to explain, Pons.”

“I intend to, Parker. As to the Coronel Club it is simplicity itself for Mr. Biggs is wearing the distinctive striped tie of that esoteric organisation. He is a bachelor because, though well-dressed he is, if he will forgive me for saying so, untidy and his collar, though spotless, is heavily crumpled and his shoes need cleaning.”

The museum Curator blinked and give Pons an apologetic smile at this point.

My friend went on imperturbably as though he were alone.

“I could not imagine any conscientious wife letting a man so important as the curator of a major museum out with his collar and shoes in that state. Therefore he is a bachelor.”

“Again correct, Mr. Pons,” said Biggs, with a rueful glance at his shoes.

“And the cinema, Pons?”

“When Mr. Biggs took out his handkerchief just now, a number of cinema ticket stubs fell unnoticed to the carpet. They are there still. There are more than a dozen of them and I notice they are for The Everyman, the Cameo, the Astor and the Rialto. The colour of the tickets tells me they were issued this year. It is only the beginning of April, which means that Mr. Biggs must go at least twice a week for he has been abroad for something like two months.”

“Oh, come, Pons!” I expostulated. ‘That is a little farfetched.”

Mr. Biggs shook his head.

“Mr. Pons is quite right, Dr. Parker, though how he does it I cannot imagine.”

I stared at my companion open-mouthed.

“Let us commence with Bach.”

“He has no less than three publications devoted to Bach on the chair yonder. They all bear a newsagent’s scribble with Mr. Biggs’ name.”

Our visitor almost laughed at this point.

“That is so, Mr. Pons. I always like to read something on the Tube.”

I managed to convey my scepticism by clearing my throat pointedly. Pons smiled faintly.

“You have not let me finish, Parker. Further indications can be read into the musical publications. Those issues are for February, March and April of this year. Therefore, it is no very great flight of imagination to surmise that they have just been collected. The issues cover three months, though the April number is obviously published in advance, as is the custom.

“Therefore I conclude that Mr. Biggs has been away on a long trip, for at least five or six weeks. When I see a newish guide to Alexandria there on the chair with the magazines, again with his initials on the cover, much stained and thumbed and I note the remnants of sunburn on Mr. Biggs’ face — Parker’s high complexion — it requires no great feat of deduction to infer that he has recently returned from a trip to Egypt, possibly for the Museum.

“The time factor alone would indicate that Mr. Biggs had six weeks in this country from January 1st in which to make his cinema visits. A comparison with the ticket stubs and we arrive at a twice-weekly visit.”

Mr. Biggs beamed and stared approvingly from Pons to me. “It is still remarkable, Mr. Pons,” he said enthusiastically.

“I have to admit that I concur, Pons,” said I.

“It is good of you to say so, Parker,” returned my friend amiably.

Biggs resumed his seat with a clouded brow.

“However, it is undoubtedly my Egyptian trip which has precipitated my present troubles.”

“Pray begin again for Dr. Parker’s benefit,” Pons suggested. “You had only just begun to tell me something of your problems when the doctor entered. In the meantime I will ring for tea. Parker must be quite starved after his long trip to Hoxton.”

I stared at him in astonishment. He gave a throaty chuckle and picked up his pipe from an earthenware bowl on the table. “There was nothing magical about that, Parker. You left your appointments pad on the breakfast table this morning.” He handed it me with a flourish.

“And now, if you please, Mr. Biggs, tea and then your tale of woe.”

-2-

Mrs. Johnson had cleared the tea-things and I sat comfortably by the fire watching Pons’ smoke-rings ascending slowly and undulatingly toward the ceiling.

“Well, Mr. Pons, part of my brief for the Egyptian trip was to pay a visit to various sites in the Valley of the Kings. My post as Curator of the Egyptian Museum in London entitled me to Government status in Egypt and I was accompanied for part of the time by Achmed Nazreel Pasha of the Cairo Museum.

Now, gentlemen, the London museum is associated formally with the Cairo Museum and we regularly exchange information and artefacts, particularly for exhibitions. Is that plainly understood?”

“By all means,” said Pons smoothly, looking at me quizzically through his pipe-smoke. “If you think it of importance.”

“It may be so, Mr. Pons, it may be,” said the little Curator self-importantly, all the harassment and worry back on his rubicund features.

“I had obtained from Nazreel Pasha the promise of certain items unearthed last year by the Egyptian Government from the Valley of the Kings and it was with considerable excitement that I travelled with him back to Cairo for a fortnight’s research and work at that great museum which must ever stand in the forefront of interest for Egyptian scholars.”

“Undoubtedly,” I put in to encourage him and Mr. Biggs shot me a glance of satisfaction.

“Now, Mr. Pons, I had been assigned a certain Egyptian servant while on my stay. He was of a fairly high caste as such people go….”

He broke off and looked at Pons sternly.

“I don’t know whether you understand or have experience of the Middle East, Mr. Pons, but the fellaheen of Egypt are among the most down-trodden and oppressed people of the world.”

Pons took the stem of the pipe out of his mouth.

“So I have heard, Mr. Biggs. But your servant would not have been of this class, surely.”

Mr. Biggs looked disconcerted.

“No, no, Mr. Pons. I did not mean to imply that. I was speaking merely of the natives employed for such menial purposes as transporting materials in the Valley of the Kings and packing and moving artefacts in such great museums as that of Cairo. Apart from a city in South Africa whose name escapes me, Cairo is the greatest city in the whole of Africa.”

“I am indebted to you for the geography lesson, Mr. Biggs, but I would be grateful if you would come to the point,” said Pons crisply. “Dr. Parker has had wide experience in that part of the world and it is not entirely unknown to me. I think you may safely take it that we are reasonably familiar with the milieu.”

Mr. Biggs’ eye grew round.

“Good gracious me, Mr. Pons. Please accept my apologies. I am so used to lecturing to students that I am inclined to take a superior position with other people, without really intending to.”

Pons smiled thinly. He tented his lean fingers before him. “Pray continue. We will ourselves provide the local colour.” Our visitor flushed and then went on without more ado.

What I give now are the salient points of his narrative, shorn of his habitual verbosity.

“Among the artefacts I brought back with me were a number of treasures on loan from the Cairo Museum, which were to form the basis of a display we are mounting here in London in the late summer. These were literally priceless and irreplaceable and have been the cause of great distress to me personally.”

“Oh, yes, I have read something about the exhibition in the national press,” I interjected.

Mr. Biggs nodded.

“We did not, of course, announce the value of the Cairo exhibits because of the danger of theft, but these things are difficult to keep quiet. This material, together with certain gifts from the Egyptian Antiquities Service, which I will enumerate later, took space in some half-dozen large wooden crates that were shipped aboard steamer with me for the homeward voyage. We had some trouble with the labourers and porters at the site on the Upper Nile.”

Pons took his pipe-stem out of his mouth.

“What sort of trouble?”

The curator shrugged his shoulders.

“The usual things, Mr. Pons. About what they should be paid for their work and so forth. And then when the breakages began…”

“Breakages?”

Solar Pons’ eyes were sharp and alert now.

“Some of the pottery was found to be broken when we got it off the site. These fellows, supervised by their own foremen, carry them out in baskets from the excavations. Normally they are careful enough, but we never found the miscreants. That was their form of blackmail to make us accede to their requests.”

“And did you?” I put in.

“It is a time-honoured method,” said Biggs apologetically. “The items broken were only small pots, of no real value, but they are important inasmuch as they give us a clear idea of the minutiae of everyday life in Ancient Egypt. The museum experts repaired them and the extra baksheesh was paid.”

Pons blew a smoke-ring up toward the ceiling.

“I see. You implied there were other troubles.”

Biggs nodded.

“There were attempts at theft. We found one of the loaded crates partly forced open. After that we put a guard upon them.”

“And what significance did you place upon that, Mr. Biggs?”

“The obvious one, Mr. Pons. Some of the things in my care are extremely valuable and there is a class of professional tomb-robbers in Egypt who would do anything to get their hands on such items. They would find a ready market in the form of unscrupulous dealers and collectors.”

“But nothing, so far as you know, was stolen?”

Biggs shook his head.

“No, Mr. Pons. Just a few unimportant pots broken and these were repaired and restored before my visit ended.”

“So you brought them back with you?”

“Indeed, Mr. Pons.”

Solar Pons’ eyes narrowed to slits as he peered through his pipe-smoke.

“Were the jars sealed or open?”

Irritation was showing plainly on our visitor’s features now.

“Is it of importance, Mr. Pons?”

“I like to obtain all the facts, Mr. Biggs.”

The curator shifted in his chair awkwardly.

“I am sorry, Mr. Pons. I did not take particular notice but so far as I remember, they were sealed with stoppers. The jars were big, heavy things made of baked clay and labelled, in hieroglyphs of course, for their various purposes. They had originally contained oil and wine and so forth, though the contents had evaporated centuries ago.”

“I see.”

Biggs nodded.

“I would have got away from the site earlier but for that unfortunate death.”

Pons looked at him quickly and the room suddenly seemed to have grown very still.

“Death?”

“Well, then, murder, Mr. Pons, if you wish to be technical. Egypt is a very violent country, as you know. One of the porters was found stabbed. Some quarrel about baksheesh I suppose. The police were called but the culprit was never found.”

“This puts a different complexion on the matter, Mr. Biggs,” said Pons slowly. “You were wise to come to me.”

“I do not understand, Mr. Pons.”

“No matter, Mr. Biggs. Your narrative interests me intensely. Pray continue.”

Mr. Biggs knotted his brow as though the effort to recollect his thoughts were a great trial to him.

“I travelled home on a passenger liner, of course, and I had much to occupy me, going through documents, preparing learned papers and so forth. We sailed from Alexandria and about three days out the purser came to see me to report that an attempt had been made to open the crates in the hold. A routine inspection was being made and one of the ship’s crew saw someone making off in the shadow.”

Solar Pons tented his thin fingers before him.

“He did not see who it was?”

Biggs shook his head.

`Though the holds are lighted by electricity, of course, they are dim, shadowy places and the seaman was unable to catch the culprit. When he found wood splinters on the deck and saw that the crates had been tampered with, he reported to his superior officer.”

“You went to the hold, of course?”

“Naturally, Mr. Pons. I hurried there with the purser immediately and found the ship’s security officer already on the spot. Together we made a careful examination. A jemmy, evidently taken from a rack of tools used in the hold, was lying on the deck where it had been dropped. One of the wooden bars holding the top of the crate had been removed and a start made on the second but the miscreant had not succeeded in his objective.”

Solar Pons stared at our visitor.

“And what might that objective have been, Mr. Biggs?” “Why, theft, of course, Mr. Pons.”

My companion nodded.

“Can you remember which one of the crates was involved?” “I do not understand the question, Mr. Pons?”

Solar Pons smiled faintly.

“Come, Mr. Biggs. It is not so very difficult. I asked which of the crates. Was it one containing valuable objects for your exhibition; one containing pottery or what?”

“Ah, Mr. Pons, I see.”

Biggs wrinkled up his brow. He suddenly looked worried and anxious and full of stress again. All the while he was narrating his adventures in Egypt and was sure of Pons’ full attention something of his cares appeared to fall away, but as soon as his concentration relaxed anxiety fell upon him like a cloak.

“That was the curious part, Mr. Pons. The crate containing extremely valuable artefacts, jewellery and ornaments for the exhibition at my museum was intact. The crate the thief attempted to break open merely contained fragments, pots and common clay containers. Extremely interesting to the archaeologist of course, but of no great value in comparison with the rest.”

“Excellent!”

Solar Pons rubbed his thin fingers together and leaned forward in his chair, his excitement showing on his lean, feral features.

“Now, Mr. Biggs, I am sure you have something else to tell me regarding that particular crate?”

Our visitor’s astonishment mirrored my own.

“Well, yes, I have, as a matter of fact, Mr. Pons, though how you could have guessed…”

Solar Pons shook his head as he tamped fresh tobacco into the bowl of his pipe.

“It was no guess, Mr. Biggs. But do go on.”

“It was nothing in itself, Mr. Pons, but it gave me a shock. I went round the other side of the crate to examine it and at first I thought there had been an accident. The side of the box was all smeared and dabbed as though with blood. Then one of the seamen said there had been an accident while the crates were being loaded on the quay at Alexandria. An Arab workman had upset a pot of red lead over the side of the crate. It was as simple as that.”

Solar Pons looked across at me.

“Simple indeed, Parker,” he observed. “I believe you had reached this part of the narrative when the doctor came in, Mr. Biggs. From your manner and attitude you hinted at something more serious at the museum?”

The Curator nodded grimly.

“Stark, staring horror and madness, Mr. Pons!”

-3-

I stared at him for a moment without saying anything. “Those are strong words, Mr. Biggs,” I ventured. The little man shook his head.

“Nevertheless, I am not exaggerating, gentlemen, as you will find if you have the patience to hear my story out.”

“You spoke of your servant earlier,” interrupted Pons, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on our visitor’s face. He flushed and again shifted in his chair.

“So I did, Mr. Pons. This business has troubled me so much that I hardly know what I am doing. I referred to him as a servant but he is really a middle-class Arab who was assigned to me by Nazreel Pasha to act as secretary and factotum. He spoke excellent English and I found him invaluable. Achmed — I never could pronounce his full name — was a gigantic character, over six feet tall, and as my travels in Egypt took me into some strange places I was more than glad of his companionship at times.”

Mr. Biggs paused and took out a handkerchief, which he used to mop his brow.

“I was rather surprised when Nazreel Pasha suggested that he should accompany me to England, but I appreciated that his strength and upright character would be most useful to me.”

“And also act as a safeguard for the valuables under your care,” said Pons crisply, blowing out a plume of blue smoke.

Biggs looked at him owlishly.

“There is that, Mr. Pons. Perhaps that explains one strange incident on the voyage. When I entered his cabin one afternoon without knocking I caught him cleaning a revolver which he swiftly covered with a newspaper. It was an extraordinary and quite worrying incident.”

Solar Pons chuckled, his eyes displaying little flecks of amusement as he regarded Biggs.

“Tut, Mr. Biggs, there is no mystery. Achmed was obviously a high-ranking Cairo police officer set to guard the treasures the Egyptian government had entrusted to your care. There is nothing strange about it.”

The little man’s eyes opened wide.

“Why, do you really think so, Mr. Pons! I never thought of that!”

“You are extraordinarily naïve, Mr. Biggs, if you do not mind me saying so,” said my companion briskly. “It is as plain as a pikestaff. One can hardly blame the Egyptian Antiquities Service for calling on their country’s police authorities in the matter.”

Mr. Biggs flushed and stared helplessly at Pons.

“I am afraid I am very much out of my depth here,” he said earnestly. “After all, my world is an academic one and I am unused to violence and intrigue.”

“Quite so,” said Pons imperturbably. “Do go on.”

“Leaving that aside, Mr. Pons, I have been back for two weeks now and ever since my arrival in London I have felt myself to be caught in the middle of a sinister plot. I am at my wit’s end.”

“I must have data if I am to assist you. Please proceed to the next incident after your arrival.”

“It was not long in coming, Mr. Pons. Naturally, the transportation and unpacking of the material I had brought with me from the Valley of the Kings and from the Cairo Museum occupied much of the first week. The treasures on loan from Cairo were naturally deposited in the strong-room in the Museum and I now understand, from what you say, just why Achmed took such an interest in the precautions we had been taking.

“There were the usual interviews with the press; a formal meeting with the Board of the Museum; and discussions with my staff on exactly what space in the galleries was to be devoted to the Exhibition. It was about a week ago that the first incident occurred. I was in my office on the first floor engaged in cataloguing and checking entries against the list I had brought back.”

“Alone?”

“Alone, Mr. Pons. Apart from the night-staff, of course, who were on their rounds.”

Solar Pons tugged thoughtfully at the lobe of his right ear. “How many have you, Mr. Biggs?”

“We have three night guards, normally, Mr. Pons, one for each of the major floors of the Museum and they make their rounds four times nightly. But we have recently taken on extra staff in view of the major Exhibition we were planning.”

“I see. And then?”

“I had had the contents of some of the crates brought into my office, Mr. Pons, and was going through the material, making meticulous entries. It was about eleven o’clock at night when I became aware of a faint scratching noise. There are racks of scholarly works in one corner of my office, Mr. Pons. I have so many reference volumes that I have two free-standing bookcases set at an angle to my desk. With the bookcase set against the far wall they form two aisles. I had the green-shaded desk-lamp on and the rest of the room was in shadow.”

Mr. Biggs paused almost as though the recollection were too much for him.

“Mr. Pons, I looked up as the scratching noise sounded and, through a gap in the books I saw the wrinkled face of a 2,000-year-old mummy looking at me!”

My first inclination was to smile at the little man’s fantastic assertion but one glance at his terrified face showed me that he was in deadly earnest. Pons sat holding his pipe by its bowl, his sharp, sympathetic eyes never leaving our visitor’s face.

“That is quite impossible, Mr. Biggs,” he said coolly. “Though I can imagine the shock such a sight gave you.”

Biggs shook his head stubbornly.

“You do not understand, Mr. Pons. I was not dreaming. The thing existed. Its face was covered with rotting bandages and only the eyes were visible, burning through the wrappings. As I watched it moved and as I sat there paralysed, my heart thumping as though it would burst, the thing disappeared into the shadow with lightning rapidity. I am not afraid to confess that when I found my wits I shouted loudly and rang my bell. I need not bore you with the search the night-guards made, the comings-and-goings. In short, though a thorough examination of the premises was made the apparition had completely disappeared.”

Solar Pons frowned.

“It would not be too difficult to disappear in such a vast place as the Egyptian Museum, Mr. Biggs. I am tolerably familiar with its features and some of those galleries, with their massive statuary and mummy-cases would provide many concealed hiding places.”

Biggs nodded gloomily.

“just so, Mr. Pons. I am inviting ridicule, I know, but we also examined the mummy cases in some detail. Their fastenings were undisturbed and we have, in any event, some of them secure within glass cases. But when I returned to my office I had another shock. Though all had been intact when I left I found that the artefacts had been disturbed and some of the stoppers removed from several jars.”

Solar Pons sat upright in his chair. He brought the palms of his hands together with a small cracking sound in the silence.

“Admirable, Mr. Biggs! Just as I should have imagined. Your problem has captured my imagination and though I have a good idea what lies behind it, it is not without features of interest.”

Mr. Biggs’ mouth opened wide in amazement.

“This is all beyond me, Mr. Pons, though I am glad you can read something into it. To put things shortly, this apparition has appeared on three occasions since, always at night, until the watchmen are almost afraid to go on duty. On each occasion, once the initial shock had worn off, they chased it but were never able to sight it again after the initial glimpse.”

“I see. And where was your Egyptian detective all this time?”

“He was not there at the time of the sightings, Mr. Pons. But he remained on duty at night, though the thing never appeared to him.”

“I am not surprised,” said Solar Pons drily. “Though it is rather odd that a 2,000-year-old mummy should be frightened by a revolver.”

And he chuckled throatily to himself.

“You have not yet told me about Achmed?” he said after a moment or two.

“So you have guessed, Mr. Pons.”

“It was not very difficult, Mr. Biggs. You several times spoke of him in the past tense.”

Biggs nodded sombrely.

“There was an unfortunate accident only yesterday morning. He fell under a bus near the Museum.”

Pons gave me a significant glance.

“Fell under a bus, Mr. Biggs?”

“Yes, sir. It was an accident. There was a large crowd near the bus stop with people shoving and pushing to get on a stationary vehicle. Achmed was pushed out into the path of another bus which was passing at the time.”

Pons’ eyes were very bright and shrewd as he stared at the curator.

“And you share the view that it was an accident, Mr. Biggs?”

“It appeared to be so, Mr. Pons. And the police were of the same opinion. I notified the Egyptian Embassy, of course.”

Pons nodded.

“You had not told the police of these appearances at the Museum?”

The little man looked uncomfortable.

“I had sworn the staff to secrecy, Mr. Pons. As a great institution we could not allow such things to get about.”

“I quite understand,” I said.

Biggs shot me a grateful smile.

“But you felt you had to report the death of Achmed officially, Mr. Biggs?”

“Of course, sir. It was my duty as a citizen. Though Inspector Jamison took the same view.”

Pons raised his eyebrows, giving me a whimsical smile.

“I fail to see why the matter should have been reported to Scotland Yard, Mr. Biggs. It was, after all, though tragic, only a traffic accident. Normally the procedure would be for the local police to be informed and they would then make an inquiry and get in touch with the Coroner for the district. Inspector Jamison handles only criminal matters.”

“I am well aware of that, Mr. Pons,” said Biggs in his flustered way. “But apparently Achmed had already made contact with Scotland Yard. I now realise, from our conversation this evening, why. I could not understand Mr. Jamison referring to him as Inspector Achmed.”

Pons inclined his head toward the other.

“And the Inspector could see nothing unusual in the Inspector falling under a bus?”

“Such things happen, Mr. Pons. And London is a very crowded and congested city, quite choked with traffic.”

“Indeed. I take it the Inspector visited you at the Museum?”

“He came late yesterday afternoon, Mr. Pons, and stayed about half an hour. I told him nothing about the things which had been troubling us. He did speak of security for the Egyptian Exhibition later this year and we agreed to liaise together nearer the time.”

“And what was the Egyptian Embassy’s view of the matter, Mr. Biggs?”

“Polite regret, Mr. Pons. I have had no official reaction from Cairo but I suppose that would be too early at this stage.” “Hmm.”

Solar Pons tented his fingers before him.

“It now only remains for you to tell me of the final incident which drove you to seek my advice, Mr. Biggs. Achmed died yesterday morning, yet you have not sought me out until this evening. So presumably something else has happened in the interim to tip the scales.”

Mr. Biggs nodded.

“I am afraid it has, Mr. Pons.”

He passed his hand across his jaw to control the sudden shaking of his fingers.

“Matters came to a head this afternoon. After I had informed Inspector Jamison I hurried straight here. All the Museum staff are on the alert of course, and I have, by dint of stretching our funds, doubled the night-guards temporarily.”

“It must be serious indeed,” I put in.

“It is, Dr. Parker.”

Biggs paused.

“I do not know if you remember the Museum, Mr. Pons. On the second floor, where we have been forced to place material in corridors because of pressure on space, there is a large collection of pottery on display.

“Now, Mr. Pons, the main part of the Museum is built around a square; a large staircase leads to the various floors and the central well, where we have display cases, is commanded by a balcony running round the four sides on each of the three floors above ground level.”

Pons nodded, his eyes bright through the wreaths of tobacco smoke.

“On the second floor we have a large collection of terracotta vases, standing on plinths in the corridor which is bounded on one side by the gallery wall and on the other by the balcony commanding the stairwell and central courtyard. I had gone down from my office at about four o’clock this afternoon to check some labelling on one of the display cases.

“The Museum was quiet and there was hardly anyone about in that section; certainly no-one on the ground floor overlooked by the balconies, fortunately. I had moved away from the case and was standing, preoccupied by the problems of the past few weeks, when some instinct made me look up. I remained frozen for a moment. What I saw, Mr. Pons, was one of the great terra-cotta vases in mid-air, coming straight down toward me!”

-4-

“Great heavens!” I exclaimed involuntarily.

Mr. Biggs could not control his nerves and I got up immediately to pour him a glass of whisky from the decanter on the sideboard. He drank it with a grateful glance and Pons and I were both silent for a moment while we waited for him to recover. He put the glass down on the table in front of him and contemplated the remainder of its contents.

“Fear lent me energy, Mr. Pons. How I managed it, I do not know, but I half-fell, half thrust myself sideways. Mr. Pons, that vase smashed itself to smithereens on the pavement beside me. It could not have missed me by more than two feet. I should have been crushed to pulp if I had not had the good fortune to look up!”

Pons nodded slowly, his eyes fixed and serious.

“It could not have fallen accidentally, of course?”

A vigorous shake of the head from our visitor.

“Impossible, Mr. Pons. It was free-standing on its pedestal, naturally, but these things are of enormous weight. Besides, the height of the balustrade precludes it falling in any case. It extends for more than a foot higher than the middle of the vase. Someone of immense strength must have hoisted it on to the broad railing before releasing it.”

“Yet you heard nothing?”

“No, Mr. Pons. It is even more sinister than I can convey. Someone of great strength who could move as quietly as a cat across the marble floor. I raised the alarm, naturally, and a thorough search was made but the culprit was nowhere to be found.”

“What is above the second floor, Mr. Biggs?”

“Store-rooms for the most part, Mr. Pons, though we have two small public galleries there. Other staircases lead down to the ground floor.”

“I see. So that anyone, staff or member of the public, could have been responsible? And made their escape undetected?” “That is so, Mr. Pons.”

My companion smoked on quietly for a moment or two, the only sound in the room the faint drumming of his restless fingers on the table-top.

“And where are these treasures you brought back from the Valley of the Kings now, Mr. Biggs?”

“The material on loan from Cairo is in the main Museum strong-room, Mr. Pons. The less valuable artefacts are housed in an annexe off my office, while one open crate, containing the material I am currently examining and cataloguing, is in my office itself.”

“What about this annexe, Mr. Biggs?”

“It is secure enough, Mr. Pons. It has only the one entrance and one has to go through my office itself to get to it. There is a steel door to the annexe and I am the only one with the keys, for it is a special lock.”

“That is a rather curious circumstance, Mr. Biggs.”

“Well, you see, Mr. Pons, the annexe used to be the main strong-room of the Museum, in the old days before the war and since then the Museum has been altered and extended. It proved inconvenient so the then authorities built a new strong room on the ground floor and the Curator’s present office was built on the first floor with the result that the original strong room was within the Curator’s personal quarters. It has its advantages because treasures currently being examined and catalogued by the Curator and his staff, can be kept within the office until they take their place in the main collections.”

Pons blew out a plume of blue smoke.

“I see. You have told us an extraordinary story, Mr. Biggs. We have no time to lose. You are returning to the Museum now?” Biggs nodded, rising to his feet.

“I am meeting Inspector Jamison there at half-past eight.” Solar Pons rose and shook hands with our guest.

“You have no objection to Dr. Parker joining me?”

“Delighted, Mr. Pons.”

“Very well then. You may expect us at the Museum within the hour. In the meantime I bid you good evening.”

When I returned to our sitting-room after showing our visitor downstairs, Pons was sitting with his brilliant eyes fixed on the dancing flames of the fire.

“You have your revolver handy, Parker?”

“You think we may need it, Pons?” I returned, somewhat startled.

“It is as well to be prepared. A gentleman who can lift and throw such a vase as Biggs has described, may not be amenable to anything but bullets if we are put to it.”

“Very well, Pons. I will get it.”

I procured the weapon from the leather case in my bedroom and re-joined him with my outdoor things. Pons already had his overcoat on but still lingered, blowing slow smoke-rings up toward the ceiling.

“What do you make of this business, Parker? Pray give me your observations.”

“It is obviously tied up with the Treasure from the Valley of the Kings, Pons. It seems to me that the thieves are preparing a false trail, as it were; creating these incidents to mask their preparations for striking at the strong-room.”

Solar Pons regarded me sombrely.

“It may be so, Parker, it may be so,” he said slowly.

“And the death of the Egyptian detective?”

“It could have been an accident,” I said cautiously. “Or perhaps he found out too much and they did away with him.” Pons’ eyes were very bright and hard.

“Who are ‘they’, Parker?”

“Well, that is for you to find out, Pons,” I said somewhat irritably. “After all, that is why you have been consulted.”

“And why would they wish to kill the Curator in order to strike at the strong-room, Parker?”

“As part of the diversion?” I hazarded.

Solar Pons slowly shook his head.

“Hardly, Parker. It is fatal to postulate from false hypotheses. But we shall know more once we are upon the ground. We have just time to apprise Mrs. Johnson of our absence and walk to the corner where I believe we can find an omnibus to deposit us almost at the Museum door.”

In the event it was a little under the hour stipulated before we alighted in the Bloomsbury area and walked across a small square to the imposing Doric portico of the Egyptian Museum. There were lights in the windows of the vast structure and though a uniformed attendant was on duty in a small wooden cubicle at the great iron entrance gate, he rapidly passed us through on Pons’ introducing himself. The Museum was closed, of course, at this time of the evening, but there nevertheless seemed to be a good deal of activity going on as we mounted the steps.

Two uniformed constables were in the vestibule but they evidently had their orders and they waved us through as though they knew us. A tall, distinguished-looking man with a black beard flecked with grey was waiting inside the glass doors of the main entrance and he hurried forward with outstretched hand.

“Mr. Pons? And Dr. Lyndon Parker! Delighted to see you both! I am Castleton, the Assistant Curator.”

Dr. Cedric Castleton was a distinguished Egyptologist who had written some fascinating accounts of his explorations in the more popular newspapers and I looked at him with some interest as we shook hands.

“A frightful business, gentlemen,” he said briskly, as he ushered us through into the vast and cavernous concourse where the massive balustraded staircase marched upward into the gloom.

“Indeed,” said Solar Pons drily. “Were you here when the vase fell near Mr. Biggs?”

Castleton shook his head, looking at my companion shrewdly.

“I was in the building, yes. But I was in my office going over some reports. The Museum was unusually quiet this afternoon and I understand there were not many members of the public present when the thing happened.”

“What is your opinion of the matter, Dr. Castleton?”

The Assistant Curator shook his head.

“I haven’t one, Mr. Pons. The whole business seems inexplicable to me. That story of the mummy face, for example. If Mr. Biggs had not seen it himself I would say that the night-guards had been drinking.”

He glanced over his shoulder into the dusky depths of the Museum where overhead lamps shimmered on great carved statutes and brightly painted sandalwood chests in glass cases.

“If my whole scientific training wasn’t against it, I would have said there was something supernatural about it.”

Pons stared at him with twinkling eyes.

“And yet we both know it is not supernatural, do we not, Dr. Castleton?”

The Assistant Curator smiled faintly and then our attention was caught by the sound of hurrying feet from above.

“Ah, there is Mr. Biggs,” said Pons casually. “And if I am not mistaken our old acquaintance Inspector Jamison is just behind him.”

He drew closer to Castleton.

“Tell me,” he said in a low voice. “Where is your office, Dr. Castleton?”

“On the second floor, Mr. Pons. Just two doors down from Mr. Biggs.”

“Thank you. If I need to call on your services I shall know where to find you.”

He moved forward to the bottom of the staircase and we stood there in silence for a moment, waiting for the small group of men who came hastening down toward us.

-5-

Biggs led, an expression of relief on his face.

“Thank goodness you have come, Mr. Pons!”

Solar Pons chuckled drily.

“That is hardly flattering to our friend the Inspector here! How do you do, Jamison?”

“Very well, thank you, Mr. Pons,” said Jamison sourly, giving my companion a stiff inclination of the head. His face was red as though with exertion and his whole form bristled like a terrier. I concealed my secret amusement and turned my attention to the third man who towered over both the Curator and the Scotland Yard man. Biggs intercepted my glance.

“Allow me to present Professor Adrian Smithers, Keeper of our Papyrus Department. Mr. Solar Pons and Dr. Lyndon Parker.”

Professor Smithers, who was gaunt almost to emaciation and wore a frayed goatee beard which was slightly stained with nicotine, shambled forward and shook hands gingerly with us both. His hand was cold and damp to the touch and I surreptitiously wiped my fingers on my handkerchief after he had relinquished his grasp and turned to Pons.

“Despite my grandiose title, my function is somewhat more humble here than might be thought,” he told Pons in a high, reedy voice.

“But nevertheless, my duties, in addition to deciphering hieroglyphs, also extend to manuscripts, ancient and modern; inscribed tablets and tomb-writings; and modern documentation relating to the contents of the Museum. So, if I am able to help you, Mr. Pons, please do not hesitate to call upon me.”

Pons gave him a brief bow.

“I shall remember it, Professor. In the meantime I should like a brief word with you, Jamison.”

“I am at your disposal, Mr. Pons.”

The Scotland Yard man withdrew with my companion to the other end of the concourse and they remained in earnest conversation for several minutes. When they returned it may have been my imagination but I thought that Jamison’s features were even more choleric than before but his manner seemed amiable enough.

“Now, Mr. Biggs, I would like to see the scenes of these extraordinary events for myself. This is where the vase fell, I presume?”

My companion strode forward to where a section of the marble floor was railed off and covered with canvas.

“Certainly, Mr. Pons. As you can see the vase came straight from the balustrade overhead.”

Solar Pons looked keenly up at the shadowy stairway and then strode over to the enclosure. He carefully removed the canvas and I was able to see the tremendous impact the thing had made on hitting the floor. Several of the smooth marble tiles were completely shattered, revealing the cement beneath. Pons remained on his knees in silence for a moment and then rose, dusting the knees of his trousers.

“Have you the fragments of the vase?”

“Of course, Mr. Pons.”

It was Castleton, the Assistant Curator, who had spoken. “Restoration is a speciality of my department. We are up on the third floor if you would care to see.”

“By all means.”

The whole party, including Inspector Jamison, ascended the great central staircase, a brass lantern in the shape of an ancient Egyptian oil-burning vessel, containing electric light bulbs, effectively illuminating the whole of the stairwell. It was an impressive place and shadowy figures of ancient gods stood in glass cases in niches at the side of the staircase, swinging eerily past us as we mounted higher. My knowledge of Egyptology is not great but I recognised Anubis, the black, jackal-like dog couchant upon a pylon in one of the cases while, even more sinister, a carved wooden image of Bast, the cat-headed god, ornamented with gilt and gold paint stood near the top of the stairs.

Pons paused in the corridor at the stair head and we then commenced to re-ascend, the Curator leading the way. A silence had fallen on the party and the only sounds in the vast place were the muted echoes of our feet on the staircase and muffled noises and an occasional cough from the galleries beyond, presumably as the night-guards went their rounds.

On the second floor we stopped again while Pons looked searchingly at an empty plinth indicated by Biggs. He went to the balustrade and looked over into the stairwell below. He next turned his attention to a massive ochre vase which stood on another plinth a little farther along.

“The vase was this size, Mr. Biggs?”

“Almost identical, Mr. Pons, except that the one which fell was even larger.”

“Indeed.”

Solar Pons stared at the far vase, pulling absently at the lobe of his right ear.

“You were right on a number of counts, Mr. Biggs. The vase could not have fallen by accident. And if size be any indication the person who lifted it must possess giant strength.”

After a moment or two he passed on.

“I think we will first take a look at these fragments, Parker, and then I should like to question the night-guards before inspecting the Museum in general.”

“By all means, Pons.”

In silence we again ascended flights of stairs in the hushed silence of the great museum. Through massive porticoes we glimpsed other galleries beyond and then Castle-ton took the lead, opening the door to a shabby corridor with plain, white-painted walls. We passed several storerooms flanking the passage and then the Assistant Curator had opened another door leading on to a large series of rooms; bare electric bulbs burned at the ends of their flexes and I had the impression of rough wooden racks; benches; sheeted masonry and complicated fragments of paving laid out on what looked like easels, for all the world as though they were gigantic jigsaw puzzles.

Castleton led the way with firm, purposeful steps to a wooden framework set under a powerful light at the far end of the restoration department. Here, in an elaborate metal clamp the fragments of a huge red earthenware vase were being re-assembled. I marvelled at the delicacy of the work; with a powerful glue-like substance the Assistant Curator and his staff had begun their task so skilfully that only the faintest, hair-like cracks were visible on the surface of the pottery.

“Of course, Mr. Pons,” Castleton said casually, “some of the material has been destroyed beyond repair and we shall have to fill those sections with a special hardening paste of my own invention.”

The light of enthusiasm was in my companion’s eyes.

“Admirable, Mr. Castleton, admirable,” he murmured as he took out his powerful pocket lens and busied himself with examining the partly reconstructed vase and the masses of fragments scattered about the bench, some of which I noticed had already been numbered on their reverse sides. He straightened up eventually.

“I can see you are an artist, Mr. Castleton, as well as an archaeologist.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pons,” said the official, a faint flush visible on his cheeks above the beard. “I may say the same in respect to your own professional activities.”

Solar Pons acknowledged the returned compliment with a slight inclination of the head.

“What does it tell you, Pons?” I asked.

My companion shook his head.

“Nothing, Parker,” he said succinctly. “Except for the somewhat obvious fact that the Egyptian Museum and through that organisation, the nation’s Egyptology interests are in good hands.”

Mr. Biggs smiled faintly.

Pons was already striding toward the entrance of the department. He beckoned the Curator to his side.

“That is the staircase of which you spoke, Mr. Biggs?”

The little man nodded, indicating the small spiral structure which wound downwards into the dusk at the end of the corridor.

“There are no less than three of these, Mr. Pons, which made it quite impossible to trace the person who was responsible for the attempt upon my life. But you wanted to see the night-staff. Here is my head man, Morticott now.”

A gigantic shadow etched itself upon the white wall of the dimly-lit corridor and a faint swishing noise was heard. The Curator lowered his voice.

“Morticott has a somewhat unusual appearance, Mr. Pons, in addition to suffering from a lame foot. He was very badly wounded in the last war but his services have been invaluable here.”

“just so,” my companion murmured.

I was prepared for a somewhat unusual sight after Biggs’ words but was completely thrown off balance by the appearance of the apparition which presently came into view at the end of the corridor.

-6-

To say that he was gigantic would be an understatement. He was at least seven feet tall and the smart blue uniform he wore seemed only to emphasise his lop-sided appearance as he shuffled along the corridor toward us, dragging his lame left foot. His enormous hands dangled limply and the sardonic face looked particularly sinister because of a partial paralysis of one side, which pulled the muscles down; no doubt the result of his wound. Yet the entire impression of this giant was one of enormous power and I shot a swift glance at Pons.

That he had taken my point was evident for his penetrating glance was fixed on Morticott’s features and he immediately questioned the man on his movements and impressions on the night the Curator had seen the strange apparition in the Museum.

The giant answered Pons in monosyllables, shifting his feet awkwardly to and fro as he looked first at Pons and then at the small group composed of myself and the museum officials. Evidently feeling that more was called for he spoke his first connected sentence.

“Mr. Biggs told me about the intruder, sir. I immediately ran through the second floor galleries and roused the staff.” He flushed slightly and gave Pons a sharp look.

“Oh, yes, sir, in spite of my disability I am quite light on my feet and can move fast when I have a mind to.”

“I have no doubt,” said Pons cheerfully. “You found nothing, of course, as Mr. Biggs has already told us.”

“No, sir. There are several staircases you see, so the man could have gone anywhere.”

Biggs cleared his throat warningly.

“I did not specify the nature of the intruder,” he told my companion sotto voce.

“Of course, Mr. Biggs,” said Pons smoothly. He turned back to the giant attendant, taking his unlit pipe from his pocket and turning it over in his slender, artistic hands.

“Where were you when the vase fell this afternoon?”

The dark eyes of the giant had a sullen look in them now. “I was in one of the first-floor galleries. I ran to the balcony. The crash was tremendous and echoed through the building.”

Pons nodded absently.

“Have you any theory to account for such an accident?” The big man looked incredulous.

“Hardly an accident, sir.”

Pons smiled faintly.

“What makes you say that?”

I must have looked as bewildered as the Curator as I stared at Pons.

The giant shuffled his feet, the strange contortion of his features giving him a weird aspect in the low lighting of the corridor. He opened his mouth to reply when we were interrupted by rapid footsteps from behind us. The Curator turned, beckoned to two more attendants, who approached us curiously.

“Scott and Prendergast, Mr. Pons. If you have any more questions, now would be a good time to ask them.”

Pons nodded. He lit his pipe and puffed at it gently, the flames from the bowl making little stipples of rosy light on his lean, ascetic features. Scott was a small, almost weedy man with a defeated face in which a ragged moustache was the greatest distinguishing feature. His companion, Prendergast, was much more prepossessing; a tall, broad-shouldered man with an alert, intelligent expression.

“This is Mr. Solar Pons, the distinguished private consulting detective,” said Biggs pompously.

A fleeting expression of annoyance passed across my companion’s mobile features as he blew out a plume of fragrant blue smoke.

“Just a few simple questions. You yourself saw nothing of this intruder of which Mr. Biggs speaks?”

The question was addressed collectively to the two men but it was the largest who was obviously the spokesman.

Prendergast shook his head vigorously.

“No, sir. And if I may make so bold as to speak for all the night-staff — with Mr. Morticott’s permission”—here he inclined his head toward the giant who made no visible sign that I could see—”no-one but Mr. Biggs did see it that evening.”

“I see. And where were you both when the vase fell?”

It was the little man’s turn now.

“I was sweeping the corridor to the Mummy Room on the ground floor, Mr. Pons, and I hurried in to find Mr. Biggs considerably shaken.”

Pons nodded, a frown on his clear-minted face.

“I was in one of the store-rooms on this floor, sir,” said Prendergast. “It is some considerable way from the main entrance hall, as you can see. I heard nothing of the incident until later.”

Pons nodded, screwing up his eyes through the smoke. “Neither of you have any opinions on these incidents — private or otherwise?”

The two men, so diverse in their physique and characters, exchanged glances. Scott shook his head. The big man shrugged.

“It’s just a guess, sir, but might it be connected with the priceless treasures Mr. Biggs brought back from Egypt?”

Pons stared moodily at the toe-caps of his brightly polished shoes.

“It might, Prendergast, it might,” he said softly. “Thank you. You have both been of great help.”

He rubbed his hands and turned briskly to me.

“I think we might as well direct our attention to your office and the strong-room, Mr. Biggs.”

“By all means, Mr. Pons.”

The Curator led the group back the way we had come, marching importantly down the stairs at the head of our small procession. His office was a large panelled chamber with a polished oak floor, thick carpeting and a massive desk. The walls were hung with heavy oil paintings in gilt frames, a number of them rather good eighteenth-century studies of the museum building itself. The bookcases Biggs had spoken of were over on the right-hand wall and Pons strode swiftly across, making a detailed examination of the area. He paused, taking out a section of books from the shelving.

“This is where you saw the apparition, Mr. Biggs?”

We were alone now except for Castleton and the Curator himself, the remaining members of the staff having gone about their various duties, and Biggs nodded, bustling over to Pons’ side.

“Just a little farther along, here.”

“I see. What does that suggest to you, Parker?”

I frowned at the sight of Pons’ head framed in the empty space of the shelving. He was standing in the aisle at the other side of the bookcase and I immediately gained a picture of the sinister sight that must have greeted the Curator on glimpsing the horrific mummy face in the dim recess where my companion now stood. Pons is a tall man but only the upper part of his face and the eyes were visible over the top of the shelf.

“Why, that the intruder must have been a very tall man, Pons.”

“Excellent, Parker!”

Solar Pons rubbed his hands briskly together, put the books back with a bang, raising a small cloud of dust to the Curator’s mortification, and rejoined me. He stabbed the air with the stem of his pipe.

“Exactly. He would needs have been more than six feet tall for Mr. Biggs to have seen his entire face over the top of that shelf. Which narrows the field considerably.”

I had a sudden vision of the giant Morticott and was about to draw Pons’ attention to the matter, when I was arrested by the expression in his eyes. He smiled faintly and turned to the Curator.

“I would like to see the Museum staff records, if you please.” Biggs’ surprise was evident in his eyes but he waved his hand toward his desk.

“Certainly, Mr. Pons, if you so wish. I am not au fait with them myself. My private secretary, Miss Pilkington, deals with all that. They are in the filing cabinets in the corner there and the lady herself is on call in her own office next door.”

He bustled out, leaving Pons and myself alone with the Assistant Curator.

Pons was wandering restlessly round the room, as though he could not relax for a moment.

“This is the original strong-room Mr. Biggs spoke of?”

He indicated a massive metal door set in the far corner of the room. There were wooden crates here, with small dusty red-clay pots and vessels set about on the top of a rough wooden bench.

“That is so, Mr. Pons. I am afraid we shall have to wait until Mr. Biggs returns before we can set foot inside. The Curator holds the only keys, apart from a duplicate set in the strongbox at the bank.”

“I see.”

Solar Pons was silent for a moment, his deep-set eyes stabbing glances about the big, shadowy room. I had the impression, not for the first time, that he could see many things that were hidden from me. Castleton watched my companion with interest and then excused himself.

“I have much to do, gentlemen. May I wish you all success in your efforts.”

“Thank you, thank you,” said Pons absently, his eyes fixed over toward the strong-room door.

There was a light step as the Assistant Curator left and a tall, slim, fair girl with a slightly flushed face hurried in.

“Helen Pilkington, gentlemen. I am sorry to keep you waiting but things are rather at sixes and sevens. Mr. Biggs tells me you wish to see the staff records, Mr. Pons.”

“If it would not be too much trouble, Miss Pilkington.”

“By no means, Mr. Pons.”

The girl, with a bright smile, crossed to a mahogany filing cabinet in the corner and busied herself with cardboard folders. She came back with a bundle of them and placed them on the desk.

“Everyone is here, Mr. Pons, including myself and the Curator.”

Solar Pons smiled faintly, thanking her and seating himself in the Curator’s leather chair. I sat down near him and studied his face as he turned over the typewritten documents in the folders. His expression was absorbed and intent.

“You have found something, Pons?”

“It merely confirms my suppositions, Parker. Ah, here is Mr. Biggs again.”

He got up, turning the files over to me, while the girl stood uncertainly near the desk, first looking from me to my companion and then back to me again.

“I understand you would like to see in the strong-room, Mr. Pons.”

“If you please, Mr. Biggs. The matter is rather important.” “Of course, Mr. Pons.”

Biggs led the way over to the big steel door and started fitting keys into a curious circular lock, which had three keyholes in it. I stayed at the desk for a moment, skimming over the folders Pons had dismissed so cursorily. I went down the names rapidly. Morticott interested me most. I saw that he had been on the Museum staff for fifteen years.

The scholastic and managerial members seemed to have been with the museum a considerable time. Conversely, the uniformed staff included a number who had joined only a few weeks ago. Then I remembered that extra staff had been engaged in preparation for the Exhibition.

The strong-room door was open now and Pons had disappeared inside. I strolled across and joined Biggs and the girl at the entrance. We were interrupted at that moment by Inspector Jamison, who entered heavily, a worried frown on his lugubrious features. He had left us earlier on the staircase after a whispered consultation with Pons and now he produced a buff form from his pocket.

“This has just been handed to me at the museum entrance, Mr. Pons.”

My companion had re-appeared at the strong-room door and took it from him. I read it over his shoulder. The message, transmitted from Scotland Yard and delivered by special messenger was terse and to the point. The pith of it was contained in the final sentence.

-7-

“This is impossible, Mr. Pons!” Jamison exploded in the silence which followed.

Solar Pons shook his head.

“On the contrary, it is the only possible explanation of that bus ‘accident’. It appears that I have been slightly off the track but it does not alter the validity of my central hypotheses.”

“I do not understand you, Mr. Pons.”

“Think about it, Inspector. I commend that factor, the incidents surrounding Mr. Biggs, and the material removed from the Valley of the Kings to you, and you cannot fail to come to the obvious conclusion.”

Inspector Jamison scratched his head.

“It is far from clear to me, Mr. Pons, though it has been self-evident all along that these people are after the treasure Mr. Biggs brought back.”

“Ah, you have seen that, have you? Well, I wish you luck in your investigations.”

And Solar Pons turned on his heel somewhat ungraciously and stepped back into the strong-room. I followed him in, after one look at the Inspector’s crestfallen face. Pons looked thoughtfully at the two great crates set back beneath the shelves in the far corner. As Biggs had said, one of them was all splashed and stained as though with red paint.

“You have not yet dealt with these artefacts, Mr. Biggs?” The little Curator shook his head.

“There is so much to catalogue, Mr. Pons, and we have had so many worries.”

“Just so.”

Pons stared in silence for a few moments at the jumbled contents of the strong-room.

“If you will permit me?”

“By all means, Mr. Pons. But please be careful. These jars are so fragile.”

My companion picked up one of the red terracotta jars from its bed of straw and lifted it toward his face with fingers as delicate as the antennae of an insect. I noticed that the jar was intact, with its original clay stopper. Pons put it to his nose and sniffed, almost as though with appreciation. His eyes were alight with interest as he examined it carefully with his pocket magnifying glass. He put it down gently on the straw and lifted an unsealed one thoughtfully.

“These would have contained wine, you say, Mr. Biggs?” “Wine, Mr. Pons, unguents and other substances which the Ancient Egyptians used to store in this fashion.”

Pons nodded.

“The wine would, of course, have evaporated long ago?” Mr. Biggs had his omniscient look on his face again now. “Oh, indeed yes, Mr. Pons. Countless centuries. We have never found anything within the jars except the dried remains of sediment on the bottom.”

“I see.”

Pons put down the empty jar indolently and turned to me.

“I think we have seen enough for the moment, Parker. Have you a room which we could use as our own, pro tem, Mr. Biggs?”

“Of course, Mr. Pons. Nothing could be simpler. There is a small office leading off my own, which my secretary sometimes uses. It shall be put at your disposal and is only a few steps away. Would you care for some refreshment? I can have coffee and sandwiches sent up from the Museum Restaurant as the staff are staying on tonight in the emergency to cater for us all.”

“Excellent,” said Pons with a faint smile. “But a little later, if you please. We may have need of it before the evening is over, eh, Parker?”

“No doubt, Pons,” I said somewhat grimly. “I presume we intend to stay the night?”

My companion chuckled as we followed the little Curator back across his own office to a rosewood door in the far corner. “I trust it will not come to that, my dear fellow.”

He lowered his voice.

“Nevertheless, I have a distinct feeling that something may happen. We must keep a sharp eye on Mr. Biggs for he is the key to the whole matter, in more ways than one.”

He looked thoughtfully across at the open strong-room door, pulling gently with his right hand at the lobe of his right ear.

“You think an attempt will be made to steal this treasure tonight, Pons?”

“It is more than likely, Parker.”

I was astonished.

“But the place is full of police and everyone is on their guard!”

“Exactly, Parker. That is why I think this criminal will strike again. The situation is so unlikely that he hopes to catch the Museum authorities off balance. But I have drawn my own conclusions and we must keep alert at all times.”

“But what are we looking for, Pons? And what is this whole insane business about, come to that?”

Solar Pons smiled gently, surveying the small, comfortable office with oak-panelled walls into which Biggs now ushered us.

“You will be enlightened in due course, Parker. And on second thoughts, if it is not too much trouble, Mr. Biggs, a cup of coffee would not come amiss.”

“Of course not, Mr. Pons. I will arrange it at once.”

The Curator bustled over to his own telephone on the massive desk and Pons quietly shut the door behind him and followed me into the room. A low gas-fire burned in the hearth and gave off a comforting glow and I sank into a leather chair at one side while Pons stooped to light a spill of paper at the fire. He puffed contentedly at his pipe until he was wreathed in aromatic blue smoke. He sat down opposite me and extended his legs toward the fire.

“Firstly, Parker, I would be greatly obliged if you would step outside for a moment and make sure Mr. Biggs re-locks the strong-room properly.”

I stared at him.

“But there is only pottery there, Pons. The Valley of the Kings treasure is in the ground-floor vault.”

“I am aware of it, Parker, but I would still appreciate your attending to the matter. And then perhaps you would be good enough to ask Mr. Biggs to let me have the keys.”

“There are some things about the case I would like to discuss with you, Pons.”

“By all means. But I suggest we do so after your little errand and after we have consumed the coffee. There are a few points still to be sifted in my mind.”

Before I could reply there was a heavy foot-fall on the floor and the thickset figure of Inspector Jamison came hurrying across the inner room toward us. His florid features bore a grim expression and he came to the point without any preliminaries.

“I am just making my dispositions for the night, Mr. Pons,” he began heavily, “and I wondered whether you had any observations to make.”

My companion took his pipe from his mouth slowly. “Upon what, Jamison?”

A frown of irritation passed across the Scotland Yard man’s face.

“Why, upon my arrangements, Mr. Pons. And this chap Inspector Achmed, for example. He had all the proper credentials. That Cairo telegram doesn’t make sense.”

Pons smiled enigmatically.

“Ah, Inspector, you have your methods. I have mine. Parker and I will make our own plans and will endeavour not to get in your way.”

Jamison’s stolid features went a shade pinker.

“I did not mean that, Mr. Pons, and you well know it.”

Solar Pons blew out a languid plume of smoke from his pipe.

“Then you should make yourself clearer, my dear fellow. If you are asking my advice, I have already given it, as you will no doubt recall.”

Jamison scratched his head.

“I have placed a heavy guard upon the ground-floor vaults, Mr. Pons. These fellows will stop at nothing to gain this treasure.”

He could not keep the expression of amazement from his face.

“Why, you have not even visited the main strong-room, Mr. Pons!”

My companion smiled, shooting me a quick glance from his deep-set eyes.

“That is because I have no doubt that everything possible will be done by the official force. I could not possibly hope to improve upon your arrangements and I mean that sincerely, Jamison.”

The Inspector shifted embarrassedly from foot to foot.

“It is very good of you to say so,” he observed haltingly. “But what will you be doing, Mr. Pons?”

My companion laid his forefinger alongside his nose in a cautionary gesture.

“Your precautions will leave myself and the doctor free to follow our own line of thought. I shall be keeping close to Mr. Biggs.”

“Of course,” said the Inspector heavily. “His safety is of paramount importance. Now, this Morticott chap…”

“Tut, it is obvious,” said Pons with a flash of acerbity. “He is enormous in size, even more powerful in strength, and has been with the Museum for fifteen years! That should tell you a good deal.”

“I don’t think I follow, Mr. Pons.”

“No doubt,” said Pons a trifle tartly, it appeared to me. “But now, if you will excuse us I see our coffee approaching.”

Jamison stood stock-still for a moment, then turned on his heel and went out, slamming the door behind him. Solar Pons chuckled throatily.

“You were a little hard on him, Pons,” I observed.

“Perhaps, Parker, perhaps,” he said absently, as the neat-looking woman in white overalls laid a tray with cups and saucers and a steaming coffee-pot on the desk.

“But I fancy friend Jamison will be doubly on the alert tonight. So we have nothing to fear from that quarter.”

“I do not quite understand, Pons.”

My companion sat down behind the desk, thanking the waitress absently, who withdrew with a nervous smile. He tented his thin fingers on the desk before him.

“Let us just have your observations on this affair, Parker. After you have secured those keys.”

I stared at him.

“Good heavens, Pons! I am sorry. I quite forgot what you had asked me to do.”

I hurried out to find that Mr. Biggs had already re-locked the strong-room door. He willingly relinquished the keys and when I had explained Pons’ requirements said he would be working in his own office for the next hour or so. I re-joined Pons who was sitting at the desk, sipping his coffee slowly, while thin spirals of smoke from his pipe, which was resting in the ash-tray, ascended in lazy whorls toward the ceiling. He took the bunch of keys from me without a word and thrust them into his pocket.

He looked at me quizzically.

“Just why are you so certain that something will happen tonight, Pons?”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Tut, Parker, it is obvious. Mr. Biggs will not take long to get through those existing artefacts. By tomorrow afternoon at latest he will be at the heart of the matter.”

-8-

I broke a momentary silence.

“Why does not Inspector Jamison believe the telegram about Inspector Achmed, Pons?”

“Because he is working from a pre-conceived theory, Parker, and distorting his facts to fit them.”

A quarter of an hour had passed and the air was blue with smoke as we still sat at our coffee.

“But if the man who accompanied Mr. Biggs from Egypt and who fell under the bus, was not a Cairo detective, who on earth was he? You yourself said that he was a detective.”

My companion smiled faintly and blew out a plume of fragrant smoke.

“And so I did, Parker. All the facts pointed to it. But, unlike friend Jamison’s, my mind is flexible. On learning that my assumption was incorrect, I immediately re-adjusted my data to the new set of circumstances. He was a cool rascal at any event. Though a fake, he reported to Scotland Yard in Achmed’s persona, to put the Cairo Police off the track. And of course, the real Achmed’s body had not then been recovered.”

“That is all very well, Pons,” I grumbled. “But we have the most incredible jumble of mysteries here.”

Pons shook his head.

“And yet, if we start unravelling the threads in sequence all becomes simple and everything falls into place. Let us just hear your reconstruction, my dear fellow.”

“I hardly know where to begin, Pons.”

“Begin at the beginning, Parker. At the diggings in the Valley of the Kings.”

“An attempt was made to steal some of the treasures.”

Pons nodded, his head to one side as he stared at me.

“A correction, Parker. Some of the artefacts. There is a distinct difference.”

I stared back at him.

“I do not see the distinction, Pons.”

He sighed wearily.

“There is a great deal, my dear fellow. The pottery and so forth came from the on-site excavations up the Nile. The treasures came from the Cairo Museum.”

I nodded.

“Of course, Pons. How foolish of me. I was mixing up the crates.”

Solar Pons knocked out the ash from his pipe in the fender. “A great many things have been mixed up in this matter, Parker,” he said gently.

He held up his hand with a commanding gesture.

“A moment, Parker. Something is not right here.”

A few seconds later I caught the faint sounds which his keen ears had already discerned. It sounded like a dim, scuffling noise in the far distance. Pons was already on his feet, his upraised hand enjoining caution. He strode toward the door. Quick as he was, a key was already turning in the lock. I was running to join him as he pounded at the massive panels.

There was silence from the room beyond now.

“I have been a fool, Parker!” said Pons harshly.

He looked round the room, ran to the long window at the end and flung it open. I found the scene wavering in front of me, stared with amazement at the thick, pungent tendrils of vapour which were seeping in under the door.

“Gas, Pons!” I croaked, plucking at my collar.

I saw Pons’ tall figure undulate and buckle before I went down into a deep velvet darkness. How long I was unconscious I have no way of knowing but I came to myself to find perspiration cascading down my cheeks and nausea in my throat. I gulped in the cold night air gratefully, taking great mouthfuls into my lungs. Pons was beside me at the open window. He looked grimly over my shoulder.

“I have been lax, Parker,” he rapped. “If I had not opened this window we should have been out for the evening. As it is I was able to turn off the gas fire and drag you clear before the fumes had any effect on me.”

I rubbed my streaming eyes, conscious of the great flat roof of the Museum below us in the night.

“What is it, Pons?”

“Our men are at work, Parker. I have no doubt they have overpowered Biggs. But they do not know I have the keys.”

He held the bunch up with shining eyes. I looked back over my shoulder to find the room still half-full of acrid fumes.

“I fancy we can get down on to this flat roof with a little effort, Parker. Are you game?”

“By all means, Pons. I am certainly not staying here.”

He smiled at my expression and threw his leg over the sill swiftly.

“Ah, there is the diversion!”

There was a muffled explosion somewhere in the vast pile below us and immediately there sprang up smoke and flames from half a dozen different points.

“Our friends are nothing if not thorough!”

He was standing some feet below the window now and he paused to help me down. Once in the open air my head cleared rapidly and I followed him across the leads as quickly as possible.

“What on earth is happening, Pons?”

“A little pantomime staged for the benefit of friend Jamison. And it would have worked had not luck favoured us. I have been extremely lax in this matter.”

“I would hardly think so, Pons. You have extricated us from that room.”

He shook his head, tugging at a trap-door at the far side of the roof.

“Ah, here is a fire-exit. This should do admirably.”

He opened the oblong doorway, revealing a shaft of light and a narrow iron stairway leading down.

“We should not have been in that room and I should not have allowed us to be taken by surprise in that elementary manner. The story will not amuse Bancroft when he hears about it.”

He was already halfway down the ladder and I followed him gingerly, rejoining him in a narrow corridor which was obviously somewhere in the store-room area of the museum.

“You have your revolver, Parker?”

“It is here, Pons.”

“Good. We may have need of it shortly.”

We could hear running footsteps, hoarse shouts and the high, insistent clanging of a bell. We found a narrow stairway and started down. The smoke was quite thick now and we had to proceed cautiously the lower we went. We were evidently in an area of the museum barred to the public for we met several staff notices at turns in the narrow stair. I had clapped my handkerchief over my face and I noticed Pons had done the same. There was a green baize door in front and as we opened it and stepped through the smoke was thicker. Pons made a clicking noise indicative of annoyance.

We were obviously on the ground floor for between eddies of thick white smoke we could see the wavering outline of the grand staircase.

“We have missed a turn, Parker,” said Pons, moving aside to dodge the blundering figure of a uniformed constable who disappeared as swiftly as he had loomed out of the murk.

“Does it matter, Pons?”

“I think not, Parker. It will take them some time to get through that door.”

“Ah, the strong-room.”

There were more cries in front of us now and flashes of flame. By their light we could see the stocky figure of Inspector Jamison not more than two yards away.

“Ah! Mr. Pons! What did I say?”

“What did you say, Jamison?”

Strangely, the smoke was sweet and smelled of chemicals though the fog it gave off was quite impenetrable. Hence we were able to carry on conversation quite normally.

“Why, that the thieves would go for the Valley of the Kings treasures.”

Solar Pons, silhouetted in front of me against the background of white fog, shook his head.

“I think not, Jamison.”

He pointed upward.

“Those smoke-bombs were obviously lobbed from the gallery yonder. We shall find the answer to our questions up there.”

Jamison stared at Pons open-mouthed.

“Quick, man, quick!” said Pons urgently, starting toward the stairs. ‘Three of your strongest constables and we may yet be in time.”

Jamison blew a shrill blast on his whistle and heavy forms loomed up behind us. I heard the harsh clatter of boots on the stair as I hurried upward, trying to keep Pons in sight. The higher we went the thinner the smoke grew until at last, as we gained the second floor, it thinned sufficiently for me to recognise the salient features of the corridors and doors.

“Here we are, Parker,” said Pons, pointing to the Curator’s quarters, which we had just recently so precipitately quitted.

“No, my dear fellow, it is obviously locked. A couple of shots, I think. And stand well back. These men are armed and desperate.”

I put three shots through the lock. I was about to enter the room when Pons dragged me back. A moment later a bullet passed through the door-panel, sending splinters of wood whining angrily about the corridor.

“We will just await the official force, Parker,” said Pons calmly. “After all, they are paid to risk their lives in the public service. You are not.”

“You obviously know what awaits us in there, Pons.”

“I have a good idea, Parker. The matter was fairly obvious but I naturally did not know what form the feint would take.”

Inspector Jamison suddenly appeared a few yards from us, his face angry and bewildered.

“What on earth, Mr. Pons…?”

He was rudely interrupted by a missile which ejected from the suddenly open door in front of us. It burst almost at his feet and we were immediately enveloped in thick white smoke. Pons had me by the arm.

“Our opportunity, I think, Parker! Follow me!”

I plunged headlong into the smoke at his heels. There was a bellow of rage and pain as a bulky form blundered into us. Pons was on him like a flash, the pistol-hand held in an iron grip.

“Quickly, Parker!”

I lashed out heavily, felt my pistol barrel connect with someone’s jaw. There was a grunt and the huge form crashed over backward, Pons and I on top of it. The pistol went skidding across the parquet as Pons hammered the big hand at the floor. I saw the ghastly, wrinkled mummy-face and my grip faltered in astonishment. Then Inspector Jamison had moved past me, a handkerchief across his mouth. There was the click of handcuffs as the giant was pinioned. A uniformed constable grabbed the mummy-form by the ankles and started dragging it out of the room.

Pons and Jamison were already snaking across the floor, their heads held low. The smoke was thinning in here and I could hear a strange hissing noise. I saw the recumbent figure of Biggs and then another dark shape blundered out of the fog. I put a shot into the ceiling. Plaster rained down and the second figure put his hands in the air.

“Excellent, Parker,” said Pons crisply, getting up. “Your prisoner, I think, Jamison.”

The Inspector pounced and a plain-clothes man darted from behind me and for the second time I heard the click of handcuffs.

“Take him out,” Jamison ordered, turning back to Pons.

“I hope you know what you are doing, Mr. Pons.”

“I am fully aware of the situation, Inspector,” said my companion drily.

He moved swiftly across the room, through the swirling smoke. I followed quickly, just having time to note the jumble of equipment at the strong-room door; the oxygen cylinders and the glowing red circle in the metal. The small man with the mask over his face, waved the oxy-acetylene torch menacingly but Pons kicked him adroitly on the ankles and he went down, sparks raining angrily about the room.

“Put your hands up!”

I had the barrel of the pistol steadily on the little man now, who sullenly got to his feet, rubbing his ankles. Jamison darted forward and turned the jet of the arc off.

“A nice little haul, Parker,” said Solar Pons approvingly. “You had better have a look at friend Biggs, if you would be so good.”

He looked sternly at the little man with the mask.

“If the Curator has come to any harm you will answer with your life.”

A flood of obscenities in French in a strange, Eastern accent came from the mask and Jamison stormed angrily forward and knocked the tinted heat-shield from the little man’s features.

“That will be enough,” he said roughly, looking with distaste at the swarthy, Levantine countenance, now twisted with hatred and pain.

I found Biggs recovering consciousness and hurried back to Pons’ side.

“The Curator has been chloroformed, Pons. He will be all right in a few minutes, just as soon as we get the air clear in here.”

“Excellent. Perhaps you would be good enough to open some windows, Inspector.”

As the Inspector crossed the room, Solar Pons turned to me with an expression of regret.

“A pity, Parker. We have broken this ring but I detect a greater hand in the affair. It bears all the hallmarks of our old friend, Baron Ennesfred Kroll.”

I looked at my companion with surprise.

“I wish I knew what you were talking about, Pons. But at least I was right about Morticott.”

Pons laughed lightly. He waited until the little man had been taken into custody and then strode out into the corridor. He tore the mummy-mask from the big man who stood stolidly between the two constables. I was astonished to see the flushed and chagrined visage of guard Prendergast.

“But how did you…?” I began.

Solar Pons smiled.

“This is hardly the time or place for explanations, Parker. I suggest we wait until Mr. Biggs has recovered and the Inspector has returned from charging the prisoners. In the meantime I think we might send for some more light refreshment. I feel quite hungry after that little fracas.”

-9-

“I am completely baffled, Mr. Pons!”

Horatio Biggs sat at his desk in the disordered room and passed a trembling hand over his features.

“But I am sure matters will rapidly resolve themselves, Mr. Biggs. I am only glad that you have not suffered any worse harm at the hands of those scoundrels.”

“It was that dreadful mummy face, Mr. Pons! I sat there paralysed and then someone crept up from behind and put something over my head.”

“A chloroform pad, Mr. Biggs,” I explained. “No doubt wielded by the attendant Scott, who is now in custody with Prendergast.”

Biggs looked as though he had been stung.

“Is this true, Mr. Pons?”

Solar Pons smiled at me ironically.

“My friend Dr. Parker, though inadvertently encroaching on my prerogatives is undoubtedly correct on this occasion.”

“I am sorry, Pons,” I mumbled. “I was certain it was Morticott who was behind the whole thing.”

Solar Pons lit his pipe, blowing a stream of blue smoke at the ceiling, as he stared from me to the stolid figure of Inspector Jamison who stood with his back to the fireplace and gazed unseeingly at the battered strong-room door and the scattered tools and equipment on the floor.

“You made the elementary mistake of picking on the largest and most unprepossessing of the uniformed staff members, Parker. A glance at their Museum records would have made it obvious. Morticott had been here fifteen years, Scott and Prendergast three weeks.”

Mr. Biggs turned his harried face toward us and I poured him another small measure of whisky.

“But what does all this mean, Mr. Pons?”

“We must first open that door,” said my companion incisively. “And we will then put my theories to a practical test.”

“But there are only pottery and artefacts in there, Mr. Pons! The Treasures of the Valley of the Kings…”

“Are perfectly safe, Mr. Biggs,” broke in Jamison heavily. “Mr. Pons was right. No attempt was made on the main strong-room.”

“I think you had better see if you can open the door, Parker,” said Pons, handing me the keys. “Unless our friend has jammed the lock with his oxy-acetylene torch.”

I crossed to the massive door and inserted each of the three keys in turn. To my relief they appeared to work.

I seized the large iron catch and put pressure upon it.

“All is well, Pons! It is moving!”

“Excellent.”

Solar Pons moved to my side and between us we pulled the huge door back on its vast hinges. Biggs and the Inspector followed us into the chamber as my companion turned on the light. He looked musingly at the red-daubed wooden crate and the scattered pottery.

“You have no objection if I unseal one of these, Mr. Biggs?” The little man blinked.

“By no means, Mr. Pons. As I have said they are only humble wine-jars and the Museum can easily spare one or two after the services you have rendered tonight.”

Pons nodded. He crossed over to one of the crates, on top of which lay a hammer and chisel, evidently used to prise open the planking. He came back and applied the edge of the chisel to the seal in the mouth of one of the terracotta jars. It gave with an effusion of fine dust. He grunted with satisfaction and rummaged about with slender fingers inside the pot.

He pulled out a large reinforced brown paper bag, the mouth of which had been sealed by stitching. He tore it across while we watched in puzzlement. Looking over his shoulder I could see nothing but white powder. Pons sniffed at it thoughtfully.

“What do you make of this, Jamison.”

The Inspector’s eyes were wide. He followed Pons’ example, sifting the flour-like dust with powerful fingers.

“Heroin, Mr. Pons?”

“Exactly, Inspector.”

I looked at Pons open-mouthed.

“Drugs, Pons! You cannot mean it!”

“I do mean it, Parker. The material in these jars would be worth millions on the international market. As I said, this business bears all the hallmarks of our ingenious friend, the Baron. You and the Museum, Mr. Biggs, have been the unwitting carriers of a fortune in narcotics.”

“Good gracious, Mr. Pons!”

The little Curator looked as though he was about to collapse and I helped him out of the strong-room and into a comfortable chair. Pons had followed us and a few moments later Jamison hurried from the chamber, a grim look on his face.

“With your permission, Mr. Biggs, I have just opened another two of those jars. Both are full of drugs and if the rest of

the pots contain similar amounts this will be the biggest haul Scotland Yard has ever made in the drug-field! I must congratulate you, Mr. Pons.”

My companion bowed ironically.

“But how on earth, Pons..?” I began.

“Let us sit down, Parker. We shall have to go back to the beginning for that. But I see the whisky-bottle and some glasses on the bureau yonder, Mr. Biggs. I take it you have no objection to our partaking?”

“Good heavens, Mr. Pons! With the greatest pleasure!”

“I take it you would positively prescribe it in Mr. Biggs’ case, Parker,” said Pons gravely. “I think we all need something a little stronger than coffee after this night’s work. If you would do the honours, my dear fellow.”

I busied myself with the glasses and we all seated ourselves round Biggs’ desk, leaving the little Curator slumped in an easy chair in front of it.

“You may remember, Parker,” said Solar Pons, when his pipe was drawing to his satisfaction, “that when Mr. Biggs first consulted me I was particularly interested in that portion of his story which related to the events which took place in the Valley of the Kings.”

I nodded.

“Some trouble with the porters on the site. Knowing the Middle East as I do, I paid it little attention.”

Solar Pons knotted his brows.

“That is where you disappoint the student of logical deduction if you will forgive me saying so. Trouble was the last thing I should have expected under the circumstances. The fellaheen of Egypt have a wretched existence and steady employment such as that afforded at the great archaeological sites of that country tend to keep them quite contented, though the pay be minuscule by European standards. I immediately seized upon the pottery breakages because, as Mr. Biggs pointed out, these labourers are normally specially selected for their carefulness. I had already heard the story once from Mr. Biggs and these facts, taken with the incident when a crate was found broken open, directed my mind toward a certain line of reasoning. I elicited, if you will recall, that the jars involved were all sealed.”

I looked at Pons in astonishment.

“So you already, at that early stage, suspected something in the jars might be at the back of this?”

My companion inclined his head, emitting a plume of blue smoke from his thin lips.

“I had tentatively formed that opinion. Your class of tomb-robber in Egypt is highly professional and is looking for valuable treasure which can be sold to the dealers of Cairo and Alexandria. He would not normally bother with common-place pots, sealed or unsealed. I formed the theory that there was something in the pots of potential value.”

The Curator had been listening to Pons in growing bewilderment and Jamison’s face betrayed no glimmer of enlightenment.

“But why would these people want to break open their own pots, Mr. Pons?” burst out the former.

My companion’s amusement showed in his face but he struggled to control it, tamping his pipe with thin, sensitive fingers.

“You misunderstand me, Mr. Biggs. I did not imply these people were breaking open the pots. I immediately came to the conclusion that the pots had been filled by one set of people and that another set had been breaking them open. When Mr. Biggs informed us that a murder had been committed on the site my theory was immeasurably strengthened.”

“There might be something in it, Mr. Pons,” said Jamison dubiously. “We had another telegram from the Cairo police authorities earlier this evening. I quite forgot about it in the excitement. It was to the effect that Inspector Achmed, who was to have accompanied Mr. Biggs to England was really Chief Inspector Achmed of the Cairo Narcotics Squad. A coded message is to follow.”

Solar Pons nodded his head in satisfaction.

“Thank you, Inspector. We will come back to that a little later. The murder told me two things. That whatever had been hidden in the pots was of great value and that the people breaking them only suspected but were not sure of the method used for carriage. The materials involved could have been stolen property; diamonds; jewellery; or drugs. I inclined to the latter commodity as the Middle East is one of the great clearing-grounds for the vile trade.”

“Quite right, Pons,” I said. “I was reading in The Lancet only last week..”

“No doubt, Parker,” said Pons sharply. “To return to the subject in hand, the death of the native from stab-wounds in turn meant one of two things. The party using the pots as a method of carrying the material had found a second group trying to intrude into their affairs and had killed the man as a warning to his confederates.”

“Or the first group had been discovered by the second group who struck first and killed the man guarding the material,” put in the Inspector heavily.

“Exactly,” said Pons crisply. “I am glad to see that your mind is so rapier-sharp this evening, Inspector. Those smoke-bombs have not fogged your intellect, at any rate.”

“Good of you to say so, Mr. Pons,” mumbled the Scotland Yard man, his expression betraying to me at any rate that he was not quite sure which way to take my companion’s words.

“I was at some pains to ascertain the weight of the sealed jars and, as we have seen here at the Museum, it was difficult to discover whether they were full or empty as the pottery was so thick and heavy. This, combined with them being securely sealed, made me believe that something was hidden in them and that another person or persons was trying to get at their contents.”

Pons turned to the Inspector.

“When Mr. Biggs told me of his native servant, who was accompanying him to England, it was obvious from the things he let drop, that the person was a high-ranking police officer, set to keep guard on the Cairo antiquities. We had two strands here, as it were. But unknown to me, something had thrown my reasoning out. The real Inspector had been murdered before ever he left Cairo and a fake officer using his identification had taken over. It is my belief that he was a member of the first party who had originally secreted the drugs in the pottery and he was there to guard the cargo which the Curator was inadvertently transporting to Europe for him. He was obviously a person of great intelligence and daring and his death must have been a blow to his employer’s plans.”

“Good heavens, Mr. Pons! And I travelled with that ruffian….”

The Curator, whose ejaculations had reached a highly pious pitch, turned pale and reached for his whisky-glass.

Pons smiled reassuringly.

“I do not think you were in any danger, Mr. Biggs. You were concerned about the Cairo treasures but he was guarding something infinitely more valuable from his point of view. As we know, an attempt was made to break open one of the crates on the voyage. This was the one containing the drugs and which had been deliberately splashed with red paint on the quay at Alexandria in order to mark it. It is equally possible that this could have been done by either group involved but it is immaterial now. Baron Kroll’s men would not have needed any special marking on the crate as their methods were infinitely more subtle….”

“Baron Kroll, Mr. Pons!”

Inspector Jamison’s jaw had dropped.

“You do not mean to say he is involved in this?”

“I do not know anyone else at large in Europe at this point in time who would have been bold enough or clever enough for a coup of this magnitude, Jamison. You may remember, Mr. Biggs, when I asked you which crate had been tampered with you said it was the one which looked as though it had been ‘daubed with blood’. That told me all I wished to know.”

“I see.”

Mr. Biggs’ brow cleared.

“But there was no more trouble on the voyage.”

Solar Pons smiled faintly.

“I am not surprised, Mr. Biggs. The Baron’s man, the false Inspector Achmed, appears to have been not only a powerful but a courageous and resourceful rascal. The man who tampered with that crate, probably a crew member, is undoubtedly at the bottom of the Mediterranean. Had the Cairo treasures been at the heart of the affair a determined attempt would undoubtedly have been made to prevent them from ever leaving Egypt. And what dealer would have handled such famous and well-known pieces?”

Mr. Biggs shuddered and took another sip of his whisky.

“A dreadful business, Mr. Pons. I should have been dead myself now but for your efforts.”

He caught the Inspector’s stony glare and hastened to add, “No reflection on your professional capacity, Inspector.”

Solar Pons exchanged a fleeting look with me and then went on.

“So here we have the mysterious cargo travelling in style with the Cairo artefacts and guarded by one of the Baron’s best men, disguised as an Egyptian police officer, complete with that unfortunate man’s genuine papers.

“As they had anticipated, all went well. The Museum authorities naturally put more store on the Cairo Museum treasures which were well guarded and went into the London Museum’s main strong-room, while the ordinary pots and other artefacts went to the Curator’s office. So they had had delivered to London with the minimum of fuss and no Customs examination, the biggest consignment of illicit drugs the capital had ever seen.

“Where the plan began to go wrong was in the way the crates were disposed. Instead of the commonplace artefacts being placed in the Museum store-rooms in the ordinary way, where they would have been easily accessible, they went straight to the Curator’s office. That would not have mattered except for the coincidence of there being two strong-rooms at the Museum. They could not have known this and to their dismay the crate marked with red paint went straight into a steel-lined chamber which was almost as impregnable as that of the Bank of England.”

“Of course, Pons!” I put in. “That was where the accomplices came in.”

“Naturally, Parker. I suspected from the beginning that two or three men at least would be involved and when Mr. Biggs told me of the mummy-apparition it was obvious. Mysterious events and confusion in the Museum would aid the miscreants in their purpose. By alarming Mr. Biggs they hoped to frighten him from the room so that they could get at the open strong-room and remove the jars before anyone returned. The man with the mummy-mask served a two-fold purpose, moreover, as the more confusion among staff and the more horrific the events, the more opportunity would they have in achieving their object. That much was evident.

“Now, Parker, when I examined that pottery earlier tonight I saw at once that there was but slight variation in weight between them, owing to the irregularity and the thickness of the clay-mixture used in throwing them all that time ago. But there were two things which stood out. One was that the ancient stoppers had been sealed with a modern chemical solution; there was no doubt about that, though the work had been skilfully done. And a number of the jars were slightly marked in a way so minute that it needed a magnifying glass to detect the tiny x which had been incised in the stoppers. I examined a number of jars and when I found that a large number had no chemical smell and that these did not bear such a tiny cross, it was obvious to me that the marked pots were the ones the intruders were looking for.”

“Remarkable, Mr. Pons,” broke in Jamison.

Solar Pons shook his head.

“Scientific, Inspector. When I examined the Museum records it was for the purpose of finding a member of the staff who had recently joined but who had the physique and strength to raise that jar and drop it in the murderous attempt on the Curator’s life. Morticott fitted the bill but he was Head Attendant, was obviously able and loyal and, moreover, had been at the Museum for fifteen years.

“In my experience people of that type are not suddenly tempted with an offer of money. Moreover, it would be obviously dangerous to approach that sort of man from outside and would quickly put the Museum authorities on their guard. I looked instead for a very big man who had recently joined the staff, banking on the fact that the Museum had recruited new people following the strange incidents and would not have had very much time to check on their records.”

“Absolutely correct, Mr. Pons,” put in Biggs, his eyes never leaving my companion’s face.

“I therefore turned my attention to the two newest men, Prendergast and Scott as being prime suspects, knowing also that more than one night-guard would have been involved in the mummy deception. It would have been highly risky otherwise, for the man in the next section could easily come across him before he had time to change back into his uniform. In the event this supposition turned out to be correct.”

“But what about the man with the acetylene-torch, Pons?” My companion shook his head.

“A hired specialist, Parker. Oh, someone cool of brains and a professional expert at his job, of course. Kroll’s people were getting worried and were evidently under pressure from the Baron. The murder of Kroll’s man, pushed under a bus by a member of the group seeking the drugs, was undoubtedly the catalyst.

“They resorted to crude methods. The only way to get access to their cargo was by eliminating the Curator and stealing the keys to the strong-room. This they attempted and it was only by a miracle that Mr. Biggs escaped that murderous attack. Wisely, he came immediately to me, with the conclusion we have seen. I expected some sort of diversion tonight but was almost taken off guard by the boldness of the methods used.”

Pons raked the room with his deep-set eyes.

“To me the whole idea of the Treasure of the Valley of the Kings was a non-starter. It was far too celebrated for such a coup and no-one in the world could handle such objects. So I concentrated on the sealed jars. Inspector Achmed was the key here and when Scotland Yard was informed that the real Chief Inspector had been murdered in Cairo and had never left the city it became clear that the jars were the real objective.

“But the plan went awry with the murder of the fake Achmed by members of the second group after the drugs, and it is doubtful whether we shall ever now know who was responsible. Kroll’s men panicked and made the crude attempt on Mr. Biggs’ life. Though if Mr. Biggs had been killed and Prendergast had seized the keys I have no doubt they would have had the consignment of narcotics out of the museum within half an hour.

“As members of the staff, recruited at short notice due to the Museum’s expanding activities, they were excellently placed to aid the bogus Inspector Achmed, who was obviously the guiding force behind the team, and the professional safe-man they had to employ in the end. The mummy-mask charade was merely to act as a cover for the real attempt to recover the drugs. These activities also served the useful object from their point of view by forcing the Museum to put an even stronger guard on the Cairo treasures and therefore further to deplete its thin staff while the actual plan, as we have seen, was in fact the opposite.

“Prendergast and Scott would have been able to let people into the Museum by a side door after hours and no doubt they would have succeeded in their objective had not the ill-advised attempt been made on the Curator’s life.”

Inspector Jamison was looking a little pink about the neck and cheeks.

“If you had reported these strange manifestations to me in the first place, Mr. Biggs,” he rumbled, “Scotland Yard might have put paid to the whole matter without bothering Mr. Pons.”

“Might is a big word, Inspector,” said Pons with a twinkle in his eye.

He turned back to the little man.

“Tell me, Mr. Biggs. One thing still puzzles me and may have a profound bearing on your experiences. Did your friend Nazreel Pasha know Achmed personally? The answer might be of vital importance.”

Biggs turned red and shifted his feet on the carpet.

“I see your drift, Mr. Pons. So far as I know Nazreel Pasha did not have any personal contact. He recommended Achmed to me one day in Cairo and he turned up at my hotel the following afternoon.”

“I see.”

Solar Pons got up from his chair and stood smoking thoughtfully for a moment or two.

“By which time the unfortunate Chief Inspector was already floating in the Nile. Nevertheless, it is a point which needs clearing up. High-ranking Museum officials in places like Egypt are not averse to making fortunes on the side from drug-running, if Mr. Biggs will forgive the suggestion. A discreet word with the Cairo police authorities should take care of that, Jamison.”

The Inspector stuck out his jaw pugnaciously.

“I take your drift, Mr. Pons. I will do the necessary. I have learned a great deal here tonight.”

“Life is a university, Inspector,” said Solar Pons quietly. “We can all learn a great deal by using our eyes and ears as we progress from day to day.”

He looked at me inquisitively.

“Now, if you have no further questions, Parker…” “None, Pons,” said I, getting to my feet.

My companion smiled reflectively.

“I would give a great deal to see the Baron’s face tonight.” He held out his hand to Biggs and the Inspector in turn. “And now, Parker, it is almost two in the morning. I would not like to incur Mrs. Johnson’s displeasure by keeping you out so late.”