He carefully drew out from the enclosure a large sheet of blue-tinted paper which had been carefully folded down the middle. He spread it out in front of him on the lunch table and I went round to read it over his shoulder.
It was indeed a curious message, written in the same beautiful copper-plate handwriting, and with the same blue-ink pen used for the superscription.
Colonel Loder: I have a mind to add the Baku Idols to my collection. You may expect a visit from me in the near future. It is useless to take precautions. When I fancy something doors and locks mean nothing. Expect me!
Solar Pons smiled sardonically as he examined the sheet of paper carefully and then handed it back to the Superintendent.
“Just why are Scotland Yard and the Museum authorities taking this so seriously?” I asked.
“Because, Parker,” said Solar Pons, “there have been a number of thefts of irreplaceable objet d’art from Austrian and French museums over the past year or two. All were the work of the same man and though there was no warning as in this instance here in London, the method behind the burglaries; the disguises adopted; and the entire procedure in each case point indelibly to our Mr LaFontaine.”
I turned to Superintendent Heathfield, who nodded sombrely.
“That is perfectly correct, gentlemen. I see that you keep up to date with major crime on the Continent as well as this country, Mr Pons.”
“As always.” returned my companion. “Colonel Loder and yourself do well to take the threat seriously. I know the Museum authorities have strengthened the guards. What are your intentions in the matter?”
“Plain-clothes men mingling with the crowds in the Museum during the day, Mr Pons. A stiffening of armed detectives among the guards at night. I have set up my own Command Headquarters in an annexe adjoining the Museum Curator’s office. I am in wireless contact with Scotland Yard. Beyond that, there is little else I can do for the moment.”
Solar Pons sat quietly, pulling thoughtfully at the lobe of his left ear.
“You have done well, Superintendent,” he said at length. “As you rightly say, there is little else that can be managed for the moment. You have surveyed the terrain thoroughly, of course?”
Heathfield inclined his head.
“Of course. The Baku Idols are in a large locked glass case in one of the major galleries, situated in the West Wing of the Museum. There are the usual burglar alarms and an attendant sits on a chair at the side of the room throughout the day. These men are changed every two hours and are present at all times during the Museum’s opening hours to keep an eye on the visitors. I do not think we need worry very much about that.”
“Nevertheless, Superintendent, a bold man like our friend may choose the day as the perfect time to strike.”
“I have not overlooked that, Mr Pons, and I have our two plain-clothes detectives in that room at all times. Like the attendants they are changed, but in this case, four times a day. They filter in and out of the room, two at a time, like casual tourists.”
“Hmm.”
Solar Pons’ eyes were bright as he stared at the Superintendent.
“Excellent. There is nothing you have overlooked.”
“You flatter me, Mr Pons. You will help me, then?”
“There was never any doubt of it, Superintendent. What are your dispositions for the night?”
“I have a similar routine, only my men are kitted out as Museum attendants, in proper uniforms. They are armed with revolvers but will only shoot to wound in extreme circumstances. Needless to say, all are hand-picked, both for their fleetness of foot and boxing abilities.”
Pons smiled.
“Needless to say. I think I would like to have a look at the Museum before we take this any further. What about you, Parker?”
“I am at your disposal. Pons. I can be ready in a quarter of an hour.”
Solar Pons rubbed his hands together. Heathfield sat opposite him, finishing his tea, his penetrating eyes never leaving my companion’s face.
“Nevertheless, you have reservations, Mr Pons?”
Solar Pons burst into a short, barking laugh.
“It is a pleasure to work with you, Superintendent. It is just this. With all the treasures of the Museum to choose from, why would LaFontaine pick the Baku Idols? I commend that thought to you, my friend.”
3
The Mentmore Museum was a massive building with an overwhelming portico, situated near Bloomsbury and conveniently close to the British Museum. Within twenty minutes of our leaving Praed Street we were picking our way between the clustered groups of tourists of all nationalities which were ascending and descending the broad flights of steps which led to the main entrance turnstiles.
Once inside the vast entrance hall, a plain-clothes man, evidently on the look-out for the Superintendent, led us swiftly to the Curator’s quarters, a large, luxuriously- appointed suite of offices discreetly situated down a corridor whose entrance door bore no markings other than the word: Private.
Colonel Loder, a handsome, silver-haired man in a well-cut grey suit with a wine- red bow-tie hanging like a bright butterfly beneath his chin, rose from his desk to greet us. He was both courteous and brisk and I formed a very favourable first impression of him.
“This is very good of you, Mr Pons. Doctor Parker.”
“Not at all,” said Solar Pons affably. “It is a matter which must be taken seriously and as the Superintendent and I have worked together before and I have some small knowledge of Oriental artefacts…”
The Curator nodded approvingly.
“You are astonishingly knowledgeable, Mr Pons. I have read those of your monographs which have been re-printed in our learned journals.”
“You flatter me, sir,” said Solar Pons, but I could see that the expert’s praise had understandably pleased him.
“Will you not sit down, gentlemen?”
We sat in a wide horseshoe, facing the Colonel’s desk. It was quiet in here and the mellow sunshine fell slantwise across Loder’s cheerful quarters, which had huge oil paintings on loan from one of the national collections hanging on the far walls. Loder pierced a cigar with a silver instrument he took from his desk and handed his cigar box round. Heathfield took one and lit up with the Curator but both Pons and I declined, the latter producing his favourite pipe. The air was blue with fragrant smoke before Loder broke the silence.
“I am sorry this matter got to the press, gentlemen. I can only urge absolute discretion…”
“Naturally,” said Solar Pons, somewhat curtly. “How did this business become public?”
The Curator exchanged a glance with Heathfield.
“I thought you knew, Mr Pons. This impudent rascal sent a copy of his letter to all the leading London journals. My telephone has never stopped ringing until this morning. There are still a number of journalists and photographers in the building.”
Solar Pons pursed his lips. He glanced across at the Scotland Yard man who sat morosely furrowing his brow.
“That is your department. Superintendent. We cannot have any more out of the way publicity until we have brought this business to a successful conclusion.”
“That will be difficult, Mr Pons,” said Colonel Loder. “What if this man writes to them again?”
“That we cannot prevent, of course,” said Solar Pons. “But my main efforts and those of Superintendent Heathfield, I am sure, will be directed toward the prevention of this planned crime and the apprehension of the criminal.”
“Certainly, certainly,” said Loder in a placatory voice and held up his hand as if he would prevent the Superintendent from speaking.
“Naturally, I will do whatever I can to assist and my staff will back you to the limit. In addition all of you will have written carte blanche to go anywhere you wish on the Museum premises and within the grounds and will be free to come and go at any hour of the day and night. I have the necessary authority in front of me.”