I crossed my legs and sat back in my comfortable chair.
“There are so many possibilities. Pons,” I said rather helplessly. “This criminal has the entire treasures of the Museum from which to choose.”
“Exactly, Parker,” said Solar Pons in a gentle voice. “And now, if you will be so good as to immerse yourself in your newspaper, I will give the problem my considered attention.”
We arrived at the Museum the following day at about half-past ten and on our showing the cards Loder had given us to the man at the turnstile, we were swiftly ushered through. It was a cold, bright day, dry, with strong sunshine and the Museum was already crowded.
Pons led the way into the Scott-Green Gallery and gazed in silence as the Hsui-Ching Collection in its two massive glass cases. He went round the gallery with the air of a casual visitor but I could see that his keen eyes were stabbing sharply in every direction, noting the thin burglar alarm wires that led to the cases and then probing upward to the grilles which guarded the ceiling skylights.
Pons was apparently satisfied because presently he left the Gallery and he and I strolled down the broad marble-floored corridors and into the Oriental Gallery which housed the Baku Idols. As we came into it we could hear a hot altercation, noticeable even from the far distance. A fat, bearded man was talking heatedly to two uniformed attendants and once or twice he shook his fist while he shouted at them in some obscure language, in a high, piping voice. I looked at Pons quickly.
“Do you think, Pons…?”
“I do not know. Parker,” he said quietly.
We drew closer to the group and could now see that the attendants were considerably discomforted. One of them turned as we came up and recognised Pons.
“This gentleman was trying to take photographs! It is strictly forbidden.”
Pons turned to the fat man and said something to him in a tongue I could not place. The former’s attitude changed at one; he broke off his altercation with the two attendants and smiled, shaking Pons by the hand. He broke into a voluble flood of speech. Pons listened carefully, occasionally interjecting, “Da, da,” and nodding his head. He looked carefully at a typed document the bearded man thrust in front of his face.
He glanced at the attendants.
“It appears this gentleman is a Russian journalist. He has a permit, apparently approved by the Museum authorities, to photograph the Baku Idols. He has evidently gone the wrong way about it. I should take him to Sir James’ office and ask for a Russian-speaking member of the staff to interpret for him.”
The taller of the two attendants sighed with relief.
“Come this way, sir,” he added, seizing the fat man by the arm and leading him away, the latter still trying to express his thanks. We followed a few yards in their rear.
“What do you think, Pons?”
My companion shook his head.
“He is genuine enough, Parker. That permit was issued by the Soviet Minister of Culture. I have just enough Russian to make that out. But you see what we are up against.”
“It is good of you to include me. Pons.”
Solar Pons chuckled.
“I am afraid this is all rather boring for you, Parker.”
“On the contrary, Pons. What are we supposed to be doing today?”
Solar Pons’ keen eyes were still raking round the corridor with its milling groups of tourists.
“if I read my man’s mind aright, Parker, he has now to direct the Museum authority’s suspicions in the wrong direction altogether.”
“But how would he do that?”
“By some dramatic red herring. He has a wide choice here amid these somewhat esoteric surroundings.”
“Do you think he has helpers, Pons?”
My companion shook his head.
“So far as we know anything about him at all, he always works alone.”
“So if we lay our hands on someone it will be LaFontaine?”
Solar Pons nodded.
“Undoubtedly, Parker. That is why we must be so tremendously careful.”
We had turned as we were speaking and Pons was leading the way back toward the Oriental Gallery again. We had just got up close to the entrance when we heard the sound of breaking glass. Pons’ head went up as he seized my arm.
“Come, Parker! We have not a moment to lose!”
Quick as he was, I was only a few paces at his heels. Inside the gallery the scene was one of confusion. As first I thought it was empty but then both Pons and I were arrested by a low groaning noise. As we rounded one of the exhibition dais we came upon the recumbent figure of one of the gallery attendants. He was attempting to pull himself upright, a thin trickle of blood staining his temple. I quickly knelt by him, supporting him by the shoulders.
“He is all right, Pons,” I said after my initial examination. “He has been struck on the head and partly stunned.”
Pons had given a sharp exclamation and had run forward to the case containing the Baku Idols. The top had been smashed in and as I followed the thin electric wire down I saw that it again had been cut.
There was the sound of running footsteps and another attendant hurried into the gallery.
“Take care of him,” I said, hurriedly explaining the situation. I re-joined Pons, who was already at the entrance.
“There is one of the effigy missing, Parker! Ah!”
I followed his pointing finger and saw gold glinting at the side of the connecting corridor, nestling in the folds of tissue paper. Pons carefully picked the image up. his brow clearing.
“All well, Parker. Just return this to the attendant, will you?”
I quickly handed the precious object d’art to the man who was succouring his injured colleague, conscious that the gallery was beginning to fill up with people. I heard Pons’ footsteps pattering away down the corridor then and ran after him as rapidly as I was able. He was already on the big marble staircase leading to the ground floor, an alert, tense expression on his face. He put his hand on my arm as I came up and enjoined silence.
Then I heard what his keener ear had already caught: the thin, high tapping of a walking stick at the bottom of the stairs. As we hurried down, I caught a glimpse of the tall, slim figure crossing the main concourse. Pons followed with glittering eyes. We found ourselves beneath the massive portico; below us still was the figure with the cane, making its way across to the area where visitors’ motor-cars were parked.
Then I saw the white stick and recognised the figure.
“Professor Sanders, Pons.”
Pons shook his head, an ironic smile on his face. He gestured to where the Professor was fumbling with his keys as he stooped at the door of a maroon touring car.
“Have you ever seen a blind man drive, Parker? Quickly, or we have lost him!”
There was such urgency in his tone that I was up with him and we were across the broad gravelled expanse in an instant. The man in dark glasses turned like a snake as we came up, a snarl sounding from the depths of his beard. His stick came round so quickly it was a blur in the air. Pons pitched forward as the cane struck him somewhere in the upper part of the body. It swept back, striking me a painful blow across the shins. I stumbled, fought to prevent myself from going down, felt something soft in my hand. Then I tumbled in the dust with Pons, conscious of the roar of the engine. I rolled as the car backed savagely toward us, then it was a scarlet streak, heading for the wide-open iron entrance gate.
I turned Pons over, urgency in my voice.
“Are you all right, Pons?”
“Never better, my dear fellow,” he said with a wry laugh, dusting himself down. “A slightly damaged shoulder and badly dented pride. The first will clear itself in a day or so, the second may take a little longer to heal.”