“The mummy case of Senwosri had some value,” declared the curator. “Nevertheless, its contents were the actual prize. These other mummies — well, to be valuable, it would have been wise to take their cases also. It took time, unquestionably, to get those mummy cases open—”
“You’re right,” decided Cardona. “Listen. You didn’t open those cases when they came in. Suppose, Mr. Matson, that those mummy cases had each held a living man—”
“Living mummies?”
“No. Living crooks! In there instead of the mummies. There’s the answer! That’s how the crooks got in here. They came out of the mummy cases. They grabbed the watchmen. They swiped all these exhibits that are missing.
“They fixed two charges — one for the door to the tomb; one for the rear door of the museum. They let off the first blast in here — after they had dragged out the exhibits. The mummy case went out as fast as they could take it. They blew the rear door when they made their getaway. Am I right?”
CARDONA looked at Matson. The curator was standing open-mouthed. He was nodding in emphasis.
Cardona needed no more encouragement.
“Wait until the inspector hears this!” he exclaimed. “I’m going to follow this up, Mr. Matson. Tell me. Where did those mummy cases come from?”
“I do not know,” admitted Matson. “They were in some storage house — delivered at the order of the man who presented them to the museum.”
“Who is he?”
“Cecil Armsbury. The famous collector of Egyptian antiquities.”
“Is he here in New York?”
“I believe so. I have his address in my desk.”
“Let’s have it.”
Cardona accompanied the curator to the office. The detective was talking on the way.
“The crooks knew those mummies were coming in here,” he declared. “They must have gotten into the warehouse and chucked the mummies. If we can locate the warehouse, through this man Armsbury—”
Cardona paused. They were in the office. The curator was looking for the file which contained Armsbury’s address. He emitted a cry of satisfaction as he brought his hand from a desk drawer.
“You’ve got the address?” questioned Cardona.
“No,” returned Matson, excitedly, “I’ve found the scarab. See? Here it is. I must keep it to show to Inspector Klein if he returns.”
“Let me have it,” growled Cardona, seizing the golden beetle from the curator’s hand. “Get that address. Forget this yellow bug.”
Nodding, Matson delved through files. He finally produced a card and showed it to Cardona. It bore the name and address of Cecil Armsbury.
“You know this man?” questioned the detective.
“I have met him,” returned the curator.
Cardona seized the telephone. He called headquarters. He asked for Inspector Klein and was told that the official had not returned.
“I’ll call him later,” declared Cardona. “This is Joe Cardona.” He hung up the receiver. Then, to Matson:
“Come on; we’re taking a taxi to Armsbury’s house.”
The curator nodded and picked up his coat and hat. Joe Cardona, tapping his clenched fist against the table, suddenly realized its weight. He opened his hand and laughed as he saw that he was still holding the golden scarab.
Cardona chucked the metal beetle into the desk drawer from which Matson had taken it. He grabbed the curator’s arm and hurried the man out to the front door. Policemen were still in charge. Cardona told them to expect him back.
Three minutes later, the ace detective and the curator of the Egyptian Museum were whirling in a taxicab toward the home of Cecil Armsbury.
CHAPTER XX. THE SNARE
“READY?”
The question came from Martin Havelock. He was standing by the fireplace in his uncle’s living room, about to press the switch that would open the hidden elevator.
“One moment, Martin,” returned Cecil Armsbury. The old man was seated in his favorite chair. “I think I heard the door bell. Calhoun will answer it.”
Havelock showed momentary alarm. Then he strolled from the fireplace and lighted a cigarette. There was a knock at the door. Armsbury motioned to Havelock. The young man went over and unlocked the door. He opened it to admit Calhoun.
“Two gentlemen to see you, sir,” explained the servant. “One is Mr. Matson, the curator of the Egyptian Museum. The other is a detective from headquarters.”
“Matson?” quizzed Armsbury, in a pleased tone. “Ah! I shall be glad to see him. You say a detective also? I hope nothing has gone amiss. Usher them in, Calhoun. Then you may retire. I shall not need you later.”
“Thank you, sir.”
With a warning glance toward his nephew, Cecil Armsbury arose to his feet. He was all smiles as he stepped forward to greet the two men who entered. He knew Matson. The curator introduced him to Cardona.
“My nephew,” remarked Armsbury, turning to Martin Havelock. “He is my only nephew — Martin Havelock. Sit down, gentlemen. Tell me the reason for this unexpected visit. I hope that nothing serious has occurred.”
“Something very serious,” explained Matson, solemnly. “The Egyptian Museum has been rifled by thieves. Your entire collection of antiquities has been stolen.”
Cecil Armsbury sank back in his chair. His whole attitude was one of a man who had experienced a terrific shock. Martin Havelock looked on in admiration.
“More than that,” added Matson, “the thieves also took the mummy case of Senwosri, the son of Amenemhe—”
“With its priceless treasure?”
“They carried away the case intact.”
CECIL ARMSBURY was gripping the arms of his chair. His air showed that he regarded this daring theft as a terrific outrage. Joe Cardona motioned to Handley Matson to say no more.
“We want to recover these stolen articles, Mr. Armsbury,” he explained. “We have come here because we believe that you can help us.”
“How? I shall do all in my power.”
“Give us some information, then, regarding the mummy cases that you donated to the Egyptian Museum.”
Armsbury stared with wild eyes. A sudden thought had occurred to him.
“My collection of mummies?” he questioned. “I remember! I had ordered them to be delivered today. You do not mean that they were stolen also!”
“Yes,” returned Cardona, “but not from the museum. Tell me, Mr. Armsbury, where did you have them stored?”
“This is bewildering!” exclaimed Armsbury. “Let me think. Indeed, Mr. Cardona, I do not remember for the moment. I shall have to call my attorney, Jason Thunig. He arranges all my business affairs.”
“Thunig is out of town,” interposed Martin Havelock.
“So he is,” recalled Armsbury. “You do not recall my mentioning the name of the warehouse, do you, Martin?”
“No.”
“I may be able to remember it. But tell me” — Armsbury’s tone was quizzical — “have there been two robberies? One at the museum — the other at the warehouse?”
“No.” Cardona furnished the explanation. “I have a theory, Mr. Armsbury, that may aid us. The manner of the robbery makes me believe that crooks were smuggled into the museum in mummy cases.
“That granted, they must have entered the warehouse first; there to remove the mummies from the cases. Do you understand?”
“I see. A remarkable deduction, Mr. Cardona. Tell me, has this been established as a certainty?”
“No. But it is the only plausible theory. I struck upon it while I was in the museum, after Inspector Klein had left.”
“Ah! And did you corroborate it, Matson?”
“I did,” said the curator.
“I suppose,” remarked Armsbury, in an innocuous tone, “that you have informed Inspector Klein.”